Life With Bellymonster (Liz McLennan)

Heavy Thoughts

2012-01-29T13:21:00.005-05:00

January has been a long and difficult month.

I have no idea why. Perhaps it's the weather: temperamental and moody, given to flashes of nasty. Kinda like me. These days, I am feeling moody and every day I am faking something: cheer, understanding, clarity.

Sigh.

I struggle occasionally, with the winter blues, although I thought that last year was the worst I'd see. Last year, I thought I was prepared for second anniversary of my brother's death.

I was wrong.

This year, I am more prepared for the emotional wallop of missing him, of replaying that terrible day, when my world changed forever but I am also terrified by it. This year, these long, cold weeks leading up to February 10th have almost (again) been my undoing:

I am unfocused and unmotivated at school, at home, at life.

Last week, I exercised twice and both times, it took EVERYthing I had to propel myself to go. At home and at school, I cannot summon up the enthusiasm to truly participate. I feel off-kilter, fuzzy and vaguely paranoid.

I yell.

Intellectually, I know that there are a number of factors contributing to this brief (please God, let it be brief) peine de coeur - ti's the season, after all, for the winter blues. The holidays are over, money's tight, the monotony of routine yawns long before me, I'm thinking of Andrew, the laundry has overwhelmed me, the Reds are feistier than usual, blah, blah, blah... This is what my mind tells me.

The rest of me doesn't care about any of it.

The rest of me doesn't want haul laundry baskets down the stairs, nor plan the week's menu or go for a long, brisk walk in the sunshine. Fuck that, says the rest of me. I just wanna sit here, in this patch of sunlight, watching dust motes dance.

And, says the rest of me, I want to eat. It's a frightfully strong compulsion, actually. Even as my brain registers what's happening, it's like my body is a separate thing, desperately longing for all things substantial and sweet: chips, bread, cheese, potatoes. Baileys.

The rest of me scrambles to swallow the grief that rises, unexpectedly and at odd moments, but swiftly - always so goddamned swiftly - into my throat.

Down! Down! Stay down!

I will do anything, eat anything, to keep this grief at bay. I will eat mounds in order to shove grief and other feelings back down, away from the places where someone (including me) might see.

I try to smother them with yummy breads and pastries for these carb-filled foods are heavy and dense and fill up the spaces left aching and empty, otherwise.

Wait.

What?!?! What the hell did I just type there?

Did I just write that?

Yes, yes I did.

Is it true?

Yes.

Yes, it is.

I am absolutely flabbergasted by this sudden insight into the "why" behind my weight. It's not, of course, the only reason I'm fat, because I know that my own lack of self-control and stick-to-it-iveness certainly don't help matters. And while I've referred to myself as an emotional-eater before, I've never actually understood it.

But this - this horrified realization that I am choking out my own heart - literally and emotionally -well... it has simply stunned me.

What an awkward, awful, truly astonishing truth. Wow.

I am embarrassed. And crying. (And eyeing the calendar, trying to determine if this is actually PMS, run amok. Could this Hell be hormonally-induced?)

Mostly, I am questioning my sanity at publishing this post, for all the world to see.

But...

For the first time in many, many ~~weeks~~ years, I feel lighter.

And it feels...good.

And you? How do you cope with the winter blues?

International Day of Mourning and Memory

2012-01-22T22:16:00.003-05:00

International Day of Mourning and Memory

January 23rd

This video was created by my classmate, Kristine.

The day itself, vigorously endorsed and promoted by the awesome Dave Hingsburger of Rolling Around in My Head, was actually inspired by a conversation that Dave had with one of my professors at Loyalist College.

Remember. Mourn. Celebrate.

And then, read this SUPER-powerful post by Dave, about his cousin Mattie.

Dave writes eloquently and often about how life is for him, disabled later in life. But this piece, written especially for today, is probably my favourite: it is heart-wrenching and furious, sad and wise, fragile and fierce, all at the same time.

In Search of Courage

2012-01-21T11:16:00.003-05:00

Dear Teacher,

Was chatting recently with a woman who works for Group Home X. She said that she finds that people coming out of DSW programs are too idealistic and have no idea how things "really are."

She has worked in developmental services for many years and said that it's very hard to secure full-time employment; mostly it's cobbling full-time hours from a series of part-time jobs. I'm OK with that, but am feeling discouraged by her attitude.

I found her to be a bit condescending, actually, when I explained some of the concepts we're learning, especially about helping people live their best lives. She claims that the reality is that most of the people she supports have no capacity/the wherewithal to even know that their lives could be any different and that I'd do well to "let go of my Pollyanna ideas." I gently tried to persuade her otherwise, but gave up as soon as her eyes glazed over.

I am still bothered by the exchange this morning.

I guess I'm looking for the right words to use in these situations - how to gracefully assert that there most certainly is another way to support people, without coming across as condescending myself. And I suppose I'm looking for reassurance myself, that I will indeed have the confidence/tools to truly make a positive difference for people, in the face of this kind of complacency.

In the overall, it makes me more determined than ever to remember and absorb all that we are learning, which feels good. And right. But...there is a niggling sense that I will muck it up, somehow.

I know that my absolute responsibility is toward those I support - in many ways, this feels a lot like coming up against different parenting styles and following my own heart regarding the ways in which I parent my own kids, despite the opinions and influences of others. Despite my overall confidence, I worry daily that I will, in the end, muck it all up.

Photo courtesy of Photobucket

Is this something that you struggle/d with, when you actively support/ed people? Feeling a bit like you're up against it? How do/did you remain steadfast on a day-to-day basis? And how did/do you guard against feeling discouraged by the prevalent attitudes of those around you?

I am hoping (hopeful) that more time absorbing all that we're being taught will help strengthen my resolve (much like time to become confident in my parenting skills...erm, most of the time)

It's all well and good for me to express shock and dismay and indignance about the ways in which people with disabilities are treated, here from the comfort of my comparatively charmed life, but it's not enough. Every day, it seems, I read another article/story/anecdote about the horrible ways in which society's most vulnerable are treated. In fact, I'm finding that these stories are piling up at an alarming rate. Not sure if it's that because society is becoming more aware or it's just that *I* am, but the truth remains the same: things must change.

I know that I must be part of that change as so many, many things in life have led me to this point, this place, this knowing and I feel compelled to do this work. But still, I worry that I too will -eventually -become complacent and de-sensitized.

I hate feeling this way. Hate feeling that I will do the wrong thing, muck it all up, fail at such an important task...even before I've tried.

Is this normal? Please, tell me that this concern - this fear - is normal and not some deeply-rooted personality flaw.

Love,
Your Student

Smarter Than a First-Grader...

2012-01-19T23:27:00.002-05:00

Ever worry that you'll never survive parenthood? That your kids really ARE smarter than you?

Yeah. Me, too.

But every once in awhile, I end the day feeling as though - for a brief, shining moment - I know what I'm doing. Or that I'm really, really good at making it seem that way....

Here's a snippet of an hour-long POST-bed/lights-out conversation with Matthew, age 6:

Matthew: Mummy, did you know that some kids' parents give them treats when they're good?

Me: Is that so?

Matthew: Yes, it's true. Some parents give their kids toys when they're good at the grocery store, or just for being good without being told to.

Me: Wow. Those kids are lucky, eh?

Matthew: Yeah. Really lucky.

Me: Do you know those children personally or did you see them on TV?

Matthew: I can't remember their names, but I saw them one day.

Me: Oh, yeah? Where?

Matthew: At the grocery store. In their car. After they were done shopping and were sitting in their carseats, I saw their mummy give them treats.

Me: Huh. 'magine that. What was I doing, while this other mummy was giving her kids treats?

Matthew: Being mad because me and Luke didn't listen in the store and Luke ran away and I was sassy.

Me: Ah. I see.

Matthew at his devilish best. He's so cute, I'd forgive him anything.

*Brief pause for me to reign it in, having used up all my calm, measured tones on the above exchange*

Matthew: I think that other mummy must have been really proud of her kids, right Mummy?

Me: I'll bet she was. But, I'll bet she wasn't as proud of her kids as I am of you, right now.

Matthew: What?

Me: I am so proud of you, Matthew, for communicating your ideas and opinions to me so clearly. I love you very much. But I need you to know something else, too. It's very important. Are you listening?

Matthew: Uh huh!

Me: (in a tight, sweetness-laced-with-venom voice) The difference between me and that other mummy? I expect you to be good because it's the right thing to do, not because there might be a treat at the end of things.
That's not how it works in this family.(getting louudderr) IF I want to give you a treat because I can, then you'll get one. But you will not EVER get a treat for doing as you're told, when you're told. (soft, deadly whisper) Is. that. clear?

Matthew: (dramatic, long-suffering sigh.) Yesssuh.

*Another pause for me to press my fingertips into my eye sockets, sending telepathic, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm soooo effing sorry!" messages to my mother.*

And then:

Matthew: Are you really proud of me for telling you all this stuff, Mummy?

*I freeze. Did he not just notice the yelling portion of this conversation? Could it be that he actually heard and picked out the one nice, Good-Mummy thing I really want him to hear, know, feel? Wow. I am rockin' this mummy-gig today. And here I thought I'd failed utterly. Pfffhhtt...*

Me: I am. I am very proud of you. You're a great communicator.

Matthew: Do you think you're proud enough that we can have ice cream for breakfast tomorrow?

Me: Uh, no.

Matthew: (giggling) It was worth a try, right?

That is was, my son. It was certainly worth a try.

And you?

Been outsmarted, outwitted, outmaneuvered and/or outfoxed by your kids lately?

Tell me all about it.

Please.

Quinte's Biggest Loser 2012 is Gonna Be....

2012-01-07T11:43:00.000-05:00

Bellymonster!!

Yep. This is IT, dear readers....

I'm putting all of me (and there's far too much of me, these days) out there and have registered to participate in Quinte's Biggest Loser, a fundraising initiative from Belleville General Hospital Foundation.

I am excited. And nervous. But I have been steadily gaining weight for years and Luke calls me "Squishy."

I hate squishy.

So, beginning Monday, January 9th, I will be working these squishy bits off and making changes that ought to have been made long ago. The Reds deserve a mummy who can keep up and show them - not just tell them - how important it is to stay active and healthy.

If you're so inclined, please consider sponsoring me - it's a great cause and every donation is tax-deductible. Here's the link to my personal page: http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?registrationID=1328999&langPref=en-CA

If donations aren't your thing, please consider leaving encouraging comments below. While I am SUPER good at starting things, I am not so great at staying motivated, so I need all the help I can get!

Better yet, JOIN IN! How lovely it would be to have you along for this awesome ride!

Merry Christmas to All!

2011-12-25T11:30:00.001-05:00

It's quiet here - the Reds are happily munching on waffles, Daddy's sipping a hot coffee and I, still in my pj's am feeling so very, very blessed.

Though we will not be visiting my parents as planned, as they've succumbed to the same bug that felled the Reds last week (Sorry, Mum and Dad!) we will be joining my in-laws later today.

Until then, I will enjoy these peaceful moments with my family and send love to you, dear readers. Thank you for reading and for being a part of this amazing, charmed life I am living.

Boys, being boys!

Santa's offerings!

Merry Christmas!

Love,

Bellymonster and the Reds

Tale of Two Sickies

2011-12-16T18:57:00.000-05:00

The Reds have been felled by the 'flu. Here's the whole stinkin' mess, as posted on Facebook

Wednesday evening, having written my last exam:

Thursday morning, having been woken by Matthew shortly after midnight:

And then Luke woke up, crying and complaining of stomach pain:

By late afternoon, we were all miserable:

Later that evening, blessedly alone and wishing for Baileys:

Sigh. Even when they're sick, they make me snort-giggle:

Apparently I get a teensy bit twitchy when my kids are sick:

And finally....wait for it....you know this one's coming......

Apparently, I also get sick when my kids get sick:

And you? How do you deal with sick kids?

Are we friends on Facebook yet? Come and find me!

PART TWO:On Resilience, Faith and Courage - Joe Clayton's Story

2011-12-14T22:21:00.002-05:00

Part 2 of 3:

Joe Clayton was 12 years old when he walked through the cavernous halls of Rideau Regional Centre for the first time.

Essentially ejected from the foster care system, rejected time and again by those who were meant to protect and nuture him, he quickly learned to fend for himself inside the institution's walls.

In this overcrowded and brutally depressing place, Joe spent his days trying to avoid the staff - and his nights unsucessfully warding off the abuse heaped upon him by ~~other inmates~~ those who lived there, too.

"I was always scared," he recalled, years later, finally free and speaking to my DSW class at Loyalist College. "I always felt ashamed, like no one cared because of how I was treated. I was always scared for my life."

Joe had many reasons to be afraid. During the day, staff and orderlies tortured their young and vulnerable charges, punishing them for the slightest infraction. Joe spent many long hours scrubbing the kilometres-long hallways with just a brush, or banished to a "Side Room" where he would huddle naked on the floor, weeping.

More than once, staff members grabbed the boy and shoved his head down the toilet, flushing even as he struggled to breathe. Or they'd wrestle him into a "monkey suit" (a straitjacket) and leave him trussed up for the day, just because.

The staff were our God, our mothers, our fathers.

Joe and the others were paid 25 cents an hour to pluck feces from the mountains of soiled linen used by the residents of Rideau Regional. It was dreaded, horrible task but one which Joe and the others were forced to repeat hour upon hour, day after day.

Even the nights offered little solace for Joe. As a resident on a giant ward, he had no privacy - beds lined every wall, spilling out into corridors and hallways. But his blankets offered little protection for the slight boy, for Joe was raped and sodomized almost nightly for 6 years.

In fact, years later, an examination revealed heavy scarring in his rectum - the result of repeated assaults. Beatings were regular and cruel and meted out by staff and residents alike. In the dorms, in the showers, inside the darkened doorways of the institution's long corridors, Joe knew mostly fear and pain.

Many times, Joe tried to escape, sometimes alone, sometimes with his friend, Freddy Sanderson. Joe says that the staff began to taunt him and Freddy, teasing them with thoughts of freedom:

"They played a game with us. They said, 'If you run away and don't get caught for three weeks, you'll be free.'"

Once, the pair almost made it to Montreal before they were caught and they spent several weeks in "Side Rooms" as punishment. After that, they were no longer permitted outside the Centre's locked doors. Besides, staff reasoned, where would he go?

Joe never received visitors at Rideau Regional. In fact, he was told that his family had all died. No one was coming to rescue him. He was alone, except for Freddy, his blood brother, his friend.

An terrible reality for a young boy who came of age inside a cage.

"There was nothing wrong with a lot of us when we went in," he says, his voice shaking only a little. "But we were all of us broken when we left."

Part III coming soon...

When Santa Calls...

2011-12-11T13:49:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, wee Luke had a hard time listening to instructions. Specifically, he threw two decks of cards all over the floor and refused to pick them up. No amount of asking, cajoling or hollering was working, so, like many a desperate parent before me has done, I threatened to call Santa.

He begged me to hang up the phone and hurried to pick up, only to be distracted by dust motes dancing and hunger and Lord knows what else. Suddenly inspired, I posted this on Facebook:

Within minutes, my friend Jamie offered to make the call. This is how it went:

Luke: Hello?

Santa: Hello Luke, it's Santa! How are you?

Luke: Fine.

Santa: Are you having trouble picking up your toys? Are you having a problem? Mommy asked you to pick them up.

Luke: Yeah. But all I wanted was someone to help me pick up.

Santa: Did you ask someone to help you? Did you make the mess? If so you have to pick it up. If you need help, ask Mommy.

Luke: Ok.

Me: If you pick up your toys Luke I will look into getting you that "Cars" guitar you wanted. You still want that right?

Luke: Yes.

Santa: Well then you pick up and be a good boy for Mommy and I will see about getting one to you for Christmas, OK?

Luke: OK.

Santa: You go clean up Luke and I will talk to you later and have a Merry Christmas.

In the meantime, Jamie and I were conversing madly on Facebook, hopping between a thread on my wall and one on his. The conversation on his had me howling with laughter, as Luke scurried about behind me:

Luke: Hello! Luke speaking.

Santa: Luke. It's Santa again. Did you clean up your toys?

Luke: Yep.

Santa: Good boy. I knew you could do it. Now I will look at getting that guitar in the sleigh for you OK?

Luke: Ok bye. CLICK.

My son had indeed hung up on Santa, but boy, was he proud of himself:

The fun didn't end there. In between the picking up, hysterical laughter and mad Facebook'ing by me, Luke managed to jam his finger into the pencil sharpener, proceeded to sharpen his finger and then burst into panicked tears. In the midst of the ensuing chaos, "Santa" rang again:

Matthew: Hello! Matthew McLennan speaking.

Santa: Hello Matthew! It's Santa! I heard you wanted to talk to me too?

Matthew: Yeah!

Santa: Did your brother clean up his toys?

Matthew: Yes.

Santa: Good, good. What happened to his finger? He tried to sharpen it? That's silly! You tell him Santa is bringing him pencils so he won't have to sharpen his fingers OK?

Matthew: ( giggling): OK Santa. ( giggling)

Santa: Now. you want a police man costume and drums?

Matthew: YES, PLEASE!

Santa: Well I think I can get you the costume, but the drums are a bit big for my sleigh, maybe when you are older OK, buddy?

Matthew: That's what my Mom said too. So that's OK.

Santa: Because when you are older you get bigger things and I can make more room in the sleigh.

Matthew: That's fine.

Santa: Now you be a good boy and help Mommy and I will get you your presents OK? And tell Luke to stop sharpening his fingers! I will get him some pencils!

Matthew: ( Giggling again) OK Santa.

Santa: Good bye, Matthew and Merry Christmas.

Matthew: Bye! Merry Christmas, Santa.

Proof, dear readers, that the magic of Christmas is all around us: all you need is a good friend, Facebook and a phone.

With love and thanks to the awesome Jamie Terry, for playing along and for letting me plaster his Facebook wall all over the place. Merry Christmas, my friend! xo

Mark's Dreaming of a PINK Christmas...

2011-12-08T20:03:00.001-05:00

Tonight's after-dinner conversation:

Matthew: Daddy! Mummy's making a Christmas Wish List. What do you want from Santa?
Mark: A d-a-u-g-h-t-e-r
Luke: A dog?
Liz: Ha! No way, buster. Uh uh.
Matthew: What does he want, Mummy?
Liz: A daughter. Ha!
Matthew: A daughter?
Luke: A girl?
Mark: I have two boys. Don't you think a little girl would be a great addition to our family?
Liz: (telepathically, to Mark): You. are. insane.
Matthew: A sister?
Liz: A sister for you and Luke. Would you like a sister?
Matthew: Uh...not really. I like being just Matthew and Luke.
Liz: Me too, Matthew. I don't want another baby, either.
Luke: No sisters. No babies.

Poor Mark. Another dream, dashed.

To Matthew, I whispered, "Tell you what, though. We can buy Daddy a baby dolly - a girl one. And that can be his daughter, OK?"

Matthew (laughing uproariously): Okay, Mummy! Let's buy Daddy a daughter!

"Welcome Home, Baby Emily"
from framedmemories.ca
An Ashton-Drake Doll

So, to the McLennan Christmas Wish List, I added two things:

1. Baby Girl Dolly
2. Vasectomy

Guess it's true, what the sign on our wall says:

"Remember, as far as anyone knows, we're a nice, normal family..."

Sigh. More fodder for the therapists, I say.

And you? What sort of crazy stuff is your family up to, these days?

On Resilience, Faith and Courage: Joe Clayton's Story (Part One)

2011-12-01T10:40:00.004-05:00

Part 1 of 3:

Some weeks back, a man called Joe Clayton came to visit the DSW class at Loyalist College.

Joe Clayton with some of my DSW classmates
November, 2011

An eloquent though soft-spoken man, Joe visits Belleville every year, speaking to students about his life in Rideau Regional Centre, - an institution that was once "home" to thousands of mentally disabled Canadians.

His presentation brought to vivid, awful life the reality of institutional life. Rideau Regional was, in fact, a house of horrors and as Joe wove his tale, I could not help but feel three things:

1. Enormous shame that in this awesome country, there ~~were~~ are places like this, where we ~~treated~~ treat our most vulnerable citizens so very, very badly,

2. Awe and almost overwhelming gratitude for Joe, that he survived years of abuse - mental and physical - and neglect, only to emerge strong and clear and willing to tell his story,

3. Determination that I, along with my classmates, will be among those strong enough to help heal the wounds of men and women like Joe, who deserve the best lives, instead of memories like these:

Joe Clayton was born in Pembroke, in 1953. In poor health, Joe's mother was unable to care for him and so entrusted him to a family friend. Sadly, the friend died and in 1958, Joe was made a ward of Children's Aid Society.

Remembers Joe, "I sat in the back seat of the car and then I got up and I stood and looked out the car window. My mom got farther and farther away from me and then she was gone out of my life."

Joe was five.

His first foster family actually adopted him, but within six months, decided they'd made a mistake. He was too aggressive, they said. "Mentally slow," doctors declared.

And so began years of bouncing in and out of foster homes, where Joe was beaten, neglected:

"I remember in one of the foster homes where I was, we went to the beach. I was playing in the water and having fun. Then I was upset about something. The people who were taking care of me they got really mad at me. When I got home, they told me to go to my room. They came to my room and tied me up with a rope. They put my arms back and tied my hands and put a cloth over my mouth. They left me there like that on my bed for one day."

The only bright spot came in the early sixties, when Joe landed on the doorstep at his second-to-last foster home. The Polish man who opened his home to the young boy "treated me like a son," according to Joe.

Sadly, Joe's kindly foster father fell from a tree while cutting down branches and died, so Children's Aid Society sent Joe to Rideau Regional Centre.

(Photo courtesy of Joe Clayton)

He was 12 years old.

Introducing....Matthew, at House of Leprechauns.

2011-11-14T18:53:00.000-05:00

Matthew has his own blog. It's attached to mine and (for now) I do all his typing, but it's his and he is very, very proud.

This will either be the smartest parenting decision or the one I regret forever. Time will tell! In the meantime, head over and say "Hiya!" to my very heart:

(Click on his sweet, cherub face to hop on over to House of Leprechauns!)

Lose the 'tude, Dude!

2011-11-12T09:35:00.002-05:00

I need an "Ignore" button.

Seriously.

I wish I could set my brain to simply ignore - as in, not hear, not respond to, not let my blood boil about - certain things my family say or do.

Like this:

Matthew: Mummmmyyyyyyy? Can I have some candy? (Insert whiny, petulant tone pitched so high the dog moans and runs upstairs)

Me: Not now, Bug. It's too early. After lunch.

Matthew: It's not too early.

Me: Yes, it is.

Matthew: Mummmmmmmy, it's not FAIR!!! (Insert scowling face, thrust out lip and crossed arms here)

On a related note:

Does anyone else out there have a child who whines while adding an emphatic "UH" to the last syllable?

Like this:

Matthew: LuuuuukkkkkkUH! Stop doooooooooooinnnng thaattUH! Mummy! He's looking at me all weeeeeeeeeeeeerrriiidUH."

Or this:

Matthew: (Insert snotty, Lord help us, SUPER snotty tone here): I'm not gonna play with you anymore, Luke. I don't want to because because you're only fourUH..."

Me: (Not ignoring, the way I likely should, but damn it, Luke worships Matthew. It's fine if Matthew doesn't play with him all the time, but there's no need to be mean about it): Matthew, if I spoke to you that way, how would you feel?

Matthew: I don't careUH! (and then, turning to me, sticks out his tongue!)

*Brief pause for my brain to explode *

Me: (Furiously pointing to the stairs): Time Out. NOW!

Matthew: WhhhhaatttUH? I didn't do annnyyyythingUH!

Me: Do that again and I will smack that sass right off your face!

(Yes, I am the same mother who sends the Reds to Time Out for hitting each other. I recognize the hypocrisy here, just don't know what to DO about it.)

Matthew: (Stomping toward stairs, his voice rising, filling with tears): It's not faaairrrUH!

I got nothin', people. This petulant "uh"ing is new for Matthew and for us. It grates on my every nerve and I'm pretty sure my ears are bleeding. Is this normal? Do ALL children do this, or just mine?

If so, the question is not whether the children will survive childhood. The question is, will I?

*Bangs own head against deskUH*

And you? How do handle it when your kids ooze sass and attitude?

Lest We Forget...

2011-11-04T18:17:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, blog posts seem to write themselves. Sometimes, in the very middle of a pretty ordinary day, extraordinary moments happen:

The Reds and I bought poppies today. As I was pinning them on, Luke asked what they're for. I told him that it's a way to show soldiers how much we appreciate the hard work they do, keeping people safe.

Matthew: And they fight in wars, right?
Me: Yes, unfortunately, they do.
Luke: I'm gonna fight in a war one day, Mummy. I'm gonna be the first one there!
Me: I sure hope not, Lukey. I don't want anyone to fight in a war, but especially not you.
Matthew: Don't worry, Mummy! If Luke goes, I'll go too and then you won't have to worry.

An elderly woman approached on unsteady feet, leaning heavily on her cane. She peered down at the boys, stroked Luke's cheek, Matthew's hair.

"Sweet boys. Let us pray your mother never sees a day when she must send two fine lads like you to war."

She lifted her gaze to me and offered a sad smile.

"Three of my sons fought in WWII," she explained. I nodded, sensing there was more.

"Only one returned to me."

"I'm so sorry," I gasped, hoping it was enough, knowing that it couldn't possibly be.

She gestured to the Reds, now proudly showing one another their poppies, mucking about.

"Your sons. May God keep them with you always."

"Amen," said a deep, weary voice behind us.

It was a soldier, beret smartly titled on his head, poppy over his uniformed heart.

She touched his arm, the poppy and offered a watery smile and a whisper: "Thank you, son."

The soldier, clearly touched, lifted his chin and smiled back.

"You're welcome."

And you? In whose memory do you wear a poppy?

A Visit From Murphy...and Santa Claus

2011-10-28T11:27:00.001-04:00

Murphy's Law

Loosely translated and borrowing heavily from Finagle's Law

means:

"Anything that can go wrong, will."

It's been a wild ride at ye old Bellymonster homestead. To long-story-short things, that dang Murphy popped by for a visit, leaving an expensive mess in his wake.

It started with the furnace:

Furnace guy came. Shook head, sadly, eyeing our 42-year-old furnace. Whistled - in bad way - when he saw our chimney. Turned his palm up in an apologetic way and said he reckoned it'd be cheaper to simply start anew.

Sigh.

I cringed, waiting for the estimate to replace the furnace. Winced when it came. Mark did more than wince. In fact, I'm fairly certain I saw him wipe a tear from his suddenly alarmingly pale face:

We discussed things all weekend long, trying to figure out where we can cut back to see our way around financing a new furnace. On Monday, Mark called from work:

Sigh.

Yep. The WHEEL FELL OFF THE CAR! Thankfully, it happened as Mark turned into the driveway at work and not whilst he was sailing up the 401, but still. We were hoping to get one more winter out of the ol' girl. Alas...

Later that week, I received a second furnace quote - from a man who looked like Santa Claus (without the beard) and who immediately offered to bring some electric heaters by while we made up our minds.

That pretty much made up our minds, so I arranged to have an environmental audit done so that we could take advantage of government rebates, set to end in early 2012.

Spent the rest of the week bemoaning our crummy luck and waiting for the sky to fall.

Gah. Argh. Blah, indeed.

Murphy, in case you didn't know, also likes to sprinkle mischief in threes:

F*cked-up furnace? Check.

Crapped-out car? Check.

I waited. I fretted. I tweeted:

I prayed. But alas...

That Friday, the computer gave one last pitiful chug, a few coughs, a wheeze..

and died.

When Mark came home from work, looking exhausted and stressed out, I greeted him with a smile. But it was enough. He knew. Oh, he knew:

Me: "So, Murphy stopped by earlier."
Mark: "Computer?"
Me: "Yep."
Mark: "Fuck."
Me: "Yep."
Mark: "I need a drink."
Me: "Rye and coke?"
Mark: "Do we have any arsenic?"

Thankfully, we have an awesome friend who provided us with a new-to-us computer and amazingly generous family, who've loaned us a car, indefinitely.

On Tuesday, I called Santa Claus (aka. Brian from Rosebush Heating and Cooling) and gave the go-ahead for a new furnace. He cautioned that it might be a few days, as it's a busy time.

20 minutes later, he rang back:

"My guys'll be over in about 20 minutes."
Me: Uh, OK. I thought you said it might be a few days?
Santa: I did. I pulled them off another job. I hate the idea of your little boys having to face even one more day of cold.
Me: Wow. Thank you!
Santa: You take care of those boys, Mrs. They're precious.
Me: They are. I will. Thank you.

30 minutes later, I posted this on Facebook:

I called Mark at work:

"The furnace people just showed up!"
"Seriously? I thought he said..."
"He did! But he hated the thought of the Reds being cold and sent his crew here straight away."
"Wow."
"That's what I said!"
"I guess Santa Claus came to town early, eh?"

Indeed.

*And you? Got any Murphy's Law fiascos to share? Who's YOUR Santa Claus?*

On Jelly Beans and Other Things...

2011-10-27T10:16:00.002-04:00

Monday, after school, having a grape-eating contest - who can make the loudest crunch:

I tossed out a casual, "So Matthew, how was your day?"

Mid-crunch, my boy stopped and then looked away.

"I was the only one who used my accent," he offered, a little flush of pride lighting his face before his gaze dropped back down.

"Awesome! Do you mean your accent when you're speaking French?"

"Yeah."

"Umm...you don't seem happy about that, Bug. It's a good thing, right?"

"Well, yeah. I was the only one who was listening but Madame M. didn't give me a jelly bean."

"Do you get a jelly bean for using your accent, then?" I watched as his expression soured further, all thought of grape-crunching forgotten. In a low voice, he answered:

"No, we get jelly beans for listening, but Madame M. didn't give me one."

"Ah. I see. Do you think maybe she just forgot?"

A vehement head shake, tears glistening. "No. She never forgets. She just didn't want to give me one."

Mama Bear rose up inside me, roaring even as I struggled to tamp her down. Calm down, Mama.

I took a deep breath, reached out to take his hand. "That must have hurt your feelings, eh?"

Matthew nodded.

"Maybe she doesn't like me." Though he offered it as an observation, I could hear the question in his voice, wrapped as it was in resignation and defeat.

It broke my heart.

"I'm sure you're wrong, sweetheart. I can't imagine that she doesn't like you. I'm sure she just forgot."

Shrugs from Matthew. Helpless gazing from me.

And then...a memory.

"Let me tell you a story, Matthew. When I was in Kindergarten, I had a teacher called Mrs. Major. Every morning, she filled a plastic egg with jelly bean treats and hid it somewhere in the classroom. Each student was given a chance to search for the egg and eat those jelly bean treats throughout the day."

"Cool."

"It was. But I never got chosen. One day, I asked Mrs. Major when it would be my turn. But she thought I'd had a turn and put me in time-out for telling a fib."

"Really?!?" Matthew's eyes were wide with surprise and indignation. This sort of thing sets his Libra heart aflame. Thirty-five years later, seeing indignation flare in my son's eyes soothed the ache of that memory, long-buried but clearly, not forgotten.

I nodded.

"Really. I was very sad. I wasn't fibbing, she'd just forgotten. But it hurt my feelings."

We sat quietly, letting those hurt feelings - his and mine - settle around us. And then Matthew brightened.

"Mummy! I have an idea! We can get a plastic egg and fill it with jelly beans. Luke and I can take turns hiding it and then you can have your turn finding it! Would that be OK?"

Oh, my son. My sensitive, tender-hearted son. What did I ever do to deserve you?

Out loud I said, " What a wonderful idea, Matthew! Thank you. We'll get some jelly beans at the weekend and whenever you use your accent with me, you'll get a jelly bean, too, OK?"

"Sounds like a plan, Mummy." His own hurt feelings forgotten, Matthew leaped from the couch and began scouting for good hiding spots. I stayed seated a minute longer, trying to compose myself.

For want of a jelly bean, grace was found.

*And you? Who was your Mrs. M? Where have you found grace?*

Monitoring My Blessings

2011-10-07T20:45:00.001-04:00

Tonight's post is brought to you courtesy of the baby monitor. (Yes, I still use one. Don't judge me.)

Matthew: 1, 2, 3, 4............94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99.......hmmmm.....Tenty. Tenty-One, Tenty-Two, Tenty-Three......uhhhh....ELEVENTY...Eleventy-One, Eleventy-Two.....Twelvty...Twelvty-One, Twelvety-Two...LUKE, there are Twelvety-TWO constellations on the ceiling!!!

Luke: Huh?

Matthew: There are TWELVETY-TWO stars and constellations. That's a LOT of stars. The reason you've never heard of that number is because it's so BIIIIIIGGG!

Downstairs, Mark and I sat rapt and grinning as our firstborn counted himself sleepy. So cute, we said, puffing up with parental pride. But when he began winding himself into a number-counting frenzy, I urged Mark to go on up and settle him down - we have a big travelling day tomorrow and as entertaining as the show was, the boy needed to sleep.

Up Mark went, ushering both boys back into their respective beds, tucking them in. Matthew asked for "the Counting Game, explaining to Luke that "me and Daddy played this game when I was four, like you!"

Luke: Cool.

Mark: Two plus two equals?
Matthew: FOUR!
Mark: Four plus four equals?
Matthew: EIGHT!
Mark: Eight plus eight equals?
Matthew: SIXTEEN!
Mark: Sixteen plus sixteen equals?
Matthew: Uh.....Thirty-two?
Mark: Thirty-two. Thirty-two plus thirty-two equals...

And so it went until Mark got somewhere near 4000 at which point Matthew yelled, "Pi!!! That's my favourite part!"

Downstairs, I giggled helplessly, enchanted by the sheer pleasure in his voice and the fact that he and Daddy have a special Counting Game that I knew nothing about.

As soon as Mark left the room Matthew began the Counting Game on his own, getting stuck at 16 plus 16.

Again.

And again.

And again.

For almost 8 minutes (yes, I timed it) he counted from one - over and over and over again - struggling to get past 16, but never quite managing it. He ended up at 26, instead of 32, as he was - I imagine - counting on his fingers.

Finally, on the heels of one giant yawn, he proclaimed that 26 was indeed the right number.

Big pause.

Matthew: Yep, it's 26! 26.....yep.......26......I'll do 26 plus 26 in the morning, OK Luke? Right now, I need to get some rest. I'm a tired boy."

Bigger pause.

Silence.

Downstairs, grinning through my proud tears, I thought, "For these moments, I am so thankful."

And then sleepily, from the monitor: "I am so proud of you, Matthew." (Matthew, deepening his voice to mimic Mark's)

Matthew: "Thanks Dad, I'm proud of you, too."

Downstairs, eyes welling, grin widening, I began counting, too. Counting my blessings:

"98, 99...Tenty. Tenty-One, Tenty-Two, Tenty-Three...."

And you? Have you counted your blessings today?

Happy Thanksgiving, All!

Words to Live By...

2011-09-26T21:23:00.005-04:00

As many of you know, I have gone back to college and am studying Developmental Service Work. The two-year program will give me the skills necessary to support people with physical and/or intellectual disabilities and to say that I am excited about the future would be an understatement.

I am delighted to be meeting new people - even the cell-phone toting young students who fill up the back three rows of every class. Their enthusiasm is contagious and while their dependency on technology baffles and irritates me, I admire their compassion and open, trusting hearts.

I am also delighted and amazed at how my perception of the world is changing - and rapidly. When the course began, several professors warned us that we would discover biases within ourselves that we'd previously ignored. I scoffed then, thinking that I was without bias towards people with disabilities.

I was wrong.

Despite my own best efforts, I too have been harbouring bias toward those whose struggle to fit in is 10 times worse than my teenaged-angst ever was. Until this program, I wasn't aware that the very WORDS I use to describe someone, or something, showed those biases.

"Lucy's autistic son," for example, puts the focus and the whole of my impression of Lucy's son firmly on autism's shoulders. Better I should say, "Lucy's son, who has autism," or better still, "Lucy's son."

Some weeks back, I learned that the word backwards comes from the phrase, "in the back wards" and describes where not-so-long-ago, psychiatric patients were hidden from view. Tucked into the very back rooms of asylums nation-wide, those doctors deemed "mentally unstable" were destined to spend their days roaming about, hurting and virtually forgotten. Caged.

I began to wonder which other words I use - daily, without reserve, without thinking - that might show a bias I hate to think I've had or worse, shown. I didn't have to wonder long before I realized that my everyday speech is peppered with jargon I'd be loathe to have my new teachers or classmates hear.

Idiot. Spaz. Dummy. Schizo. Gone mental. Loonybin. Maniac. Crazy. You're insane. Retarded.

Are you cringing yet, dear reader? I am, just typing them out and these are only the words that *I've* used, not the dozens of others we listed in class one day, most of us sinking lower and lower in our seats as each offensive and derogatory word got called out and written down.

Wanna know what's even worse? I've said ALL of these words in FRONT OF MY CHILDREN.

It shames me that these are words and phrases that I, a lover of words and the keeper of little boy hearts, ~~have used~~ use.

Too often. Too forcefully. Too without thought-fully.

So, I have been making a clear and conscious effort to rid my speech of language which could misinform, misrepresent, hurt or worse, do all three. When I am at school, it's easier to remember to stand guard against my own tongue. Easier, but not easy as I am opinionated and given to speech-before-thought already. But, day by day, everything is changing.

As I listen to the language modelled by my professors, all of whom seem called to this work, it gets easier.

As I feel old thought-patterns and deeply-held biases fall off and melt away, it gets easier.

As I learn about the nature of disabilities and how vast and wide and broad the scope is, it gets easier.

And while I happily shed the skin of the person I have been, I am learning so many, many things.

I am being taught new words and concepts like inclusion and people-centred and support and responsibility and community.

My new language is called "People First Language" and I am wrapping my heart around all of it.

Interestingly, by challenging my brain to substitute a different, more suitable word for "retarded" I've been given a real chance to stretch, both as a writer...and as a human.

And as a mother.

Because once I'd isolated the hurtful words I use every day, I discovered even more of them.

I found that on average, I call Matthew a "Silly Turkey" 15 times a day. It's an affectionate nickname, you say? Well, yes, it is. Except when last week, I wrapped it in venom and spat it out when he fumbled a chore I'd been nagging him to complete.

And it's not just the words I choose, it's the way I offer them to my VERY impressionable young ~~mimics~~ children:

I chide and nag and yell things like, "Seriously? Do you seriously believe that YOU are right and I, your mother, am wrong?" (Insert incredulous tone edged with blistering sarcasm. Aim it at frustrated and weepy five-year-old)

Yes, he nodded, miserably. Yes, you are wrong, Mummy.

He was right.

I was wrong. Wrong in both concept and delivery.

So, a month into my new life as mother, wife and student, I have learned that...well... I have a LOT to learn.

And as always, it seems as though my children are my best and finest teachers.

Together?

We can change the world.

And you?

How do you react to learning unpleasant truths about the world?

Yourself?

Me?

This is NOT a post about politics, BUT...

2011-09-19T19:28:00.007-04:00

This is not a political piece, but it does involve politics - mostly the small-town life, friendship kind.

James Terry has been in my sphere for 20 years or more, as we attended the same high school and were - and still are - pretty friendly people. We've bumped into each other here and there over the years and I have always enjoyed our chats,had while chasing kids or loading groceries, or both.

Thankfully, with the advent of Facebook, Jamie and I have managed to chat quite often, albeit virtually. We don't always agree, but there is a genuine fondness, I think, between us. So, when Jamie decided to run as Durham Region's NDP candidate for the upcoming October election, no one was prouder than me.

(Well, maybe his mum and wife and kids, but other than that...)

I do not live in Durham anymore, and have already cast my mental vote for a candidate here in Quinte, but I am nonetheless awed and impressed that Jamie has taken this huge leap, politically-speaking.

True to form, my stand-up friend has put his money where his mouth is and instead of merely whinging about politicians and policies, like the rest of us, he got informed and then got involved. Regardless of your personal political beliefs, I think it goes without saying that if more people could find the courage to do the same, this would be a different sort of world.

Certainly, a better one.

In any case, I asked Jamie a bunch of questions recently (pepper 'em with random questions, is my motto) and he responded. And so, to honour our friendship and his foray into the political arena, I am very happy to introduce Jamie Terry: father, husband, brother, friend:

Belly: We met in high school, though I don't specifically remember how. Did we take classes together, drink together...was it YOU that I kissed that at Jackma....wait, never mind. This is a family blog.

OK. The REAL question: If you could choose, would you opt again for life in small-town Ontario or did the BIG City call to you, in your youth? What do you want for your children?

Jamie: I much prefer the old days of when I grew up in Bowmanville. I always tell people it was like Mayberry. You could walk downtown and know almost every person you passed on the street as well as the people that owned the shops.

What I want for my children is to be able to grow up in a safe happy environment. My youngest is always asking if he can go bike riding by himself and I hate having to tell him no. The fact is, the world is not the world I grew up in. But I hope that we can change that and make an even better place for my grandchildren to live.

Belly: What's the last book you read for pleasure? It's perfectly OK to admit to loving and reading the Harry Potter series. If your answer is indeed one of those books, can I please borrow Book 2? I've lost mine somewhere...

Jamie: I am currently reading "Game of Thrones" by George Martin. It is a series of four books and although I am busy with the election now, I still find some time to sneak in a chapter or two. I would like to read the Potter series myself. I loved the movies as much as the kids. So when you find your copy Liz, let me know.

Belly: Your daughter has autism. I am studying Developmental Service Work and will be learning how to support kids with autism (or other challenges) and their families. What advice do you have for me and for anyone else who might find themselves working with or for a child/person with disabilities?

Jamie: Patience and lots of it. You have to learn as much as the child does. Once we started to learn about Aspergers and Autism it really opened our eyes as to why she did the things she did. I would also tell parents that you will find that although autistic children may be "deficient" in some areas, they excel in others. In my daughter's case, she has an incredible memory and an obsession with maps and writing and drawing. She is exceptionally creative and she plays piano.

Belly: If you were to create a musical soundtrack to represent your life, what would it include? *Bonus points for anything by Journey.*

Jamie: Don't Stop Believin'! That was easy!

Belly: Since declaring your intention to run as Durham Region's NDP candidate in the upcoming election (October 6th, readers! Got that? October 6th...get out and VOTE!) how has your view of politics changed, if at all? What made you toss your name into the hat?

Jamie: My views have not changed. I took a long time to come to this point. I was not a life long NDP. But the more I looked at what their values were I found myself being drawn in. Our party's line on this election is "Change that puts people first". And to me, that makes great sense. We "the people" need change. This province went from a crown jewel to a have-not province. This is unacceptable and the NDP want to right the ship and get this province and it's people back where we belong.

My decision to run was sparked during the Federal Election in May.

(Belly: Dear Readers, I would like to think that my little piece about "How To Win My Vote" had ~~a huge~~ some influence here, but I digress...)

I have always been interested in politics and after helping on the campaign in May, I decided that this was it, this was my time. I truly believe that if elected I can help Durham and Ontario. Our party has put forth a platform that is aimed at those that need the help the most. This is not a shoot the lights out promise the world type platform. These are all attainable, affordable changes that have the people in mind first and foremost.

Belly: Who was your favourite teacher and why? If you could tell him/her how you feel in one sentence, what would you say?

Jamie: This is an easy one. Mr. Bill Brunt. One of the nicest and dedicated teachers ever. He taught my mother, uncles, aunt and finally myself and my brother. He was an old school "Let boys be boys!" type by allowing rough stuff in gym. But at the same time he was dedicated to instilling academics in his students. He tutored me in math in grade 9 when I had difficulty and he sat there with me until I got it. He is the best. Every teacher should learn how to teach from Bill Brunt.I feel like a better person having been taught by Bill Brunt.

Belly: What's the hardest thing you've ever done?

Jamie: Watch my son shortly after he was born be hustled away to Sick Kids after complications. I did not know if I would ever see him alive. I still have bad dreams once in awhile about that day. That by far was the hardest thing I had ever had to do.

Belly: What do you want voters to know about you and your party's platform?

Jamie: I guess I would want them to know that our platform is geared towards the everyday working man or woman and their families. For far too long they have been ignored and now we want to help. Help by taking HST off home heat,hydro and gasoline. Put money back into the pockets of the people of Ontario. We are putting people first. That's the catch line and everything in our platform is aimed at just that. Jobs,health care, HST, you name it, it is all to put people first , and their challenges first.

As far as me? Well I am just one of you. Your normal everyday Ontarian. And I think I can bring some perspective to Queens Park, Many politicians "listen" to their constituents , but they fail to understand what Ontario families have and are going through. I think my experiences would be a great contribution in aiming the government in the right direction in getting Ontario back on it's feet.

Belly: Did you ever imagine that 20 years beyond high school, we'd be "virtually" hanging out? Seriously. Think about that for a moment - I was just a small-town girl, living in my lonely wor....wait, wait, that's not right... I guess the question is, of the teenagers we were and the people we've become, who do you like best? Why?

Jamie: Well people were different back in the old days - ha, ha! But then again I have run into some who still act the same way. I would have to say the people we are now would be who I like best. I think people like you and I have gone through many things and they have rounded us into pretty good people. Both of us have families and our kids drive us nuts and it all makes us who we are. And I think that's OK. We were pedal-to-the-metal teenagers and now we are shopping for walkers. But you have to slow down at some point and enjoy life. I for one am glad that I can stay in touch with old friends such as you, Liz.

20 years ago we would have been writing letters to one another probably, now we can chat in real time (When you figure out Facebook chat, that is) and I love reading your blogs.

Belly: Top three things on your bucket list:

1. Red Sox game at Fenway Park

2. Visit St Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh Scotland (My mother's family have a pane of stained glass in the cathedral)

3. Learn to surf.

He forgot to say, "Hang with Liz at the Cobourg Beach and buy her tea and candy," but that's OK. He's a busy dude. I am so proud of this man -a small-town boy with big dreams.

"The thing is, the decision to put your name on a ballot and go out there and be judged by the electorate is a noble act no matter what party you serve." L.R.

And you?

What are your dreams for the future? Our country?

Any questions for Jamie?

What's on YOUR bucket list?

On Liebster Love and Passing It On...

2011-09-14T21:40:00.002-04:00

Today was enough of "that" sort of day that I let the Reds eat supper in front of the TV, didn't scrape the dishes before shoving them into the dishwasher and Windexed the toilet instead of cleaning it properly. To sum up? I'm tired.

Tired and looking to zone out after supper, when, instead of herding the children into the bathtub, I pretended to forget to turn off the TV and logged onto Twitter.

To my surprised delight, I had received a neat tweet from Elena Aitken, a fellow blogger, a published author and all-around kick-ass chick. I also, in the awesome cool way of the 'net, consider her my friend, even though we've never met. (She likes mountains, I like mountains. We both have kids, adore her novel "Nothing Stays in Vegas" and cry at country music songs. She blogs, I blog. She runs marathons, I think about running marathons. See? Kindred spirits.)

Anyhow, according to her tweet, darling Elena had virtually presented me the Liebster Award, which is given to bloggers whose follower count is below 200, but whom the ~~Academy~~ presenting blogger thinks is worthy of recognition and shout-outs. (And more readership, so sign yourself up already, dear reader!)

Turns out, Elena thinks that Life With Bellymonster merits such an award and I am mighty pleased.

Oh, and grateful.

And chuffed and can't stop smiling.

This is just one of the many, many benefits of blogging - cool friends from far-off places who share my love of words, inspire me daily and send along virtual "kudos" for no other reason than because they can.

The NEXT best part of this Liebster Love-In, is that I now get to recommend other bloggers whose site traffic doesn't necessarily reflect their awesome talent. It's like that "send a recipe" thing, only much, much better.

Before I list "My Five", I want to first shout-out to Elena for the award and for reading my blog - your support and friendship mean so much to me. How lucky I am. Thank you.

If you didn't click on Elena's name above, do so now. She is wise and funny and she writes a mean book. And somehow, she also finds time to run, raise kids, blog and bike. I am exhausted just thinking about all that she does, but am delighted to shove you in her multi-tasking direction. Go on...let her inspire you to create change and adventure in your own life!

Now, without further ado, I hereby bestow upon these five bloggers, the much-coveted, most beloved, Liebster Award for blogging awesomeness:

1. Annie, from Six Ring Circus, holds a special place in my heart. Not just because she guest-posted here several weeks ago, but because she writes entirely from her own heart and it's pure joy to read. This mother-of-four tells it like it is with every post, but infuses her stories about life, love and family with such humour and genuine pleasure, I "visit" her several times a week, to bask in her warmth for just a little while. Visiting Annie's blog is like hanging with an old friend - it's good for your soul.

2. Also a fellow Canuck blogger, Larry Hehn is one of my favourites. He shares funny, pithy, wise stuff over at Christian in the Rough , bringing the Bible to wonderful, vivid life without a hint of "preachy." He's a man of conviction, of grace and of God and I, for one, look foward to his musings.

3. Pam Dillon - yet another Canadian blogger. Hmm... - is the kind of Twitter follower everyone should aspire to both have and be: she is kind, supportive, funny and is great at retweeting my ramblings, which I appreciate immensely. I also appreciate her blog, Wratwords. Don't let the rodent name (and photo) scare you off - Pam's got a wicked sense of funny and a clear, ring-true voice. Get over there already, eh?

4. You know what? I'm just gonna go ahead and keep right on loving Canuck bloggers. I didn't even realize that I read as many as I do. How awesome to find so many incredible bloggers right here, in my own backyard. Erm...well, you know what I mean.

Take Shelley Cameron-McCarron, for example. She's a travel writer and her blog pieces regularly stir the wanderlust I've never quite managed to shake. I visit Shelley's blog, Hit The Highway Smiling, when I'm feeling wistful, nostalgic for places I've never been or need to dream bigger than the glorious country she writes about. Go on...have a peek!

5. Ok, so this last blogger isn't exactly Canadian, but he's cool enough to at least warrant "Half-Canuck" status. Besides, Mark Kaplowitz lives in Albany, New York, which is close enough. At the very least, he knows for snow and ice and hockey. That's good enough for me.

What's also good is Mark's blog, Schlabadoo. Each and every post is a sentimental journey of sorts, as Mark urges his readers to "Remember When...?" I often find myself nodding and grinning fiercely at Mark's words, delighted by his keen observations and quiet humour. Read him. I promise he'll make your day.

There you have it, folks. Liebster Love, passed on.

M'wah! Belly love to all!

And you? Which under-followed blogs inspire you, make you laugh, cry, think, smile, rage or all of the above? Share 'em here, please!

How Technology Has Completely Altered the Post-Secondary Experience

2011-09-12T22:03:00.002-04:00

I am going back to school.

Or is it, I have gone back to school?

I am once again going to school?

Whatevvvvvvveerrer. Pffffhhhhttt....

Point is, post-secondary education is not how I remembered it and here's why:

1. Everything is different.

The chairs have gotten smaller. Truly, they have. Or my ass has gotten bigger, which can't be so.

Either that, or students have gotten smaller. They've definitely gotten younger.

At Loyalist College, they're like, 12. I kid you not. In fact, on Day One a pretty little blond in my class mentioned her hometown, which is next to mine. Jokingly, I said that I probably went to high school with her parents, as I'm old enough to be her mother.

Turns out the joke's on me because after quizzing her, I'm pretty sure I knew her dad, many, many years ago. Meep!

2. Technology RULES!

And I don't mean that in a good way. Well, not entirely, anyway.

The cool bit:

Most of my professors upload their lecture notes to something called "LMS" which is essentially a giant, electronic cheat sheet. Connected to the college's website, LMS contains my schedule, my grades, keeps track of assignments handed in, handed back and those pending. It features lecture notes, study guides, fun little "discussions" on a class-specific message board AND there's even a live-chat option.

It's a lot like Facebook, if Facebook were a message board and we got marked for logging on.

So, if I doze off during class (due to my advanced age) I can easily find out what I missed by logging on to LMS later. Later meaning after 8pm, when the kids are sleeping, lunches are made and laundry has at least been hurled into the basement. (Not the "after-the-pub-and-hookup" later enjoyed by some of my classmates. No, no...I'm not jealous. I'm not. I'm just saying...)

The not-so-cool bit:

Phones. Oh. my. GAWD.

Everyone - and I mean, everyone, has a cell phone. And not an ancient, flip-top-gizmo like the one I last week was forced to retrieve from the depths of the junk drawer, in case the Reds' school calls.

No, sir.

I mean, mini-computer phones, with keyboards and cameras and coffee machines and something called "Angry Birds" built right in.

Amazing little gadgets.

Now, I'll admit that I'm a Luddite and that a classmate had to show me how to turn the phone's ringer to "vibrate", but THIS kind of slavish devotion to tote-able technology is beyond me.

To steal a phrase? It's poppycock.

There is no way that anything of dire importance has occured during the two hours that we were in Psych. Memories of 9/11 aside, there is nothing that should compel any student to be available to the outside world at. all. times.

So, turn the damned phone OFF!

And stop texting because even though you've turned off the sound, I can still hear the tapping of your fingernails on the keys and it's driving me craaazzzzyyy!!

Example: Right, smack in the middle of one professor's request that we turn phones off for her class, a cell-phone rang. That old-fashioned party-line ring, too. Loud. Obnoxious. Jarring.

(A sound that the phone's owner has likely never heard in its original form, unless visiting a museum. I wish I was kidding.)

Well, that student didn't even bat an eyelash. She merely reached into her purse without apology and - I assumed - turned off her phone. The professor continued, only to be interrupted a second time by the same phone, ringing! Again, the (12-year-old) student simply reached into her purse, utterly non-plussed.

Ask me if it happened a third time. Go on. Ask me.

YES! YES IT DID!!!

Can you freakin' believe it? THREE times that stupid cell-phone rang. DURING ONE CLASS!

And when the phones aren't stirring up lecture halls, they're being tap-tap-tapped upon as students snake their way through crowded hallways in between classes.

In the Tim Horton's line-up, no one (except me, as I always forget that I even OWN a phone until someone asks about the Reds and then I guiltily fire it up to see if there's a message) is without their phone. Side-by-side, but utterly disengaged from one another, students text rapidly, without looking up, without pausing. One-handed even.

It baffles me, this constant need to remain in contact, technologically. Even as I recognize how easy it is to become addicted to social media (Hello??? I started dreaming in 140 characters about a week after joining Twitter), this twitchy NEED is...sad. And sort of creepy.

Seriously. When you're 12, what could you POSSIBLY have to text/tweet to your roommate that cannot wait three hours? Your BFF will likely not, like, die if you don't answer her right. this. second.

Do I sound like my mother? Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I'm ~~recalling~~ hearing her voice, "What could you possibly have to say to one another that you need to spend all hours on the phone, when you should be doing homework or something productive with your time?"

In any case, I feel a little better now, getting that off my chest. Thanks for that, dear readers. I really want you to know that despite my little rant, I'm positively delighted to be learning again, wandering the hallowed halls of knowledge, making friends and fitting in...

Now, if you'll excuse me, I really should study and to do so, I'll need to make some room for the LMS site. (It's so weird, but once I've opened up Twitter, FB, my email addresses and this blog tab, there's not enough space left for the important sites - like the college "Blackboard Learning System" one.)

Oh, and I need to charge my phone for class tomorrow...

And you? Are you addicted to technology? Social media? This blog?

Share your secrets - and your best study tips - here!

A Letter to My Son...and the World

2011-09-01T01:22:00.002-04:00

Dear World,

Two years ago, I offered you my very heart.

Two years later, I stand, poised to hand you my soul - a little boy called Luke.

Cherub-faced and devilishly charming, Luke begins Junior Kindergarten next week and despite the years I've had to prepare ~~you~~, I am not quite ready to let him go.

Luke is my youngest son, my last baby and he fills a space in me I didn't even know was empty, until he was born. He is headstrong and given to wild temper tantrums, I should warn you. But if you can see past the bluster, you will find a sensitive and kind little person, striving hard to find his own place, out of his brother's shadow.

You will hear him, World, long before you see him, especially if he is displeased. But, once the storm passes, you will be a better place because there is a sweetness, a goodness in Luke that will transform you, if you let it. He has transformed me.

These years with him have been an enormous privilege: I have been granted so much time to discover and unwrap the gifts he brings to my life and to you, World. And I am grateful. But I am also...sad. For even as we talk excitedly about school, new friendships and coming adventures, I am grieving the loss of this boy, no longer only mine.

Too, I am grieving the loss of these years - gone so swiftly, I am utterly dazed - when a walk home from dropping Matthew at school could take hours, as Luke inspected every sidewalk crack and fallen leaf. I already miss quiet mornings when we had nowhere to be and so didn't bother to dress, but sat all day in pyjamas reading books and raiding the fridge for snacks. I ache for more time to snuggle before breakfast, before errands pull us out the door, before life beckons him - us all - further forward...and away.

Wasn't he just born?

Will he remember these moments that have made up our life together? Will he remember holding out his tiny hand and asking, "Mummy, will you dance with me?" and how we twirled around and around and around until we were both dizzy from it, but how neither one of us could bear to let go?

Will he remember how I scolded him so terribly when he ripped an entire strip of wallpaper off the wall because he didn't like the feel of it beneath his fingers, or will he remember instead that I fell apart laughing when he ate the wallpaper anyway, because he did like the way it felt on his tongue?

Will he know how much it meant to me that I was here for every single moment of his "formative" years and that I feel humbled and blessed and so lucky for it? How do I tell him, World, that without him, I would never have known the sweet pleasure of holding a child to my breast and growing him with my own body? How does one thank a child for the things that, at first glance, seemed like great sacrifices but turned out to be the most wondrous gifts?

I think - I hope - that in giving him into your care, World, that you will find a way to thank him for me. Thank him for showing me the person I could be, can be, am because he calls me "Mummy."

Give Luke great adventures, World. Let him run with abandon and fling himself into all that you offer with joy and glee and without fear. Let him discover the value of being loud and the joy of silence and let him know what it is to be sad, but not resigned, down but not beaten, kind, but not pushed.

When I cannot be there, please give him a soft place to land.

Mostly, World, I ask that you let him know love. All-encompassing, enormous, soul-stirring love. Luke has much love to give, World, if you'll let him. If you're patient and lucky and very, very still, Luke will tiptoe in and grace you with his smile or a gentle pat and you will be both lost and then found, in a single moment.

Trust me, World. With Luke in your keeping, you will never be the same.

You will be brighter.

Bigger.

Better.

Blessed.

Four Days Without the Internet - How I Survived It!

2011-08-27T21:57:00.001-04:00

This week, by the numbers:

1. Successful shopping for "back to school" clothes. Me + my mum + her charge card = One VERY happy and nattily-dressed Bellymonster.

2. Times Luke peed through the bedsheets at my parents' house.

3. Needles I received in order to start school in September. Ouch!

4. Days I've been without a working computer, courtesy of a busted video card. Or so my husband claims. I think he's been surfing by questionable sites, but he claims not....either way, four days with NOT 'net was harder than I imagined, until suddenly, it wasn't.

5. Loads of laundry I washed, sorted and put away at the beginning of the week. Go, me!

6. Loads of laundry I REwashed, REsorted and added to because Mark discovered that I'd been "washing" everything in fabric softener, not detergent. Yes, I AM a domestic goddess. I'm just not a smart one!

7. Times I have decided upon and then cancelled plans for the Reds' birthday party. How the HECK did time get away from me like this and how do I claw some back?

8. Times Luke used the phrase, "Mummy, stop it. You're freakin' me out!" when I leaned into kiss him goodnight.

9. Times I have said, "I am grieving the loss of these halcyon days," when asked how I feel about the Reds both being in school next week.

10. Days until Luke starts school (note to self: step up the potty-training efforts, slacker!) and I do, too.

And you? How has your week been, by the numbers?

On Old Friends and The Gifts of Small-Town Life

2011-08-18T01:16:00.002-04:00

Saw an old friend today. Several old friends, actually.

I have not seen Kristian for close to 20 years. Until today, that is. Back in Ontario for a month-long visit, he recently sent a group email to as many old friends as he could find and presto, a reunion was born.

Today, a handful of us gathered at Cobourg's Victoria Beach, our towels and children and memories in tow.

Kristian was one of my best friends throughout high school, living as we were in a tiny village - a hamlet, really - in Middle Of Nowhere, Ontario. Though we attended different high schools, we rode the same yellow bus and despaired of life in the boonies. We shared teenaged angst, confidences, pilfered beer, stolen cigarettes, romances-gone-bust, gas money and most importantly, friends.

His shock of red hair on a lanky frame made Kristian easy to spot in a crowd, on a soccer field or hiding behind the tallest tree in my parents' yard, as he, Jen and Rob waited for me to sneak out, long after dark. Throughout long, hot summers we would scramble into the night, tripping over ourselves and each other as we made our way to the park, just because. There we would play, like the children we were, swinging, sliding, laughing and chatting until the sky lightened or we grew weary of our games.

Memories like this assailed me as I drove to the beach this afternoon. I had forgotten those nights and all the days in between that made up our teenaged years. Today, remembering, I smiled, pleased that I'd had such a good friend in Kristian.

When high school ended, we drifted amicably apart - I went off to university and Kristian headed west, seeking his future. He landed in Alberta, where he has been ever since, building a life. He is a husband now. And a father of two. A contented, settled and confident man.

Today, I watched as Kristian dealt gently with his tired little boy - patiently coaxing him to sleep under the shade of a beach umbrella. Was touched, though not surprised, to find that he is an engaged and attentive father. The oldest of three boys, he was the same way with his brothers way back when, though he doesn't remember it the way I do.

"Did you always want to be a dad?" I asked, because suddenly, I couldn't recall. Kristian considered for a moment and then smiled at his wife, Ann.

"I don't know.Yeah, I suppose. I just didn't know for sure, until Ann."

We spoke for a long while about where our lives have taken us, how differently things have turned out, compared to our dreams of long ago.

"What the heck did we know, anyway?" Kristian laughed, remembering. "We knew nothing!"

Indeed, we knew very little but that was part of the magic. We were children then, simply pretending.
20 years later, we watched each other's children frolic on the sand and splash through the cool lake water - their own kind of magic. Dreams we didn't know we had, come true.

Around us, chatted other friends from our separate and shared lives. All of us asking each other, "Are you still in touch with So-and-So?" and "Whatever happened to Whatshername?" Slowly but surely, with lots of laughter, we filled in the bigger gaps left by time and distance.

Sarah and Becky, Kristian's prom date and once-upon-a-time-crush, respectively, have been in my life since grade school. Our stories are woven together in strange and beautiful ways and even though we communicate mostly through Facebook these days, I believe that we will always be connected. At least, I hope so.

Nikki and Katie went to high school with Kristian and while neither was part of my circle, I was on the fringe of both of theirs. Katie, as warm and friendly as her younger self, is in touch with practically everybody, it seems. And what she didn't know, still vibrant and funny Nikki did. T'was a delightful way to catch-up on the goings-on around town.

Sitting with them all, I realized that this is the real gift of small-town life: that there will always be people who knew you before you knew you. That old friends are the best keepers of childhood dreams and that it feels good to spend time in the past, especially if you spent it with good people.

And I did. Then....and now.

Thanks to Kristian, Sarah, Becky, Nikki and Katie for the gifts of time - past and present - and of friendship - then, now and in the future.

Let's not let another 20 years go by between visits, OK?

And you? Who do you miss?

On Unexpected Joys and Blessings (A Guest Post)

2011-08-16T07:06:00.000-04:00

Annie blogs over at Six Ring Circus - where she spends her days raising four - count 'em, FOUR! -children. Frankly, I think she deserves some sort of medal for that, and not just because she's funny and wise and blogs it all so beautifully, either.

I am delighted to feature her mad writing and raising-of-little-people skills here at Life With Bellymonster. Annie is a gifted writer and an awesome mum. Best of all, she is also my friend.

Here's Annie:

The Day My Baby Became a Preschooler

The phrase “Monday my school?” has been my 3-year-old’s obsession this summer.

Taz can hardly wait for his first day of preschool and is convinced every tomorrow is a Monday.

Early one morning, before the sun peeked through the curtains, he came to my side of the bed and whispered, “Monday my school?”

I didn’t even try to explain how it’s not. He doesn’t understand what Monday is, or how long a summer lasts. Instead of arguing with him I simply agreed.

“Yes, sweetie. Monday is your school.”

“I need to color my paper,” he whispered and I saw a gleam in his eye. He padded back

to bed. I think he must have been dreaming about it. All his anticipation and dreaming can finally end.

Preschool started this month. On a Tuesday.

I gave him the traditional back-to-school haircut. I watched the soft white fuzz fall on his shoulders and remembered how it stuck up all over on his head when he was born.

On Tuesday morning I cheered, “Finally! Monday My School is today!”

Taz grinned and quickly got to work preparing for his morning away from mommy.

He eagerly packed the mandatory change of clothes in his Lightening McQueen backpack. As I helped him, I wondered if I should feel a little heartbroken. This is the fourth time I have sent a child off to preschool and this will be my last.

I’m giddy. I’m ready. I’m dreaming of all the things I will accomplish in 3 hours of alone time. The deep cleaning and organizing that has taken a back seat to the baby and his three siblings can finally be tackled. The storage room might just get organized and I might make a dent in the scrapbooks I’m behind on. I’m hopeful, at least.

My baby is ready to spread his wings, too. He is happy and anxious, thrilled to become a Big Kid and have his own school just like his siblings. He knows his teacher and he loves her. She’s taught all of Taz’s older siblings. She’s practically part of the family, an extension of us.

As we drove into town I thought back to the baby Taz was, all chub and drool. His cowlicks created a spike of wild hair on his head. I blinked and he became a little boy,with bruises on his shins and a mouth full of tiny white teeth.

I’m happy in this moment. Every stage of life is full of blessings and challenges.

Embracing Taz’s enthusiasm, I joyfully walked him to the door and snapped a few pictures. We find his cubby and hang up his backpack. I turn, anticipating a final hug but he is gone. He is off to play and explore, secure in his role as preschooler.

I wave goodbye and slip out the door. The door shuts quietly but firmly. I feel one chapter ending and anticipate all the unexpected joys the next chapter will hold. A pool of happy tears well in my eyes and threaten to spill over.

I feel blessed.

* * *

And you? Which blessings have you counted, lately?

On Protests and Freedoms (And A Bit of a Rant)

2011-08-12T22:17:00.000-04:00

Tonight's Facebook Status:

Pro-lifers, I understand you feel strongly about abortion, but thanks to you, my five-year old son is upset and weepy, having seen your HUGE, horrifyingly graphic signs.

Having spent a happy day at the beach, we were cruising home happily chatting. Traffic slowed at the lights and then suddenly we became a reluctantly captive audience to your silent protest, stuck as we were with nowhere to go.

I am. absolutely. furious.

Ensuing Wall Discussion:

AR: I am a Pro Lifer, but my child seeing one of those signs would make me LIVID! Poor sweet Matthew :( :hugs:

PMA: ‎:(

NS: Poor sweet boy.

AF: Poor Matthew. People don't think do they??

LM: Oh gosh, so sorry for Matthew and you, mama. Big hugs.

JMK: We pass a weekly protest by my house and they only hold up an ultrasound pic. I am thankful that its only that. Im sorry Liz and Im sorry for Matthew, they stole a bit of his innoncence and Im sorry for that.

‎RP: :( Gaaaaaah!

RTG: amen sister.

Belly: I don't mind a peaceful protest every now and again. People have strong beliefs and I admire those who stand up for them. What I DON"T admire - nor appreciate - is having those beliefs shoved at me and my children, who are blameless, clueless and should NOT have to be subjected to images like the ones we saw.

Luke still cries at certain Loony Tunes. The images EVERYWHERE at a four-way intersection were 8 feet tall and completely unavoidable. Thank GOD Luke was asleep. Now only his brother can close his FIVE YEAR OLD eyes to those images as he goes to sleep tonight.

LR: These folks claim to care about children and families and yet are perfectly fine traumatizing children and families. They have no sense of irony, decency or common sense. Fundamentalists make me so ashamed to be a Christian, sometimes.

Belly: Sigh. And therein lies the rub, LR. To identify yourself as a Christian man - and in my humble opinion you personally embody some of the best qualities of a true and sincere Christian - you risk aligning yourself w/ groups such as these, whose focus is so scarily intense, they've blocked out any thought to WHO might see those signs. No sense of irony or decency is absolutely right.

Too bad my SON was on the receiving end of their lack of both.

LR: Very kind of you to say, Belly, but i'm not so devout that i'm above calling these people a bunch of really choice names right to their faces.

Heh ... "choice" ...

‎Belly: *Snickers*
If Mark weren't sleeping for night shift, I'd haul ass back up there to give them a piece of my mind. Yep. Seems I *can* be *that* woman, if the situation warrants. Just call me Mama Bear...

AC: Such poor taste. Sorry you guys had to see that filth.

LMc: I drove past that too Liz - there were kids holding those signs! They were massive and I did everything I could to avoid looking at them. As a mother, and one who would never abort her baby, I do not need to look at a graphic image like that of a dead baby...it was unbelievable and made me want to cry. I guess that is the reaction they are looking for, but I was upset seeing it, I can't imagine if my kids were with me...poor Matthew!! I am pro choice for many reasons, but still very pro life in my own mind...the thought of abortion sickens me. I don't mind a protest like you said, but not something like that, that was like nothing I've ever seen before!

Belly: Is this a NORMAL thing for Belleville?!?? I've never seen anything like it and those images dropped my stomach to the floor. Pro-choice does NOT mean ANTI-LIFE and it infuriates me that people would use such tactics to make their point.

Matthew is fine now - nothing a little grilled cheese and Treehouse can't cure, really, but I am still agitated. I saw the kids holding signs and am incredulous that their parents would expect/encourage it.

Protecting the innocent, indeed.

LAL: I've seen them before - lining Dundas Street right around the Bay Bridge. I wonder if there is something law wise that covers the graphic nature of the pictures. I certainly don't want to get into the debate of their right to protest but there must be something to speak to content of the images.Displaying a picture of a Sunshine girl in a workplace can be considered sexual harassment. That's tame in comparison to this so surely there must be some recourse?

Belly: Am, naturally, drafting a letter right now. Their location was well-chosen, traffic-wise. Also, w/Ribfest this weekend, lots of people are travelling down 62 to Zwicks. IS there not a rule about this sort of thing? The protest was peaceful - I saw no law enforcement or the like. Saw a lot of stunned looks on the faces of the drivers around me, but no confrontation or anything, so I suppose that speaks well of the Friendly City's tolerance and support of freedom to speak/protest etc.

LMc: I have never seen anything like this in Belleville before...or anywhere for that matter. I hear stories of crazy protests...like the horrible one at Heath Ledger's funeral, but I never thought I'd see hat kind of thing here!

That's what upset me Liz...protest if you must, but don't force somebody to look at something in that manner. I could tried hard not to look, but I didn't have much choice!

LAL: Yep, I think that's the issue. We all understand the value and importance of freedom of speech and the right to peacefully protest. But the images are akin to an assault and we DO have laws that support that concept. Let me know the outcome of your letter writing.

Belly: Totally blogging this thread, if that's OK w/ everyone. Will not use your full names, just initials.

LAL: Blog away your Royal Blogness.

LMc: No problem:)

LP: They shoot doctors who perform abortions, right? Maybe it's time to even the score.

Belly: Well, I don't think that's the answer, either. No, it's NOT the answer. To do so would be hypocritical and wrong. But I see your point.

WB: I totally agree! I found those posters so upsetting and unnecessary!

SL: I've seen them doing the same thing in Toronto. Corner of Bayview and Eglinton if I remember correctly. It's completely inappropriate. I think most people don't react because they're too stunned at the fact that these morons are doing what they're doing. It does nothing for their cause - just angers people and if anything it deepens the resolve of pro-choicers. I don't understand fanatical fundamentalists of any kind. They are just plain dangerous...just ask Norway.

So there you have it - how to get a Belly Mama completely riled up on sunny summer's day.

Was this a rant, a conversation, a sermon or a complaint? What do you think?

When "No-Plan" Plans Go Awry

2011-08-09T22:03:00.004-04:00

Most of the time, I am a pretty good mum, if I do say so myself.

Every day, I have a plan (ish) for the hours between sunup and sundown and manage to feed the Reds at least three meals during that time. Three meals plus snack.

Most days, I limit their TV-watching, although that I'll admit to letting them watch more when I need them to shush up and sit still for 5 blessed minutes. (Or an entire showing of "How to Train Your Dragon." Whichever.)

Every day, we head outdoors, even if it's just for a run through the backyard sprinkler or to play in a big pile of street construction sand.

I make them brush their teeth and wipe off the toilet seat.

We read a book, sometimes two.

Occasionally, we play cards in between rounds of laundry and most of the time, the boys are eager to "help."

But today was not like every other day and it was absolutely marvelous.

Here's how it went down:

Looked outside, saw rain. Looked in fridge, no fruit, except some blackened bananas. Looked at kids, curled up on couch together, watching "Canada's Worst Driver" and giggling. Made decision.

Announced decision thusly:

"Boys! Boys, eyes on me, please. Today is officially a "Do-Nothing" Day. The only thing we MUST do is go to the dentist, but after that, we can just hang around and do nothing. What do you think?"

Wild cheering. Shouts of joy. Couch-jumping.

I was freaking Super Mum!

Breakfast: Mini-Wheats and toaster waffles, two items normally reserved for weekends. Apple juice in juice boxes, normally reserved for car rides, park visits and school lunch boxes.

The only reason anyone dressed and brushed their teeth was because Luke had a dentist appointment, otherwise, I reckon I'd still be wearing last night's yoga pants-cum-pj-bottoms.

Video games with Daddy, newly returned from the night shift. He brought me a to-go coffee, which is a really special treat, especially if I'm lazing around the house just thinking about laundry and not doing a thing about it.

Sword-play inside because of the rain and because I'd called a "TV Timeout!" The only rules = no fighting on the stairs and no waking Daddy, which is virtually impossible, so really, it was just the one rule. Only one kid fell down the stairs and really, it was his own fault because he was also wearing a viking helmet, "Iron-man" slippers and playing the recorder.

Lunch: A picnic, complete with real basket, blanket and umbrella.

(This is actually something I started when Matthew was a restless toddler and Luke was still a baby. I hope that both children continue to be delighted by this quirky "tradition." Indoor picnics truly are a special kind of magic.)

This afternoon, both boys helped me make banana bread, making sure I was extra generous when pouring chocolate chips into the giant, perfect-for-licking-bowl. Watching a small boy stick his entire head into a large silver mixing bowl, tongue at-the-ready? Priceless.

Banana bread snack in bed with Daddy, who did not bark and holler upon awakening, as is his way. Instead, he grimaced silently and held out his hand for coffee, which the Reds and I had carefully carried upstairs. A rare and peaceful family moment.

Next, the boys kicked my ass at Nintendo, which both shames and frightens me. I am admittedly hopeless, but they are AMAZING. I shudder to think about how things will be around here in few short years and imagine future blog posts including words like, "Gaming Leprechauns" and "What's a Wii?"

Dinner: Spaghetti, ice cream and more juice boxes, not necessarily in that order.

Bookstore, park, more banana bread and bed, where finally, the boys expressed their pleasure at the aimless hours we'd spent together:

"It was fun hanging out with you today, Mummy!" said Matthew, smiling with unbrushed teeth and wrapping sticky, unbathed arms around my neck. "Let's have a "Do-Nothing" day again!"

"Yeah, it was fun. But l don't want to do it again yet, Mummy. Not yet, OK? "

This from the bottom bunk, where an equally unkempt Luke yawned and tugged on my pants, insistent.

"Tomorrow, we should have Weetabix for breakfast and maybe we should go to the grocery store because we used up all the bananas today."

I smiled. "Sure, Lukey. Sounds like a good plan to me!"

And you? How do you spend "plan-free" days?

On Being Mum to The Reds (Or: Just Call Me, "Mrs. Weasley")

2011-08-03T23:47:00.006-04:00

Hanging out with the Reds is kind of like hanging with little celebrities: like moths to the flame, folks seem drawn to my fire-haired children and will often stop us where we are: in the grocery store aisle, at church, walking to a park...everywhere.

The Reds, God bless them, have learned to take it all in stride. They sit patiently, smiling politely while people coo and ruffle their hair while remarking on the freckles that dot the boys' faces. Even Luke now barely flinches when people reach out to touch his head.

Barely.

Old men, especially, seem drawn to my fire-haired imps. But everyone, young, old, male or female, has something to say about their hair. The boys - and I, by proxy - get tons of compliments, "Lovely colour!", "Isn't he gorgeous?", "TWO red heads, aren't you lucky?"

I nod happily because, well, yes, it IS a lovely colour, he IS gorgeous and I AM lucky.

The boys also smile politely and offer a cheerful, "Nope!" when asked if they're twins, and giggle when I answer, "Yep!" to the question, "Well, are they Irish Twins, then?"

("Irish Twins", by the way, are siblings born within 12 months of each other and while I can see why folks might suspect I had the boys that close together, I sometimes want to ask them, "What do you think I am, crazy?)

Folks also seem compelled to pass along random information pertaining to redheads, the most-spouted being that the red-headed gene is dying out and soon there will be no gingers left on the entire planet.

If we're anywhere but Belleville, I simply nod, as though it's news to me. I have already heard this dramatic tidbit, but I never let on because this might be some stranger's first and only opportunity to share it. Instead, I raise my eyebrows and say things like, "Well, isn't that something!" and move my shopping cart a little faster. Once we've entered the "stat-spouting" portion of a stranger exchange, it's best to move on.

If we ARE in Belleville, and someone shares the "last of the species" stat, I chuckle and say this:

"I'd have believed that before we moved, but there are tons and tons of ginger-haired kids here. When we first moved to town and went to the grocery store, I turned to my husband and said, "Good Lord! There are red heads everywhere! Finally, finally we have FOUND OUR PEOPLE!"

Some other pithy observations made by strangers and my most-used replies:

"I bet they've got tempers on 'em, eh?"

"I blame their father for the broken windows."

"Who's got the red hair, then?"

"The mailman."

(Which was actually funnier when we lived in Newcastle, because the mailman DID have red hair. So did the garbage man.)

"My aunt's sister's half-cousin's brother was a red head."

"Well, they say every family's got one hidden somewhere."

"I guess they're allergic a lot, eh?"

"Nope. Fit as fiddles. Must be their Irish blood." (What I want to say is, "What? What the heck does that mean?")

"Love the hair. They're so adorable. Do they look like their dad, then?"

"Well, thank you. I WAS feeling adorable, right up 'til now, but now you've gone and wrecked it."

"They're really not twins?"

"Nope...there are two years between them." (What I want to say is, "I'm their mother. Is that a real question?")

And today's question, from the lady waiting beside us at the deli counter:

"Did you know that, statistically, people with red hair die sooner than people with brown or blond hair?"

Me, wide-eyed and huffy: "Uh, not sure I really want my red headed children to think that something like that is true..." (Which was, you understand, a polite way of saying, "Shut-the-EFF-up!")

To which she replied: "No, really. I read it on Twitter."

And you?

Any random redhead tidbit to add?

What crazy sh*t have YOU read on Twitter lately?

Gone Fishin'!

2011-08-02T09:42:00.001-04:00

My friend Erin rang just now, inviting us to camp at their brand-new trailer. So, while waiting for the laundry to dry, I am feeling blessed and lucky to have such generous friends.

And not just because it's so freakin' HOT outside and the lake will be a welcome respite.

Erin, as you might remember, is mum to William, Sweet William and Pinky, both of whom I've written about here at Life With Bellymonster.

The trailer we'll be calling home for the next few days is the one given to Pinky by the Make-A-Wish Foundation: Pinky, as of June, is now cancer-free after two years of treatment.

It will be wonderful to watch them all frolick about in the sunshine: happy, healthy miracles.

Enjoy your week, my friends. See you at the end of it!

Love,
Belly

On Cottages, New Love and Being Grateful

2011-07-28T22:17:00.000-04:00

The Reds and I have just returned from a Lake Erie cottage, having spent the week being spoiled rotten by friends-who-are-like-family.

I left my camera there, which is sad because I got some truly amazing shots of the boys in the pool. They're still awake upstairs, which is also sad, because I am exhausted, but I am glad to be home, so am pretending not to notice.

We had the time of our lives: eating, laughing, swimming, drinking, repeat.

To sum up:

Dear Inventor of Water-Wings,

God bless you, you-who-are-clearly-a-parent. The Reds had a blast, hurling themselves into the deep end, learning to hold their breath underwater and proudly sporting their brand-new goggles and flutter boards. I enjoyed paddling about without a flailing bodies climbing onto to my head in a panic.

Happy Paddling,
A Grateful Mother

Dear Smirnoff,

Bought coolers for the first time in ~~20 years~~ a long time. Was delighted to find "Blueberry Lemonade Vodka" coolers.

Was not AS delighted to drink one.

Perhaps you might consider renaming the drink, "Blueberry Muffin Mix-Mosquito Repellent-Purple 'Thrills' Gum", for that is exactly how it tasted.

Sincerely,
"Pina Colada Vodka Mudshake" Lover

Dear Baileys,

You know how much I love you. But I have also found myself spending a great deal of time with "Pina Colada Vodka Mudshakes." I wish I could say I feel guilty, but they're far too yummy for that.

I hope you're OK with that.

Love,
Me

Dear Matthew and Luke,

Thank you for not fighting (much), for surviving 10 hours of driving cheerfully and without peeing in your car seat (Luke). Thanks for great manners, snuggles at dawn, laughing so hard, swimming so happily and for at least trying new foods (Matthew). You make me very proud.

Every day, you bring me great joy. Thank you, especially, for that.

Love,
Mummy

Dear Telfords,

You are wonderful, wonderful friends and consummate hosts. Thanks for great food, awesome drinks, soft beds, Fruit Loops for my gobsmacked "Mummy-only-let's-us-have-Cheerios" kids and for letting me sleep in EVERY morning.

Thank you for sage advice, chatting until dawn, not freaking out when my son (who-shall-remain-nameless-but-might-be-called-Luke) peed on the brand-new couch and for making each moment relaxing and easy.

Love,
Belly and the Reds

Journeys, Destinations and Everything In Between (A Guest Post)

2011-07-25T06:30:00.014-04:00

I'm at a Lake Erie cottage this week, to sit about and eat, laugh and collect more freckles on my arms. While I'm west of the Friendly City, Tina Klein-Walsh (who lives east of me, in Ottawa) will fill my musing space with some compelling musings of her own.

I can't remember exactly how Tina and I became fellow-followers on Twitter, but I'm awfully glad we have. Aside from a mutual love of coffee and wine, Tina has some pretty big changes to contemplate and I'm happy to share her thought-process/mulling here - kinda like watching the inner-workings of a wise, Mama mind!

* * *

Recently, I posed the following question to my two closest friends:

“I am seriously flirting with the idea of relocating downtown and living car-free... provided I can line up near-enough work to support the habit and solve the problem of where to keep the bikes! Does this seem out of character for me, or could you easily imagine the next chapter of my life story playing out this way?”

Within minutes, this Dalai Lama quote appeared in my Twitter Feed:

“Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.”

I am deeply moved. And inspired:

I am 43 years old. Nearly 44.

Life has been kind to me: I am the mother of two [internationally adopted] children. My eldest, nearly 11 now, splits her time between two divorced parents. At 6, my youngest lives with me full-time. I adopted her as a single parent when I was 42. She’s the reason I went back to full-time work in 2009, after 7 years of part-time consulting project.

Even half-time daycare does not come cheap.

A few weeks back, I learned that my current full-time job would be ending soon. As a single mother of two, it’s a bit scary not knowing how the next chapter of my life story will read. I am not sure I have the nerve to write it either, but I am feeling pretty good about the door opening again.

I still have my consulting company. I have mixed feelings about reviving it.

I moved out to Kanata, a suburb of Ottawa, from Nepean shortly after separating from my ex-husband in 2006. There are a lot of high tech companies in the area. At the time of my move, many of them were my active clients. I am an all-season bike commuter. I bike approximately 100 kms a week.

Yes, I do own a car. My bike commuting slows down considerably in winter, but only hail and freezing rain will scare me off the roads completely. There are bike lanes out here and they are well kept in all seasons.

In that sense, I am already living the dream.

I’ve enjoyed several luxuries during my time in Kanata. My family lives close to all amenities, including the public library and ample forested spaces with real live deer. We walk across a pedestrian highway overpass for our groceries and take a shopping cart.

We are also very fortunate to have exceptional home daycare within walking distance, which has been a luxury item with two years of half-day school. These past two years, my daycare expense has been higher than my mortgage, but the worst is over. My kids are growing up.

My youngest starts full-day school in September, and my eldest is nearly old enough to babysit. I’m not quite ready to leave her in charge of the household though, but for sure the times are changing.

Lately, I’ve been doing a bit of recreational night cycling, with my youngest in the attached Chariot (and my eldest off for summer vacation with her father). We go downtown, and much to my surprise, the urban core of this city appears more vibrant than it used to be. I see lots of cycling families, and I entertain the fantasy of relocation for my family, to live completely car free.

I’ve opened my job search to something in the downtown area. It can’t work otherwise. I don’t thrive in isolation and I need my exercise. While I like the flexibility on paper, I know that working completely from home is not healthy for me.

I’ve worked downtown before, and I know how to stay there once I get there, despite the volatility of the high tech sector. After five years in Kanata, I am open to a change. Kanata North is a wonderful place to raise children.

The cons of such a move involve a change of schools for both children. However, the eldest is on the brink of it anyway. Getting rid of the car does not mean eliminating transportation costs entirely either, but I think it would reduce them.

In the plus column, the Vrtucar service is more established than it used to be. Between that, the school bus, the bikes, and public transit… I think that we could work something viable out.

I have mixed feelings about selling my place in Kanata. It would make a good rental property, it’s a nice location, and I might prefer to rent a place downtown for the next year at least.

In writing this post, I learned that the wise real estate agent who advised me to buy close to the highway is Liz's aunt. I met her once, five years ago, at an open house in the area. She told me I’d be moving again soon.

(From Belly: Isn't that something? When Tina sent me her original piece, I mentioned how excited I was to forward my blog link on to Mark's auntie (She's mine now. I claimed her, fair and square) who is an Ottawa-and-area real estate agent. Turns out, Tina and Emma have already met. I love the universe.)

I shift my focus back to my job search. I am the sole breadwinner in this family, and I do have a lot of responsibility. Reducing expenses and living more in tune with the planet are closely aligned with this theme and my values.

For sport and out of curiosity, I rode in the newly constructed bike lanes on Laurier Avenue downtown last night. It’s the dawn of a new era. The urban space in this city is getting bike friendlier, and I want in.

I’m more about the journey, than the destination.

And you?

If you have the opportunity to align your entire life with your inner values, what would you do? Where would you live? Would you every day experiences look the same or vastly different?

On Norway's Lost Children

2011-07-23T11:59:00.005-04:00

As I write this, my children are behind me, munching apples and waiting until it's time to leave for their cousins' birthday party. This morning, we shopped for another birthday party tomorrow, which will be followed by a week-long cottage holiday with friends.

We are blessed and lucky to have this life: awesome family, generous friends. Each other.

A world away in Norway, dozens of families are not so lucky and hundred of lives have been lost, torn apart by a lunatic.

My mind is trying not to imagine the horror that has stricken the tiny, peaceful country, but failing miserably. Memories of 9/11 assailed me when I heard the first news reports about the bombing in Oslo. I vividly recall a sense of unreality, a slow unravelling of the smug sense of safety that can only be felt by people like me, who've never known war or true terror.

But then came the truly devastating news: 80 children dead. Trapped, some so terrified they hurled themselves into the sea to escape the fatal bullets from a madman's gun.

They'd been camping - a large group of young people on an island, mid-summer. It's the sort of idyllic scene and experience I want for my own sons, one day. I loved summer camp as a young girl and look forward to letting the Reds know that same freedom and adventure.

I cannot allow myself to wonder what compelled this handsome, ordinary-seeming man to wreak such havoc in his own country, ending the lives of so many, especially ones so young. I do wonder what his mother is feeling, knowing that her son has tossed an entire nation into mourning.

But my tears are not for her.

Instead, I weep for the parents of Norway's lost children - especially for their mothers. I am helpless and heartbroken for them all, imagining their agony but feeling - guiltily - so grateful that my sons are not among the dead.

And while I can imagine - in vivid, awful, gut-wrenching detail - their pain, I do not KNOW it. Even as I ache for them, I am aware of my own blessings and thank God for his grace.

It's a terrible kind of joy.

Isn't it?

Off to the Circus!!

2011-07-21T09:27:00.000-04:00

Hot out, eh? So. stinkin'. hot!

No matter - today I am off to the circus! The Six-Ring-Circus, that is. Annie's place. It's where she blogs about life with FOUR (holy heck, how DOES she do it?) kids. Mostly, she makes me giggle and nod with recognition.

Anyhoo...I was delighted to be asked to guest-post in her space because a) she is awesome and b) she gets me. (And c) I feel special)

So, Life With Bellymonster will be Under the Big Top today. See you there!

Bedtime Tales and the Suckie Fairy (A Guest Post)

2011-07-14T22:34:00.000-04:00

I've been promising my dear friend, Moe, that I will tell her "Give-Up-the-Guckie" story. Instead, I convinced her to write it out for me and am delighted to post her story here, in her own words.

Moe's warm, funny and well-adjusted kids are certainly not mourning the loss of their beloved "guckies'." I credit their awesome mum - and this lovely, magical story she spun them - for all of it.

One evening Liz and I were having a catch-up dinner when she mentioned she was talking to other mothers about the use of pacifiers. My kids are six and four, and I have successfully (without the tantrum) convinced them both to give up their suckies.

A little background on me:

I am completely PRO-PACIFIER. I used 'em, loved 'em and happily tell new moms I meet to go ahead and use 'em. Whatever works, right?

See, I ~~was once~~ am currently a thumb sucker. Granted at almost 40, it now happens only in private when I'm hugely upset or needing comfort in some way. AND I don't think there is anything wrong with me (that's what my shrink says anyway).

It's a comfort mechanism, that's it. But it drove my parents crazy: they tried everything to make me stop. The biggest problem they had was that it was permanently attached to me. A suckie isn't.

Knowing the comfort I derive from thumb-sucking, I wasn't about to force my kids to stop using their suckies. However, I do know about the dental problems, and the embarrassment that this can sometimes cause. But I made it their decision and didn't pressure them. Too much. And they had gotten to the age where they were embarrassed to have it in front of friends or family.

Instead, I told them a story, repeatedly, until they could tell it back to me.

By the way, we believe in fairies.

Here goes:

In a "Tinker Bell" movie we learned that fairies are born with the first laugh of a new born child.
In the movie "Hook: we learn that fairies can be killed with a child saying that they don't believe.
They can be brought back to life when the child claps and says "I believe in Fairies!"

Remember the Tooth Fairy? There's Suckie Fairy, too.

See, each new born fairy is so grateful for the life the new born baby has given them, s/he
presents to the new baby a suckie - to give them comfort and make them feel safe and loved.

The baby can use the suckie for however long they need it, but as they get bigger, they should need it less.When the baby becomes a big boy or girl, they are to put it under their pillow for the Suckie Fairy toretrieve, in return for a coin/present.

This way a new fairy can give the suckie to a new baby, as a thank-you for the gift of life.

The first time I told this story to my Tink-loving four-year-old, she was so upset at the prospect of giving up her suckie that she exclaimed, "Mommy, I don't believe in fairies!"

I jumped up and started dancing around the room clapping my hands.Startled, she began to laugh and asked what was I doing. I replied that her words had made a fairy sick somewhere and that she too, should start clapping, in order to save the fairy's life.

So we both jumped around the room clapping our hands, shouting, "I BELIEVE IN FAIRIES!"

Three months later she put her suckie under her pillow without being asked.

Moe's DH made her these memory boxes as a gift.
One box, suckies included, for each child.

And you? How did you convince your child to give up their favorite gucky/suckie/lovey?

Truth Hurts

2011-07-14T00:02:00.002-04:00

Tonight, Luke shoved Matthew on the stairs as I herded them upstairs to bed. I told him to apologize, so he dutifully turned around and barked a decidedly UNapologetic "Sorr-Y!" at his brother.

Sigh. It would have to do.

But as we crested the landing, Matthew turned his sad, gorgeous eyes to me and said this:

"You always make ME say sorry nicely, Mummy. Why didn't Luke have to say it nicely? It's not fair."

Ouch.

"You're absolutely, positively 100% right, Matthew. It's not fair and beginning tomorrow morning, I promise to be more aware of it. OK?"

"Why can't you talk to him now?"

"Because it's late and everyone's tired and because I don't have the energy to fight with Luke, to be honest."

"OK, but Mummy, you have to promise to remember. Luke won't learn to say it nicely if you don't tell him right away when he says it wrong."

"I promise. I'll remember. Thank you for being patient and reminding me, Matthew."

Seriously. Seriously? This kid. He shows me every, single day who I am. Today, I am not a thing of parenting prowess, that's for darned sure. I am an ugly, shrewish witch.

So thhhhheeeennnn he says THIS:

"Mummy, can I tell you something else that's not fair?"
"You sure can, Bug."
"You call me names sometimes and it hurts my feelings. You tell US we can't call names and you do it. That's not fair."
"Uh....names like Bug and Silly Monkey?'
"No. Names like ,"Sneaky" and "Menace" and "Little Boy" in your mean voice."

(As in, "Don't push your luck, little boy," in an admittedly sneering and nasty tone.)

"Boy, Matthew, you're really helping Mummy today. And you're right. It's NOT fair of Mummy to call you names that hurt your feelings, especially when she's grouchy. I'm sorry. I'll be aware of that, too."

"OK, Mummy. I'm glad I didn't hurt your feelings telling you. I just get sad and frustrated when things aren't fair."

OUCH. Oh, what a terrible agony truth is.

Every day.

Every, SINGLE day I have the opportunity to mold and shape this wonderful little boy into a compassionate, kind and thoughtful man. And every day, but especially today, he shows me that he is already all of those things.

It is I who needs lessons in compassion and thoughtfulness.

Thank God I have Matthew to show me - to teach me - what my best should look like.

My best? Is him.

A few days after this lesson, I guest-posted over at Six Ring Circus. It's a follow-up to this post, and is called "Truth and Forgiveness." Check it out!

Love, Belly

Boy: n. A noise with dirt on it

2011-07-09T23:59:00.003-04:00

Dear North Key Construction,

First, allow me to compliment you and your crews for all their hard work here on Charles. The complete reconstruction of our street is ongoing and while it's messy and dusty and a bit tricky to drive through, it's also long-overdue and absolutely necessary.

In the meantime, your crews are prompt, professional and friendly. In fact, watching them progress down the street has been fascinating - for me, as a homeowner, but more so for my two young boys.

It's like "Mighty Machines" come to vivid life.

Better still, there is dirt. Lots and lots of dirt.

A pile of dirt, actually.

Whether by design or sheer dumb luck, our lawn was chosen as the spot for dirt. Every morning, a huge pile of dirt gets dumped in front of my house. By nightfall it's gone, much to my sons' disappointment.

But this Friday, the cheerful front-end loader guy asked my youngest son if he'd like them to leave the pile of dirt for the weekend. Luke, gobsmacked, could only stare as I nodded, most enthusiastically.

Yes, please!

This then, is how the dirt pile on Charles looked this afternoon:

By the time this enormous project is complete, my street will be beautiful and all of us will be pleased and grateful. But until then, thank you for making two little boys - and their Mama - very, very happy.

Love,
Bellymonster and the Reds

How Not Parenting Makes Me a Better Mum

2011-07-05T21:41:00.002-04:00

My parents took the Reds camping this weekend - without me. In their absence, I stayed up late, slept in until mid-morning, cleaned the house and hung out with Mark. I also learned a few things about parenting.

Specifically, I learned a few things about parenting my kids:

1. I have great kids. I knew that, of course, before the weekend. It's just that sometimes, that truth gets lost amidst the sameness of being with them every day, all day long. I get so caught up in teaching them manners, and ~~nagging~~ reminding them to pick up their toys, to get along, to poo in the toilet, to stop unbuckling their seatbelts while the car is in motion...that I forget.

I forget to praise them for being kind to one another, for putting the cap on the toothpaste, for coming when called, for spelling words correctly, for remembering their hats, helmets and to stay out of the sand pile.

Without them here, I remembered.

2. I must rediscover my sense of silly. On Saturday, I had the rare privilege of watching my niece and nephew for a few hours. I have never had them all to myself before and I was delighted to read them a dozen books, using all my "silly voices". I laughed aloud when they did, loving the happy sounds they made. I spent 10 minutes kissing invisible boo-boos up and down their limbs, making them laugh harder and twirled my fingers into their curls, holding them closer, gently, for as long as I could.

As I did so, feeling my shy, prickly niece relax into my side and sigh with tired contentment, I tried to remember the last time I got goofy with my own kids. Seems I don't do it often enough, because I couldn't recall a recent "Funny Five Minutes" and vowed then and there to change things for the Reds.

Without them here, I remembered.

3. The Reds are my everything, but maybe there's room for others, too. It has been many, many years since Mark and I have spent more than 24 hours alone. And the three-day weekend sans kids is the first one we've had since before Luke was born. It was also the longest stretch of time alone together that didn't end with a door-slamming, curse-hollering fight. Sad, but true.

I had forgotten the quiet pleasure of sitting together on the deck with only our books and our coffee. I had forgotten how much fun a trip to the hardware store, to window-shop and dream - could be. I had forgotten what brought Mark and I together years ago and this weekend, I was given a glimpse of the people we used to be.

For a few brief days, I allowed myself to be the wife I've never been and focused my attention solely on Mark. I was rewarded with a relaxed and cheerful man with whom I peacefully shared meals, coffee and forgotten laughter. And I realized that, in putting the Reds first, always, I do our family a great disservice.

Without them here, I remembered.

I am so grateful to my children. Even when they're not here, they teach me the biggest, most important lessons in life: Let go. Be silly. Forgive.

And you? What have your kids taught you lately?

Post # 30 of 30 - What I've Learned and a Challenge for July

2011-06-30T21:04:00.002-04:00

Last month, my friend Moe (who's penning an incredible story, which I hope she'll one day publish because it's just that good) tossed out a challenge. I was to write 30 blog posts, one a day, during the month of June. She was to write or edit one page per day for the same period of time.

Here's what I've learned:

1.As much as I chatter on all day long, not all of what I say has relevance or even meaning. Who knew? I know, I know. Some of you out there are snickering into your drinks right now, because I do tend to blather on, but still. Trying to write something meaningful or worthwhile EVERY day? Is hard.
.

2. I love comments. I can't help it. When I first began blogging, I wrote solely for me and the Reds. I wanted a place to record their journey out of babyhood and into childhood and to record my own journey as a "work-in-progress" mother.

Somewhere along the way, I became aware of a larger audience and since the Reds can't read, my stories began to reflect that realization. Even as I post blog links to Facebook and Twitter, I hit the "Stats" button feverishly, waiting, hoping, praying for someone to comment.

I don't know what that says about me, actually, but there it is.

3.This challenge has been humbling. And such fun. And addictive, though not enough to continue churning out a new post every day. There's a weird, though not unpleasant pressure to actually WRITE when I know that somebody's waiting on me. It's sort of like having a few dozen editors sending gentle email reminders about a pending deadline. Turns out, I don't actually write well under pressure.

Note to self: Blogging requires discipline. And proper sleep. And maybe ~~more~~ less coffee.

5. I was supposed to write about soother fairies and clapping for babies. Or something. I can't quite remember, since June 1st was so long ago. 29 posts ago, to be exact. I WILL write about them, because I promised that I would. It's just gonna take me bit longer to keep that promise. Moe, I know you understand.

6. I am more confident about my writing and more inclined to TELL people about my blog, than I was a month ago. I'm not sure why the shift happened or when, but it feels pretty darned good. For as much as I crave comments and feedback, I am just as happy sending my thoughts out into the ether, if only to get them out of my head.

7. July's Challenge: 30 minutes of exercise EVERY day. I'm terrified. But game.

And you? Are you game and willing to join the "Belly Get Fit(ter) Challenge?"

A Message From God

2011-06-30T11:28:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, I wrote this to God:

Dear God,

No doubt, the universe is unfolding as it should and according to Your plan. I am doing my best to let go of my controlling ways and trust that You know what's best. As always, my lessons are about patience and letting go.

I'm listening. I get it. But if You could hurry things along, just a teensy bit, that would be great.

Love,
Me

This is Life With Bellymonster today:

I waited and waited and waited for the plumber who showed up full of contrition, explaining that he can't come today, due to an emergency elsewhere.

Next Thursday it is.

I've been waiting and waiting for S. from Loyalist College to call me back and she finally did, with good-ish news. My acceptance letter, though written, cannot be officially submitted until next week.

Thursday, as it turns out.

Just received an email from Luke's coach. She needs to change the date that I'm responsible for snacks, even though the date that I originally chose was the one that worked best for me and our schedule. So, instead of bringing snacks on July 14th as planned, I'll be bringing snacks next week.

Next Thursday, to be precise.

That God.

He's so funny.

And you? Heard from God lately?

To Whom it May Concern II

2011-06-29T23:32:00.003-04:00

Dear Summer Holidays,

Please be sunny and warm, but not too warm. Please let there be long days spent frolicking near water and cool nights, perfect for snuggles before sleep. Let there be frog songs while camping, more fruit for the picking, new parks to play in and cool caves to explore.

These halcyon days are so fleeting - I want to remember them all. Please remind me to take the camera but not to spend so much time capturing the moment that I forget to be IN it.

Thanks in advance,
Mama to the Reds

Dear Matthew,

I promised you that tomorrow is a sleep-in day. Please do your part and sleep in past 7 a.m. In return, I promise to take you to do or see someplace new and different at least once a week, all summer long. I can't wait to see the world through your eyes.

I hope that you'll enjoy our adventures. If not, I promise to drag you along anyways,because it's for your own good/educational/I paid for the experience/I promised Luke.

Even when you don't love me and you accuse me of loving your brother more, I love you with all that I am.

Love,
Mummy

Dear Luke,

Thank you for trying your big-boy best to stop pooping in your underpants and for finally accepting that it will not be your teacher's job to potty-train you come September.

I'm very proud of your efforts, though I do wish you'd refrain from peeing on the big pile of dirt in front of our house. I don't mind so much, but I think the neighbours might and the construction crew whose dirt it is keep giving me funny looks.

Even when you punch my knee for fun and blame every naughty thing on the ghosts who live in the closet, I love you with all that I am.

Love,
Mummy

Dear Friends and Family,

Thank you for giving me your queen-sized sheets, your best advice and Baileys before noon. Thank you for lending me your shoes, your ears, your husbands to help me move stuff and for driving my sons around in your car simply because they asked.

Thank you for reading my blog, retweeting my stuff, folding my laundry, fixing my hair and for watching my kids while I run errands, run off a mad or just run, period. Thanks for coffee in to-go cups and for leaving grapes, chocolate milk and hummus in my fridge.

I couldn't do this - any of it -without you all and I am very, very blessed.

Love,
Liz

Dear God,

No doubt, the universe is unfolding as it should and according to Your plan. I am doing my best to let go of my controlling ways and trust that You know what's best. As always, my lessons are about patience and letting go.

I'm listening. I get it. But if You could hurry things along, just a teensy bit, that would be great.

Love,
Me

Dear Elizabeth,

You are still a work in progress, but you are finally hitting your stride and baby, it's a sight to behold. These are halcyon days, my girl - remember to BE in these precious moments and remember to give thanks for them all.

Trust me. The best is yet to come.

Love,
Bellymonster

Dear Teacher II

2011-06-28T19:55:00.004-04:00

Dear Teacher,

Two years ago I handed you my very Heart, trusting you to guide and love him in all the ways that I cannot. And you did, so wonderfully. Thank you for all of it.

Matthew: September 2009 ,Age 3

Ms. M. leading Matthew into the classroom for the first time.

By June, he was brimming with new words, making new friends and utterly enamoured by his dear Teacher:

Last Day of School: June 2010

Best Kindergarten Teacher EVER!

The sweet boy I brought to school this past September had grown taller and more confident as he returned to your classroom and the warmth of your familiar and welcoming smile.

September 2010: First Day of SK

Tomorrow, Matthew will bid farewell to Kindergarten and to you, Teacher.

Graduation Day 2011

He's a lucky boy, to have been allowed to grow and thrive in your care for TWO years, instead of just one. I think that returning to your classroom was good for him. I know that it was good for me, as I was not quite ready to let him tumble into the unknown.

Now, that little boy walks and talks with healthy confidence and boundless spirit. He tussles with his friends and rolls his eyes in exasperation, even as he hurls himself into my arms at day's end, eager to tell of his day, but happier still, to be done with it. Ah, boys.

Matthew: June 2011: Last Day of Kindergarten

Thank you for being a friendly face at the end of the hallway, the voice on the other end of the phone expressing concern for Matthew's hearing, the one who can actually GET Matthew to use his French words when asking to use the bathroom. For your endless patience, enthusiasm and pride in your students.

Mostly, thank you for being a wonderful introduction to school life. Our first teachers can mark us indelibly and imprint on our hearts for always - they way you've imprinted on ours.

Love,
Matthew's Mama

P.S.

Dear Ms. M.

Thank you for giving me a beach ball. That's all I want to say. It's the only thing I can think of, in my head. Oh wait...have a good summer! Oh, thank you for lending me all those books.

From,
Matthew McL.

P.P.S. Enjoy your summer. Sleep in. Drink up. Luke is alllll yours, come September!

These Are Days : Bye, Bye to Kindergarten!

Any "Dear Teacher" letters to share? Favourite memories of your own Kindergarten teacher?

Click on "Gentle Warrior, Gone..."

2011-06-26T20:41:00.000-04:00

Sigh.

Am a technological idiot and cannot work out "Pages" vs "Posts" and so there's a page called "Gentle Warrior, Gone."

Go there. Erm...CLICK HERE!

It's a piece about my brother and how it was, growing up in his havoc-wreaking sphere. It's sort of funny. A lot scary. All true.

Should you be thinking about forwarding it onto the the preggos in your life, do so.

It's a cautionary tale, too.

THIS is what happens when you drink during pregnancy, people. No, a glass of wine likely won't cause this kind of angst, but why take the chance?

Love,
Belly

School Days and Talents Discovered

2011-06-23T21:30:00.002-04:00

This is a bit of a housekeeping post. Ok. Not really.

Really, it's a bragging post, but I didn't want to write that straight off, lest you stopped reading.

'Cause Imma gonna let you you get back to your life, just as soon as I tell you this:

1. I am going back to school. Well, I hope to go back to school. IF I get accepted, get off the wait-list and get funding. That's a lot of "ifs" but I have faith. IF all goes well, I'll be studying Social Service Work at Loyalist College.

I am very, very excited and have been thinking about this for some time. It feels good when I wrap thoughts of study and learning around me - it feels right to be learning how to be helpful member of and asset to my community.

Now, if only I could kick the asses of all those potential students ahead of me, I'd be set!

2. When my Mum retired, she decided to try her hand at learning to paint. Water colours, to be precise. She soon moved onto to drawing and sketching to oil on canvas and without so much as a whisper of bias I can tell you this:

She. is. amazing.

Who knew? Certainly not Mum, who's as dazed by her awesome talent as we are, but who gamely creates beautiful works of art all the the time. In fact, she has so many pieces, my Dad convinced her to enter her (our) favourites into an exhibition north of Lakefield.

Shameless, absolutely shameless plug forthcoming:

It's worth the drive to Lakefield! Beginning this weekend, Mum's work (along with other artists') will be hanging at the Harbour Art Gallery (http://www.trentsevern.com/kawarthapark.cfm) all summer and you really ought to see it. Seriously. She does great work. Here, for example, is something she whipped up for my husband, for Father's Day:

Just like that. She does outdoor scenes, too. And the prettiest lighthouses. I'm just sayin'.

3. Matthew graduated from Kindergarten this morning. That's actually all I'm planning to say about it tonight. I'm saving all my tears and weepy "where'd-my-baby-gooooooo???"-ness for his last day, which is only six blog posts away.

You have been warned.

And you? Got any cool stuff going on that you'd like to ~~brag about~~ share?

What Luke Did

2011-06-22T23:48:00.003-04:00

Today, Luke did not wet his pants.

He did not punch me in the knee, which for reasons I cannot explain, he finds hilarious.

He did not rip any pages from Matthew's "Berenstain Bears" books, nor did he stretch an entire roll of Scotch tape from one end of the antique dining room table to the other.

He did not spit his apple down the side of the couch because he "hates the bits, Mummy!"

He did not squeeze toothpaste into the Q-tip container.

He did NOT manage to steer clear of the mud.

He did not attempt to shove the second "How to Train Your Dragon" DVD into the player by himself, like he did with the first one.

He did not pout and say, "NO!" when I asked him to take the toilet paper rolls back up the stairs.

He did not run away in the grocery store and did not bang on the glass in the fish section, hollering at the lobsters to "Wake up, crabs! Wake UP!"

He did not roll down his window in the car and spit.

He did not complain when I read Matthew's storybook first and did not run away and hide in the porch, hissing, when I announced that it was time for bed.

He did not snatch Matthew's stuffed snake down from the top bunk and cackle like a loon.

He did not stick his tongue in the fan nor did he dump two bottles of perfectly good water onto his floor so he could "swim in a carpet lake."

He did not offer a simple "Cheese!" when asked.

He did not stick his tongue up my nostril when I leaned in to kiss him goodnight, nor did he put his hand over my mouth and plead, "Don't sing, Mummy. Your singing hurts me!"

He did not beg for one more cup of water, another story or to sleep with his "Cars" crocs on.

He DID, however, pat my cheek as I tucked him in and say, "Mummy, you're the best."

That he did.

Cats in the Cradle

2011-06-21T20:56:00.001-04:00

Tonight we ate dinner with my friend Jack and his daughter, Emily. Jack and Emily's mum have recently separated, so there's been a period of adjustment for everyone as they learn to live apart while still being a family, for Emily's sake.

So far, so good.

But for whatever reason, Matthew chose today to quiz me about Emily's new living arrangements. Naturally, I was utterly unprepared for his questions and wonder if I said anything right.

This is how the heartbreak went:

Matthew: Why does Emily get to live in two houses?
Belly: Because her parents live apart from each other and they each have their own house.
Matthew: Why do they live apart?
Belly: Because sometimes grown ups get along better when they don't live together.
Matthew: Why?
Belly: Umm...because sometimes grown-ups end up not wanting the same things anymore and they argue.
Matthew: Or they're sad?
Belly: Or they're sad.
Matthew: So does Emily live with Jack more or her mummy more?
Belly: Emily stays with Jack for one week and then her mummy for one week. And Jack brings her to school every day, even on the days when she's with her mummy. So she doesn't really have time to miss him, if that's what you're thinking.
Matthew: I'm not thinking that. I'm thinking about where Daddy will live.
Belly: Mummy and Daddy live together, Matthew. With you and Luke. It's not something you need to worry about, ok?
Matthew: I don't worry about it Mummy. I just think that if Daddy lived in a different place from us then we'd get to see him more often. We could live with him for one week and you for one week.

HUGE pause for me to pull the stunned look from my face, and turn the rearview mirror so that Matthew and I can see one another.

Belly: Why do you think you'd see Daddy more if he lived somewhere else, Matthew?
Matthew: Because he'd miss us so much he'd leave work early, like he does on Fridays and we'd play and go to the park, just us boys. And for the weeks we live with him, he'll drive us to school, too.
Belly: I see. But we all live togeth...
Matthew: MUMMY! I know! Can you ask Daddy if sometimes we can pretend that he lives in a different place and he's missing us and then we can go to the park?

Small pause for me to take a deep breath, to prevent myself from bursting into tears.

Belly: I'll talk to Daddy about making some special Daddy-Boys time this weekend, ok?
Matthew: Ok. Thanks, Mummy. That'd be great.

And you? Please share your kid-question heartaches. Surely mine isn't the only one...

To The Girl I Was....

2011-06-20T21:21:00.005-04:00

My son Matthew "graduates" from Kindergarten on Thursday and I can't help but wonder, "How the heck did that happen?"

I don't mean the graduation part - I mean the SON part. I have a son. In fact, I have two sons and a husband and we live in Ontario. My beloved mother is still alive. My baby brother is not.

How did this life happen? It wasn't the one I had planned for myself, way back when. And while I am grateful for all the experiences that brought me here, I still wish I could go back and offer the girl I was some hard-won wisdom:

Smoking is so not cool. It wasn't overly cool in 1989, but it is DEFINITELY not in 2011. Quit while you're ahead and learn to run, while your ass is still high and pregnancy hasn't ruined the arches in your feet.

Don't stop writing. Do NOT let rejection and insecurities about who you are (not) stop you from doing something you love. You write well. Don't let your envy of others who write better stop you, either. Let their talent inspire and force you to do better yourself. Don't let a decade pass before feeding your soul with words.

Take more pictures. Record the small moments, the quiet moments and a smattering of stuff in between. Take photos of yourself with everyone you love, because life will fling you in all directions and sometimes, you'll need a reminder of where you came from, in order to see where you're going.

Listen more. Talk less.

Don't quit piano lessons. Your parents might follow through on their "if you quit piano you must quit singing lessons" threat and it will break your heart, even though you'll try not to show it. Suck it up, princess. You have a lovely voice and a musical ear. Stick with it.

One day, when you're 21 and sinking into a steaming hot bubble bath, the theory of displacement will suddenly make sense the way it didn't in Grade 9 Science class. In telling yourself that you don't understand something, you won't. Tell yourself instead that you WILL understand, in time. Because you will.

Try out for the high school musical.
Your parents are right. About everything. Trust them.
Your instincts are right. Trust them.
Wear your retainer.
Stop biting your finger nails.
Tell Andrew you love him. Tell him again. And again. And again.
Save your money, pay off your first credit card every month, without fail.
Save your prom dress.
Join the church choir.

One night will change your life, if you let it. One terrible, awful, shameful event will define you and guide your actions for years afterward, if you allow it to. Trust your instincts and walk home with your friends, instead.

The mountains will always beckon, once you've breathed in their beauty. Find a way to visit them more often.

Your best friend has been there all along. She's your Mum. Thank her.

Travel more, sleep less.
Drink less, read more.
Take less.
Give more.

It's a grand life and someday, as you watch your own smile light up your son's face, you will know that you've always been beautiful.

Never forget it.

This post was inspired by Jeff Goins' post called "Advice to Your Younger Self". Write your own and share it with people in your life. Go on. Just do it. And once you have, head over to Twitter and let him know via hashtag #dearcollegeme

But first...tell me what you'd say to your former self, if you could.

Father's Day, Bellymonster-Style

2011-06-19T11:20:00.001-04:00

As I type this, Mark is sleeping on the couch behind me, while the Reds shovel cereal in their mouths. We're going bike-riding shortly, leaving Daddy to enjoy his sleep-in without me nudging him to wake up every 15 minutes.

Matthew made a "Happy Father's Day" present at school and it includes a tiny coupon book. The coupons are for things like, "Taking Out the Trash" and "A Big Hug."

There's also one for "Sleeping In," which Matthew solemnly informed me he would honour today. He's been tiptoeing past his sleeping father and shushing Luke for 20 minutes now and I am so stinkin' proud of him. I'm sure Mark would feel the same.

If he were awake, I mean.

My gift to him has always been golf, which he played yesterday. This morning, I'll sweeten the pot by NOT nudging and nagging him to get up and will bring him a coffee without complaint when he finally comes to.

Sleep + Coffee + No Nagging = HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, MARK! xo

Am also wishing my own Dad a Happy Father's Day! He was likely up with the birds and enjoying the special quiet of a early morning, crossword puzzle in hand. This morning, he'll go to Mass and pray for all of us: my Mum, Mark and me, his beloved grandsons and for his only son, gone two years now.

I will call him in a little while and wish him a wonderful day and I'll tell him that I love him and hope that behind those three words, he hears: Thank you. You're the best. You're my hero. Cheers!

I suppose that's how it is, on Father's Day.

No matter how old we get, if we got a good one, our father will always be our hero.

God bless 'em all!

And you? How do you celebrate the fathers in your life?

How do you honour his memory, if your Dad has passed away?

There's No Place Like This...

2011-06-18T22:35:00.002-04:00

Yes, if you're from Ontario, you'll recognize that title. You may even already be humming the Tourism Ontario commercial tune in your head. You are, aren't you?

You're welcome.

And thank you.

Thank you to my across-the-road neighbour, Nick, who mowed my lawn.

Twice.

Nick's lawn in perfectly manicured and green. My lawn? Not so much.
Nick's gardens are symmetrical and tidy. Mine? Uh....no.

It probably drives Nick crazy to look out his window and gaze upon my unkempt, bicycle-strewn li'l postage stamp. But he's a decent sort and so far, all he's done is tease me about "mowing my lawn." (Insert innuendo-laced leer here).

And then we laugh and I go back to ignoring my weeds and he goes back to spraying down his driveway and sometimes we meet in the middle of the street in a rainstorm and talk for an hour.

Yeah. It's like that around here.

In any case, promptly at 8 this morning, Nick hauled his mower across the street and mowed my lawn. He's done it once before too - on a Friday afternoon, thereby ensuring that we could enjoy the weekend without having to wade through the grass to find the children.

What can I say? Yes, I have my own mower - I just can't START the dang thing. And to be honest? Nick looks way hotter mowing my lawn than I ever will.

I'm a lucky, lucky girl.

And you? What's the best part of living in YOUR neighbourhood?

A Wish Come True

2011-06-18T00:10:00.008-04:00

This isn't the post I meant to write today. It's better. In fact, it's probably the happiest update I've ever had the pleasure of writing.

If you've been reading Life With Bellymonster for awhile, you might remember how hard it was for me when Matthew started Junior Kindergarten in the Fall of 2009.

Matthew was so tiny and so lost until an older boy took him under his wing. That boy was William, Sweet William and I will always hold a special place in my heart - and our home - for him. With his quiet grin and smiling eyes, the then 6-year-old boy was the sweetest part of a bittersweet time.

A short while later, I discovered that the little girl I called "Pinky"(because I only ever saw her in pink on the schoolyard) was actually William, Sweet William's sister.

Her name was Isabelle. She was 8. And she had cancer.

In the two years since, I've befriended William and Isabelle's mum, Erin. I don't see her as much as I'd like to, but am always pleased when I do. We sort of burst into each other's homes/lives every few months and spend two or three hours laughing or crying as we catch up.

Sometimes, we do both.

In any case, Erin is an amazing woman and I am deeply honoured to call her my friend. She is funny as hell, cheerful even when frazzled and calls it like she sees it. I admire her strength, am in awe of her grit and truly believe that God chose the perfect mother for Isabelle and William. She is their doctor, their nurse, their best friend and a fierce advocate on their behalf.

For her - for all of them - I am ecstatic to pass along some amazing news:
Isabelle is now officially cancer-free and today The Make-a-Wish folks were waiting for the Lemke Family after school, with Isabelle's wish hidden behind a tarp.

Her wish for a camper trailer had come true.

And the tarp?

Was pink.

And you? What's your wish come true?

When Good Intentions Go Awry

2011-06-16T21:47:00.002-04:00

Today was the day of Good Intentions.

Good Intentions-Gone-Awry, that is.

Oh, it started out well. The Reds bounded out of (my) bed at dawn, found Doritos in the kitchen and scarfed 'em down before I'd even brushed my teeth. So with breakfast taken care of, we headed outside to ride bikes and shoot water from the ginormous water guns the Reds received yesterday.

(Thank you, Ecnerwal. You turn will come.)

I weeded.

Came in for a snack, bottles of water and to check emails (read: Tweet, FB, Camp)

More shooting.
More weeding.
A lot of giggling.
Some crying.
A scraped knee.
A lost shoe.

But by noon, it was too hot to do much and that's when things sort of fell apart:

Luke pooped in his underwear. Twice.
Matthew got sassy and ended up in Time-Out, muttering that he knows that I love Luke more, why don't I just admit it?
Luke confessed to peeing in the dirty clothes basket, clobbered Matthew, broke some crayons and then punched me in the knee for good measure.

When I stumbled over Matthew making shoe obstacle courses for some ants, I knew I had to do something cool.

So, we went to Lowe's and came home with a nozzle for the garden hose...and a sprinkler:

And it was magic.

And you? What was your magical moment(s) for the day? Week?

Welcome to Canada, eh?

2011-06-15T09:34:00.003-04:00

Awesome blogger Kelly, of Dances With Chaos fame, is coming to Canada! And while she's not coming to see me (*sniff, sniff*) she will be hanging with the most talented bitches I know: Leanne, Trish and Elena from Word Bitches.

The Bitches United, as I've taken to calling them in my head (and thusly hashtagged on Twitter) will be hanging in Calgary, being brilliant and witty and looking gorgeous. It's what they do.

In the meanwhile, I want Kelly to feel entirely welcome to the greatest country in the world. She's from Texas, so Cowtown won't be a HUGE surprise, if she happens to spot a dude in a cowboy hat. I wanted to send her a toque and some maple syrup, but just in case ' Canada Post doesn't get it together in time, I've settled on a playlist for her journey.

Please feel free to add your own "Quintessentially Canadian" tunes, eh?

Dear Kelly (American Woman),

Soon you'll be Alberta Bound - how excited are you? For Five Days in July, right? The Word Bitches are anxiously Waiting for You in Canada and I just know that you'll have a wonderful time. I hope that it's warm enough to sit outside, wine in hand, gazing at pretty Patio Lanterns.

A long, long time ago, Calgary Used to Be Our Town but I beat a hasty retreat back to Whistler, toque and wussy-it's-way-too-frickin'-cold ass in hand. It was the place I loved best and where I knew I was destined to live. If not for a long time, I was there For A Good Time.

If you were here, I'd bring you to Bobcaygeon, which is pretty cottage country and quintessentially Canadian, especially if you're from "There's No Place Like This" Ontario. But since you're all the way over there, way past The Wheat Kings, I'll be happy for you from afar.

Just don't be looking to be Drawn to the Rhythm of the sea or anything. Calgary's got the Bow River and that's about it. Unless you get to drive - hope the Truck doesn't Get Stuck - to Banff, (singing "Life is a Highway") where you'll be awed and overcome with the perfection of the place and think, "Hallelujah!"

I am delighted that you'll be able to spend real face-to-face time with the Bitches - they're sisters, mentors and friends, all rolled in, aren't they? It's as if they urge all of us who dream in quill, "Let's Go Higher!"

All they ask of themselves and of you, is to Try, right? I've no doubt that being in their real live presence will inspire you and bring your heart much joy - as though they've held out their arms, saying, "I Will Give You Everything!"

Enjoy yourself, my friend. May every day you're here be no Ordinary Day. And know that wherever you travel, you are loved and admired and that maple syrup and real poutine are but a plane ride away.

Love,
Belly

P.S. When it comes time to go Home for a Rest, remember it all fondly.

The Upside to Feeling Down...

2011-06-14T20:31:00.002-04:00

Short and sweet:

Matthew: Mummy, do you know what the best part of my surgery was?
Belly: The popsicles?
Matthew: Well, that was cool, but no.
Belly: The codeine?
Matthew: Is that the woozy medicine?
Belly: Yes.
Matthew: No. The best part was getting to hang out with you longer.
Belly: Aw, thanks, bug. It was pretty special to me, too.
Matthew: So, how 'bout I don't go to school tomorrow so we can hang out more?

And you? What has your kid said today that made you laugh, despite yourself?

Goddess Off the Rails...

2011-06-14T11:33:00.003-04:00

The life of a domestic goddess ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Don't get me wrong - I dig being home with the Reds and watching them move -swiftly, leaving mess in their wake - through their days and I love being the first person to see them master a new skill or use the phrase "Fer CRAP's sake!" in the right context.

It's the OTHER stuff that sort of gets me down. Meals, I've got sorted - I like cooking and the Reds aren't as fussy as they once were. We eat simply and on a schedule, which leaves me time for other stuff.

Or should.

Mostly, I ignore the pile of stuff on the kitchen table until it threatens to topple. My junk drawer is actually a "junk counter" and while I try to keep it tidy, it drives my husband loopy.

On Sunday, I learned that practically all aspects of our life drive him loopy and that the house, in particular, overwhelms him. Dude's got a lot going on, life-wise, between his job and wanting to spend more time helping out his parents. I get that.

But because he was home last week, he got to witness the cheerful, everyday chaos of life with two kids and it sort of freaked him out:

The phone rang incessantly, friends and neighbours popped by unannounced, friends came asking if the boys' could come out to play, our street is filled with the noise and mess of construction, workmen toiled at the bottom of the driveway and needed into the basement to mess around with the water pipes or something, toys lay strewn from kitchen to front door and the boys played hockey in the house....

It overwhelmed Mark, who leaves for work when the boys are still sleeping and trudges home long after they're in bed. By the time he comes through the door the house is tidy, the toys are away and his supper is waiting on the stove. H e has control of the remote because I am usually blogging and all is quiet. Peaceful.

But not, apparently, peaceful enough.

Our house is small and old - there is very little in the way of storage and there are LOTS of things that ought to be stored away. Mostly toys, books and paper - bills, pictures, notes, etc. I think part of Mark's issue is that even the things that are put away are still visible, as our shelves are open as are both bookcases.

The boys' room looks best when I close the door and I'll admit that I am crap at putting laundry away. I could live out of a basket forever, actually, if it meant never having to put clothes in drawers again.

The kitchen, even when completely tidied up, still looks cluttered and...too full.

I am pretty good about making the bed every day and the bathroom is always getting cleaned because I live with three boys and only one of 'em has decent aim.

But that boy is NOT happy about Life with Bellymonster and the Reds.

Not. one. bit.

So, beloved readers, I need advice. And a garbage truck backed into my driveway so I can scrap it all and start fresh, but since that's unlikely, I'll take suggestions:

How do YOU control the clutter monster in your house?

Do you and your partner have completely different ways of doing things?

How do you balance the needs of everyone in the family?

Do you schedule certain tasks or tackle things as they come up?

Would you please come and heeellllppp meeeeee?

Monica Bata and Why I Dig Chicks

2011-06-12T22:26:00.008-04:00

Spent last night at Wenchy's cottage and it was glorious. From the time Dolpin and I arrived early yesterday morning, until we left late this afternoon, the three of us did nothing but eat, laugh and talk.

Well, and drink.

Over Baileys with coffee (not coffee with Baileys, you'll notice. It's an important distinction when one is cotttaging sans children) we caught each other up: Dolphin and Wenchy are both professional working mums whose friendship was forged while being two of a handful of women in a male-dominated field and they've remained close ever since.

I have no "professional working mother" stories to share, but am full of funny, pithy observations about parenthood, I brought chips and I like washing the dishes, so they let me tag along for these mini-holidays.

Over lunch (bags of chips and dip with sugar donuts and strawberry daiquiris), I told them about my blogging friend Kelly's new blog, "I Survived the Mean Girls", which is a place for girls (and grown women) to share their experiences with mean girls and bullies. It's a collaborative site and Kelly encourages readers to share their own stories - to inspire, to find comfort, to heal.

Wenchy and Dolphin were as fascinated by the concept as I was to learn their stories of childhood cruelty and adolescent angst. So, we refilled our glasses and regaled one another with tales from our own childhoods, describing in vivid, agonizing detail, all the wrongs that were done.

And then, two or three drinks in, the stories began to change. Positive women by nature, we stopped revealing the crummy bits and began to remember the good stuff:

Dolphin felt completely invisible in high school until Grade 13 History class, when an older girl beckoned her over with a friendly smile and patted the seat next to her: "Sit here, with us!"

That girl was me and I was so touched and awed that such a small gesture had made such a difference for her that I burst into tears. Yeah, I'm a goober like that. Three drinks and I'm a sappy mess.

Our hostess, Wenchy, is a warm and wise woman, whose adult life is far, far removed from her hardscrabble beginnings. She puts me in mind of spunky Li'l Orphan Annie, if Daddy Warbucks had never come into the picture. And you can bet your bottom dollar that she's got some tales to tell.

So, as I dried my eyes on the dog, Wenchy offered her own example of the power of friendship:

A veteran of B.C.'s foster care system, Wenchy was accustomed to being the new kid in school. She never attended the same school for more than two years and grew a thick skin over her sensitive heart - "never let 'em see you cry", might have been her motto. She was not, however, immune to the tears of her friend Stacey, who was nervous about starting Junior High in a new school, while Wenchy moved onto to high school.

High School began a week after the Junior High, so Wenchy hatched a plan. She enrolled herself at Stacey's school, adopting the name "Monica Bata" as her own, and registering for all of Stacey's classes.

At roll call each morning, Wenchy dutifully answered "Here!" when the teacher called for Monica Bata and stayed by Stacey's side as she gradually relaxed enough to make some new friends. When the week was over and Wenchy was satisfied that Stacey would be alright, she simply nodded and walked out the school doors for the last time. On Monday, she would walk through the doors of a strange school herself, but her concern was first and foremost, for her friend.

Dolphin and I howled with shocked laughter at young Wenchy's bravado - our shared small-town Ontario upbringing had never included not knowing our classmates or living with people who were not our parents. We applauded Wenchy's tale-spinning and cheers'd her alter ego, Monica Bata.

We were still laughing about it over dinner (Greek salad, souvlaki and cranberry/vodkas) when Wenchy claimed that if we did call up Stacey, all these years later, and asked for Monica Bata, that Stacey's first and immediate response would be, "HERE!" before collapsing into giggles. I was tempted to convince Wenchy to let me call her, just so we could hear firsthand how the power of female friendship resonated in her life.

Maybe next year, we'll call. Next year, when we gather in cottage country to recharge from our busy lives as wives and mothers, employees and bosses, to celebrate each other's spirit and to simply "be."

Until then, I'd like to officially call our girls' night "The Monica Bata Memorial Weekend" - to honour the kind of friend I wish every girl could have and the ones I am blessed to call mine.

And you? Who was your Monica Bata?

Gone Fishin'!

2011-06-11T07:31:00.001-04:00

Today's "Going to the Cottage" soundtrack includes:

Bobcaygeon - The Tragically Hip

I left your house this morning about a quarter after nine
coulda been the Willie Nelson coulda been the wine
when I left your house this morning
it was a little after nine
it was in Bobcaygeon I saw the constellations
reveal themselves one star at a time

(Quintessential Summer Song)

The Joker by the Steve Miller Band

'Cause I'm a picker
I'm a grinner
I'm a lover
And I'm a sinner
I play my music in the sun.
I'm a joker
I'm a smoker
I'm a midnight toker
I get my loving on the run

(Favorite Song for Driving on a Sunny, Summer's Day)

The Boys of Summer - Don Henley

But I can see you, your brown skin shinin' in the sun
You got your hair combed back and your sunglasses on, baby
And I can tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone

Red, Red Wine - UB40

Red, red wine, go to my head,

Make me forget that I

Still need you so.

I Gotta Feeling - Black-Eyed Peas

I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

Home For a Rest - Spirit of the West

The gas heater's empty, it's damp as a tomb
The spirits we drank now ghosts in the room
I'm knackered again, come on sleep take me soon
And don't lift up my head till the the twelve bells at noon

You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best
I've been gone for a month, I've been drunk since I left
And these so-called vacations will soon be my death
I'm so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest
Take me home

Now I Lay Me Down to F*cking Sleep...

2011-06-10T22:10:00.001-04:00

Ah, sleep. How I miss getting a full night of it.

To be fair, the Reds are pretty good about going to sleep. It's the STAYING asleep that confounds them. That they can rush about all day, full of energy and yet awaken mere hours later, ready to play confounds me. Many's a night that finds me wearing a path between their room and mine, refilling water cups, rubbing aching knees, banishing monsters, drying tear-stained cheeks.

And if by chance I don't go to them, I can rest, assured that my darling boys will always come to me.

Most mornings find Mark protecting himself with all the pillows, me clinging to the edge of the bed with someone's tiny elbow lodged in my nostril, and somebody else's whole body curled between my legs.

I drool. Two of us snore and three of us grind our teeth.

Isn't that a lovely mental picture?

It could be worse. It used to BE worse, when Luke was born and nursed every 10 minutes. Matthew kind of lost his mind and took to shrieking like a banshee at odd hours - usually after midnight and before dawn. It was, as you can imagine, a very challenging time as a parent. DH could - and still does - sleep through anything so I was on my own. How I wish I'd had this book then:

"Go the Fuck to Sleep!" by Adam Mansbach

It's pure, unadulterated, adult-oriented, parent-centric, HYSTERICAL genius.

I know you've heard of it, because it's been all over the news and discussed heatedly on parenting boards everywhere. Some parents are shocked and aghast, but they're usually the parents of newborns, who believe that they've come through the worst of the sleep-deprivation.

Ha!

Most parents cheer and applaud Mr. Mansbach's brutal, potty-mouthed honesty and this book was written for them. For all of us, really, if we're honest about it. My friend Moe sent it to me and UPS (yay, man in uniform!) dropped it off today. I've been giggling and reminiscing and reciting it under my breath ever since.

A snippet for you because I think that you should go and buy up every copy you can find - give it as a shower gift, parting gift, gag gift, whatever. It is, quite possibly, the best bedtime story I have EVER read:

"The tiger reclines in the simmering jungle.

The sparrow has silenced her cheep.

Fuck your stuffed bear, I'm not getting you shit.

Close your eyes. Cut the crap. Sleep."

Pass it on. Genius such as this deserved to be celebrated and shared!

Bucket Lists, God's Grace and Finding Your Rock

2011-06-09T22:01:00.004-04:00

I spend a lot of time (some might say too much) reading other blogs. Every day, I am delighted to discover incredible pieces of writing offering glimpses into the lives of complete strangers.

I am often awed. Sometimes I weep. I laugh a lot - so much that I try to get through a least one caffeinated beverage before firing up the computer and logging in. More than one blogger has caused me to snort coffee from my nose before my eyes are fully open, and how I love them for it.

Here then, are the blog pieces that have stuck with me as I've moved through the week:

Alice Pyne is 15. She is also dying.

To that end, she created a blog so that she can share her final months with her loved ones and let them witness her quest to fulfill her "Bucket List". Alice listed "trending on Twitter" as one of her life's wishes.

Her voice - so young, so brave - has haunted my sleep for two nights now and I cannot stay away from her site. THOUSANDS of people have commented on her posts and therein lies the true magic of the internet. I spent an entire HOUR this morning, reading the comments, feeling the outpouring of enormous love for Alice and cheering whenever I came across someone offering to make one of her wishes come true.

Need your faith in human goodness rekindled? Visit Alice.

Mary Kathryn is a fellow blogger I've "met" on Twitter. According to her blog tag, she is "abiding in grace, one day at a time."

I think she's the person I'd want to be, if I weren't me.

Mary Kathryn brings light to my days and forces me to re-examine my own faith, daily. She is quirky and funny and so very, very wise. She is also a redhead and a true beauty and for the life of me, I cannot figure out why she is still single.

In any case, popping by Beauty for Ashes every few days fills me up with all that I need to keep going. Often, I feel as though she has somehow found her way inside my heart and is healing it from the inside out.

Need a spiritual lift or to see what true joy looks like, written? Visit Mary Kathryn.

C stands for commencement. It also stands for Chase McFadden, whose Commencement Speech titled "Go Find Your Rock" should be read aloud at every graduation ceremony, everywhere.

I was so impressed by the speech I posted it to my Facebook wall and watched as FB friends re-posted it all over the place. All is as it should be and my hope is that Chase's wise words will echo in the hearts of children forever.

Big words, eh? Well, Chase's words inspired big feelings in me - there, on his blog, were there things I long to teach my children. Heck, things I long to learn myself. It's just a bonus that the dude's funny to boot.

Seeking direction and purpose and an encouraging, friendly voice? Visit Chase.

And you? Where have you been this week?

Moody Mother Nature meets Fickle Bellymonster

2011-06-09T17:04:00.001-04:00

I love Mother Nature - she's a fickle creature, just like me.

Unfortunately, I don't always appreciate the results of Mother Nature's fickle behaviour, especially when they involve me packing "basement bags" in case we need to sleep in the cellar. Thankfully, last night's awesome storm rendered the street powerless, but left my children sleeping in their beds.

Phew!

Still, I suddenly miss winter and have been praying for the skies to darken, the wind to cool to freezing and a pile of snow to land on my lawn. I long to hurl myself into it and stay there until October.

Other "Cool Weather" things I'm suddenly missing:

The need for socks and a hoodie once the sun goes down.
Hot chocolate.
Mittens, drying on the windowsill.
Rosy cheeks
Peeling off layers of clothing to reveal a slimmer self. It's amazing how many pounds longjohns add on. Puffy, long coats have a similarly slimming effect, once removed.
Flannel pyjamas
Hot showers
Hot Weetabix for breakast
Wearing a blanket while watching TV.

I realize that come December, I'll be pining for these shimmering hot days and missing iced tea but for now? Dreaming of winter's snow is what's getting me through summer's sunshine.

Well, that and my husband's promise to install the a/c units soon...

And you? How do you get yourself through the seasons?

Goodbye to Guckies

2011-06-07T22:00:00.004-04:00

Matthew has been using a soother since birth. He has steadfastly clung to a handful of beloved and well-loved "guckies" for his entire life.

I have argued with practically everyone about his use of them - a thumbsucker myself, I KNOW the immense comfort he draws and will never willingly take it from him.

Then today happened.

Matthew's care nurse - once she'd properly arranged her features after expressing shock and derision at his soother use - has expressly forbidden the use of soothers, straws or anything that involves sucking. It would render today's painful surgery futile and in all likelihood, cause more discomfort for Matthew.

Matthew kind of overheard this conversation, as it took place over top of his precious, snoozing head. So tonight, when I told him that bedtime will no longer include his gucky, he simply nodded.

Sadly. Tears shimmered. And then my wee man squared his little shoulders, stuck out a brave chin and said,

"It's ok, Mummy. I know."

And it has broken my heart. I find that I am grieving - not just the loss of his gucky for him, but also the loss of his little boyhood...for me. It's not that he's not ready to leave these precious days behind.

He is.

He has.

But me? I am not ready. Not yet.

Not yet.

The One in Which We Discuss Boobs

2011-06-06T13:14:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, blog posts write themselves. Today's is one of those, courtesy of a delightfully cheerful Luke.

Mark is home this week, trying to cram a year's worth of household chores into 8 days. He's actually travelling between our house and his parents' farm, pitching in with their chores as well.

In a word? The dude is busy.

Thankfully, he's not too busy to help Luke put a puzzle together. Here is an almost-verbatim conversation between them. I say almost because I couldn't hear some stuff over my attempts to stifle my own snorts of laughter:

Luke to a shirtless Mark: Daddy, you have small boobies.
Mark: Uh..yes, I do.
Luke: And I have smaller boobies and so does Matthew. But not Mummy.
Mark: Really?
Luke: Mummy has bigger boobies.
Mark: You think Mummy has big boobies?
Luke: Well, bigger than yours, for sure!

At this point, I peered around the corner and caught Mark's eye - he raised his brows in helpless, silent mirth and carried on sorting puzzle pieces.

Mark: Luke, I bet that's the first time Mummy's ever heard that her boobies are the biggest.
Luke: Daddy! You're so silly. I didn't say biggest. I said big-ER! Phffftt!

Awesome. Sauce.

Grouchy Bellymonster: By the Numbers

2011-06-05T21:15:00.002-04:00

Am completely stealing this blogging format/idea from the awesome IronicMom for two reasons:

1. She's awesome and
2. I'm uninspired. And grouchy.

I guess that's technically three reasons.

Anyway, here's the sum up (get it? SUM up? Heh.):

7. Baskets of laundry waiting to be hauled to laundromat, washed, dried and put away.

2. Pairs of underwear left in Luke's drawer.

4. Average number of times Luke pees in his underwear on any given day.

1. Number of times Luke usually poops in his underwear on any given day.

9. Times I asked the boys to put their Lego away.

2. Times I turned the vacuum on to scare the boys into gathering Lego faster.

3. Happy Meals I ordered for the three of us at McDonald's tonight, because I got tired of standing in front of the fridge opening and closing the door, hoping something yummy and delicious - and already cooked - might appear.

11. Number of words Mark and I have exchanged today.

15. Minutes before I finish this post and head off to bed, to shake this "Hmph!"

6. Kilometres I walked this weekend.

0. Kilometres I ran this weekend.

72. Times it occurred to me that there may be a correlation between my grouchy mood and my lack of exercise.

72. Times I ignored above-mentioned realization. There's little room for guilt on top of grouchy.

8. Number of days left until my husband's week off ends and the world gets back to normal.

1. Washing machine I hope (please God!) to have installed and working in my basement by week's end. Ditto the dryer.

1. Bottle of Baileys I may well smuggle to bed with me.

Mmmm....Baileys......

Yard Sales = The New Catholicism

2011-06-04T10:24:00.008-04:00

One of my early-morning tweets inspired today's blog offering:

"Neighbours' having a yard sale. Am awed by the prompt arrival of cheerful strangers, seeking treasures.

It's like church or something."

Hmmm... I mused, sipping coffee and watching follks flocking together across the road. It really kind of IS like going to church...

Planning (The Night Before)

Church: Plan outfit, find prayer missal, find tithing envelope/collect change for offering, put in purse, find proper footware, place by door.

Yard Sale: Plan outfit according to weather, find GPS/map/Kijiji listings, find hip purse filled with coins and bills in multiple denominations, find suitable footware, place by door.

Approach

Church: Approach with hushed reverence. Scan pews before choosing and quietly move down the aisle. Unless you're that lady who totters in on heels and reeks of "White Linen" perfume. If you're her, then march purposely toward the altar, trailing scent.

Yard Sale: Approach with "don't-be-so-eager", almost reverence. Scan tables before choosing a starting point, moving down the makeshift "aisles" of clothing racks and knick-knacks. Unless you're that lady who totters over on mule sandals and reeks of "Poison" perfume. If you're her, march purposely to the furthest table, leaving your husband to trail behind.

Bargaining

Church: Fervent and heartfelt, we are usually on our knees when bargaining with God, both literally and figuratively. Our "wheeling and dealing" might go something like this:

"PleaseGodpleasepleaseletmewintthelotteryornotbepregnantIpromisewithallthatIamIwillgotoconfession

everyweekandattendMasstwiceonSundayspleasepleaseohLordIbegofyouAmenandhallowedbeThyname!"

Yard Sale: Fervent and heartfelt, the goal is NOT to end up on your knees, but the bring the seller as close to his as possible, while still smiling cheerfully. It might go like this:

"How much for that lamp?"

"Ten bucks."

"I'll give you two."

"Nine."

"Five."
"Four."

"Three and two bits, plus toss in that shoe rack. And those bowling shoes from 1983."

"Deal."

"Amen, friend!"

Castoffs and Left-Behinds

By 10 a.m. it's mostly all over: a few stragglers may dot the aisles, smiling gamely, hoping to be among "The Chosen," but most folks have sailed off into the rest of their day.

Church: She's the overlooked woman who lingers after Mass, long after the rest of the congregation has filtered out. She might be a widow, single or married - she is definitely lonely and looking to belong to something bigger than the life she's presently living. There may be an air of desperation about her that urges others to back away smiling nervously, guiltily.

Yard Sale: They're the looked-over pieces that sit in boxes, long after the early-morning hoarders have filtered past. They might be what's left of a dining room set, a stand-up vacuum cleaner or a box of knick-knacks - they are all longing to belong to a bigger, better household.

The air of desperation that lingers in the air around them causes late-comers to back away, smiling nervously, feeling guilty.

Ah, guilt. The cornerstone of any religion worth its salt.

Hallelujah!

Got anything to add? Toss your ideas onto the pile!

The Brothers McLennan

2011-06-03T19:00:00.002-04:00

Like most siblings, despite the blood that binds them, the Reds are very, very different.

Matthew is eager to please.

Luke isn't eager to please anyone, except Matthew.

Today, Luke spent the afternoon in Matthew's classroom, learning about Kindergarten life. Here they are this morning, being so entirely themselves, I laughed out loud:

"Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero. "
~Marc Brown

And you? Who's your superhero?

Love Letters?

2011-06-02T20:30:00.002-04:00

Dear Canada Post,

Perhaps you've not noticed - the Internet is changing the way the world communicates. You can't possibly expect us to believe that you're overworked and underpaid. Perhaps you're lonely and looking for attention?

Grow up. Ante up. Give it up.

Sincerely,
Occupant
Belleville, ON

Dear UPS,

Helllooooo, there, hot stuff! Loving the uniform shorts, your quick and affordable same-day service and the fact that the UPS driver waves back. Thanks for being you. See you soon!

Love,
Lizzie-Poo

Dear City of Belleville,

Yes, it's a bit dusty here on Charles, but thank you for the complete and sorely-needed street overhaul. The crews are professional and quick, friendly with the kids standing agog on the porch, eager to help AND they look awesome in hard hats.

You won't be getting any complaints from this taxpayer. Nope. Not from here.

Sincerely,
Happy "Friendly City" Dweller

Dear Ovaries,

Enough, already. First it's baby lust, now it's guy-in-uniform lust. I sincerely hope that this is not harbinger of menopausal behaviour to come. For now though, cut this crap out. It's embarrassing.

Liz

Dear Children,

Please forgive Mama for the furniture-moving, the random sobbing, maniacal laughter and my obsessive need to slobber all over other people's babies. It will pass, my darlings. Trust me, you are all that I ~~can handle~~ need.

Love,
Mummy

Giving God the boot...

2011-06-01T20:57:00.000-04:00

Seems that Luke - darling curmudgeon Luke - has given God the boot:

Luke spent a good portion of yesterday telling me, retelling me and not-so-gently reminding me that God lives in his heart. In fact, he let the whole neighbourhood know, every chance he got:

Man-cutting-down-tree: Hey there, big fella!
Luke: God lives in my heart.
Man: Uh....
Me: Sorry. He's just learning the "God is everywhere" thing.
Man: I'm not a religious sort...
Me: Oh, that's alright. Luke doesn't mind. And since God lives in Luke's heart, I reckon He doesn't either.
Man: Uh....right.
Me: You didn't see the humour there, did you?
Man: Uh...no. Sorry.

Evangelist [ɪˈvændʒɪlɪst] n
1. (Christian Religious Writings / Bible) any of the writers of the New Testament Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John
2. (Christianity / Protestantism) a senior official or dignitary of the Mormon Church

Collins English Dictionary – Complete and Unabridged © HarperCollins Publishers 1991, 1994, 1998, 2000, 2003

Today, my wee apostle spent the morning with my friend Heather. This is what she posted to my Facebook wall, after snack:

Heather: Luke would you like a glass of water?
Luke: God died.
Heather: Pardon? Would you like a glass of water?
Luke: God died. He died yesterday.
Heather: Here's your water, li'l man. Drink up!

I am sensing some Divine Intervention in Luke's future. Or therapy. Whichever...

And you? Got a fickle evangelist in your family?

Wishes with Luke

2011-05-31T09:10:00.003-04:00

Some of my favourite days are "Luke Days" - when Matthew is at school and the day stretches long before us: Undone. Fresh.

These are dawdle days - when the walk home from dropping Matthew off takes an hour, because we've stopped to inspect every blade of grass or sat awhile petting "Snots", the fluffy, dog-like animal around the corner.

Yesterday, Luke was particularly charming and adorable: he'd run ahead, twirl around a tree and then race back to dangle from my hand, chattering non-stop.

At the edge of an otherwise immaculate lawn, Luke spotted a large and puffy dandelion - perfect for blowing into the morning air. He stopped in his tracks and I watched as pure delight bloomed across his freckled face.

"Mummy!" he breathed, his voice low with awe and wonder, "look at that wishing flower! It's HUMONGOUS!"

He plucked the weed from the grass with a grin and held it out to me: "Let's wish together, Mummy. This flower is so big, it will hold two wishes."

He closed his eyes, concentration marring his brow. I kept mine open, reveling in the moment.

"OK, Mummy? Let's blow!" And so we did, watching the fluffy seeds sail into the sky, filled with hope.

"Good wish, Mummy?"
"Good wish, Luke."

Indeed.

Wish # 1: Matthew

Wish Come True # 2: Luke

And you? Which of your wishes have come true?
What have you wished for lately?

30-Day Challenge

2011-05-25T21:40:00.002-04:00

One of my oldest and dearest friends (Moe, whose real name is Tracy but no one ever calls her that. In fact, for close to two decades my mum thought her name was Maureen) rang tonight. With a challenge:

Every day, for 30 days, I will post something on my blog and she will write another page of theawesome and A.MAZ.ING novel she's been working on.

By June 30th, at 10 pm, she will have two more chapters in and my brain will have exploded.

So, lucky readers, 30 posts from Bellymonster.

Ready? Set? GO!

Finding More Happy...Behind the Wheel

2011-05-25T18:54:00.002-04:00

It must be the sunshine, but I keep finding things to be happy about. In no particular order, for no particular reason, I have been delighted by lawn mowers, traffic lights and strangers on the highway.

First, a conversation between Matthew and Luke, earlier today:

"Walk this way, Luke. Carefully. Carefully! Go slowly!"
"I am. I'm walking just like Mummy!"
"Let's go outside...wait, Mummy locked the door. Let's just dance!"

As the "genderless baby" ~~debacle~~ debate continues, I reckon my sons have got it all sorted:

When in doubt, just dance! Put on your black heels and dance!

Ahem. But I digress....

The List

It's mostly car and driving related, as this past weekend, we clocked almost 800km in two days:

Honourable Mention: On Friday, my across-the-road neighbour, Nick, mowed my lawn. Which means, we went into the long weekend with a decent-looking front lawn and he no longer has to look out his window and see the dandelion bouquets that dot the yard. Apparently, it also takes a village to upkeep the 'hood.

1.Advanced green traffic lights. Being the second car in the turning lane - there's no pressure to get moving the second the arrow turns green AND it's easier to gauge the turn when someone else does it first.

2.When the person in front of me in the Tim Horton's drive-through pays for my coffee. Why? Because it's Monday. God bless kind-hearted, coffee-loving strangers.

3.Full tanks of gas at the beginning of a long drive. Newly-created CD's for the drive (think "mixed tapes, only better!") We love duets - the cheesier, the better. Well, I love duets. Mark just sings along to get along.

4. Travelling with strangers: following/passing/waving at strangers in the cars around us on a long drive. We have been known to follow others into rest stations, wait for them to gas up, share a laugh and continue travelling with them along the 401. Is that weird?

5. When you pass a car and everyone in the car is laughing uproariously about something, so you laugh, too. Closely related: when a stranger in a restaurant or grocery store has an infectious laugh - watch the faces of those around you as they try - and fail - to remain impassive. Most can't. Sometimes, you just gotta join in, even when you've no idea what's goin' on.

6. Sunshine, windows down, hair slicked back, sunglasses on: Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" on the radio. Bliss.

7. Having sons who cannot wait to experience all of the above:

What's making you happy these days? Any driving shenanigans?

Land of Lost Sounds

2011-05-19T21:32:00.001-04:00

When trying to write something serious, there is always room - nay, there SHOULD always be room - for procrastinating. Today's offering:

Which sounds, linked to your childhood, are ones your children will likely never know and/or immediately recognize?

Go!

1. The chink-chink-chink-whhiiiirrr of a rotary-dial phone.
2. Zzzzzppphhhhtclickbeeeeppppp of dial-up internet.
3. TV "snow"
4. Simon: The Game
5. "Flip" sound on digital clocks as each minute passes.
6. The sound of a Big Wheel on the sidewalk.
7. "Press play on Tape 1"
8. "Click-click-click" of a video projector
9. The Voice - Mark Dailey (Ontario only)
10. Dinner bells from the back porch
11. "Goodnight, John-Boy..."
12. The anticipatory scratchy fullness of a needle on a record (We have a turntable and hundreds of records - plan to one day, someday, set 'em all up and have ourselves a party.)
13. The "ding" of a car pulling into a family-owned gas station.
13b. "Ping-ping-ping" of a gas station air pump.
14. Typewriter pings.
15. Cash register rings.
16. "Chuuut-chhhuttt" of a credit card imprint machine
17. Mail sliding through a slot in the front door.
18. "AOL's" iconic "Ping! You've got mail!"
19. Creaky-squeaks of a merry-go-round.

Play along! Which sounds do you remember?

"The Rodeo Song" aka "Happy Birthday, dear Andrew..."

2011-05-19T09:38:00.004-04:00

Woke up today - my brother's birthday - expecting to be overwhelmed with missing him.

Instead, even though my heart is heavy and tears hover, I am mostly OK. Sad, but OK.

And I have decided that instead of filling this space with my own grief, I will instead share some of the reasons that I miss Andrew, so that those of you who never knew him, might.

He was a funny guy, my brother. An irreverent, potty-mouthed, laug-till-you-cry kind of dude.

Andrew helping celebrate his nephew's 1st birthday.

When I had to compile songs to put on a CD for the funeral home, I struggled with the task: I found it difficult to include songs that soothed and reflected my parents' tastes as well as mine and my brother's.

In the midst of it all my husband provided me with a much-needed moment of sheer hilarity. When his uncle passed away several years ago, Mark's family horrified and amused mourners by playing this song at the service. It was Uncle Jim's favourite, and Mark thought it would have been Andrew's too:

"The Rodeo Song: Piss Me Off, You F*ckin' Jerk" could have been Andrew's theme song and once I'd exhaled my initial gasp of shocked surprise, I fell apart laughing.

I could - and still can - hear my brother's voice, singing these lyrics. I can see him, driving his truck, smoke in one hand, speeding like a demon and cursing other drivers.

God, I miss him. And I am laughing so hard right now I am crying. Or maybe I am crying so hard, I am laughing?

I hope he is too.

Fuckin' jerk.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and....

2011-05-18T20:01:00.002-04:00

Held a tiny four-month old baby this morning. A boy baby, at that. His name is Landon and I not only held him, I changed his diaper, fed him his bottle and watched, cooing, as he fell asleep in my arms.

Oh, my.

I've held dozens of babies since giving birth to mine. Felt nothing, past the "so-cute-smells-so-good" feelings that accompany the relief that comes with handing them back to their parents. Done, I say, when asked if we'll have more children.

Done, I snort at my husband, the one who's never here and whose pining for a third is based upon his desire for a daughter. Frankly, I find that a bit odd and often make a point of reminding Mark of his misspent youth:

"Babe, remember high school?"
"Yeah." (Stupid, goofy grin)
"Remember YOU in high school?"
"Yeah." (Nostalgic, stupid leer)
"Now, imagine a boy like YOU dating your daughter."
"No effing way!"

That's what I thought, I say. Now, can you please pop by Shopper's on your way home? There's a sale on condoms. Buy 'em all.

This is how it's been for almost four years. Mark wistfully gazing at little girls and fawning all over his niece, remarking especially on her curly locks and long, pretty lashes - much like his own. For that same amount of time, I've been firmly shaking my head whenever the question of a third child is raised:

1. We have a two-bedroom house and I like it, so no more babies.
2. I want to sleep through the night again before I'm 40. If I have another baby, it'll never happen.
3. As much as I loved pregnancy, I am not in any shape or condition to live through another one.
4. Not one single part of me - physically or otherwise - longs for another baby. Not. one. bit.

Until today.

Today long-lashed, tow-headed, making snuffle-sounds-whilst-falling-asleep, finger-wound-around-mine baby boy Landon changed all of that and for the first time in my life, I understood the phrase, "my ovaries ache."

I could totally have another son - my Jonathan. My bookend. My final chapter. My youngest apostle.

Not that I'm going to act on it. The ovary-ache thing, I mean. Nope. Not gonna do it. Will, in fact, completely disregard that biological, deeply-primal, practically-impossible-to-ignore instinctive and basic human female drive to reproduce.

I am woman. Hear me IGNORE!

But first I need to stack the deck against my hormones and the sweet siren's song belonging to phantom boys called Johnny. In order to gird my treacherous loins, I have enlisted the help of Reds.

Well, Luke.

Matthew is so eager to please and agreeable, his is an existence that virtually BEGS one to make more of him. His birth was the one I would have happily repeated mere hours after bringing him into the world. True story. Epi headache and all.

Luke's birth, however, was quick and so painful, I must still distract myself during sex, lest my brain somehow make the connection between what we're doing and a similar position that ended in screaming and hemorrhoids the size of oranges.

How will Luke ensure that I have no more children, you ask?

The answer is two-fold:
1. Luke is impossibly cute and sweet when he chooses to be, but he can scream the dead from their slumber when he's pissed. And he is presently sitting in time-out, screeching as loudly as he can because I wouldn't let him hit his brother in the eye with a hockey stick.

Read that sentence again.

LUKE is pissed at ME because I won't let him maim/permanently disfigure his brother. If that's not enough to keep me from bringing another McLennan child into the world...

2. A surprisingly cheerful, though random conversation with Luke this afternoon:

"Mummy, can I have a dog?'
"It would be nice to have a dog, wouldn't it? But I don't think so, Lukey."
"If I'm a good boy and stop breaking everything, can I have a dog?'
"No, Lukey. That's not how it works. You need to stop breaking stuff because it's not right."
"But I like it. It's fun and makes good sounds."
"Hmmm... yes, but..."
"So do dogs, Mummy. Dogs are fun and make good sounds."
"True, but they also poop a lot and people need to pick up their poop."
"Like you clean up my poop when it falls out of my pants?"
"Uh, sort of like that, yes."

Big pause while my ovaries stop their aching, having somehow recognized a potentially life-altering moment-in-the-making:

"If I poo in the toilet, can I have a dog?"
"Only if we can name it John."
"John?"
"John."
"OK."

Future Blogging Ideas:

How to Blame Your Ovaries For Just About Anything
Finding the Perfect Pet for Your Family: A Helpful Guide
Manipulative Children and the Mothers Who Love Them

And you? Did you heed your Johnny's call or get a dog?

Snippets of Life with The Reds

2011-05-17T06:53:00.000-04:00

The Reds have been in a heartwarming, love-to-be-together phase lately. I wish I'd taken more photos: years from now, when they haul each other to the ground, fists flying, I can show them documented proof of brotherly affection. Ah, well.

Meet Mop-Top and his little brother, Menace:

Freshly-shorn Reds. I love their hair like this. They love to dress alike, which is handy, since they can practically share clothing, despite the two years between them:

This morning, I ended up at the foot of bed, curled into a blanket-less ball. Hmm...I wonder why:

Holy crap, does Matthew (the taller Red) ever look like my father-in-law. He has done for most of his life, but every once in awhile, it catches me unaware and I am amazed all over again.

And finally, my favourite Spring shot:

When did they grow so big? Weren't they just born?

Bitch For a Day

2011-05-16T06:57:00.003-04:00

A few months ago, encouraged by my friend Lloyd, I reached out to a stranger, asking for advice about writing. Leanne Shirtliffe (aka Ironic Mom, blogger extraordinaire) wrote back and nothing has been the same.

Since then, I've been ~~stalking~~ tagging along behind Leanne all over the Internet, following her peeps and being awed by talent of bloggers everywhere. Inspired, I've been pushing myself to write more, more often, and have been delighted to see my own blog traffic change and rise.

More importantly, my confidence is rising. I've made a huge (scary, exhilarating) effort to shove aside my insecurities and put my writing out there - come what may:

Leanne co-blogs with two other amazing writers at Word Bitches. It's a blog about the writing life and the challenges therein. It's sassy. A little bit snarky. Full of wisdom and insight, too.

It's also where I am guest-blogging (How cool is that? It feels very professional and hip to be all, "Oh, I"m guest blogging over at Word Bitches today....Jeeves, bring the car 'round, please!")

Check it out! Go on.....GO!

Love,
Belly

Fetal Alcohol Syndrome: The Invisible Heartache

2011-05-13T22:11:00.004-04:00

Had he lived, my brother would be turning 32 next week.

We might have gathered at my parents' house, to celebrate with a BBQ and beer on their deck. Instead, I will call my parents and picture them standing on the deck gazing out at Andrew's Memorial Garden, where a bench sits waiting and flowers are beginning to bloom.

This afternoon, I had a brief but intense conversation with a stranger about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. This woman, newly adopted-former-foster mother to "TJ" was almost painfully forthright about her son's diagnosis. Taking my cue from her, I offered up my own memories of life with a person who suffers permanent, irreversible brain damage.

"If he had Down's Syndrome or something more visible, the world might have cut him some slack," I said as TJ's mum nodded emphatically. She knows. She - and her son, shrieking happily with mine - live with that frustration every day.

"The challenge for you," I told her, "is not your son. It's everyone else's perceptions of him AND you."

The truth of that hung in the air between us and for a moment more, we clung to it: two strangers bound, ironically enough, by broken cords and damaged angels.

A few minutes ago, I read an article about a couple whose THREE adopted children have been diagnosed FAS/D and the toll the raising of their kids is taking - financially, emotionally and otherwise.

Coincidence? Ha. No way. And so I glanced at my brother's photo, raised my eyes to the sky and began this post. Okay, Bamboo. I get it. I GET it. I shall make your story, mine.

Gentle Warrior, Gone

Coming soon...

Playground Politics - A Rant

2011-05-13T12:53:00.002-04:00

Yesterday morning, at a local park: Kids were everywhere, mamas and day-care providers, too. Everyone was soaking up the glorious sunshine and basking in the glow of our brand-spanking new playground equipment.

Luke headed directly for a giant climbing rock and began putting his Croc-clad feet into child-sized toeholds, grinning. Matthew was soon shrieking down the slide, Isabella fast behind him, both of them laughing. All was well.

I turned to greet some mothers I know, cooed over a five-month-old princess, let my gaze scan the park every now again, seeking the children, one by one. Luke = rock. Matthew = swings. Isabella = slide.

Check. Check. Check.

A few minutes passed and I again eye-swept the area: Luke is still on the rock. Matthew is playing soccer, while nearby, Isabella builds sandcastles. Wow, Luke must love those rocks. He’s been in that same spot for about 5 minute….

Crap.

I jogged over and was mortified to discover that Luke hadn’t been gazing about in wonder, as I’d assumed. Instead, he’d gotten stuck and then scared and, unable to move had been crying the whole freaking time.

Feeling awful, I quickly scooped him off the rock and into my arms, shushing and bouncing his heaving little body. I then glanced over to the three mothers standing a few steps away, let my jaw drop as they merely glanced back and walked away.

My son had been BAWLING for close to 5 minutes and they did nothing. Not. One. Bloody.Thing. No helping him up or down, no motioning me over. NOTHING.

This has irritated and saddened me so much. I cannot seem to let it go:

First of all, I am angry with myself for not noticing sooner, but I refuse to beat myself for it any longer. All afternoon is enough. But am also angry at three –count ‘em, THREE – mothers who could not step out of their own comfort zone long enough to wind an arm around a crying child and help him to safety.

It takes a village, my ass.

A friend suggested that it’s society’s fault – that people are too afraid to reach out for fear of being sued or misunderstood or worse.

I guess I get that. I don’t actually accept that – especially not for me or my children – but I get it. But it saddens and angers me, all the same. Is THIS what we’re teaching our children - to be afraid to offer a helping hand? To know that strangers are not friends we haven’t met yet?

Surely, that can’t be right.

Is it?

If you were those mothers, what would you have done? Any similar stories out there?