On Finding Home: A 5-Year Recap

FIVE years ago today, we moved to Belleville.

Wow.

Can you BELIEVE that? Five awesome, terrible, heartbreaking, glorious, triumphant years.

Today, this city is home and I am proud and happy to watch my children sprout their wings from here, the place where we are rooted.

In remembrance, I have selected one post from every year - they are the posts which, to my mind, sum up all that was and all that I was, we were, as this place we were simply passing through, came to be ours:

2009

1. A month after we moved here, to a strange city where I knew no one, my brother died. The shock of that - that he was just gone - and the rage and utter angst I felt throughout the rest of that bitter winter will always be tangled up with coming here.

My baby brother, Andrew.

http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2009/02/farewell-beloved-brother.html

Five years later, the rage has passed and while sadness remains, always, I believe that I have come to a place of peace. That Spring, I ventured out to explore my new city and to find some friends. My very first friend, Heather, opened her home and her heart to a sad, lonely stranger -  at the end of that long, cold Winter, she was the sunshine I needed and today, she is one of my closest friends.

2010

Matthew started Kindergarten in 2009. It was a bittersweet experience for me, holding out my first-born son to the world and asking for grace. He was blessed with an incredible teacher that year and while this letter was written for her in 2010, as school wrapped up for summer, it's really for all of the Reds' teachers. They have been so lucky, to have compassionate and wise teachers - it has been a true and real joy to watch them thrive and grow and learn.

http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2010/06/dear-teacher.html

In fact, the school they attend, their teachers and their friends are some of the biggest reasons we've chosen to remain here. We are settled, they are thriving. Everyone is happy.

2011

Luke being...well, Luke.

This is one of my favourite posts about Luke, but it's also one of my favourite posts, period. I think that it's easy to get caught up in all the things our kids do that drive us crazy, instead of focusing on all the stuff they do that's good. Maybe it's just me. In any case, one day, I will frame this and hang it on Luke's wall and he will know how much joy he brings to my life.


http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2011/06/its-small-stuff.html

2012

Without question, 2012 was a challenging, illuminating year. Everywhere I went, it seemed, I was learning lessons - and not just the ones at Loyalist College, where I studied Developmental Services.

This is my most-shared post ever. At last count, it has been read by 1400 people - clearly, it struck a chord with friends and strangers alike and I am delighted to share it here:

http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2012/11/to-love-stranger.html

2013

Photo credit: Jerome Lessard

I graduated from Loyalist in 2013. It was a transformative two years and walking across the stage to accept my hard-won diploma, with my parents and my sons in the audience, was one of the proudest moments of my life.

From my classmates, my professors and from all of those I was blessed to support, I have learned some of the most important lessons. I have and will carry them, always, in all the years ahead:


http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2013/04/with-my-heart-in-their-hands.html




And so...five years later, we have known huge love and huge loss. Bought a house, got a dog, lost our minds. We are thriving, we are growing, we belong.

At the end of the day, this last one is that for which I am most grateful. Here, in the city by the Bay, we have found our place, our people, our future.

I am home.

A Message from Molly

Last month, I posted about my friend Molly, who has opened her home and her heart to her nephew, Seth. Molly and her family have been struggling financially since then, as Seth's arrival put a strain on their already tight budget.

I asked for help from all of you, as several local agencies could not find the resources for this amazing family. And, my friends, bless you, you came through - for me, for Molly, and most importantly, for Seth.

As of this writing, you have donated, either in cash or gift card or gift, almost $800. To help out a family you don't know, simply because you were asked to do so.

I am proud to know you. Prouder still to call you my friends. THIS is what love looks like. THIS is what community truly means. THIS is what being the good feels like:

FROM MOLLY:

When Seth came to us, we knew we'd make it; just not sure how.

Already raising 3 children on a tight budget, overnight, we had a fourth. We were told immediately that we would be his guardians until further notice. There was no ceremony, no time to prepare and no instruction booklet. I navigated all the resources I could think of.

After doors repeatedly closed in my face, people turned their backs, I told his story....and someone listened.

She heard my words, felt my feelings and cried my tears. Her beautiful heart took our story to bed with her. Finally!! Someone was going to help us.

That help was just going to come from the community; rather than agencies. I slept better that night knowing such good people do exist. Compassionate human beings.

Thank you on behalf of my children, for making life a little easier to live. Thanks to all of your kindness, our load has been lightened. Now that our worries have been spread out among so many people, they are much lighter to carry.

We can spend time laughing with our children and forget some of our troubles.

Your kind hearts are beautiful; and your love is felt. You have brought joy where there was struggle.

 Please know that your gift of compassion has been received and has found it's place in the hearts and eyes of our little ones.

And thank you from an angel of a boy, Seth, who gets to be a kid this Christmas.

Bless you all and your families this Christmas!

 Love, Us.

Why I Don't Want Baileys For My Birthday...

I have a friend who is beautiful and bright and loving. She is raising beautiful, bright and loving children. Three of them.

And as of a month ago, a fourth.

Seth* is her nephew-by-marriage and due to circumstances beyond his control, he is, at the tender age of 10 and a mere two years into his new life here in Canada, without a home. Without family.

When the police called my friend, Molly*, because she is one of two "kin" close by, she raced to the station to get him. The police officer handed Seth over without ceremony. Handed over the boy's backpack as well - all that was left of his old life, tucked inside.

Into her car, into her heart, she tumbled the quiet, doe-eyed boy, promised him the safety of her home, the solace of her arms, the love of her family, for as long as he needed.

A month in, Seth is indeed loved and seems content in their sphere. He is polite and helpful and achingly beautiful. But he doesn't speak of the reasons he now shares a bed with his cousin and must be content with a winter coat he didn't choose and that doesn't match the snow pants Molly managed to find in his size.

As for the other things that hurt her mother's heart, Molly can barely speak of it at all, but I can:

While Molly's home is filled with love and light and laughter, it is not filled with enough money.  Not nearly enough.

Of course, there are social workers involved because Seth's life has been fraught and difficult, since coming to Canada, for the chance of a better one. And so naturally, there are meetings and visits and calls and follow-ups several times a week. There is now endless driving for Molly and her husband, who ferry Seth to visits with his case workers and his stepsisters, three, sometimes four nights a week, from our city to another, half an hour away.

But there is no money.

Molly receives nothing from social services, for S's keeping. She doesn't want to need a dime from the people who are supposed to help, but the plain truth of it, she does. There is no money to be had - not now, not for Christmas, not to fill Molly's car with the extra gas needed to drive Seth to his appointments, for school trips or new shoes or a bed of his own.

Not. one. penny.

If Molly was a foster mother, vetted and approved by the very agency that hastily approved her lovely home as suitable for Seth only after she'd tucked him into it, it would be fine. Then, there would be a monthly allowance for his care, for gas, for clothing, for living. But because she is "kin", there is no funding. There is nothing in place to ease the financial burden that a growing, active boy can place on a household budget already stretched thin.

A little while ago, I sat with Molly at her kitchen table - the same one around which three social workers sat when they told her that Seth would likely be hers for several months yet.



Photo courtesy of: Pinterest

 I sat and heard this story and watched Seth play, joyfully, laughing, with my own sons....and I cried.

I cried because Molly is trying so hard to do the right thing by this boy, who has lost everything. She remains gentle and loving and is trying to stay positive, but finds it hard. Harder still when those closest to her have begun to question whether this was the "right decision" for her family. Is there nowhere else for him to go?

She is taking on too much, they say. This is too much. He is too much.

And here is where I may have lost the plot a little and slammed my hand, HARD, upon her table, furiously wiping my tears away:

"Molly! You made the right decision when you flew down to that station to get him. You made the right decision when you promised him a soft place to land, for as long as he needs. Is it hard, doing the right thing? Absolutely. Right doesn't mean "when it is convenient, when it doesn't interfere with other plans, when it isn't too much."

Molly was speechless, so I took a deep breath and plowed on:

" This boy isn't too much. For God's sake! This boy needs you. He needs a family, a community....he needs a village. And it SUCKS that the very services designed to help create that, won't. It sucks balls, to be frank about it. But since they won't, let's find people who CAN."

In the larger scheme of things, dear readers, Seth needs more than you or I alone can give him and I hope that, in time, he will be reunited with his parents, but for now...for now, Molly is doing her best to give him a home and the love of family. They just need a little bit of help.

And so, my friends, here I am, asking for yours.

Molly could use gift cards for the following:

Groceries
Gas
Phone cards (Seth's bio-mother lives out-of-country and he misses her very much)
Clothing stores

Seth has discovered road hockey and loves it, but doesn't have a stick of his own or any equipment. Do you have any that your children have outgrown? Can you get it to me so I can get it to him?

Do you have any Belleville Bulls tickets that you might be willing to part with, to give this family of five - now six - a fun evening out?

Any other suggestions, ideas, small and grand gestures will be happily, gratefully accepted.

Will you be the village this boy deserves?

Please. Be the good.

Message me at bellymonster2005@yahoo.ca if you can help.

Love,
Belly


P.S. I'm turning 40 this month. In case you were thinking of getting me a little something...

In lieu of Baileys, wine, chocolate or anything else delicious I might love but surely don't need, would you consider a gift card for Seth, instead? I can't think of anything that would make me love you more.

Just sayin'.


P.P.S. Have set up a separate-from-mine bank account at Scotiabank. Any/all email money transfers can be sent to bellymonster2005@yahoo.ca and they will be funnelled directly into that account. I can/will provide confirmation #s and am so beyond grateful to all of you who have already sent gift cards, dropped envelopes by my house and contributed to "Molly's Magic Account"

Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're making life better for an incredible family!

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood...

Walked about the neighborhood this morning, ended up on the street behind mine, admiring the pretty porches while easing my way around cracks in the sidewalk.

A man beckoned from the not-so-pretty porch of a home that has seen better days, so I stopped and went halfway up his walk: "Good morning!"

He grunted and flicked his cigarette into a rusted bucket at his feet. "Nothin' good 'bout winter comin'. But that's not why I stopped ye."

"Oh. Do you need help with something?"

"Nope. Got my chair and my smokes and my cat. I'm good. I wanted to talk to you about yer boys."

"Uh...my sons?"

"Yer boys got red hair, don't they? And they wheel 'round here some nights, hootin' and hollerin' on their bikes and that stupid little plastic thing..."

Luke on his "stupid little plastic thing..."
 

 "It's a Big Wheel," I said, apologetically. "I'm sorry they've bothered you with their noise. They get noisy when they're excited."

He waved a huge hand, dismissively, and then spat. " Kids're having fun, doing what kids do. I don't mind."

"Oh...well....good. I'm glad."

"It's just that your kids - they wave to me every time they see me and sometimes they go 'round four or five times, ye know? And every time, they smile and wave like they've never seen me before and they're happy to. See me."

I blinked and then smiled. "They're pretty friendly kids."

"Most folks don't look my way at all. Your kids...they smile like I'm Santa Claus or something'. I like it."

 "I'm glad. Wouldn't it be grand if everyone felt like Santa Claus every day? How'd you know the boys are mine?"

"Well first off, I seen you with 'em, walking here and there. I mind my own business, but I see lots. And when I called you over here just now? You smiled at me just like they do. They teach you that?"

I grinned then and laughed, completely smitten. "They sure did!"

He grinned back. "They did good."

Finding the Good

One of the hardest things about being a mum is watching my kids navigate social relationships. More specifically, social relationships over which I have no control.

The Reds had a rough night, so I let them sleep in and brought them to school late. As we were signing in, two of Luke's classmates - one of which was S, the little boy who has given Luke a tough time for three years - came wandering past.

Luke, still giddy from reading a book ALL BY HIMSELF on the way to school, smiled at them and gave a small, shy wave.

 The blond boy with S. sneered back and then nudged S, saying, "Finally, Luke's at school. He's late. What a loser!" And they snickered their way down the hallway.

I glanced down at Luke, whose face, so bright and proud only moments before, had fallen. He stood there a moment, uncertainty now hunching his shoulders underneath his too-big backpack.

"Have a great day, Luke. Great reading this morning!" I said, forcing false cheer into my words, hoping they would carry him through.

"Yeah. Sure." His steps, usually buoyant, now slowed as he walked away and as I stood watching, he hesitated at the door of his classroom, no longer certain of welcome.

And then his teacher appeared, reached out a hand and offered him a beautiful smile. "Good Morning, Luke! I'm glad you're here! Come on in!"

God bless teachers who take my child's hand, as his mama struggles to let it go.

Dear Village of Newcastle

Dear Village of Newcastle,


This is it, people. This is your opportunity to stand up and show the world - more importantly, to show a family in your midst - that the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child," is true.

It will take all of you - all of your indignation, your outrage and your ire - to show a misguided few what inclusion really means, what it looks like, WHO YOU ARE.

But mostly, it will take your hearts and your hands, open in friendship, doors open in welcome, streets accessible for all - to show this family (and yourselves) that you are worthy of being called, "Home."

Home is where children are meant to feel as though they belong, inside and out.

Home is meant to be - oh, I love this- a port in the storm.

Be the port for this child, this family, each other, yourselves.

Home is NOT a place for hatred or anonymous letters filled with hate and vicious ignorance dropped into a letterbox, on an otherwise glorious summer's day.



A letter sent to a family in Newcastle, Ontario

So as you gather close this evening, on lawns, on porches, on the very streets where you live, know that you are committing to a lifetime of support for this family, those children, everyone who loves them.

You got this, Newcastle.

Be the village I know you can be.