Happy Birthday, Andrew!

Today would have been my brother's 35th birthday. To honour him, the Reds and I headed to Lakefield this morning to help my parents plant fresh flowers in Andrew's Garden. We also brought balloons, so we could tie message of remembrance and love to them and send them up to Heaven.

Some of the messages came from Andrew's friends, who shared their memories with me via Facebook, some came from the Reds and me, and one very special one was written by my mum.

From Shara:

 My parents lived on the farm in Lindsay and I came down from the city for their annual pig roast. The backyard had been designated for the younger crowd (made up mostly of BHU, whom I was meeting for the first time) so naturally that is where I migrated to. Most of the crowd was packed into the backyard, but not Andrew. He was inside the garage apparently planning his entrance.....then out he pops with the biggest porky pig paper mache head on his shoulders, prancing around like a fool...but everyone laughed hysterically...his mission accomplished!

Andrew was never that great at sharing his heart-felt emotions...but making people laugh, that was where he  truly shined!

Some memories, printed out and ready for rolling into scrolls.

From Shauna:

When I got my g1, I called him up to tell him he was stoked...didn't know why ...he met me after work and showed me why...he wanted to teach me how to drive lol he figured 11pm was safer for other ppl because Bowmanville was a dead town after 9 , it was going fine until we got to the stop sign before the 401 turn ramp on liberty. He was goin' over some safety thing and I was nervous and attempting to listen intently after 5 mins there he asks laughing "what are u waiting for" I didn't know what he meant ...he was losin' it as i was trying to figure it out...i was now petrified I screwed up lol finally I answered the light isn't green...he couldn't take it...we got out and switched spots...he then pulled over into the gas station and tells me we were at a stop sign...stop signs stay one colour


From Shay:

1: when I was 11 years old and him and my mom first started dating, we were at the farm and I had seen him walking up to the trailer, I ran to him yelling KANGAROO!!
2: when learning how to drive, dad took me out in the truck and let me drive, we got to the house and he told me that he would pull into the driveway for me as it was pretty narrow, I didn't listen and pulled into our drive way on my own (at full speed) slammed on the breaks and dad told me I must never drive again lol
3: I could always count on dad to make my sorrows go away, we took my little rescue cat to the vet to be put down and it was a sad moment for me, dad Cranked the good ol' rap music (50 cent) and allowed to stick my feet out the truck and didn't give me trouble once lol

From my mum:

"Happy Birthday, son.
It would be your 35th today.
Hope you are
sharing your
birthday celebration
with all of us.
Love, Mum"

We planted pretty flowers, to make his space a bright and happy one:

 

 

My dad barbecued steak. And my mum make dessert:

 

 

Did you know that balloons with tiny memories attached to them don't go airborne easily? We suspected as much, but gamely threw our memories skyward, hoping Andrew was watching:

 

Up, up and...

POP!

In the end, we tucked all the balloons that didn't pop into the tree pictured above - it was given to my parents after Andrew died: a memorial tree. Seemed fitting to plant our love there.

And because it was a celebration, there was dancing:

There were some tears, because Andrew is missed and loved, every. single. day. It doesn't get easier, this missing him. Not for any of us. But, today I think we did the right thing, as a family: today, we celebrated him in the place where his ashes rest, where his mother's gaze can fall upon him, where his father can sit and chat quietly, in the middle of the day.

In the end, it felt right and good to remember him with light and pretty flowers and good food and dancing. I hope he saw us down here, missing him. I hope he smiled and knows how very much we love him.

Happy Birthday, Bamboo.

 

I loved you before I even knew you. I love you still, every day.

 

Libis

 

 

 

The Gift of Laughter

May 19th. It's a gorgeous day. Blue, practically cloudless skies, warm sunshine...perfect for a birthday celebration.

Today is  my brother's birthday - had he lived, he'd be turning 34.

*Blink*

Time heals, until days like today, when remembering the best of who he was makes me ache with missing him and all the milestone moments that made up our lives.

If he were still here, we'd be gathering under these blue skies, to hang about my parents' back deck, drinking beer and waiting for Andrew to make us laugh.

Even without using words, he was hilarious:



Here, my parents had just purchased a new camera/video recorder/player/BBQ/telephone and we all took turns trying to make it work. When Andrew's turn came, he was overly-confident, so it amused us all enormously to watch him puzzle through:

"Let's see....I look through here, focus..."

"I got this. Ha! I got this....!"

"Wait a sec...maybe I don't got this...I'll just turn this knob..."

"WTF?!"

"Uhhh........."

Shit, they're all watching me. Was that a camera? Is Mark taking pictures of me?
That jerk. I'll get him....take THAT!

We never did work that camera out, actually. But oh God, how we laughed.

This week, I found these photos - and laughed even harder, right before I burst into tears. And then I thanked my brother for the gift of them, so close to his birthday.

Happy Birthday, Bamboo!

 I love you.

When "No-Plan" Plans Go Awry

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?

How Not Parenting Makes Me a Better Mum

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?

School Days and Talents Discovered

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?

To The Girl I Was....

 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.

When Lives Collide: Meeting My Birth Mother

January 1st, 1991.

At 8:00 a.m. I was up, dressed and staring out the front windows, waiting for an unfamiliar car to pull into the drive.

My birth mother and her husband were due at noon and to say that I was giddy with anticipation would be the understatement of the century. Giddy, I was. I was also scared to death but trying hard not to show it.

But my Dad knew better. He handed me a cup of tea before settling down next to me, more appropriately dressed in his well-loved, suddenly achingly-familiar housecoat.

"What do you  think my father's name is?" I blurted out, my voice too loud in the morning quiet. "I think it's Gus. Short for Augustus."

"I don't know. We never knew that, Elizabeth, " he answered quietly. "How about Biff?"

And then we burst out laughing because really, when the only life you know is about to be forever altered and rearranged, what else is there to do?

* * *

Noon. A stranger's car turned into the lane and up the driveway while I began a slow panic:

"What do I do? What am I doing? What do I say? What do I do?" I turned in circles, flapping and fussing, trying not to cry. Failing miserably. When one's most fervent wish is about to come true, it's a bit overwhelming. Trust me.

"Elizabeth!" My Mum used her "teacher voice", effectively bringing my meltdown to a swift halt. "First, calm down. You're going to freak her out and she's likely already feeling nervous. Go upstairs. Wash your face. Wait in your room until I call."

And so I did.

Downstairs, my Dad guided M.E. into the house, while my Mum chattered happily away, as if her daughter's mother showed up on the doorstep every day. I have never been prouder of her, actually. She was a superstar.

And then, finally - all too soon - Mum called up and I came down and tumbled blindly into M.E.'s arms where we rocked and cooed to one another, surrounded by my parents and her husband, all of whom were crying.

Finally, I pulled back to look at her face - MY face, only older  - and grinned: "So, how've you been?"

* * *

We spent the day trading photos and stories and discovering the serendipitious nature of the universe:

M.E. recognized my Mum as the Choir Mistress from church and my Dad thought her husband looked familiar, which in the end, he was: Throughout my whole childhood, a farmer's field separated our two families - neither of which started out in Bowmanville, but both of which called it "home."

I learned that I bore an uncanny resemblance to an auntie's sons and that they too, lived in Bowmanville. In fact, it was Auntie N's high school best friend who read my letter to the Star and called Auntie N in a  happy dither, exclaiming, "I know where The Baby is. I've found The Baby!"

(Incidentally, P, whose sharp eye caught the "Amanda Ellen B" part of my letter? Went blind a year later. P. remains a warm and cherished part of the family - and one the most miraculous parts of our story.)


N. waited until Christmas Eve, when she pulled M.E. aside and handed her an unmarked envelope, containing a miraculous secret. M.E. and her husband spent the Christmas holidays working out how best to approach me and how to tell their two daughters that I existed.

Jerry made the intitial call, after Christmas, ending his planned introduction with this: "I believe that my wife is your daughter's mother."

Years later, M.E. told me that there was a full minute of silence before my Dad politely replied: "Would you hold the line an moment, please? I'll just go and get my wife..."

A minute later, my Mum came on the line, excited and congratulatory asking when were they coming to visit and wouldn't Elizabeth ,who wasn't home at the moment, what a pity, be happy? In the background, my Dad was frantically holding up hastily-written notes, asking for proof, which Jerry and M.E. eagerly offered:

A tiny white bible from my Mum to my mother, forwarded by the Children's Aid. And a hand-written, unsigned letter saying, "Thank you."

* * *

Some other things I discovered the day my mother came for lunch:

I share her laugh, the way she clasps her hands, crosses her legs and tells a story.
Her daughters were shocked to learn that their mother had given birth to another child, but were looking forward to meeting me, just as soon as I could wrap my head around their existence. Sisters!
Every year on my birthday, my aunties would secretly light a candle and send up a prayer and wishes for happiness.
The gap between my two front teeth is entirely hereditary.
Ditto the need for eyeglasses, the love of words, laughter, wine and family.

And most interestingly:

My surname began with "B"
Bio-father's name is Gus. Short for Augustus.
Like the fairy princess mother of my childhood fantasies,  M.E. did indeed have long red hair.

What's YOUR story? Do you remember the day you were SO proud of your parent(s)?

Do You See Who I See?

One of the most entertaining joys of being Mama to the Reds is playing the "Who Does He Look Like?" game. You know the one - where you study family photos and try to find your own nose?

The second I laid eyes on my tiny, fire-haired Matthew, I thought, "Wow! The McLennan genes are strong - he looks JUST like my father-in-law!"

Five years later, he still does, until  he turns a certain way and then all I see in my cousin, Aaron. Or me. Most people think he looks like Mark, which he does...except for when he doesn't.

Luke was the spitting image of me as a baby, but his dimpled smile is one he shares with Mark's sister. These days, I don't know who he most resembles although eerily, something about him reminds me of my brother. Most people think he looks like me, which he doesn't...except for when he does.

The Reds, looking like each other.

 Both boys will need glasses (You're welcome, children. Mama loves you.) and possibly braces (Again...you're welcome.) but their hair, when long, is curly like Mark's and they have also inherited his impossibly long eyelashes, so all is not lost.

For someone who has spent their entire life looking like Uncle Bob or Great Aunt Suzy, the "Who-Does-He-Look-Like?" game is an eye roll-inducing one. But for an adopted person, this is an endlessly fascinating way to pass time - my Mum and I LOVE to gaze upon my children, seeing who we can see. She is the only person in the world who GETS how exciting this game is and it makes me love her all the more.

Baby Bellymonster

I didn't look like anyone until 17, when I met my birth mother and maternal bio-family for the first time. After that, it seemed as though I looked like everybody. Frankly, I was amazed that I'd never suspected, since one of my cousins attended my high school and we could have been twins. Weirdly, having spent years wishing I knew whose eyes I shared or who loved words like I do, I suddenly longed to go back to the days of having how I look/act/sing/dance belong soley to me.

I don't know that I will ever tire of watching my children grow into themselves, but will admit that I am a wee bit obsessed with who ELSE's face they may grow into, too. I know, intellectually, that the Reds are entirely their own person(s) and it's not fair of me to attribute quirks of personality to them, simply because they resemble a family member who shares the same ones.

I do it anyway.

I delight in seeing the past and whispers of the future in their features. Though it drives my husband crazy, and will likely be fodder for the therapy the boys will one day seek ("My mother has never, EVER allowed me to be my own person. She kept waiting for me to lose my marbles like everyone else and she finally got her wish, here I am!"), I am comforted by this:

 If the boys become amazing chefs with a teensy pot-smoking problem, at least I will recognize them!

Play the "Which-Red-is-He" game: Matthew or Luke?

The Adoption Experience

Have been thinking about the different ways to grow a family and wanted to share the bedtime story that my Mum told me, her chosen daughter,  throughout my childhood:

Once upon a time there lived a Mummy and a Daddy who were sad .

One day, a fairy godmother appeared to Mummy, who was sitting in her garden, feeling sad.

"Mummy, why are you crying," she asked?

And Mummy replied, "I am sad because I haven't any children to love."

The Fairy Godmother smiled gently and squeezed Mummy's hand, "You wait right here, Mummy. I'll see what I can do."

And off she flew.

Mummy and Daddy waited and waited and waited. Every day, they waited for the Fairy Godmother to return but as each day drew to a close and she didn't appear, they grew sadder still.

And then one sunny day in May, the Fairy Godmother appeared, holding a pink bundle in her arms. It was a baby girl and Mummy and Daddy were so happy because finally, they had a child to love.

And do you know who that baby was?

Baby Elizabeth, meeting her parents for the first time.

In coming days, I will tell my story here because it makes me happy to share it and because lately, I've fallen into conversation with adoptive mothers (and one bio-mother) all of whom seem comforted and buoyed by my experience. Stay tuned!

On Letting Go...

My brother died two years ago, tomorrow.

Two years ago yesterday, I spoke to him for the very last time.

Had I known that it would be the last time, I might have lingered longer. I might have told him again that I love him. I might have told him again. And again. And again. And again.

So that he might carry my love into whatever comes after we're done here and so that the words that reverberate in my mind are not these ones, casually tossed at the end of a hurried phone call:

"Ok, Bam. I love you. Be good. I'll call you tomorrow."

Only tomorrow came and I didn't call and then he was gone forever.

Two years on, I'll admit that I am surprised by my tears - that today they flow easily and often and I keep having to rush off to lock myself in the bathroom to weep, so that the Reds aren't frightened or confused. While I am all for sharing my feelings, they don't need to see their mother bent over with grief, unable to fathom - all this time later - that he is entirely, utterly, simply gone.

Though I miss my brother every day, most of the time, I am not sad. Mostly, I recall happy times and often share stories of my own childhood with my sons. They love to hear about all of Uncle Andrew's silly antics. Matthew, in particular, seems to enjoy knowing that my younger brother drove me just as crazy as his younger brother drives him.

I've probably romanticized Andrew - his brawn, his wit, his charm. Well, maybe not his charm. I've wondered if this is normal and have decided that it is - that we paint those we miss in brighter colours, more vibrant hues because it makes the mantle of grief easier to carry.

These days, I wear my grief quietly. Well, quietly for me, anyway. No longer do I find reasons to say his name out loud or examine the "WHY?" behind each and every choice he made during his all-too-brief life. I no longer feel as though my heart might crack in half as the words, "My brother died," come out of my mouth.

It no longer hurts to breath or takes everything I've got to get through the day without shattering into a hundred pieces. And funnily enough, I no longer see the man with the dog whose path began to cross mine immediately after Andrew died. Oh, I'm sure he's still around - it's just that my eyes no longer see him.

And yet...

And yet I fall asleep every night still fervently wishing that he'll visit me in my dreams.

And yet, I have very detailed daydreams about being able to somehow manipulate time and space to create a world in which my brother still lives. Only this brother isn't haunted by demons and his heart - so big, so broken - beats strong and healthy.

And yet, in the days that lead up to this sad anniversary, I am almost undone by missing him. By missing the uncle he was to one of my sons and the uncle he might have been to the other, had he lived. I made it through Christmas and the dawning of another new year with barely a tear. But last week, sitting up too late with my father and drinking too much of his Baileys - the tears fell unchecked.

My dad suggested -gently, gently - that perhaps it was time to let Andrew go. I surprised both of us with the immediate and vehement shaking of my head. No. NO! I am NOT ready to let him go.

Today I wonder if I will ever be ready to let him go. If ever there will come a time when the thought of writing him a goodbye letter or some other symbolic gesture fills me peace and a sense of rightness instead of wild panic and a kind of choking, swiftly-moving anger.

Today, I wonder if every year will be this way - if the week leading up to February 10th will always find me on edge and furious with my sons for bickering and fighting and blaming and tattling, the way that siblings do.

Today, I will wish once more that my baby brother will visit me in my dreams - so that I can apologize for every time I hollered at, told on, smacked, wished away, was angry with, stopped speaking to...him.

And so I that I can tell him this:

"Ok, Bam. I love you."

And have those words be the only ones he carries in his heart for the rest of time. Not a broken promise from a big sister who will carry only his memory in hers.

Promises to Keep

I tend not to make resolutions for the new year. I'm crap at keeping them and I know it, so I save myself the guilt and agony and just don't make any.

Having said that, I tend to keep promises, so here are the ones I'd like to keep in 2011 and beyond:

1. Yell less, giggle more.
2. Facebook less, read more.
3. Run a half marathon in November
4. Make exercise and proper eating a priority. (See: 3)
5. Dream less, write more.
6. Learn to knit.
7. Come Spring, plant a garden.
8. Take my Mum for an overnight "Mother-Daughter" getaway.
9. Put laundry away, which is another way to tell my husband that I love him.
10. Attend Mass at least once a month.

I am not overly sentimental as each year becomes another. Not usually, anyway. But this year, I appreciate the "new beginning" for many reasons - some of which surprise me. I'm excited to see what 2011 will bring.

Praying for peace, love and magic for everyone.

Blessed be, all.

Love,
Bellymonster

Parenting Challenge # 1

I yell.

I yell when I'm happy, I yell when I'm not. Mostly, I yell when I'm tired or frustrated or angry. I really let loose during the Witching Hour before dinner when the Reds are often also tired and frustrated or hungry.

Having started a part-time job recently, my stress level has increased. Naturally - sadly - the decibel level here at House of Bellymonster has reached epic proportions.

I yell so often and so loudly that I fear I might be permanently damaging the Reds' hearing as well as their self-esteem.

And that completely sucks.

So...

I have challenged myself to go one week without yelling. No raising my voice. No nasty, sing-song mimicking. No hollering when things aren't done the moment I asked (ok, demanded).

Nope. I will use my inside voice. My quiet voice (I know that some of you are snickering that Belly doesn't HAVE a quiet voice but this week, I will prove that I do.)

I have spoken (in soft, gentle tones) to the Reds about this plan and while their freckled little faces showed deep skepticism, I felt like they were a bit hopeful.

I'll update here every day for the next seven days.

Wish me well.



Meep.

A Monster in Our Midst

The Reds and I have just returned from dropping cookies and a "Welcome Home" note to our newest neighbours. They moved in last week and while I'm ashamed that it's taken me this long to get over, I hope that they'll appreciate the gesture and the friendly overture, nonetheless.

Because this city needs friendly gestures more than any place in the country right now, frozen as we are at the horror unfolding in our courthouse, a monster in our midst.

I live in Belleville, Ontario.

A few blocks from my home, Col. Russell Williams sits - slumps actually, according to a real-time local news feed - as the details of his appalling reign of terror are laid out for all to know. Deflated and silent, the monster behind the military mask awaits his fate while spectators cringe and gasp, repulsed.

As I type this, frantically trying to keep my agonized imaginings in check, reporters and journalists from across the country have gathered here in "The Friendly City" and are rapidly "tweeting" and updating a rapt but shaken public - we are seeing, almost alongside the family and friends of Belleville's lost daughters, the work of a psychopath in all his glory.

Never did I imagine that the monster was this depraved, this appalling, this...evil.

 Living here, on the beautiful Bay of Quinte, it seems that I've allowed myself to forget the unease and uncertainty that plagued this city following Jessica Lloyd's disappearance. I've played down the shock of Williams' capture and let slip from memory my sense of shattered peace that the Soldier had made my city his hunting ground.

But today, like yesterday, I feel compelled to read everything I can about the court proceedings following his "Guilty" pleas. (Close to 100 separate charges. Holy hell, the Devil was a busy boy, indeed.)

I am drawn to the angst and the surreal-ness of this reality while at the same time, I want to turn away and "unknow" everything I never imagined possible. I am left reeling and sickened by a photographic collection of stolen panties - his modelling of them - and can't imagine that I'll sleep well tonight.

Then again, I can't conceive that Jessica's Lloyd's mother will ever sleep again, period. Not without envisioning her daughter's last hours, in the hands of a madman.

Do Marie-France Comeau's parents feel a swelling pride that their beautiful daughter fought so hard and so well for her life? I felt an urge to pump my fist in the air when I read of her attempts to outwit and and outmaneuver the Colonel - her Colonel. Felt doubly saddened when I "remembered" that in the end, she too died at his hand.

*A memory of that same sensation whispers through my mind. I felt the same way almost twenty years ago when the world learned about Paul Bernardo and the terrible things he did to Kristen French and Leslie Mahaffey. A few years later, I read a book about the infamous case: for several chapters, it seemed as though Kristen French stood a chance of release, of freedom, of life - until I abruptly remembered that she too, died at the hands of a madman. *

Today, I am back to feeling unsettled and uneasy. Sickened and heartsick at all that I've read and heard. Horrified that this is real and that this monster walked among us and that there are still more heinous truths to be told.

Terrified that there are more just like him, watching, waiting, learning...hunting.

On the other hand, despite these grim thoughts, I long to appease those who might pull their shades tighter still and double-lock their doors in the wake of these dark days. I remind those around me that while evil - clearly - exists, the world is not full of demons and the Russell Williams' of the world are few and far between.

I suppose that dropping a plate of cookies off on a stranger's doorstep may seem foolish and unwelcome in this day and age. Odd and some might say, a bit inappropriate, given the raw feelings that one man has inspired in this city, in particular.

But - especially today - I hope that my new neighbours are touched and delighted with the gesture and that my children absorb the lesson I want them to learn: Strangers are simply friends we haven't met, yet.

I hope.

"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.

G.K. Chesterton."

A Lesson in Goodness

I rarely post links to other blogs, but read a blog post this morning that absolutely blew my mind with truth and honesty and absolute goodness.

This Daddy blogger, Dan,  wrote from his heart, imploring other fathers to step up and be a hero to their child(ren). But really? He spoke to every parent in the world, including me, urging us all to do better.

Begging us to BE better.

Our children deserve our best, gifts that they are.


Here is Dan being wise: You Just Broke Your Child

Growing Your Family: Part II - Mama Guilt (The Early Days)

See Part I here: Growing Your Family: Part 1


Shakespeare's take on female fury: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.


To that I say, "Phfffffftttt! Whatevah, Willie."

To hell with fury - there ain't nothing in the world quite like Mama Guilt. It's an overwhelming, clawing heartache like no other and frankly, I'll take a good ol' scorning over a minute's lie-in-bed-thinking-about-the-ways-I-damaged-my-child-today session. In fact, I'll see your scorning and raise you a public humiliation AND a Facebook de-friending, if only you could take this guilt, just for five minutes.

Please?

No? You've got too much of your own, thank you very much? In fact, as the Interloper snuggles in for yet another nursing session and your Firstborn has stomped off to locate the gardening shears, your guilt is washing over you in waves? You feel torn asunder? You cannot breathe for the weight of it?

Ah, yes. Welcome to the REAL guilt. All that stuff you suffered whilst mothering one child was just practice for this:

1. I Don't Think I Can DO This:

I can admit this now and laugh about it, but while I was pregnant with the Interloper I felt consumed by the guilt of knowing that I wouldn't love him as much as I loved his brother. Oh sure, everyone told me that I'd be fine and of course I'd love another baby, but in my deepest heart, I was adamantly unconvinced and it was awful. How could I possibly love another human being the way I did my only child?

In the end, I made a silent, fervent promise to myself: I would go ahead and love my Firstborn more but I would never, EVER tell another living soul and would carry my terrible, horrendously shameful secret to my grave.

Days after this terrible promise, the Interloper was born and as the nurse placed him in my arms, I realized that I'd been terribly, wonderfully wrong. I loved him instantly, wholly, without reserve. "Hello, sweet angel. I've been waiting to love you for my whole life."

Sadly, my elation at losing the guilt of not loving him enough was swiftly replaced by the equally heart aching shame of even thinking that I wouldn't....sigh....minutes old and he'd already broken my heart.

This, I have come to realize, will continue until I draw my last breath of this life: In loving these little people, we are vulnerable in ways we'd never imagined. And if we're not, they'll find a way to make it so.

 2. Your Darling Firstborn Has Been Possessed by the Devil.

Looking back, I now see where my Firstborn began his slide toward Satan.

When he and Daddy arrived at the hospital to meet his new baby brother and to take us home, he wouldn't even hug me, barely spared me a glance. All he wanted to do was hold Daddy's hand and cover Daddy's neck with kisses. It was almost like he'd thought to himself, "Hmm...what's the quickest way to punish Mummy for growing me a brother? Oh, yes: Love. Daddy. Best."

The days that followed were tiring and weirdly calm as we began to adjust to a new family member, but I knew. Knew that my Firstborn was feeling pushed aside and pushed out. I knew by the way he leaned over the nursing Interloper and instead of laying a gentle kiss upon his brow like I'd been hoping, he head butted him RIGHT ON THE SOFT SPOT so hard, the Interloper popped off my breast and wailed without sound. Yeah. That cry.

I could tell that his frustration was rising when he began throwing temper tantrums over wearing socks with his shoes and wailing like a banshee at 3 a.m. for no good reason at all. (Naturally, this was his way of getting my clear and furiously undivided attention, and I ought to have ignored him but the guilt and the hormones got the better of me and I ended up sitting upright all night long with a boy at one breast and a boy curled next to the other, weeping. But I digress...)

I knew by the way he dropped his little chin to his chest when I gently explained that I couldn't take him to the park right now, Sunshine, Mummy's nursing the baby.

Sorry, Sweetheart, Mummy can't play soccer with you right now, I'm nursing the baby.

Oh, Magoo, I-Love-You, I WANT to bake our special "Mummy & Matthew" cake like we did last week, but right now, I'm nursing the baby...

In just a minute Matthew...
In a little while Matthew,
When I'm done nursing the baby, Matthew,
When I'm done changing the baby, Matthew,
Not right now Matthew,
Don't wake the baby, Matthew,
There, you've gone and woke the baby, Matthew!!

I literally ached watching my own father step in and perform every, single one of my duties: he dressed, fed, changed, played with, bathed, scolded, cuddled, read to, chided, and tucked my beloved firstborn child in every night for a week straight.

You know what I did for a week straight? Nursed the Interloper and let the guilt - now doubled because I was feeling guilty for dumping all of my responsibilities on my father, whom I'm pretty sure just really wanted to mow the lawn and drink beer - completely and totally overwhelm me. Three years later, the looking back is easy. Hopefully, these tips will help you in these early days.

To survive:

1. Try to be there when your Firstborn wakes up in the morning, arms empty of the Interloper and waiting just for her/him. Let your smile be the first thing he sees and greet the day as you did before the Interloper came along - just you and him, together.

2. Let him pick out his clothes for the day and which cereal to eat for breakfast. (Go ahead and buy a box of sugar-coated crap. Do NOT allow yourself to feel badly about this. Baby teeth fall out and it's not like you're feeding him crap all day long, right? Water down his juice if this makes you feel better.)

3. I made up a silly song for mornings and we still sing it. If anything, it puts ME in the right frame of mind and at the very least, lets me have 30 seconds of "Good Mummy" ness to recall later in the day when both children are in Time-Out and I'm about to hurl myself out the window. It goes like this:

"Good morning! Good morning!
 Happy day to you!
 Good morning! Good morning!
 I love you, Magoo!"

* This song can later be altered to end with, "I love you, and YOU!" to include the Interloper, thereby neatly circumventing any guilt you may have about not including both children. *

4. 20 Minutes, Twice a Day

Set aside 20 minutes in the morning, after you've fed the Interloper and he's (hopefully) sleeping in his bouncy chair, to play with your Firstborn. You can play trucks or tea party or dress-up or line-up-the-shoes - but let your Firstborn choose and stay focused. Do NOT allow your gaze to wander about the disaster that is your kitchen or to rest longingly on the couch that's calling your name. Do NOT idly flip through the nearest issue of "Today's Parent" magazine when it's not your turn. Play! Engage. Be.

In the afternoon, before the witching hour leading up to dinner and before the fresh new hell known as "bed time", do it all again. 20 minutes. If you can manage a walk to the park, do it.

 Let your Firstborn stop and inspect every blade of grass along the way. Let him balance on the cupholder of the stroller if he wants to and ignore the clucking/shaking heads from your neighbours as you trundle by. Push him on the swing for 10 more minutes after you've given the 5-minute warning. If you need to nurse the Interloper during this time, then do so, but if some other Mummy offers to burp or hold him afterward, let her. Bring snacks - the good ones. Let him drink from your bottle, shriek as loudly as he wants and climb the playground equipment without his shoes on.

All in, these 40 minutes will sustain you later as you mentally beat yourself up, so enjoy them!

Because Mama?

This too shall pass. This too, shall pass. All too soon, this too shall pass.

Growing Your Family: A Survival Guide

My dear friend and fellow blogger Heather, has just given birth to her second child - a gorgeous girl she has nicknamed Sweet Pea, little sister to darling Peach.

This cheeky guideline is my gift to her, and to every mother whose world has been turned upside down by the arrival of a second child.

Part One: SLEEP

 (or decided lack thereof)

Old Wisdom: "Sleep when the baby sleeps."

Belly Version: What? Are you effin' KIDDING me? And who, pray tell, will watch over my Firstborn, my Very Heart, who is presently shoving books into the dishwasher in a fit of rage because for the zillionth time this morning, instead of playing trucks, I have settled into the couch with the Interloper and cannot move for the next 45 minutes while he suckles at a boob that is bigger than his head?

To survive:

First of all, let go of all your pre-children notions about limiting TV and sepia-washed fantasies about playing age-appropriate games on a white, stain-free carpet, devoid of all but a small wicker basket filled with brightly-coloured books and finger puppets.

That's right...let it all go.

Release yourself from the desire to be perfect and remember that this is about survival and nothing else.

Make a comfy nest of pillows and blankets on the floor in front of the TV. Turn on Treehouse/cartoons/soap opera/Sex in the City. Whichever. Anything will do as long as it holds your Firstborn's attention for more than 10 minutes.

 If you have a golf umbrella, open it up and plonk it behind your nest, supersititon be damned. If your living room is big enough to house a tent, pitch it. Gather snacks. Put the potty next to the three baskets of laundry you've not yet managed to fold, let alone put away.

 Better yet, bring out your secret stash of Pull-Ups and ruin weeks of potty-training. Whatever. Firstborn won't go to university in diapers so cut yourself some slack and ignore the clucks of disapproval from neighbours, family members and strangers, all of whom had their children potty-trained and reading before they even walked. (Insert eye-roll here)

Plop irritable, formerly angelic-but-morphing-into-the-Devil-right-before-your-bleary-sleep-deprived-eyes Firstborn in front of TV. Watch his/her eyes widen, jaw fall open and body finally, finally still. The electronic babysitter is on the job.

Relax. Breathe.

 Balance the Interloper on a pillow next to your ginormous, swollen boob and let yourself drift off to the high-pitched urging of a swollen-headed Dora. Dream of Boots the Monkey. Be still. Ressssttttt....

Alternate ways to catch some ZZZ's:

Load both children into the car. Drive to the nearest coffee place and buy a large coffee. Do not worry about the caffeine intake, reasoning that it's better to have the contents of a Tim Horton's double-double buzzing through the Interloper's tiny body for the 10 minutes it's in there between a nursing session and a blowout diaper, than to fall asleep behind the wheel and kill everybody.

 It's all about perspective.

Drive aimlessly until the children fall asleep (which, blessedly, mine did within minutes of being strapped into their car seats) and then steer yourself home. Park. Turn off ignition, but leave the music playing, battery power be damned. Crack the windows, ease back in your seat and close your eyes.

(During winter, roll the windows all the way down - your little darlings are snug as bugs in their snugglie car covers/sleeping-bag-thingys/snowsuits. Bellymonster Family Motto:  Have toque? Will travel.)

Do NOT worry about drool. Do NOT entertain a sick and twisted daymare about a masked bandit stealing the children from behind you while you snooze. Stuff like that only happens on TV. Or to really rich people. Or at gas stations. Or all of the above, but it will NOT happen to you so rest easy and sweet dreams!

2. Seize the Moments:

Foist the manic, clingy, whiny child that is your Firstborn onto your partner's/father's/neighbour's/Jevhovah's Witness's lap.

Unlatch the Interloper from your breast while tugging on your stretched-out yoga pants and grimacing. Gag, for effect. Announce that you NEED a shower RIGHT NOW and quit the room.

 Lock the bathroom door, turn on the water and climb in. Curl up in the bottom of the tub. Never in your life will chilly enamel feel more like fluffy cloud than it does at this moment.  Enjoy the warmth and the steam and the feel of something other than baby-spit up, formula or breast milk coursing down your body. Revel in it, but be sure to turn your head away from the spray:

You want a nap, not to drown with your ass sticking up in the air.

3. Relinquish Control

This is harder than it seems. At first.

But after you've stopped expending precious energy on making it look like you've got it together, you'll feel tons better and the lack of sleep won't seem as bad. Don't get me wrong, you're still gonna feel like you did during the drop-into-a-coma-exhaustion-first trimester of your pregnancy only now your hair is falling out and your nether region is unrecognizable, but you won't MIND as much if you do the following:

a) Stop putting laundry away. Seriously.

Get four baskets, five if you've been ambitious and done the sheets and towels instead of hauling the holiday stuff out of the basement and spritzing your bed with Febreze. Put 'em in the living room, next to the umbrella and the potty. Don't fold it, just rummage as needed.

 (Incidentally, freshly-washed piles of teeny-tiny diaper t's make a pretty good pillow. Actually, smelly towels and soiled footy pj's work well too, in a pinch.)

b) Hubby needs things pressed? Give directions to the iron and ironing board. Heck, you can set the ironing board up next to the umbrella too, and he can starch his way through the hockey game. If you duct tape an old coffee tin to the metal rack where the iron sits, you've got a ready-made beer holder.

c) Two words: Kraft Dinner.

Toss in some cut up hot dogs, maybe some salsa for colour, some carrot sticks and a juice box and you're done. Two boxes of every child's comfort food and your Firstborn AND your husband can have leftovers for lunch the next day. Around here, we are big fans of  "Snacky Supper" which is essentially this: crackers, cheese, keilbasa, grapes and applesauce.

Naturally, this is eaten in front of the TV, under the umbrella. And if you use paper plates emblazoned with the Backyardigans? You are just about THE coolest Mummy ever.

d) Rethink your sleeping arrangements: Do you have a spare room? Couch? Beaten-up old armchair in the garage? Good. Move your husband there and bring the Interloper to bed with you. I realize that tongues are clucking even as I type this and yes, I am aware that both the American and Canadian Paediatric Societies frown upon co-sleeping, but this is my blog, so there. And for spluttering husbands/partners/disapproving mothers-in-law I must gently remind them that this is about Mama survival, NOT domestic bliss.

Shove a body pillow into the space where your husband used to be, but underneath the fitted sheet. Doing so will alleviate any concerns that the Interloper will roll off the bed or roll under a pillow and suffocate. Nursing whilst lying down takes some practice and you may find yourself contorted into all sorts of whacky positions but at least you'll be lying down in a dark room.

Ah, bliss.

I'm not sure that I ever really slept while nursing my Interloper 6,328 times a night, but at least I rested my eyes and my weary body. And while I wouldn't wish a 12-hour night shift on anyone, I definitely leaned toward inappropriate glee when my husband announced that I'd be bedding down without him.

 I enjoyed the special kind of freedom that comes with stretching out diagonally across the bed and not feeling my husband's feet with mine.

Alternately, you can haul the mattress from the guest room into your Firstborn's bedroom and have a cuddly camp out there, Interloper on one side of you, Firstborn on the other. In doing this you'll be resting your aching body AND alleviating a teensy portion of the guilt weighing down your soul re: the state of your Firstborn's sense of self/place/sanity/security.

You may be lucky enough to snatch five minutes of peaceful slumber in the Nursery during Sunday Mass. If you can manage to sneak away for a haircut and have an understanding and sympathetic stylist, you can don a pair of sunglasses and saw logs right there in the chair - the hairdryer should drown out the worst of your snoring.

Tip well.

In combination with all of the above, or as a stand-alone, make this your mantra, prayer and wish:

This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

Because it will and it does and someday soon you will wonder how the heck you survived it, but you will.

You are.

Coming Soon:

Part II: Mama Guilt (aka: The Soundtrack of Motherhood)

Growing Your Family: Part II (Mama Guilt)