Luke is SIX!

Darling Luke,


This morning, when I crept into your room, I found you already awake. And grinning. (Neither thing happens regularly. son, so please forgive my surprise.)

"Happy Birthday, SIX-year-old!" I crowed, diving into your bed intending to cover your face with kisses.

"Mummy! I've been six since midnight, you know. That's almost six hours already!"

I covered your face with kisses anyways, in between giggles that I couldn't hold back.

 Six going on 12. Seriously, kid. You crack me up like no one else and I wouldn't have you any other way.



A "modest" Luke, suiting up...
 

I love your fire and your shy - they are a potent mix of traits that will always draw people to you, often despite your best efforts. I love the way you seem to know, instinctively, who needs a gentle touch...and who needs a swift shove, instead.

Trust your heart, Luke. Though you might be hurt by letting someone else hold it, I hope you will
never regret the decision to do so. It takes enormous courage to be vulnerable and every day, in so many different ways, you show your brave self countless times. It's one of my favourite things about you.

Luke the Brave

I love your deep loyalty and affection for a select few. From the moment you were born, you have always known your own mind and planted your feet firmly. And while I know it is not easy being the younger Red, you wear your adoration for your brother well, my boy. He is lucky to have you. We all are:

 



Brudders McLennan

You amaze me, Luke, with your quiet observations - often bang-on - and with the absolute delight that blooms on your face when you are pleased: a favourite song in the radio, matching socks, non-rumbly sheets and realizing that you read an entire book all by yourself. I cannot tell you what it does to my heart, to see your smile, watch it reach your gorgeous, soulful eyes. It's like seeing the sun on a cloudy day - how could anyone not look at you and feel joy?




Dancing like no one is watching...

 
 
You are growing up so quickly, my baby boy. Thank for random hugs, whispered words of love and for thinking that everything I cook is delicious. For asking if you can help, for folding the laundry exactly the way you've been taught and for singing harmony in the car. I hope that one day, you will let the rest of world hear your clear, beautiful voice. It is a gift. You are my greatest gift.

Without you, I might never have known the excruciating pleasure of hearing your rare, though utterly contagious belly laugh or the soft, gentle way you slide your way into my arms when you need comfort. What a privilege to be your soft place to land and the person whose hand you reach for first.


Thank you for your trust and your guidance and for choosing me. You are absolutely my most favourite Luke of all time in the history of ever.

My favourite Luke

You complete me. Us.

I love you.

Mummy

Matthew is EIGHT!

Darling Matthew,

Happy Birthday, my sweet heart! Today you turned eight and in your honour, I wanted to share with you eight of the many, many, MANY reasons why I love you.

1. Your Heart

Matthew, you are a wise and sensitive boy, with an empathetic heart. I love how you always seem to know when someone - adult or child, stranger or friend -needs a little extra compassion and you find quiet ways to give some. Even as a baby, your heart knew.



Matthew, age 1

You are attuned not just to me and your brother, but to the world at large.

You may find that the world is not always a kind place for a heart like yours, my darling. But I hope and pray that you don't let the world's dark snuff out your heart's light.

Instead, I hope that you can find a way to let your light be the world's hope.

2. Your Light

My boy, since the moment you were born, you have been surrounded by an incredible light. That's your spirit and it is wild and bright and SO full. I love the energy you bring to my world, even when you've managed to talk more than me (which is no small feat) and you really should be sleeping.

Matthew, hurling himself with glee...
 

I love the way you hurl yourself into new ideas and schemes and play with absolute faith  that everything will be OK.
 

The world might not always be yours for the having, my pet, but never stop believing that it might.


3. Your smile

Your toothy grin lights up your face, a room, my heart. It is often the first thing I see upon awakening, the thing I look forward to seeing every day as I wait at the school gate, watching for you to burst out the door and tumble, laughing, into sunshine.

My boy and his glorious, gap-toothed grin!

It is sunshine and hope, right there in the middle of your face. I will always, always help you find it if it's lost and believe that it will continue to draw the good your way.


4. Your drive

I have never met another kid so willing to throw himself into learning something entirely new. Over the past eight years, I have watched you - awed - walk, run, climb, skate, leap, bound and soar.



Dreaming big dreams, this boy...
 

It is an absolute privilege to bear witness to your enthusiasm and your dogged attempts to master a new skill. Tenacious, you are. Determined, you are. Amazing, you are.

Never lose it. Any of it.

5. Your quiet

Admittedly, you are not often quiet, Matthew. Mostly, you chatter and yell your way through your days, not unlike your mama. But, there are moments - when you're contentedly still with a book, a game, your thoughts, when I can see contentment on you.

Some of the best moments of the day happen in the early hours, when the house is still and we are too: you sneak into my bed and wrap yourself around me, place a hand on my cheek, the way you've done since you were a wee, wee leprechaun - these quiet, heartbreakingly tender moments with you let me know that all is right with the world. Simply because you are in it.

6. Your loud

Child, you are loud. SO STINKING LOUD!!! You sing loudly, play with high-pitched shrieks of laughter and indignation, especially if Luke's involved and no one could ever, EVER accuse you of being shy.

Future rock stars, right here...

I can only pray that while life teaches you to temper the loud, that you always be willing and able to shout your truths and your dreams and your hopes from the highest places - proud, confident, free.


7. Your eyes

You've inherited your gorgeous, heavily-lashed eyes from your Daddy, Matthew. Like him, you see the world with clarity and a not altogether unhealthy bit of cynicism. This is a good thing, son, to let your eyes see truths that can help you along the way.

But your eyes are often filled with mirth and wonder and stories...oh, the stories they tell, even before you've said a single word. I love that your carry your heart there, Matthew.



8. Your faith

Thank you for your faith, darling Matthew. Your faith in me, in all of us who love you, in tomorrow. I have never known a child so quick to forgive, to offer comfort and to seek the good, as you. Your - often unspoken - belief that the world is a good place will bring you enormous solace as you grow, even when - especially when - it is tested.

A very serious Matthew at his First Communion

You believe in a kind and benevolent Father, the spirit of the Golden Rule and that there's nothing that a little bit of kindness can't heal. I could not be prouder of you if I tried, Matthew. Nor could I be more grateful for all that you bring to my life, the lives of those who share yours.

Thank you, as always, for choosing me.

I love you.

Mummy

 

What a True Teacher Looks Like...

When the Reds began school last September, they did so with confidence: Matthew headed into Grade 2 and Luke marched into Senior Kindergarten a proud "Super Senior!"

 

Lucky Luke was able to begin his year with his previous year's teacher, the newly-married Mrs. O'Connor, so he was a happy boy.

 

Watching Sarah become a Mrs. August 2012

 

 

His mama was happy, too. I am as invested in Mrs. O'Connor's happiness as she is in my children's.

 

That he was able to spend more time in her sphere comforted me, pleased me - Luke is my baby boy, no matter how old he gets and he is does not warm easily to people or experiences that are new. So, another year to grow and spread his wings with a teacher who loves him, well...it made this mama's heart rest easy.

 

Mrs. O'Connor is due to give birth to her first child this weekend, but
she made time to visit her students at their end-of-year celebration, bringing
her own special light and love to the day.

 

When Mrs. O'Connor announced her pregnancy early in 2013, we were all excited for her. She will be an amazing mother - what a joy it will be to watch her welcome her own child into her heart, as she welcomed both of mine.

 

Midway through the year, however, her doctor ordered her off work, which was sad for everyone. But she had assembled a fabulous team in her room,  awesome Early Childhood Educator, Mrs. Wannamaker and  superb Educational Assistant, Mrs. Whalen. Along with brand-new-to-us Mr. Pachecko, this trio kept learning momentum going and Luke continued to thrive.

 

To all four of them, I extend my heartfelt thanks for keeping my boy's smile intact, his spirit free and for filling his mind with all things wise and wondrous.

 

Mr. Pachecko, Luke, Mrs. Wannamaker, Mrs. Whalen

 

 

 

Matthew, meanwhile, bounded into second grade full of bravado. He is normally fearless and headstrong,  but he was emerging from a year fraught with frustration and too many days ending in tears and so I was concerned.

 

 I needn't have worried, for into his life came two AMAZING teachers.

 

I cannot say enough about Ms. Sabean and Mr. Hartnell - a dynamic duo who made learning fun, who engaged and cheered Matthew throughout this year, whose dedication to and pride in their students I witnessed every. single. day.

 

Matthew's First Communion: Ms. Sabean, M. Hartnell

 

 

 Matthew was barely reading when school started last September, but buoyed by success found in a summer reading program at the school, he was eager to learn. His teachers encouraged him all year long and now, my boy is devouring chapter books and weaving incredible tales of his own.

 

The ability to read is such an enormous pleasure and while I am a lover of words and stories, I was not great about reading nightly with Matthew and was even worse at sitting down to fill out his book logs. But his teachers persevered - with him AND with me - and together, we gave birth to a reader.

 

My pride and delight in all that he has accomplished this year is surpassed only by theirs for him and for that, especially, I am grateful.

 

 

***

 

It is a wondrous gift, to a parent, to know that their child is safe and happy and loved by his teachers.

 

 On this, the last day of school for the year 2013, this is my thank you to them, these incredible teachers, who've guided and cajoled and encouraged my sons to grow and reach and surpass their own potential.

 

With much love,

Matthew and Luke's Mama

 

P.S. The rest of your "thank-you" gifts are courtesy of the LCBO.

Cheers, all - you've earned it!

On Being Raised by The Reds....

There are days when parenting is easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

There are days when parenting honks.

Some days, I am a good mother.

Some days, I honk.

Today, parenting honked, honked some more and then...it didn't.

Today, I honked as a mother...until I didn't.

Allow me to confess brag explain:

Matthew and I began our day hollering. Rather, I hollered, he attempted to and then gave up to  burst into tears. I stormed upstairs in anger and to give myself a chance to calm down. Once I had, I was overcome with shame and remorse: he'd been right, I so very, very wrong.

I apologized profusely and then saw him off at the school gate, guilt clawing at my heart, eyes welling.

All the way home, I berated myself. Counted the hours until I could cover his face in kisses and be thankful for another chance to be the mother he deserves.

On the way home, I whispered, "I've been thinking about you all day. Will you forgive me for being so mean this morning?"

Matthew smiled: "I forgive you times three."

* * *

The Reds are tired. And when they're tired, they fight. After supper they argued with the boy next door, the girls down the street and finally, each other. And it was ugly. Ugly and nasty and it took all my waning patience NOT to knock their heads together.

Instead, I sent the other kids home, ushered the Reds inside and  quietly, but firmly ordered them upstairs: pyjamas on, teeth brushed, in bed. NOW.

I raised an eyebrow and pointed a finger for good measure.

Up they went, but not before some shoves on the stairs and punch in the hallway. In the end, I told them they'd have their say once they were in bed. If they spoke ONE WORD before that happened they'd have to go to bed at 6 tomorrow night, too.

Silently, they obeyed, so I sat back and gestured for Matthew to speak first.

"I don't want Luke to sleep in my bed until May 2nd." He crossed angry arms and glared at no one in particular.

"That seems fair."

Luke wailed and carried on, beating his blankets even as he pulled them up as he climbed into his own bed for the first time in a month. Finally, he too crossed his arms and arranged his face into "mad":

"Matthew can't touch ANY of my stuff ever. Never ever, ever."

"Okey-dokey. It's your stuff. He won't touch it."

I kissed them, told them I love them and closed the door, only to stand outside of it, holding my breath.

Two long, silent minutes passed and then:

"Hey, Luke?"
"What?"
"Do you wanna be friends again?"
"No. I wanna be brothers AND friends."
"OK."

Another pause.

"Wanna come sleep up here?"
"OK."
"Can I touch your stuff sometimes?"
"Yeah. I was only gonna make that rule until you're 10, anyways."


I guess this parenting thing doesn't honk after all.

Well, not today.

Bless me, Father...

Matthew will make his First Communion this year. For non-Catholics out there, this means that, following a ceremony in the Spring, he will be able to take the communion wafer and drink the communion wine.

I did not make the Parent Meeting about this important event, though I had intended to. I can't remember why, but for brevity's sake, I'll blame Mark.

Thankfully, I have a very good friend called Janet who is a MUCH better Catholic than I am (read: she attends Mass more than six times a year) and who has been feeding me information via Facebook.

Today, she informed me that there will be a special ceremony next month, involving baptismal candles (which I cannot find) and school photos (which I know are around here somewhere...) and a first visit to the Confessional Box for our children, which is meant to be preceded by MY visit to the Confessional Box.

MEEP!

To prepare myself, I googled "How to Confess Properly" and found a neat  little website which lists important questions to ask myself whilst holed up in a darkened box, listening to someone else waiting to pass judgement on my...well, life.

This is how I imagine things will go, assuming Fr. W. calls me back following the guilt-ridden, apologetic, rambling message I just left on his voice mail:

Photo courtesy of "Catholic Home and Garden"

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been approximately 30 years since my last confession.

When was my last good Confession?

Alright fine, it was 32 years ago. It's been so long, I lost count. Happy now? It's even worse than previously thought.

 Did I receive Communion or other sacraments in the state of mortal sin?

 

Nope. God will have noticed that I didn't take communion for many, many years. He knows why. I'm good with keeping that between me and Him, if it's all the same to you.

 

Did I intentionally fail to confess some mortal sin in my previous Confession?

 

Nope. My last confession was around the age of 9. Pretty sure the worst of my sins were wishing my brother harm and thinking grouchy things about having to do chores. Ah, simple, magical times.

Did I seriously doubt my faith or put myself in danger of losing my faith through readings hostile to Catholic teachings or involvement in non-Catholic sects?

 

Absolutely. In fact, during a clearly troubled period, I converted to another religion, which I swiftly decided was a cult, but who am I to judge? I steered clear of the church for so long, my parents despaired. And then my first child was born and when I held him for the first time, I knew that I was touching God. Since that moment, I have been on a long, slow journey back to the church of my childhood and to a quiet, but strengthening faith.

 

(Except for when my brother died. Then I pretty much raged against everything and everyone, especially God. He waited me out. We're good now.)

 

Did I engage in superstitious practices: palm-reading, fortune telling, etc.?

Yes. And while I'm here, I may as well confess that I really, really, really want to visit a local shaman. I've heard wonderful things about her and am looking for all the help I can get, letting go of old stuff and embracing challenges yet to come. I feel sort of compelled to see her, actually. I'm pretty sure God knows that. I'm pretty sure He'd steer me away, if He felt threatened or that she might do me harm. I mean, she's His child too, right?

Did I take the name of God in vain?

Is this even a real question? Oh my GOD, yes. I know. I suck. I'm working on it, I swear to G...never mind.

 

Did I curse, or take a false oath? 

EFF. Please see previous response.

 

Did I miss Mass on Sundays or holy days of obligation through my own fault, without any serious reason?

Yes. Sometimes for no reason at all. Mostly laziness. Followed by guilt. And then guilt about the lazy and then guilt about the guilt....sigh....it's never-ending, this guilt. Can we talk about that sometime?

 

Did I keep fast and abstinence on the prescribed days?

Clearly not. Have you SEEN the size of my bum?

Did I disobey my parents and lawful superiors in important matters?

 

Yes. But my parents, much like our Father, are loving and forgiving. They forgive me because they love me and they know that I am working hard to become a better person, even when I fail miserably. Does speeding on the 401 or rolling through stop signs count? 'Cause if so, I think you oughta know that I'll do it all again, so confessing is sort of...wrong. Right?

Did I hate or quarrel with anyone, or desire revenge?

 Yes. I still do.

 

 Did I refuse to forgive?

Yes. Mostly myself.

 

Did I hurt or cause to kill someone?

God, I hope not. I'll pay more attention at stop signs, though.

 

Did I get drunk? 

Yes. There were shooters, you see. And I like shooters. Especially the ones called Butter Shooters...

 

Did I take illicit drugs?

No. That's weird, right? You can thank my dad for that. When I was a teenager, I promised him four things:

 

1. I wouldn't smoke.

2. I wouldn't do drugs.

3. I wouldn't drink alcohol before the legal age.

4. I wouldn't have sex before I got married.

 

I had to keep at least ONE of those promises. By default, it was #2.

 

Did I consent to, recommend, advise or actively take part in an abortion?

 

Yes. I'm pro-choice. God knows it. I know it. I will always support a woman's right to choose, yes, even now that I am a mother. ESPECIALLY since I've become a mother. My feelings about this topic have not changed.  Is this where things are gonna get awkward?

Did I willfully look at indecent pictures or watch immoral movies?

 

Does Magic Mike count? I haven't seen it. But I've seen lots of shots of Channing Tatum  half-naked and will admit to thinking that he is one of God's finest creations. Ditto Angelina Jolie when she was Lara Croft: Tomb Raider.

 

And God said, "Let there be perfection..."

 

 

 Did I read immoral books or magazines?

 

50 Shades of Grey. I read all three books in the series, hoping it got better. It didn't. Frankly, I think reading that drivel was punishment enough. Um, also...I read "Flowers in the Attic" in 7th grade. Please don't tell my mum.

 

Did I engage in impure jokes or conversations?

 

Yeah.

Did I willfully entertain impure thoughts or feelings?

 

Yes. I only feel guilty about that sometimes. Can I get half a Hail Mary for half-confessing? As cheeky as that might sound, it's kind of a serious question. What happens when only someone/thing else believes that what you're doing/thinking is wrong, but YOU don't? Confessing to it would be lying. Sort of. Can we talk about this sometime, too?

 

Did I commit impure acts, alone or with others?

 

Yes. Some of my favourite memories involve impure acts. Some of my favourite memories involve some of my favourite people. I kind of don't want to forget those people or those memories. Remembering's OK, right? I mean, it's not like I'm gonna do those impure things with those people again or anything. Outside of my head, I mean...

 

Did I take contraceptive or abortifacient pills or use other artificial means in order to prevent contraception?

 

Take, no. Use presently, yes. I have Matthew, Mark and Luke. I'm gonna name my dog John. I should get bonus points.

Did I steal or damage another's property?

 

I stole my Across-the-Road Neighbour's fur-lined hat last night. Mostly, is was due to the Butter Shooter consumption, but she's going to a warm country for a few months and won't be needing it. I'm pretty sure she's OK with that.

 

How much?

It's fur-lined. Probably $50? I'll have to ask...

 

Have I made reparation for the damages done?

No. I have no intention of giving it back. I DID give her a bottle of wine, though. That's  PRE-reparation. Sort of.

 

Have I been honest in my business relations?

 

 Mostly. There may have been some creative number-crunching on my tax form from 1997, but I'm also hopeless at math so it's hard to know for sure.

Did I tell lies?

Yes. Hell, yes. I can say that, right?

 

Did I sin by calumny, or detraction telling the unknown grave faults of others without necessity, even if they are true? 

 

 Do you mean "did I gossip?" Yes. Have you met me? Sometimes, a LOT of the time, my mouth engages before my brain does. That said, I am MUCH better at keeping secrets since I spilled one of my Dolphin's and there was that weird, dreadful silence at the table. That sucked, even though, technically, I didn't KNOW it was a secret...wait, what was the question, again? 

 

Did I judge others rashly in serious matters?

 

Before I became a mother? You bet. Before Karma handed me my own shit back, you mean? You bet. Now? I try not to. And frankly, I am pretty clear about my own shit, Father. I know when I've been mean or spiteful or wrong. I don't LIKE to admit it when I am, but I do. Mostly, I do so on my blog. Or on Facebook. Some people might refer to it as "oversharing." but others might see it as "unofficially" confessing. I'm just saying.

 

Surely the fact that I am here, in this box, this moment, this LIFE - imperfect, hopeful but a little bit afraid - should mean something. Something good, I mean. 'Cause the thing is, Father, even though I'm terrible at attending Mass and I holler at my kids FAR too often and I curse my husband to Hell...God has forgiven me for everything. He loves me.

 

This is how I know:

 

Me: Matthew, I love you. Thank you for choosing me to be your mummy.

Matthew: I love you, too, Mummy. And I didn't choose you all by myself, you know.

Me: What do you mean?

Matthew: God helped me choose you.

 

 

On Slogging, Life Lessons and the Kindness of Strangers

Went slogging on an indoor track tonight, Reds in tow. I was happy to have them along because they were so excited by the idea of running with me that I got excited, too.

There were a LOT of other people there. More than we've seen before, but it's a new year and resolutions have been made. Kudos to all of us, I thought, as I laced up my shoes.

I reminded the Reds of the rules:

Run on the outside lane only,
Gently call out "Pass!" if someone's not aware that you're there.
Be aware of where others are around you,
Walk on the inside track only,
Be respectful,
No weaving,
No racing,
No foolishness,
Have fun.


They were off like shots, grinning their adorable freckled faces off. I set off a light slog, determined to keep a slow and steady pace. Determined not to die, frankly.

I watched their progress around the track. Yes, they were passing people, but did so respectfully, on the left. Yes, they were passing people, period. They're children. They're young. They're fast.

Every once in awhile Matthew or Luke (or both) would catch up to me ( or I'd catch up to them) and we'd walk a bit together, holding hands. We stopped a few times for water, but in the overall, spent a good 20 minutes sweating happily, going around and around and around.

Sigh.

As I turned into one stretch, I spied some staff members talking to the Reds. They'd been pulled from the track and were peering rather anxiously down the track, looking for me. I picked up my pace and then came to a halt, breathing fast:

"It's OK," I gasped, grimace/smiling, "They're not up here alone. I'm here. They're just faster."

The Staff Member smiled uncomfortably. "I know you're up here,  but we just had someone at the desk concerned that might trip and hurt themselves or someone else. They'll have to run with you."

I looked down at the Reds, at their crestfallen, scared little faces. Sighed. "But they're faster than me. And they really weren't doing any harm..." I trailed off, aware that many around us were listening, walkers and runners slowing as they passed.

Took the boys aside and tried to explain the situation, assured them that they weren't in any trouble but that the rule was that they had to stay with me. Matthew, in particular, was very unhappy with this news, more so because there were other children running and THEY hadn't been singled out.

"Why did the lady complain about only us, Mummy? Why do only me and Luke have to run with you? Those other kids should have to run with their mummy, too. Tell them, Mummy!"

GAH!

It's one thing to explain "unofficial" rules to small children whose days revolve around so many of them - school rules, home rules, bath rules, car rules, bedtime rules - but another thing entirely to explain the concept of doing the right thing and getting treated unfairly anyways.

I sputtered and fumbled, but Matthew was undeterred. "Mummy! You SAID to pass on the left so we did. We didn't even touch anybody. Nobody tripped. It's not FAIR!"

He was right. It WASN'T fair and I struggled to find the words that would make it so, found none. Then, a runner stopped and smiled at them, at me: "They really were fine," she said.

And then she extended her hand to Matthew, "Would you like to run with me? I'll try to keep up. My name is Julie!"

At Matthew's questioning look, I nodded and off the two of them went, laughing.

Another runner stopped - a man this time - and urged Luke onto the track and the two of THEM tore around the track while I stood at the edge of it, trying to catch my breath and feeling so grateful for these perfect strangers and their random acts of kindness.

In the end, I spoke to the Staff Member at the desk, who admitted that there is no official rule about kids on the track, but that she'd been at a loss. I nodded, understanding, but took her boss's business card anyways - perhaps this incident will spur someone into creating some signs and posting them for all to see. Mine are not the only children who love to run and who love seeing their mama out there, huffing and puffing her way to healthy.

In the meantime, the Reds and I will return and I will try to keep up with them. If not, I hope that there are some more kind souls there who can...and will.

*  *  *

UPDATE: The centre rang and the woman I spoke to was forthright and apologetic and funny. She assured me that the Reds are welcome to run for as long and as quickly as they'd like. Signs are in transit already, they're working on a response to offer staff should (when) this situation come up again. And - in an unexpected and delightful bonus - she gave us passes for the pool. All's well that ends well, eh?

Only In Canada, Eh?

Matthew came home from hockey practice with the goalie equipment, which means it's his turn to play in net. His ever-accomodating little brother agreed to a little scrimmage, but there's so much snow outside, they suited up in the dining room.

Sigh.

I wish I could tell you that I was concerned about the furniture, but when moments like these present themselves, the only thing I cared about was getting a decent shot:

As the new year draws closer and brings some unexpected changes to our lives, it makes my heart happy to have these moments....preserved. Shared. Lived.

May 2013 bring you peace, love and awesome memories of your own.

Love,
Bellymonster and the Reds

I Have No Words

I have lost my voice. As of this moment, I have been entirely silent for close to three hours.

My husband may have referred to it as "The Christmas Miracle," but I'm sure he was kidding.

Me, I kind of dig it. In a "my throat is aching and feels weirdly full" kind of way.

I lost my voice in bits and pieces yesterday, but it came back this morning, just in time for me to holler at the Reds to get moving.

It grew softer again when I knelt down to hug them and offer apologies for yelling, something I'd promised (a million times, it seems) to try to stop doing.

I chatted easily, if a little huskily with my placement supervisor all day. Was surprised, though I shouldn't have been, at how much more I learned today, because I was quieter.

After then just after supper tonight, I yelled at Matthew for yelling at his brother, took a breath to yell at his brother....

and nothing came out.

I blinked. Tried for softer words.

Nothing.

Blinked again and peered at my astonished children, saw amazement and amusement spread across their freckled faces: Mummy. can't. speak.

They giggled with delight while I mimed clutching my throat and hollering, as tears of silent  laughter rolled down my cheeks. It felt...good.

At bedtime, I tucked them in without words, held them closer for longer than I usually do, because usually I toss my final "I love you"s over my shoulder as I close their door.

Grinned broadly to see their not-so-tiny hands making the sign for "I love you" in American Sign Language. I learned it just this week and taught them only yesterday. Signed it back with a happy sigh.

Photo courtesy of: moderndad.com

Came back down to a silent and empty kitchen. Contemplated the quiet.

Realized that the time has come, truly come, for me to listen. There is something that I need to hear. In order to actually hear the message meant for my heart, I needed to be SHUT UP.

That God.

He's so funny.

And you?

Anything you'd like to tell me?

I'm listening.

And I promise that I cannot won't interrupt.

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye...

When Mark and I moved our family to Belleville on a bitterly cold January day in 2009, we had no clue what was coming. We'd sold our house in Newcastle on the heels of a vicious recession and were just trying to keep ourselves - and our family - together in the aftermath of job loss and a frustrating, province-wide search for employment.

There were days, moored here in a strange city in the middle of winter with two boys - one just 3, the other a busy 16 months -when I questioned my own sanity at making such a move. Almost exactly a month later, my brother passed away and in the days between his death and his funeral, I wandered the unfamiliar rooms of our rented house in a fog. Cast adrift. Lost.

By Spring, I'd moved from now-familiar rooms to unfamiliar streets, just beginning to blossom with the promise of new beginnings. I made some incredible friends, fell in love with this city's parks, its people, my neighbourhood and the fresh breath of hope that blew into our faltering marriage.

In 2010, exactly one year after our move to the Friendly City, we spent another frigid January day hauling our possessions and hopes into another house on the same street. Only this one was ours and we were staying for keeps.

Or so we thought.

In July of this year, Mark received a job offer from a company based in our hometown. With equal amounts trepidation and delight, he accepted the job and began in September, a day after the Reds and I entered SK, Grade 2 and Final Year, respectively.

As of this writing, he has almost passed his probationary period and has given me permission to "officially" announce that - at some point, possibly this summer - we will be moving home.

To Bowmanville.

It feels odd to write that, now. Bowmanville is our shared hometown and many of our memories of childhood are also shared as Mark and I grew up mere blocks from each other. 

But as adults, our best memories - for me at least - have been made here, in Belleville. This is where our family has truly grown, even though the Reds were born elsewhere. THIS is the place whose streets I know well - at least, the ones in my end of the city - whose parks have beckoned and shaded and pleased me and my sons for almost five years. It's where many of my dearest friends live, my sons began school and I began to dream of something bigger for myself.


And yet...

Bowmanville is filled with old, true friends and amazing opportunities for all of us. Its streets are unfamiliar to me now, as they've multiplied a thousand-fold it seems, in the years since we've been gone. But I've been visiting. Since early summer, I've been quietly researching schools, house prices and the professional possibilities for me, once I've graduated in the Spring. I've looked into sports teams and Scout troops, pored over home builders' plans, old photographs and sweet memories.

I've narrowed down the school search to two which are well-run and have great reputations. We know people whose children attend one or the other and are thriving and happy. Our "wish list" for a new house in our old stomping grounds includes being able to walk the kids to school and easy access to parks and other  green space.

Alas. The public school, which is presently being built to accommodate the population of an old one, won't have a playground. Budget cuts have made one impossible and so my hometown friends have rallied to "win" one.

The Aviva Community Fund is a relatively unique concept: communities submit their ideas and plans to competition. The concept/idea/plan/dream that garners the most votes - from anywhere in the world - can receive up to $100,000 towards its goal. In this instance, voting for the playground builds a place to be a kid for deserving students, but it also helps to build a brand-new community at the same time.

I mention it here, dear readers, because an old, dear hometown friend asked me to. I ask you  to vote please, dear reader, so that the children of my childhood friends will have a place to begin building lifelong friendships like the ones their parents enjoy.

So that my sons might begin building them, too.

With tears in my eyes for all that we will be leaving behind and with enormous hope for what we might find, I'm ignoring my own "never plug stuff" rule to ask for your vote.

To vote, please click this link: http://www.avivacommunityfund.org/ideas/acf15858

I will accept your vote with gratitude and love and consider it a farewell gift....or one that says, "Welcome home!"

Love,
Belly

If you vote, would you let me know in the comments? Thank you. For all of it.

Confessions of a Former Grinch...

 T'is the season of holy births and jolly men in red and making lists, checking them twice. Mostly it's the season of tradition...and magic.

"Bah Humbug!" I used to say, once upon a time.

I got more than a little bit grouchy when retailers began hauling out their plastic Christmas trees the day after Halloween. Grumbled through November because I couldn't bear Christmas carols being piped through tinny speakers when nary a flake of snow could be found.

Groaned and clutched my head when Bruce Springsteen's "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" came on the radio. "Seriously," I'd carp to anyone with earshot, "there are a zillion Christmas songs to play, why do ALL radio stations play this one? Do they think because he's The Boss that the song is cool?"

Sometimes - more often than not, I'll admit - I guiltily averted my gaze as I hurried past the smiling Salvation Army people, standing by their kettles, waiting hopefully for me to help make someone else's season a little brighter.



"Vintage Kettles" courtesy of ottawakettles.ca

I used to loathe the mall and would mentally kick myself for not leaving my coat in the car as I braved the madding crowd, sweating under its weight and straining under bags filled with hastily-chosen gifts. I used to have those gifts wrapped by prim and smugly-tidy mall ladies who wore festive aprons, wielded Scotch tape with terrifying skill and pulled corkscrewed ribbons from thin air, it seemed.

And then...I had kids.

I grinned when I popped into the dollar store two weeks ago - at the end of the aisle strewn with the remnants of Halloween, stood a lone and half-dressed Christmas tree, waiting to be trimmed.

November is just one long, glorious lead up to the BEST MONTH OF THE YEAR instead of the countdown to my 29th birthday. (Incidentally, I will be turning 29 on the 30th, in case you were planning to send me some Baileys or something)

Now I deliberately search for Christmas songs on the radio and have been playing "Winter Wonderland" by the Eurythmics since last week. As soon as I hear that happy tune on the radio, I'll start counting down the days, in my head. It's like an audio advent calendar or something.

These days, I can't afford to have the wonderfully maternal and ever-so-clever mall ladies wrap my gifts. Since Matthew was born, it has become our "tradition" to put on some classic carols, pour a few drinks and tackle all wrapping at once, on Christmas Eve.

"Vintage Reds" courtesy of Bellymonster

My Christmas List - written, revised and price-compared - lives permanently in my purse, for quick, stealthy trips to Walmart. I always remember to leave my coat in the car.

Today at the grocery store, my sons spied a serene and hopeful man standing next to the iconic red Salvation Army kettle. Within seconds, they were at my side, begging for coins to "give to the man for the people who are sad, Mummy." With a grateful heart, I tumbled toonies into their hands and watched them dance over, eager to give.

But I still loathe "Santa Claus is Coming To Town" by Bruce Springsteen.

It is tradition, after all.

And you?

What are some of your favourite holiday traditions?

Which seasonal song do you loathe love the most?

I Surrender

This is my Facebook status from earlier this evening, when I arrived home with two frazzled Reds in tow, the making of supper a daunting task before me and another run in my stupid stockings:

Seriously now, this post is officially a shout-out to all you working parents out there, including a belated one to my own, who, though long-retired, still put in full days being awesome.

AMAZING, you are. INSPIRING, you are. STRONG, you are. MY HEROS, you are.

I don't know how you do it and still look as good as you do. Me, I straggle home at day's end looking like something the cat tossed aside in disgust and feeling worse.

In a good way, I suppose, but still.

Carry on being awesome, all. I'm just gonna put my head down here, for just a min.....


zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz........

The Happy Mantra

JC is one of the incredible caregivers in the daycare section of my 7-week placement. Along with a three other equally dedicated, compassionate teachers, JC runs herd on a bunch of 3-and-4-year-old kids, all. day. long.

Frankly, these women deserve awards and Baileys for life, but that's not the point of today's post. Nope. Today, I'm gonna share this little mantra that JC has the kids recite every day, at circle. First she gathers them close and has them, literally, give themselves a pat.

Says JC: "Ok, my friends! Raise your right hand high in the air. Now, cross your arm over your front and put your hand on your opposite shoulder. Now pat. Pat your own shoulder. Gently, friends! Now, repeat after me:

 

I am the best person I know.

I am smart.

I am kind.

I am funny.

I'm a good friend.

I am ridiculously good-looking!"

 

 

My smart, kind, funny, ridiculously good-looking Reds!

 

This Happy Mantra tickles every part of my heart. I love it so much, I plan to have the Reds do this each morning before we rush out the door and into lives that are often separate, these days. I want them to hear their own voices alongside mine, ringing out these awesome truths.

Care to join us?

 

 

Try it! Go on, make your own day and recite the Happy Mantra!

Now tell me, how do you feel?

A Poem For Luke, As He Turns FIVE!

What happened to my baby, the super cranky li'l dude?

The boy who waited till after bath to say that he had poo'd?

What happened to my tiny Red, whose pant legs had to be rolled?

The grouchy kid who rarely, if ever, did as he'd been told?

Where has he gone, my curmudgeon child, the one with the cheeky grin?

I only see him sometimes now, in the set of a firm, dimpled chin.

 

 

 

When once he shied from kisses, now Luke doles them out with glee.

He often hugs me softly these days, when once he'd punch my knee.

Diapers and wipes are things of the past: he's proud of his toileting skills.

And he carries his plate to the table, with only occasional spills.

Not long ago, the phone was a toy, that he'd chew on with great delight.

These days, he's apt to pick it up when it rings and sometimes he holds it upright.

Books, once the things he'd rip and tear into, with maniacal glee and aplomb

are now his most treasured possessions: "Please can you read to me, Mum?"

 

 

Where has he gone, the small lad who would tumble and wail his way to my lap?

He's too busy for bandaids and picks himself up now, often muttering, "Crap!"

Where has the time gone, these halcyon days, when the morning would stretch on for hours?

Now he is five and he's fierce and he's tough, possessed with fine boy Super Powers.

From birth until now, Luke has worshipped his brother, the way that I'd hoped he might do:

 best friends ('til they're not), they share secrets, my love,

fine red hair and a bedroom of blue.

 

That cross newborn boy who filled spots in my heart that I hadn't known were missing,

will, today, be five and I'm lost in these years, smiling through tears, reminiscing.

Sweet darling Luke, five years ago, you came into the world from my tummy.

Thank you for being your incredible self and for choosing me to be your mummy.

Happy Birthday, Took-Wookers.

I love you.

Mummy

Matthew is SEVEN!

Darling Matthew,

Before you were born, seven years ago tomorrow, I loved you. I loved feeling you move in my belly, watching as an elbow or a foot or maybe your hand pushed against me from the inside, there under my heart.

And then you were born, at the end of one last desperate push and I loved you even more. I loved you more even before I could murmur your name, before I saw your fiery hair, your serious gaze, your perfect tiny toes.


The day after your first birthday, you took your first steps and I could barely contain the rush of pride and awe and more love that filled me, even as I held out my arms for you to tumble into them, grinning.

 

Days after your second birthday, your brother was born and when I saw you at the door of the hospital room, where I sat waiting for you and Daddy to come and bring me and Luke home and you smiled at him first and then me, I loved you even more.

Blink.

When you were three, we uprooted our tiny family and began a new life here in Belleville. But on the last day in Newcastle, as I watched you and Luke move about the empty rooms of the only home you'd ever known, whispering, "Goodbye, House!" I thought I might melt with love for your bravery and your trust.

When, months later, I watched you put a trusting hand into the one offered by your JK teacher and bravely march off into your new role as a student, I melted all over again. And I loved you even more.

Blink.

At four, you discovered your own fire and I struggled against your will and your fierce new need for independence. Every night for a year, I snuck into your room long after you'd fallen asleep and prayed for patience and the courage to let you go, just a little bit. And then I offered up my thanks that you had chosen me and that you felt my love strongly enough that you could rage against it, knowing that it would never change. Realizing that, I fell in love with you all over again and again and again.

Blink.

I lost you when you were five, remember? For five, agonizing minutes, at the mall. When we were reunited at the Information Desk and I fell to my knees and wrapped my arms around you, I remember feeling overwhelmed with pride that you had done all the right things to ensure your own safety, as I taught you but had never been certain you understood. And it overwhelmed me - this fierce, mama-love, as it sometimes can. Without you, I would be lost. Because of you, I have been found.

Blink.

Six. I don't think there's anything in the world more amazing than seeing it through the eyes of an inquisitive, sensitive six-year-old Matthew. All year long, you have challenged me to view the world we share through your heart - and what a view it offers. You are an amazing big brother - patient, giving, parental. You are wise and good and fair and as I have often thought, when I am grown, I want to be just like you.

Your sixth year has given me so many glimpses of the man you might one day be. And though we hold hands less often than we once did, I cherish those moments and I love you just a little bit more.

Tomorrow, you will be seven and I cannot wait to see what's in store for you, this year. And to see how loving you transforms me into the kind of mother you deserve. From you, I have learned my greatest lessons in forgiveness and patience and kindness, because you exemplify all of those qualities each and every day.

Happy Birthday, Matthew!

Thank you for choosing me. Every day, I love you more.

Mummy