A Thousand Tiny Moments

This afternoon, the Reds were a stinky, filthy mess after the impromptu soccer game in our dog-poop and mud-filled backyard.

One after the other I tossed them into the shower, scrubbing away the dirt and listening to their happy play-by-plays. Sent them downstairs while I gathered up their wet things in a basket and contemplated the wisdom of throwing their running shoes into the washing machine, too.

From the bathroom, Mark prepared his own shower as I added his clothes to the mix, clucking and smiling at the fact that no matter how old boys get, they're happiest when they're dirty.

"Some boys came up the road while Matthew was showering," Mark said, conversationally, as I sorted and tossed. "Three of them, on bikes, in the middle of the road."

"Oh, yeah?" I stopped then, sharpened my gaze on his face, which was suddenly filled with something I could not place but now recognize as tenderness.

"They asked if Matthew lives here. They're friends of his from school and wanted to know if he could join them."

I stared at him, processing a flurry of suddenly overwhelming feelings and thinking hard.

Lowered the basket to my hip and took a deep breath in.

Blew it out.

"Huh. I guess it's about that time, eh?"

Mark smiled then, a gentle one, just for me. "Yep. It's about that time."

Another deep breath from me, followed by a sigh that came from the very bottom of my heart. "I guess this is the part where we trust him to make the right choices and be safe and ride off with his friends."

"They were all wearing helmets."

"Well, that's something, anyway," I offered him a tremulous smile of my own before gently closing the door to leave him to his business and his own thoughts.

Came down to start supper and think about how much I want to stop Time, for  just a moment longer.

Realized - though not for the first time - that letting go isn't a big, huge step.

 It's a thousand tiny moments, just like this one - when the world outside beckons my children to come out and explore, discover and learn...my job is to let go and trust them to do just that.

But I can't help but think, "Weren't they JUST born?"

On Finding Home: A 5-Year Recap

FIVE years ago today, we moved to Belleville.

Wow.

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

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

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

2009

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

My baby brother, Andrew.

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

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

2010

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

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

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

2011

Luke being...well, Luke.

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


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

2012

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

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

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

2013

Photo credit: Jerome Lessard

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

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


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




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

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

I am home.

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

 

Great Expectations...

Sigh.

"I need your help today, boys," I said, scurrying about, spritzing the air with Febreze and kicking shoes into the porch. "Nanny and Papa will be here in an hour."

"I need you to make your beds," I said:

"I need you to put your dirty clothes in the tall hamper and take the clean ones from the short one and put them away," I said:

"Please, boys, try to do so quietly because Daddy's not feeling well," I said:

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

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

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

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

"Oh. Do you need help with something?"

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

"Uh...my sons?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grinned back. "They did good."

To Everything There Is A Season...

Summer days at the trailer have always been about sand and water and being a "fun" mummy. I pride myself on being entirely present for the Reds in ways that I am not, in our "regular" life:

At the trailer, we eat more snack food, read more comic books and play more games.

We stay up later, around the campfire and I let them eat marshmallows by the handful.

The Reds are still - or were, until this summer - charmed by the idea of sleeping in a bed that magically gets pulled out of the couch.

We spend long afternoons at the water's edge, playing in sand and paddling out into the cool lake whenever the sun's rays get too hot.

I do not spend a single minute on the computer, shushing their requests with a harried, "In a minute, guys...just give me a minute here!"

I don't have a cell phone to distract me from being their mum, entirely present in each and every moment.

And I love every single one.

On Monday morning, I gulped down my coffee, eager to greet the day with them.

Hauled towels and noodles and water-wings and snacks down to the water, prepared for a full day of making memories for my sons.


Instead, they met two brothers around their age.

Instead of watching them play at my feet in the shade of a tree, I watched them race off to play in the full sun with their new friends.

Instead of piling muddy buckets upon muddy buckets and digging out moats for sandcastles, I settled back with a book...and didn't turn a page.

Instead, I nodded when the Reds bounded over, pleading to visit their new friends' cabin ("It's number 8, Mummy, in case you need us for anything!") and felt my heart swell...and quietly break.

My sons are indeed making memories.

They're just making ones that don't always include me.

I smiled bravely and waved back when they stopped and turned in unison, waving,  as though they sensed the shift, too.

The Reds at the Buck, in Buckhorn, Ontario

And then they were off, out of my sight, their laughter drifting back to where I sat, thinking, "But weren't they just born?"

And you?

What are your bittersweet memories of letting your children go grow?

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!

To Whomever My Son Loves...

Dear Matthew's-Future-Partner,

Matthew got up first this morning, made his bed, got dressed and washed, laid out Luke's clothes and toothbrush, made waffles for the both of them and made coffee for me.

Then he stood at the side of my bed and rubbed my back until I woke up.

So, when you're having a no-good, rotten, terrible day, remember this. Eventually, my boy will be yours to love and cherish and you will know this kind of love, too.

So hang in there!

Love,
Your Future Favourite Mother-in-Law

And he's a fabulous big brother, too!

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.

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

Tomorrow's Promise

Mornings are often difficult here - too often, it seems, despite my best intentions and however much prep I do the night before, I find myself yelling at my children:

"Hurry up, hurry up! We're going to be late. Brush your teeth. Have you brushed your teeth? Do NOT sass me, Matthew! Luke, quit that - get your shoes on. Get your shoes on NOW!"

Sometimes I make them cry with my fury and my nagging and my impatience.

Some mornings, after I've kissed them goodbye and poured last-minute, guilt-laden love into their ears, I stand and watch them make their way into the schoolyard, watch as they're swallowed up by their friends and I think, "I do not deserve to be their mother."

And then I promise myself, promise them, in my heart, that tomorrow will  be different.

Tomorrow, I will be the mother they deserve: one who is gentler and kinder and one who does not yell. Tomorrow, I will be better and there will be no rushing and there will be more time for cuddles and I will let them eat cake instead of cereal and I will not care if we're late because tomorrow, it won't matter so much.

Tonight, reading the news of 20 children dead at the hands of a man gone mad, I am heartbroken and ashamed because TODAY, for dozens of other parents, it mattered.

Today was the last day that another little boy's mother had the chance to kiss his freckled face and hold his growing hand in hers.

Today was the last day for another mother to stand and watch her son disappear into the safety of his friends and teachers.

Today was the last day for another Matthew's mama to pour hurried words of love into his heart, to whisper into her Luke's ear that she doesn't care if he eats his mittens, as long as they keep his hands warm.

My sons. My darling sons. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Tonight, I will tumble you into your beds and I will sit and guard your sleep and thank God for one more day to be all that you deserve.

And tomorrow, I will thank Him again, and I will live up to your love, even as my heart breaks for another mother, someone else's father - whose last chance to do so....ended today.

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.

A Bellymonster Christmas Carol

** To the tune, "The Twelve Days of Christmas". No, it doesn't match up exactly, nor did I manage 12 days. Whatever. I survived this week, which frankly, is an early Christmas miracle...*


On the first day of last week, the universe gave to me
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the second day of last week, the universe gave to me
Two spikes of fever,
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the third day of last week,the universe gave to me
Three "He's sick" phone calls,
Two spikes of fever,
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the fourth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the fifth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Fiiiiiiiiiiive birthday cards (and a fever)
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the sixth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Six fever-free minutes
Fiiiiiiiiiiive birthday cards (and a fever)
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the seventh day of Hell week, the universe has given me
(A) 7-year-old who's better,
Six loads of laundry
(A) 5-year-old who's feisty
Four wishes for Baileys
Three cups of coffee
Two slices of bread left,


And a husband who is sick and whine-y.

The Colour of Love

 November is my least favourite month of the year. It's cold, snowy, I have a birthday at the end of it (I'll be 29 again, thanks for asking) and the Reds get sick.

Every. single. November.

This week, it's Matthew who's down with a fever and headache, which means that soon, his brother will follow suit. Thankfully, the boys are pretty cheerful when they're not feeling well, all things considered. Matthew, for example, bounded out of (my) bed pale-cheeked, hollow-eyed but surprisingly pleasant for a kid who'd only caught an hour's sleep last night.

He was so brimming with good feelings, he set about drawing me a picture. "It's gonna be your favourite picture ever, Mummy, I promise! It's my favourite already!"

While he coloured, I traipsed up and down the stairs with laundry baskets and fretting over missing a day of placement. Even as I saw his eyes grow glassy and redden with fever, I focused on racing through household chores, determined not to waste the unexpected time in which to complete them.

Somewhere between the second load of laundry and sorting out the pots-and-pans cupboard, I was seized by guilt and drew Matthew onto my lap for a cuddle. I asked if I could see the picture he'd worked so hard on.

Wordlessly, my feverish kid offered me a gentle, beautifully-rendered reminder about what really matters:




Us: Matthew, Mark, Luke and Liz

With a lump in my throat, I thanked him for the beautiful picture and hugged him, before nudging him under a blanket while I went hunting for a frame. All great works of art deserve to be framed, I explained to him as he sagged into the pillows, suddenly exhausted.

It took me about 5 minutes to find a suitable frame. When I came back downstairs, this is what I found:

And to think, I almost missed this peaceful innocence. Thankful for the moment, I ignored the beep from the washing machine indicating that a load of laundry had finished, poured myself a fresh coffee and sat down to guard Matthew's sleep.

These are the days, my friends.

And you?

How do you deal with sick kids?

What would you draw, if you had to draw your favourite things?

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?

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?

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