Finding the Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Village of Newcastle

Dear Village of Newcastle,


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



A letter sent to a family in Newcastle, Ontario

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

You got this, Newcastle.

Be the village I know you can be.

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?

On Coming Home

Dear Homeowner,

You met me at the door of your home when we came to see it last week. I was a little bit early and you were dragging your heels, both of us wondering the same thing: could your home become mine?

I took the hand you offered and we clung to each other, smiling. I asked why you're moving and the light dropped from your eyes, for just a moment.

Your wife died, you said and you're planning to move far away, to be closer to your grandchildren.

I nodded, as though in approval of this life's plan that has nothing to do with me. Truthfully, I was nodding to try to keep the smile on my face because the look on yours broke my heart.



With a gentle, welcoming sweep of your arm, you ushered us into your home and simply disappeared out the back door. In the meantime, we tiptoed inside: marveled at the furniture, the photos, the fanciful, exotic sculptures and prints that filled your home: all of it proof of a well-travelled, well-read, well-lived life.

And the smell. Oh, the lovely, gorgeous smell of Europe - I breathed France in Fall into my lungs as I let my fingers trace the backs of your chairs, arranged just so in the main parlour. 

As I peered at the books lining your bookshelf, I was not surprised to see the Netherlands on their spines because suddenly, I could smell  coffee and my Dutch father's meatball offerings on a rainy November night.

Our real estate agent, himself the child of English parents grinned and nodded when I said this all aloud. He'd just been through the kitchen and said it looked like those he'd visited on a trip to his parents' homeland, many years ago.

On we moved, reverently now, from room to room, space to glorious space.

I felt my throat ache when I spied the banister leading to the second floor - heard my own children's laughter as I imagined - nay, saw - them sliding their way from top to bottom.

On the landing above I heard your children's laughter too and for a moment I stood utterly still, enchanted.

Such love lived here.

In every photo, of your children throughout the three decades you lived here, I saw it.

In every bedroom, I felt that time was standing still, holding the secrets and memories of those who slept there, dreamed there, loved there.

Love lives here still.

In the master bedroom, I saw your wife's funeral card and - forgive me - took it gently in my own hand. Felt a soft shift in the air around me, above me, beneath me. And I thought, "How he loves her."

And then I slipped back downstairs to the family room - the room that felt like the heart of the house, to me - and simply sat, gazing out the bay window. Imagined watching my own sons play in the shade of the porch, slam their way in through the grand front door only to tumble out the one at the back.

Tilted my head to the ceiling and watched my own dreams of a home filled with love and laughter and walls filled with memories play across the cracked plaster and wondered if your wife, Elizabeth, had done the same, 30 years ago?

Thank you for allowing me into your home, to dream awhile, to bask in the beauty you've created.

Know that whomever ends up buying your house is lucky in ways they might not even realize, now: that they are inheriting a space filled with grace and beauty and lives wondrously lived.

I can only hope that the next family who lives in mine - whenever that time comes - feels the same.

The Reds exploring another old house that captured their mama's heart.

Blessed be.

* * *

And you?

How did you choose the house you now call home?

What were the scents and sights that drew you in?

What would you say to the previous owners, if you could?

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!