But last week on Tuesday, you were my biggest helper. I think the best part was that I didn’t even have to ask you. When Nathan woke up from his nap with a particularly foul diaper, you guided him to the bathroom, took off his diaper and helped him into the shower – which you turned on to the perfect temperature. You checked in on him, making sure he was getting clean. When the last remnants had washed away, you put the plug in and filled the tub so he could splash in the bath for a while.

And while you did this, I was able to change a full diaper, change the laundry over and fold the freshest load, load the dishwasher and get ready for my French class.

When Nathan was finished in the bath, you were right there with the towel – waiting, if somewhat impatiently, for him to put his bath toys away and pull the plug. You dried him off, and led him up the stairs to his room to help him put on some clothes.

You picked out a dark blue t-shirt and a fleecy red vest. It was maybe a little warm out for the vest, but boy did he look cute. You’ve got a great sense of style.

And I want to remember this day. This day that you were the epitome of big sisterhood at the tender age of four.

I want you to know that there are good days. There are days where everything falls into place, where your helpful nature supersedes all else.  I hope at the end of your childhood you remember more days like this.

It’s not always like this. You and I, we have the same stubborn streak. Today, just a mere week later, we had it out, didn’t we?

You, unlistening; me, demanding; you, angry and hurt and ready to pack up your things to run away; me, tired and sad. There was screaming and crying. But we hugged it out in the kitchen, we made it right again.

It won’t always be like that. I’m learning that hugging works best for you, especially right now. I’m remembering it more often and it’s becoming my go-to problem solving tool. I’m learning that the soft voice gets your attention better, and more often than my loud voice.

And I suppose that’s all part of growing up. You don’t automatically know all the answers the moment you become a parent. And even when you have the right answers, it doesn’t mean you remember them when you need them. It’s a bit of give and take, a little pushing and pulling, a tug there and a hug here. We’re in it together, though.

Remember, I will always love you. No matter what.

There are women who are mothers by that alone.

But there are women who are mothers by instinct. Women who should have been mothers but by some cruel chance or twist of fate have no children of their own to hug, but do have children of the heart.

There are also women who mother not only their own children, but the neighbourhood children, or someone else’s children, or the lost and broken children who needed them.

Any and all of these women know first-hand the growing pains, the aches, the joys, and love.

It may not occur to some that these women deserve celebration too, though I’ve seen a few others honouring you today. Don’t hold it against them, don’t rest in bitterness over what should have been, or could have been or has yet to come. Instead, celebrate your qualities that make you the woman you are, the mother you are.

I especially wish to thank a few women in my life who have been mothers or motherly to me when I needed: Tracy, Karen, Linda, Liz, Wendy, Judy, Helen, Ingrid, Jerrilyn, Bernadette, and Cynthia. (Just to name a few.)

And I am thankful for my mother, who has borne so much and taught so much, who has such dreams for her kids, but set the best example of all of how to be present for her kids when they were growing up.

I was excited when high school meant dedicated French language teachers who knew more than the bare minimum manners and greetings. French enthusiasts, as evidenced by their participation and high grades in class, were treated to a special breakfast of crepes and croissants once each semester. And the French teachers were some of the best teachers I’ve known in high school altogether.

I took home the Top Grade 12 French Student award at graduation. I was tied with another student for top grade in the class, but at the time, I fully intended to take French classes at the post-secondary level in addition to my psychology major and art minor – which was why I was given the award. I was looking forward to post-secondary classes in French. Although my grammar was near perfect for an anglophone, and my pronunciation was more than passable, my vocabulary was sorely lacked. I always felt like I was struggling to find or think of the word for something and so I spoke haltingly or not at all until I was sure I had the correct words.

When it came time to enrol in classes for my first semester at university, I took a look at the course descriptions for first-year French classes. One class was geared for people who hadn’t taken French at the grade 12 level in high school. The second class was for those who had taken French 12; an italicised note indicated the class would be conducted almost entirely in French.

And I hesitated.

I worried that if I signed up for the first class, I would either be bored to tears or, worse yet, feel out of my league. If I took the second class, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to keep up at all. I doubted what I had been taught, I doubted myself right out of taking any French class at all.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, nearing 11 years since high school graduation. I was browsing the local newspaper and noticed an ad for French classes being offered in a nearby francophone community. Hesitantly, I emailed.

On a Saturday.

Because I knew the office would be closed so I wouldn’t get a reply right away and have to act on the information.

The reply indicated classes were offered on Tuesday nights from 8 pm until 9 pm. It was too good a deal to pass up. But, still I doubted. Tim assured me I should sign up. If nothing else, since we’re planning to home school, it will be a good refresher for teaching the kids. And who knows? Maybe I haven’t forgotten everything I knew about French from 10 years ago.

Skip ahead to Tuesday, the day of the first class. I was nervous about going, and almost didn’t make it, but strangely not because I was afraid. We had a scheduling fiasco as Tim decided to take an evening training session that didn’t end until after my class started. Thankfully, my brother-in-law was able to watch kids for us until Tim could make it home.

The class itself was great – just what I need to restore some of my confidence. I’m looking forward to the next nine weeks and I’m so glad I bit the bullet and signed up.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back to Lisa-Jo and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..

Oh and Ahem, if you would take pity and turn off comment verification, it would make leaving some love on your post that much easier for folks!

OK, are you ready? Please give us your best five minutes on:::

Brave…

Brave isn’t the absence of fear.

My kids have been climbers since they could first crawl. Yes, they were climbing before walking.

At 6 months, my daughter had pushed a box up to our bar-height table, climbed onto the shelf underneath it, then onto chair and from there to the top of the table itself. She cheered when she reached the top and laughed and laughed. My heart nearly stopped the first time she did it. And of course we had to keep boxes and any other item that could be used as a step stool out of reach because she would just do it again and again.

By the time my son hit climbing stage, I thought I was fearless for him. Until he pushed the screen out of my aunt’s window in her second floor condo and fell roughly 15 feet to the garden below. I wondered if it would make him more careful of heights, but it didn’t take long for him to prove he has all but forgotten that experience.

We’ve relocated now from the safety of a small town where we practically knew everyone, to the big city. Well, big enough, and close enough to down-town Vancouver anyway. And I have to admit that part of me is fearful. Fearful when I hear the sirens again last night, of the cars, of the boy who pushes toys over to the balcony railing…

But being brave isn’t about not fearing, though I wish it was sometimes. Brave is continuing in the face of fear. Brave is honesty about where you’re at and what you’re capable of. Brave is letting people help you, even when you’re not sure how to ask. Brave ^is finding yourself moving still because your kids need you to.

^Marks where the timer stopped. Figured I should finish the thought and not leave anyone hanging.

My little girl is growing up, far too fast if you ask me. She just lost her first baby tooth.

And in September, she’ll be a whopping five years old. Five. Years. Old. And that means school.

We have tossed and turned with what to do about school. It’s a discussion that Tim and I have been having since before Abby was born. I’ve been in favour of home schooling. Despite dropping out of high school, Tim has been in favour of public school.

But, after many many discussions, and some recent incidents, as well as all my compelling reasons, Tim has come to agree that home schooling may be the best option for us at this time.

Some of my biggest reasons for home schooling are rooted in a lack of faith in the public school system. I fear for the quality of education being provided. I fear for teachers who are frustrated with the system but unable to do much to change it. I fear the teachers who don’t care, who have been burnt out by the system but can’t afford to quit or change career tracks.

I have no faith in a system that has shown too high a number of students who aren’t learning anything. And by this, I mean I know children who still don’t know how to spell basic words, how to write the alphabet correctly, who sometimes even have difficulty spelling their own names after several years in public school.

When I was in school, despite testing at a grade level far higher than the one I was in (on several occasions), the guidance counsellors and principals always insisted that I needed to stay at with my peers (aka, the students who were the same age as me). Never mind that outside of school, there is almost no other place where we group people together by age and restrict their interaction with people of different ages. Home schooling will allow us to ensure school is challenging for Abby. If necessary, we will be able to move faster through the material.

I also recognize that my daughter is high energy. Since the stay-at-home parent for the first two years of her life was her father, he has imprinted on her a few things, not the least of which is a learning style that is more commonly found in boys than girls. There seems to be a lack of patience for high energy children, and it’s perhaps not the fairest thing in the world to insist that she sit quietly in a classroom for several hours a day when there are plenty of ways to learn that would fit her energy level and learning style, until she can be taught how to learn via other styles.

Another huge reason home schooling topped my list of options is because of the schedule. For instance, with Tim’s work there have been times where he has been called to work as far away as 15 hours from home or more. If we are not tied down to a traditional school schedule, we can pick up as a family and go visit for a week or two. We can also take advantage of not having “school nights”, which means potential opportunities to go places mid-week when it’s quieter because people are at work or school, or going home early because of work/school the next day.

So, because our primary goals are to ensure Abigail has access to quality education, is suitably challenged, advances at an appropriate pace for her intelligence, and learns to learn through several different methods no matter what her dominant learning style may be, home schooling seems to fit these goals the best. The added benefits of setting our own schedule mean we will have time for other things, including travelling.

I’m so excited as we have received confirmation that our registration with a home school program has been accepted. We’ve been assigned a contact person, and been allocated some funds for resources. I can hardly wait to get started!

As a young aspiring author, I gleaned names from a naming dictionary as though looking for gold. I scanned reverse dictionaries to find names with certain meanings and I looked up names whose sounds were like music to my ear to see what hidden secrets they held. I used to keep lists of names that I liked, both male and female names, with origin and meaning handwritten carefully beside each one.

The names ranged from simple to exotic, both from near and far as I favoured Cherokee ones and Spanish ones as well as Hawaiian. I stashed a list of names I thought I would choose for my own children inside a bedknob on my childhood bed.

When pregnant with Abby, I had been determined to call her Ariel, which is Hebrew for “Lion of God”. I was certain she was a girl and I knew she would be strong and determined. Tim, however, asked that we consider Abigail in the last month of my pregnancy. He loved that it meant “Rejoicing Father” or “Father’s Joy”. Perhaps it was to make up for all the jokes he made: “I don’t care if the baby is a boy or a girl as long as it’s healthy and has a penis.”

About a year later, we were invited to a naming ceremony for our friends who had recently welcomed a daughter home. Their pastor and family had come from Nigeria for this special occasion. And what their pastor said still sits with me. In his beautiful accent, he told of how important it is to be aware of what we call our children, to not insult them when they do something wrong or stupid. He said that our children become what we call them, so if we always call them “Stupid!” or “Lazy!”, they will rise up to their names. But if we call them “Smart”, “Dedicated” and “Wise”, they will rise much further.

The beautiful little girl was blessed with many names at that ceremony. Some were family names and some were given names. I wish I could tell you that I remember them all, but I admit that the Nigerian names were hard for me to pronounce, let alone recall. But each name was given, and the meaning followed as well as the reason it was given to her. Each name became a blessing as it was announced. What a beautiful event that was.

So when we discovered we were pregnant again right around the first anniversary of my father’s death, I felt a sudden urge to look up the meaning of Dad’s first name. He went by Sandy for most of his life. I remember a conversation as a child when I asked him why he was called Sandy though his name was Alexander. His explanation, that at the time of his birth it was frowned upon to name a child what was considered a nickname and so Alexander was bestowed upon him by his parents who had every intention of calling him Sandy from that point forward, seemed absurd to me. But a lot of things sound silly to a four year old.

We had already picked out a set of boys’ names from the first pregnancy on the chance that my intuition about the baby’s gender was wrong. But after learning that Alexander meant “Defender of the People“, I knew we needed to add it to Nathan’s name in place of James.

Thus we chose names with the purpose of blessing our children with their meanings. That was our intent, to recognize the blessing of children by blessing them in return.

But each day that I look at our newest addition, or we are asked what her name is, I am finding myself blessed by its meaning.

For she is “Mercy” and “Grace” and I, most of all in this world, need her.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking
2. Link back to Lisa-Jo and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes on:

::

Friend…

She was the first real, true friend I had. We found each other, misfits in the middle of well-to-do classmates, strange in our humour and misunderstood by so many.

And we loved each other from then on.

After I transferred schools, when my parents could no longer afford private school, we sort of lost track of each other. It didn’t happen all at once, this drifting, but one day in high school, I found myself missing her like crazy but didn’t know if I could call.

And shortly, on my sixteenth birthday, which happened to fall on a regular youth group night, she appeared out of nowhere. Well, almost nowhere. She remembered my birthday, made a cake for me, and had the entire youth group sing to me. Not that it was a large youth group.

That was, I think, my favourite birthday. We launched head first into our friendship again, picking up where we left off as if nothing had happened, as if no time had passed at all.

I remember her saying one night that she valued my friendship because I just accepted her as she was. I didn’t try to live vicariously through her decisions, and I didn’t press her for details or judge her for any mistakes she may have made.

And I tried to treasure her. I tried to hold her close. But as invariably happens, boys. And though we are still friends, and we still pick things up where we left off, I do so regret that time we spent apart.

I wish I could have soaked up more of her friendship.

And five minutes could never do this friendship any kind of justice.

Thus, the only reasons we went to the doctor were for prenatal check-ups and annual check-ups for the kids for their first few years.

And when Nathan’s weight seemed far lower than it should be at his second check-up in February, our doctor wasted no time ordering blood and urine tests to see if there were any indications as to why.

In a small town like Tumbler Ridge, the health centre has the doctors’ offices and the emergency centre. It’s not a hospital, but rather more like a triage centre where nurses and doctors respond to emergencies as they arise. Sometimes patients are stabilized before being sent to the hospital out-of-town.

The day of Nathan’s check-up, our doctor was the emergency on-call physician. As an ambulance with a critical patient was on its way into the clinic, our doctor was a bit rushed. When I noticed Nathan’s actual weight was recorded on a sticky in the exam room, I grabbed it on our way out the door. I noticed that his weight was a full 6 lbs lighter than it had been six months earlier.

When Nathan went back for blood work with a urine sample, he was weighed again and his weight came back where I had expected it to be. The 6 lbs weren’t missing after all.

But, if there hadn’t been an error with the scale in the doctor’s office, our doctor never would have ordered the blood test. And if he hadn’t ordered the blood test, we might never have discovered a low blood platelet count.

Our doctor sent a sample to the nearest pathology lab and we waited, as patiently as possible, for results. Even our doctor was shocked that it took over four weeks to receive them. And when they came back as “normal”, he didn’t leave it at that but instead ordered another blood test to see if Nathan’s platelet count had been temporarily low, as happens sometimes when the body is fighting viruses.

Our family heaved a sigh of relief when the second test results were fine.

We were really blessed to have an attentive family doctor who didn’t let anomalies slide. It’s scary enough to have strange things happen to you and not know the reason, but I think it’s far more terrifying to have no idea what is affecting our children. When a doctor takes the time to follow things through, it can make the world of difference.

So, thank you. Thank you to the doctors who follow-up, who double-check, who work to set anxious mothers at ease.

Thank you, especially, to Dr. Charles Helm, for not accepting a scale-error at face value, but instead following your instincts to ensure there was nothing to worry about.

Shorty after responding to a friend on Facebook who voiced their concerns in this regard, Tim shared a dream he had had just last night. It involved a village of unbelievers, including a few practicing witchcraft. The village was plagued by two tornadoes whenever they didn’t live up to the obligations that the witchcraft had placed on them. There were Christians there, ministering and trying to convert the villagers, but those practicing witchcraft were resistant.

When Tim stood on the shoreline while the two tornadoes approached, they gradually shrunk until they were destroyed and it was revealed they had been demons. The remaining villagers were awestruck and committed their lives to Christ on the spot.

And while his dream was strange, the strangest part was that some of the Christians who had been there first were angry with him for upsetting the apple cart, so to speak. In his dream, they were using the fear of hell to pressure the villagers to convert.

Then the story a friend of ours told about his interactions with voodoo practitioners while on a missions trip in Africa came to mind and a sudden realization of what fear does to us hit me.

Physically, when we our afraid, our bodies respond by pumping adrenaline through our systems. This adrenaline is intended to help us fight or flee, the typical “flight or fight” response. But fear is not a sustainable state. As we find ourselves continually living in fear, our bodies don’t stop producing adrenaline – yet our bodies can’t keep producing adrenaline 24/7 without repercussion. Enter illness, enter clumsiness and a tendency toward accident and mishap.

And I would argue that this is why fear is the greatest weapon the enemy possesses.

If our bodies and minds are weak from fear, how can we stand in the way? Like dominoes, we fall over each other at the flick of a hand, or a few bombs at the end of a marathon*.

This isn’t easy for me to write. I am prone to fear and worry and stress. I, too, wonder what kind of world will my children grow up in, whether we are crazy to have brought three new lives into this havoc. And I’m writing this as a Canadian who has never known violence and malice like that our American neighbours struggle with on a seemingly daily basis.

But as I found myself responding to my friend this morning, hopefully with encouragement, I also found a new resolve.

I’m resolving not to let anyone or anything steal my joy in raising these children. I’m resolving to rest more confidently in God, in Him who gives me strength. I’m resolving to raise my kids by example, to be present for them despite all the fearful things going on around us.

Patton Oswalt had an interesting perspective to share. And I find hope that someone, who may not share my understanding of God, can feel this way about the human race.

In light of all of these things, I know that I want to show my kids how to be the kind of person who runs toward the aftermath, not away from it.
______
* I do not intend to make light of the situation in any way. Bombs going off at all, let alone at an event that should be a celebration, are horrific. I cannot imagine the turmoil. My heart goes out to those directly and indirectly involved – including the first responders and those who stayed to help the injured. My thoughts and prayers are still with you.

But I do miss things about Tumbler Ridge. The top of my list is mountain standard time. For just over six years, I enjoyed not having to change my clocks twice a year. No daylight savings time for the entire Peace Region of the province. The only downside to not changing your clocks? When friends and family living in areas that do observe DST forget and call you at 10:30 at night because it’s only 9:30 for them.

Then there’s the Rockies. Oh, such glorious mountains they are. And we got to live in the foothills, in the shadows. While there are amazing mountains here in the lower mainland, familiar shapes along the horizon that I also love, there’s just something about the Rockies. Not only do they make for great backdrops, they also house numerous waterfalls. The scenery in the area is spectacular. Just another reason to go visit sometime. Don’t believe me? Check out this video by two locals. Yes, this is the same Daniel Helm that discovered the first dinosaur tracks in Tumbler Ridge several years ago.

The community centre, arguably the centre of the community in a literal sense, is also on my list. Not only were facility costs really quite minimal for swimming, skating, and other activities, but there was also a free indoor playground. Oh, how that saved us during times of harsh, -40 degree weather when cabin fever was building and tensions grew stronger.

Another benefit has been the drama group. Ms. Hanna, the insanely humorous director, playwright and sometimes actor, has done a fantastic job of presenting entertaining theatre at an affordable price with a limited group of volunteers. I say limited because the shift work can make participating a little difficult for many who may otherwise be interested in performing. And I know Tim will miss performing there. Hey, I even performed the role of Marley’s Ghost once in an adaptation/sequel of A Christmas Carol (which took place in the afterlife on the premise that Scrooge did not reform).

Toddler Play Area

I think I’m going to find myself missing the health care. While I’ve typically only ever gone to the doctor during pregnancy, there have been a number of instances where my children have benefited greatly from being seen promptly, by a caring physician. I’m still wondering what we will do down here, where family doctors are so busy with little room for new patients. We’re not the kind to see doctors frequently, but I so greatly appreciated seeing a doctor who was aware of the history of his patients and who took pains to see things through. Like a recent issue that arose from Nathan’s annual check up a few months ago.

And last on my list? The daylight in summer. It never truly got dark in the summer. When it came to putting kids to bed, this was not such a great thing. “But Mummy, the sun’s still up! It’s not bedtime!” However, we ended up teaching Abby at two and a half how to read the clock so she knew when it would be bedtime, regardless of the sun’s position. So perhaps that’s not so bad after all.

When I thought about writing this post a few weeks ago, I had a few more things I thought I would miss. But so far I don’t miss those things. Not even a little bit. I might some day, and if I do, I’ll share them. But for now, I guess this is it.