An Open Book

On Turning 40…Please Advise

2016-02-19T18:14:00.000-08:00

My birthday has always been one of my favourite days of the year. Ok. It is my favourite day of the year. Or at least, it was. This year I will be saying goodbye to my thirties. You know, the decade we lump together with the twenties. That was really great. Sigh. I know this is all about perspective and everyone over 40 reading this is rolling their eyes at me. But I am not 50 thinking 40 is young. I’m 39 damn it. And this is hard.

Just 4 - no zero

I have always loved my birthday because, well, I love being special. It’s likely a by-product of me being a first born - you know, thinking I’m special all the time. I also love getting presents. There’s no point to censoring myself at this point - I’m turning 40 - I can say whatever I want now, right? My birthday parties have never been particularly lavish but they have always been great. Well, except maybe my 30th birthday when Eric threw me a family pot-luck in our backyard. That was only ok.

I also love planning and throwing parties and Eric and I have become quite good at it. I have learned - finally - that the key to being a good host is drinking. I am the much nicer, more relaxed version of myself with a couple of one ounce Cosmos in me (I feel I've mentioned this before). I therefore assumed that I would want a big party for my fortieth. But the closer it gets I am not so sure and I don’t know why. I think I would want a hand in planning it and that seems, well, wrong. But is it? I feel like I don’t actually want the attention for this particular birthday. I also sometimes feel like big parties are actually quite impersonal and maybe the introvert in me wants a little more one-one-one time with my close friends for this one.

Oh, 40. My magic number is 27. That’s the age my mind tells me I am. Maybe it’s because that’s the year I had my first child. ‘Life’ was still fully ahead of me. For so much of our lives we don’t think about the passing of time. We just live. Then there is a shift and all of sudden we become acutely aware that time is finite. And I’ve always had a thing with ‘the end’. Somewhere on this laptop is a dusty blog about the obituary I want written and the vision I have of my own funeral. (I’ll post it, but only with some begging.)

So to mark the occasion of turning 40, I want your opinion. And I know many of you are also turning 40 this year. Go 1976! I’ll likely just do what I want anyway but I’m hoping something someone says will resonate with me. What do you think about celebrating a fortieth? What would you want? What did you do? What would you have done differently? Milestone birthdays are quite personal and I know there will be quite a range of responses. I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts in the comment section below.

How are you? Terrible actually, and you?

2016-02-07T17:02:00.000-08:00

How are you? We ask this question all the time. It is the English language’s equivalent to scratching an itch. You have an itch, you scratch it. You see a human, you say hi, how are you? It is an automated question for most of us; just like its response - good thanks, how are you? How the heck else would we begin a conversation with people?

We also ask how are you? in a compassionate way to people who are going through a difficult time like a break-up, a divorce, an illness, a death or some other kind of loss. What kind of jerk would a person have to be to not ask a person suffering how they are? Well, now that it’s in writing it seems a little less…compassionate, doesn’t it?

I am confident in saying that when people are going through a tough time the LAST thing they want is every person they bump into asking them how they are. Would you like a little salt with that wound? The recipient of such an unfortunate question really only has three options to respond with: lie and say they are fine, thanks with a forced smile; give you the sordid details of their suffering only to have to tell it all over to the next person who asks them how they are; or say I’m shit actually and walk away.

How many times have I done this in my life? I just did it yesterday. What kind of answer did I expect? What kind of answer do we ever expect? We are trying to be kind but instead we are just inflicting a little bit more discomfort to an already unfortunate situation. Haven’t we all been in a situation where we have dreaded someone asking us how we are? Do I want to ask my newly divorced staff member how he is? Am I prepared to have a grown man crying in my arms? Of course I’m not.

How are you? is actually a deeply personal question when asked of someone struggling. It should be reserved for the ones most closest to us. The ones we can actually be honest with, cry with, yell at, curse in front of and even curse at. The rest of us, most of us, don’t have the right to this information.

There is a better way to show we care. It will just take a lot of practice to override that automated response we always default to. Here are some things we can say to people when we want them to know we care:

Hey. I’m thinking about you. Let me know if you need anything.

It’s nice to see you out. I hope you’re doing okay.

Welcome back. It’s great to see you. We’ve missed you.

Well, that’s all I’ve got right now but at least it’s a start. How could I have been such a jerk all this time? Challenge yourself to abandon asking the dreaded how are you? to a person who would rather stick a fork through their hand than answer that well-intentioned yet super annoying and insensitive question.

My Surprise Affair

2015-08-05T10:47:00.000-07:00

It began so innocently. We had offered our home to visiting dance instructors for one week in the summer. We decided that would be a good time for Eric to take the kids to visit his family state-side and I would stay home to host our guest. When Robbie arrived, I knew he was the one.

It was no secret that I had been in the market for a gay best friend for quite some time. There was such an allure for that kind of relationship that, so far, had alluded me. All the gay men I knew were already attached. They don’t last long, gone as fast as an amazing shirt at Winners. Scooped up before the rest of us have a chance. Gay men offer the no strings attached, no competition, fashion-forward, hang out in your pyjamas and talk all night kind of bond that women want and need.

Robbie was almost perfect. The problem? He was out of my league. His 24th birthday would be on the upcoming Saturday for god’s sake. I can barely consider myself in my thirties anymore. He also graduated from Juilliard. Let me repeat that he graduated from Juilliard. Before I had time to think about what I was saying I was telling him how much I loved watching Fame when I was younger. Fame? Really? I was in trouble of losing him. He lives in NYC which sealed the deal that he was the one for me. It was time to bring my A game to the table.

I made sure I had the house stocked with all the food I knew he liked; yogurt, nuts, fruits, greens, eggs and easy on the gluten. I had done my research. I did my best to hide our cans of Alphaghetti in the cupboard. I cleaned the house, sprinkled lavender oil everywhere, lit a Kate Spade candle and selected the perfect Songza mix.

It was the next night that my dreams of a straight woman, gay man relationship were realized. I met him at the dance studio so we could walk home together. We discussed dinner and settled on cooking at home. We stopped at the butcher and shopped for food together. We talked on the way back and it was all so natural. At home we put on another perfect music mix. We drank wine (yes, I drank wine), we prepared food, we took our time, we set the table and then we ate a leisurely dinner together. I was giddy with the reality this was actually happening. I sent a few secret texts to my friends to let them know how it was going and, let’s face it, to brag a little.

A half a bottle of six percent wine from Sobey’s later, I told him that he was what I had been looking for. I shared my insecurities about our age difference. He told me I looked great and that I was very youthful. I bit my lip. We ended our evening admiring Jamie Dornan in the first episode of The Fall and called it a night.

I know that this can’t last. How could it? Me here. Him in New York, jet-setting as a dancer in his prime. But it was good while it lasted. Really good. And I’ll always be his loyal follower on Instagram. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be different. I have to go now…he’s meeting me for tea.

Saying Goodbye

2014-02-12T11:05:00.002-08:00

I have never been good at saying goodbye. When my grandparents sold their farm, one of my favourite places on earth, I chose not to attend the final family gathering; and therefore never had an ‘official’ last visit. The same thing when my mom sold the house I grew up in. I chose not to go back one last time to say goodbye. I just couldn’t face the finality of it. But I was not going to be able to avoid saying goodbye to Lucas. Lucas, our Brazilian son, who lived with us for five short months.

We will miss Lucas’s laughter and quiet awesomeness. We will (actually) miss taking him to all of his practices and games and to the gym for his marathon workouts. We will miss his wrestling with Nicholas and their cuddles. We will miss the laughter and joy he brought to our home and our lives just by being here. Sometimes goodbye is so huge. And even in this age it feels so final. He was a part of our family - dirty clothes on the ground and all - and his leaving has left a void that will only dull with time.

The day he was set to leave was emotional. Both Eric and I found ourselves teary eyed and weepy all day. There were calls from friends and sad goodbyes from his 10 year old buddies. As we pulled out of the driveway the gravity of watching our house disappear was too much and Lucas wept. The rest of the short drive to the bus was silent - which is the first time since having children we have ever had a silent car ride. We all cried as we waved goodbye to him as the bus pulled away and walked to our car a smaller and changed family.

When we got home we all ended up in his bedroom; the place where we could feel closest to him. We all cried and we weren’t embarrassed or trying to hide it. I allowed myself to feel the void that his absence had created. And I was ok with my kids seeing me cry - a lot.

While Lucas was so real to us, it won’t be long before this experience and his presence in our lives become just a memory. I wonder what will Chloe remember? At three, her relationship with Lucas will be relegated to the pictures in an album and stories we share with her. Mia will remember more. And she will take with her something from this that she will learn about in little ways as the years pass. For Nicholas, the impact was the greatest and he will remember the most about his time with his Brazilian brother (like learning what 4/20 is).

It’s interesting how our lives have a way of evaporating into the past. All the moments we take for granted, the daily routines that are what make up most of our lives and even the special moments we think we’ll never forget - it all just becomes part of our blurred past. What won’t leave us from this experience is the affirmation that being open to something different can mean something wonderful. It hurts to have lost Lucas but it was certainly worth it.

Maybe, hopefully, we will see Lucas again. Eric and Nicholas hope it is in Brazil during Carnival (with lots of half-naked women). Wishful thinking.

A Comfortable Silence

2013-11-16T14:12:00.002-08:00

Eric and I were recently able to escape our real life for a quick getaway to Toronto. I absolutely love these mini-vacations away from the house and our kids. And no matter how much we may not be able to stand each other when we leave; we always reconnect quickly and remember why we got married in the first place. Before we left, we worked like mad to clean the house, wash the sheets and leave it all in relatively good condition for our return. We packed up three overnight bags for the kids (plus a thousand accessories) and shuffled them off to three different locations. I barely recall what it meant to only be responsible for myself. Now even the dogs need a babysitter and some sort of coordinated effort.

Like everyone I know who is in the business of raising a young family, we are busy. Crazy busy. Sometimes we feel stranded in a perpetual state of demand: from our kids, our jobs and our domestic responsibilities. So when I get the opportunity to step outside of it all and breathe in the joy of time away, I take it without hesitation. And I generally don’t feel guilty about it. I am no martyr of motherhood. I need me time. I love me time. I need time with just my husband. I love time with just him.

We had a nice drive in, each with our favourite drink; I like tea and he prefers coffee. We spent the time chatting, mildly arguing and sitting in comfortable silence. After more than thirteen years together it’s all very normal and, I suppose, just the way we like it. Lunch was the first thing on our agenda. We wondered around Queen St. and in very typical fashion made the act of finding a restaurant an extremely complicated event. I insisted we talk about our choices and decide together and he kept saying he didn’t care. We walked in and out of the same places several times before I felt I could make a decision. We ordered – breakfast for me and lunch for him.

For almost two hours we sat with our lunch. We read the paper, checked our phones, and talked briefly about articles we were reading. It occurred to me that not so long ago I had watched couples like us (usually they were further on in years, much further) and felt sorry for them. How sad that out for lunch together they couldn’t find anything to talk about and instead chose to read the paper, occasionally exchanging sections; barely looking up while the sections crossed the table. I simply misunderstood.

What is not seen in the quiet moments when a couple sits across from one another in silence are all the threads that tie them together. And while the affection between us may be far more subtle than when we first met, it is far deeper. We sat together, connected as a couple but also taking space for ourselves. It is in these quiet moments together that the pieces of our relationship (which sometimes seems as though they are simply floating all around us) come together to make the complicated yet perfect puzzle that is simply us.

I am already planning our next escape.

Dragons Live Forever Part II

2013-10-05T17:15:00.001-07:00

I wish I could enrol in a parenting course. I need it desperately. Just when I think I have a handle on the whole concept, my confidence evaporates and I feel like I have messed up my children for life. If a parenting course were to be designed for me in my most current state it might be called Back off Bitch: How Not to Ruin Your Children’s Bright and Happy Future with your Constant Overanalyses of Everything they do. Sounds about perfect.

What they always tell you about being a parent but what you can never really believe is that it never gets any easier. When I had my first baby I knew that nothing in the world could be harder than being a first time mom. And then when I had a toddler and a baby I knew no one could possibly be busier than me. And now, with three children and ten years of parenting under my belt, I finally understand what those people meant.

My son is just about to turn ten. Ten. Wow. I can cry just thinking about it. Where have the years gone? Looking back, it was so easy when it was so hard. (Ok, now I’m starting to really get choked up and I’m in a coffee shop. Get yourself together!) There was a lot to deal with but it was so uncomplicated. Now, there is texting and girls and his ability to make his own (sometimes important) decisions. Decisions that I am not sure are always best. Unfortunately, and the reason for a needed parenting course, I don’t always know what is best. I don’t know when it is okay to let him figure things out on his own and fail and when I really need to intervene. And maybe his choices that I so do not understand make perfect sense to him. It is a precarious position between over-parenting and under-parenting. (Oh great, now there’s a little four year old boy with a pretend helmet on excited for Halloween and I’m sitting here missing my little four year old boy and the tears are really coming.)

Our dreams for our children and the visions we have of ourselves as parents are so grand in the beginning. Then there is reality. When they are small it feels as though you have their whole life to mold them and teach them and model what it means to be a good human being. And then all of a sudden they have turned into actual little grown up people and you realize how messy (literally and figuratively) it has been along the way and you’re not sure if you did any of it right.

It is just so hard sometimes; and so beautiful at the same time. We are meant to raise our kids to become who they were meant to be. To nurture their little souls with the knowledge that one day they will not need us. But the transition is not easy. It is marked with uncertainty and doubt. And while preparing them to grow their proverbial wings we sometimes want to clip them so our children will not fly too fast too soon.

All we can do is our best. Even if some days my best looks like a crazy person has been left in charge. I have to accept that I won’t always know what to do or say and that sometimes I am going to get it wrong, way wrong. It is hard to let our children grow up. It is also amazing and wonderful. It is a poignant moment when you realize your children are not actually yours. They belong to themselves and we have but a short time to prepare them for their journey. No one said it would be easy and they were right. Everyone said these will be the best days of my life and, they too, were right.

Haunting Photos

2013-06-15T17:45:00.002-07:00

When I was in fourth grade, my friend had a book of haunted stories. The picture on the front of the book was the outline of a faint ghost floating through a forest. I was fascinated by this book and how terribly fearful it made me feel. I was especially haunted by this photo on the cover. I asked to bring it home one night but it haunted my sleep and I got rid of it the very next day. But this is not a story about those kinds of haunting photos.

This is a story about far more terrifying pictures and ones that haunt me far more deeply. I am talking about the thousands of photos I have stored on my computer. Almost the entirety of my life since the digital age began. I am overwhelmed by photos and I fear I will never catch up. I will never be able to go through and print and catalogue all of the amazing photos of us, our kids, our family and our friends.

I kept up for a while. I would go to the photo store for marathon sessions of selecting, cropping and taking out red eye. It cost me hundreds of dollars per time but I would have tackled almost a whole year of photos. Currently, I think I am three years behind. THREE YEARS! Do you know how many photos that is? You probably do because I am sure you take ten photos of the same shot just like me. And then how do you choose? They’re all so great.

It’s not like the old days (really, I’m saying that?). It was a one shot deal and you didn’t get to see it until you got the roll of film developed. And each one was so special. And still is. And it didn’t matter if someone had their eyes closed and someone else wasn’t looking. It just captured the moment as it was.

Everyone loves to sit down with a photo album; to turn its pages and remember a time gone by. Albums need to be created. Photos are not meant to sit on a computer never to be looked at again. But our digital cameras and phones, while inspiring us to take more photos than ever, have actually left us with a void of actual pictures to look at.

Well, there is no time like the present. I need to go through my photos and spend the hours upon hours it is going to require to bring them to life in actual print. They’re worth it. The memory each photo gives to us is worth it. I want my kids to have mini time capsules of their lives just like I do of mine. Even if it only happens once in a while it really is pure joy to sit on a couch curled up with your past and hug it one more time before you place it back on the shelf.

Air Supply and a Good Mixed Tape

2013-04-06T15:38:00.000-07:00

Hello all my my new, old and faithful readers. I want to thank you for taking time to be here and for reading my random thoughts. I want you to know how much I appreciate that you bother and I especially appreciate when you take the time to leave a comment. If you don't already I would LOVE if you would take a moment to either join this site or follow me by email. Sometimes I just need to know you're out there :)

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Recently on a long drive home I got caught up in a good (make that great) Air Supply song (I have a vague recollection of belting out said song in a downtown Keg drunk off two Keg -size strawberry daiquiris – have I mentioned how much more fun I am when I’m drunk?) It got me to thinking about the numerous mixed tapes I once spent hours in my bedroom making. Mixed tapes that were mostly full of sappy (but amazing) love songs that I made in memory of a dead, or dying, relationship. There were also tapes made that captured the great classics of the day. Bust a Move (or Buster Move as I believed it to be called for a shamefully long period of time) got a lot of air play on many of my mixed beauties in eighth grade.

And then there were the hours I spent compiling the perfect mixed tape for the many loves of my life – I am happily married to the actual love of my life but the folly of my youth was to believe that every boy who gave me enough attention (and even those who didn’t) was worthy of this title. Those mixed tapes were special. Time was devoted to the careful printing of each song on the cover of the tape – and even the singer/band if the spacing was well-planned enough.

The art of the mixed tape and sending it off as a love letter, that in essence captured that moment in time in so many ways, has been lost. It has been replaced by the playlist and with it the romance has died. Today’s youth will never know the joy of giving or receiving a tape that expresses to the loves of their lives what only a great love song can. They will never know the joy of rediscovering an aged tape – deep inside a box at the back of your closet – one that when you see it you are instantly transported back in time. It’s sad I think - an archive of the past never to be.

The same can be said of the love note whose ink was thoughtfully put to paper by your one and only; a record of a fourteen year old or twenty year old’s devotion to you. The love letter left us with the advent of email and the nail in the coffin is our new obsession with texting. An entire generation will not have a box of letters to rummage through – one that chronicles their romantic triumphs and follies.

Even the phone call doesn’t exist anymore. Who doesn’t remember sitting beside their awesome purple phone from Zellers and hoping that if they stared at it long enough they could actually will it to ring? Who doesn’t remember talking to their boyfriend or girlfriend for so long it felt like your ear was going to fall off? What was really great about those days was the fact that we, like everyone else, had only one phone line and my idiotic sisters (whom I love dearly now) would absolutely ruin my life by picking up the phone a thousand times during one phone call yelling at me to get off the phone.

We need to remember the importance of creating records of our lives that won’t be lost in cyber space forever. Listening to Air Supply reminded me of the importance of all of these pieces of the past. A good song always stirs feelings in us and those feelings need to be captured in some way. And while I won’t be making anymore mixed tapes I will be sure to try and continue writing notes to my husband and children so we all have something to hold onto and remember once the moment has passed.

A few gems I found -without having to look too hard.
I particularly like the Mega Mix from Hell title - classic

The Mega Mix from Hell playlist - I know you were curious

A book I made for Eric that holds all of our correspondence
from just the first year we met

Coffee Shop Therapy

2013-03-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

I came to the coffee shop today to write. It had been far too long since I had opened my computer to do anything other than see what my friends were saying on Facebook and checking the hockey schedule. I came to be inspired, to be alone and to feel cool – you know, alone in a coffee shop with an open computer kind of cool.

I bumped into a woman I do not know very well and whom I had not seen in years. She lost her husband a while ago and as we waited for our hot beverages she caught me up on where life has taken her. She too has three children all in their early to mid-twenties now. She met a new man, married him and now lives between Ireland and Toronto keeping in touch with her children via Skype and as many visits as they can manage.

In line, waiting to order my tea, talking with a woman whom I only casually know, I became very emotional. And I do not hide these things well - my eyes instantly red and glistening. It was just so striking how life can change in an instant and its trajectory forever altered. She could have never known, with her young family and her busy life, just what the future had in store for her. I was struck in that moment how the life I have now, the one I count on, curse and love, may not - will not - be my life forever. It seems like only yesterday her kids were so young – just like mine – and now they have carved out lives of their own. Of course this is what we want for our kids; it just seems sad in a way that these days are destined to slip away. (Oh great, now I am really obviously emotional and alone in a coffee shop. Cool factor - 0, weird factor - 10.)

It seems like only yesterday I was playing doubles against her husband and he has been gone for eight years. The life they had, the one they thought was forever, only a memory. I know first-hand that there are no guarantees. That my own Dad, the one who was going to be the best Grandpa ever, would never hold or know any of his grandchildren. It seems like only yesterday that I was living with my parents and sisters in a life that I thought was going to go on forever. Where did all those days go? Our memories are tricky because they make every moment feel ‘like it was only yesterday’.

This chance encounter, this reminder that life is precariously in the balance of something far beyond our control offered me a needed moment of reflection. We can’t, we shouldn’t and we won’t ever live our lives appreciating and wallowing in every moment in an attempt to hold onto them. I experience happiness, frustration, joy and complete annoyance in good balance because I am human not because I do not appreciate my life or take it for granted.

I cannot imagine my life without Eric. I cannot imagine my life without our three kids all living and fighting and laughing under one roof. Change is difficult and sometimes it is so gradual we don’t even notice it. Other times, it hits so hard that we are not sure how we will face another day. I was given a glimpse today; a glimpse into a future that may be unrecognizable to me now. Sometimes ignorance really is best and I will keep living like this is the only life I will ever know. When change comes, whether it creeps up or slaps me in the face, I will deal with it then. For now, I will go home to my family and appreciate the gift that they are and then probably yell at someone.

Apparently, I'm a Failure

2013-02-10T06:12:00.000-08:00

I have been spending a lot of time on Pinterest lately. I haven’t actually done anything with any of my Pins yet but I have a great collection of inspiring ideas should I ever get the time to pursue one of them. The other day I came across this poster which highlights (in someone’s opinion anyway) the traits of successful and unsuccessful people. ‘Cool’ I thought. I immediately aligned myself with the ‘Successful’ lady on the left. I was just about to hit Repin when I glanced at some of the traits of the sad looking ‘Unsuccessful’ fellow:

Watches TV everyday – is there something wrong with that?

Fears Change – a little

Flies by the seat of their pants – most of the time – oh God, this isn’t looking good

Talks about others – only to make myself feel better!

Exudes anger – well, I rarely smile and SO much annoys me

I was horrified to find that I am actually a very unsuccessful person. How could I repin this? I would be a laughing stalk. Clearly, since I could recognize these negative traits in me (part of my journey to self-awareness) then others have certainly already noticed my deficiencies. I certainly have a couple of the qualities from the ‘Successful People’ side but they fall under the category of ‘Sometimes’ for me. I think the poster needs to reflect people like me a little more – the Once in a While Successful People.

And then I remembered this was a Pinterest poster. How can it know with its colourful design and stick figures if I am successful or not. It doesn’t know that my moments of crazy are balanced by moments of my own small triumphs. That just because I sometimes hide my kid’s candy so I can eat it doesn’t mean I don’t love them. It’s just like when I am on Facebook and I notice that some people have close to 500 friends. I’m practically a loser by Facebook standards yet I am surrounded by great friends. And my house looks nothing like the homes on Houzz but I am (mostly) happy in our home.

The poster still scares me a little and I suppose I will try and emulate more of the qualities on the green side than the yellow. Thankfully my life happens outside of the world of the internet and all its social sites that think they know how to live my life better than I do. I may not look that pretty on paper but it all feels great from here – most of the time.

Six Pack

2013-01-19T18:32:00.000-08:00

I think I once wrote that I didn’t mind the few extra pounds I put on around Christmas time. I must have written that bit of crap after walking by a skinny mirror. Because right now - with those few (six) extra pounds I have put on since summer that are pressing not so gently against the button of my pants - I mind a lot.

I have committed several times over to gaining some control back in terms of my eating. But it is like some sort of sick self-sabotage. As soon as I decide I want to be less gluttonous my body revolts by binging on anything and everything it can. The other day was going to be ‘the’ day. You know, the first day of it all. The first day, as anyone who has ever attempted to lose weight knows, is the most important day of the weight loss process. Anyway, I was doing so well right up until four o’clock. It was then that all the sacrifice I had made in the last nine, long hours came undone. It started with a plate of spaghetti followed immediately by two bowls of Frosted Flakes. Feeling satisfied (as if I had been stranded without food for days) I thought the relapse was over. But, upon returning from a brief excursion I proceeded to make myself a large plate pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. I had consumed an entire day’s worth of food in just a few short hours; another day one, another shameful failure.

I am certainly not interested in losing weigh with the latest trend in weight loss. I’d rather be glutton free than gluten free. And I’d rather eat less, real food than drink a shake made from a powder. I don’t need a fad diet to help me lose weight. I need will power! I need to eat less than the (well over) 2000 calories a day I am currently consuming. I know lots of people who prefer these methods (my sister included) but they require a whole other level of commitment that I am just not prepared to give.

What I also need is a boot camp and I need it badly. Not that I really want go through all that work again. And at this point I would need a pre-boot camp just to get me in shape enough for a proper boot camp. Oh these first world problems of mine.

One day my ‘first day’ effort will hold and then, if I am lucky, I will have a succession of days when the chip bag stays closed, the row of cookies untouched and the cereal (late at night) stays in the cupboard.

Don’t get me wrong. I love food (obviously) and I have a healthy relationship with it. It’s just at this moment - when parts of my body are touching other parts of my body that should really be nowhere near each other - the time for action has come. And action will come. Soon. I hope.

December 14, 2012

2012-12-20T20:19:00.001-08:00

I have been meaning to repost my blog from last year on gifts of writing for Christmas for a couple of weeks now. And I am going to do that today but not without first saying a few words on the horrific events of Friday, December 14.

I have been watching the news and trying to keep up with the details. I want to know about the children and their families. I want to talk to people about it even though it makes me cry every time.

Putting my six year old daughter to bed the other night I was simply overcome. As she drifted off to sleep, her head was rested in my lap and I purposely had my hand on her chest over her heart so I could feel it beating and be calmed by the rush of air flowing in and out of her little body. I stroked her face and her golden curls and wept.

I wept for the mothers and fathers who will never hold their beautiful children again. I wept for their broken families and for the small, happy lives forever interrupted. Since that fateful Friday, I have still been the same mom I was before. I have been upset with my kids and annoyed with their usual antics. I have rolled my eyes at the mess they walk away from and yelled at them to stop fighting. But, in the quiet moments, especially with my six year old, I have found myself lingering longer and holding tighter.

And so, because we are lucky enough that we still can, why not take up my challenge of giving a gift of writing for Christmas to let someone close to you know how you feel. Take a moment to turn your feelings into words and your words into a poem. This year I have included more specific tips (thanks to Nancie Atwell) to guide you along. Last year I only know of two people who actually did this – and they were a couple! I have once again included the poem I wrote for my daughter. I wanted to capture her love of Christmas and how we share that love together. I still have to write another one for this year and, like you, I have less than a week to do it.

Merry Christmas Everyone!
#26

Tips for Writing Your Poems

1.       Brainstorm some things about the person you want to write about. What makes them special? What traditions do you share? What kinds of things define your relationship? Remember, these poems do not have to be about Christmas!

2.       How to break (end) the lines of poems – end on strong words (nouns, verbs, adjectives) and not on words like and, the, as, then, etc.

3.       Leads – begin inside the idea of your poem. Poems don’t need background information or explanation. Begin inside the experience.

4.       Conclusions – the ending should leave the reader with a feeling, idea or image. Don’t drag your poem on too long – end it when you’ve said what you wanted to say. Consider the echo structure – repeat an idea or line from the beginning.

5. Cut it down – “I know a poem is finished when I can’t find another word to cut.” Bobbi Katz. Get rid of unimportant words and ineffective repetitions.

Good luck!

A sampling of gifts written by my students

Torturous Tradtions

2012-12-07T19:01:00.000-08:00

2010 - full cooperation

Several years ago it became tradition to dress the kids up in their new Christmas pajamas, sit them in front of the tree and snap a photo to include in our Christmas cards. I can’t exactly remember how this started but I assume on some distant Christmas past when the kids were acting all jolly around the tree a spontaneous picture was taken and thus began the yearly photo. Well, as of Christmas present, I am officially retiring the tradition.

Instead of jolly children huddled round the tree with anticipation and family love gleaming in their eyes, I have one who is too cool, one that will not sit down for more than one quick snap (and let’s face it – I usually take about fifty trying to find the perfect ‘spontaneous’ shot) and only one - my current favourite - who was trying her hardest to make the whole thing happen.

A picture of a picture :) of this year's photo.
I particularly love the green balloon in the background.

This year’s photo was a complete fiasco. It began with bribing large amounts of candy right before bedtime so my two year old would let me do her hair. Then there was convincing my nine year old to put on his Christmas pajamas. As it was happening I felt like I was watching the scene from A Christmas Story when Ralphie has to wear the pink bunny outfit from Aunt Clara. I will not put him through this again. Then there was me, not at my best, yelling at everyone – even the dogs. (Note: I just went upstairs to get my daughter toilet paper and got sidetracked having a mother-son chat about the whole thing leaving said daughter stranded on the toilet for an unacceptable amount of time.)

1990

I could see the pain in my son’s eyes as I was yelling at him to sit closer to his sister and look happy for crying out loud. I remember those moments from my own past. We used to have to go for a ‘family’ walk to a bridge where we camp to get a photo of my sisters and me in the same spot every year. It was the worst part of going camping and you can see by my forced smile in every photo, spanning many years, that I was miserable. Why would I intentionally do that to my own kids? Or looking back, why didn’t I just cooperate to make my mom happy?

Interestingly, although I was only able to take one photo, it actually isn’t that bad and will probably make it into this year’s card. And unless all three of my children spontaneously sit around the tree in their Christmas pajamas again, it will probably be the last of its kind. It feels a little sad to grow out of a tradition. I can feel us being pulled away from some of the things we have always done as the kids get older. But I will not be a crazy person (on this matter anyway) and relentlessly force my family into something that inevitably makes all of us miserable.

Next year, I will look for a picture that captures my three kids as they are – imperfectly perfect – just the way I like them (after I’ve had a chance to reflect anyway).

1984 - I love these old shots. I have had many
discussions with my mother about this hair
cut she gave me. Even my daughter hates to
look at it.

Holiday Happiness

2012-11-24T10:17:00.000-08:00

I came home from work yesterday giddy with the anticipation of decorating the house for Christmas. Eric pulled out all of the bins o’ Christmas so that everything would be ready to go. You see last year, when my daughter and I decided it was time to decorate, by the time we pulled everything out the moment had passed. It was very anti-climactic. I made a mental note to be much better prepared next time.

Decorating this year had all of its usual charm – and its shenanigans. There was a healthy dose of happiness and excitement mixed with equal parts fighting and meltdowns (adults included). For a long time I held onto the fantasy of decorating my house as it was before children. You know, Christmas music playing, sipping tea, shedding a tear while I pulled out ornaments from my past – it was wonderful. I came to hate my kids on decorating day – they were ruining everything! They were breaking sentimental ornaments, crying and trying to put their crappy crafts on my beautiful tree.

I don’t think my daughter will ever forget when she was admiring a snow globe my youngest sister gave me in 1993! and then proceeded to accidentally drop it on the floor. All I could do was watch in horror as it smashed – and scream - a primal scream that has probably emotionally scarred my poor daughter for life.

I do love to hear the kids excited about decorations they remember from Christmases past. I still remember those from my own childhood. There was the silver bell that played, well, Silver Bells that hung in our kitchen, the red wax carolers that we placed on the mantle and the patterned cloth of knotted spices that hung on the back of our door. I can even remember the smell of my house at Christmas – it was a combination of the wax and spices. Oh how I loved Christmas as a child and all the magic it held. Over time, special traditions have continued while some slip away to make room for new ones. I think it is the ones that have slipped away that make me look back with such fond nostalgia.

1983

Time, patience and wisdom have taught me to enjoy decorating with children. It is still wonderful. It is just different. I suppose I have significantly lowered my expectations. We now have two trees – one for white lights and glass ornaments that I have had since I was a teenager and a real tree with coloured lights and all of the homemade ornaments it can hold. I decorate in spite of the crying and fighting. I just tune it out and carry on like they are not even there. I still cry when I pull out ornaments but now I cry when I see those crappy crafts that hold a moment in time from one of my children’s past – a traced hand, a scribble or a picture of their beautiful face.

*****************************************************************

And now, a list of what I consider Christmas musts.

Happy Christmas! (That’s British for Merry Christmas and sometimes I secretly wish I was British)

Music

Songza – This is an app for your ipod and there is also Songza.com. It is a compilation of amazing playlists for whatever mood you are in and there is even a concierge to help you find the right play list. It has been playing the perfect mix of holiday music for hours on end in our house.

I have come to the conclusion that one of my favourite Christmas songs is Do They Know It’s Christmas Time? Weird, I know.

Movies
I know that I am not going to be telling most of you anything new but here is a list of the movies that I try to watch every Christmastime.

It’s A Wonderful Life

I force Eric to watch this with me every Christmas Eve after the kids have gone to bed while we finishing wrapping gifts. I love everything about this movie.

The Family Man

A Christmas classic (I think) with Nicolas Cage as a single businessman who gets a glimpse of the life he missed by not having a family.

Elf

Will Ferrell as a man-elf. I laughed my ass off with a bunch of ten year old strangers in the movie theatre when I first saw this. My kid’s favourite.

The Holiday

Cameron Diaz, Kate Winslet, Jude Law and Jack Black. It thought everyone had seen this movie by now but I just introduced it to a friend for the first time. I LOVE this movie.

Love Actually

Another GREAT movie. Really, if you haven’t seen this where have you been??? NOT for children.

A Christmas Story
This one just gets better every time I watch it. A great family night kind of movie.

Christmas Vacation

Probably the best Christmas movie ever made. (The period at the end of the sentence should be said out loud)

Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas

The Polar Express

Feel free to keep the list going by leaving your ideas in the comments list!

The Best of Me

2012-11-03T18:23:00.001-07:00

I am not always proud of the things I think, say or do. I try and hold myself to high moral standards but I fall dramatically short on a daily basis. Sometimes I pick up garbage I walk by and sometimes I just look guiltily at it and keep going. Sometimes after I speak with someone who rubs me the wrong way I just keep it to myself and other times I unleash a verbal bashing that could very likely send me straight to hell. The other morning, on my way into a meeting at ‘head office’ I had a moment that, had it been caught on camera (oh God I hope it wasn’t caught on camera), would confirm that I am a horrible person.

Ok. Let’s go back to that morning. I left the house with about two minutes to spare to get downtown, pick myself up a cup of tea, stop at the bakery for a muffin and get on my way to my out of town meeting. It was raining that morning and for some reason I skipped my rain coat for my wrap – bad move. I arrived at the meeting with exactly two minutes to spare and now all I had to do was walk into the building.

Let me go back to earlier in the morning when I spent a large portion of my getting ready time straightening my hair. Now, when I straighten my hair I expect it to last me three days – no moisture is to come into contact with it and I take great pains to protect it. Why, you may (or may not) be asking yourself did I not wear a raincoat with a hood then? An excellent question to which there is no answer.

Before I got out of the car I took off my wrap and draped it over my head. As I walked around to the passenger door to get my material (a large box) for the meeting and my tea my wrap kept sliding down and covering my eyes. I had it mostly stabilized when I picked up the box and carefully balanced my tea on top. I had a long way to walk to the front door but I had seen a woman walk to the back of the building which was much closer to my car so I tried to follow her into the building that way.

My walk to those doors must have looked like I was attempting some sort of new-wave martial art while I tried to keep my cloak on my head and my tea on my box. I was lifting my knees, bending my head forward and walking like I was straddling something. It was so awkward and humiliating but I was determined to do it. When I got to the back doors they were of course locked. I used my knee to balance the box again and tried knocking. Wasn’t there anyone to help a woman clearly in distress?

I turned away irritated and headed for the front doors. Seconds later my coat began to slip and I tried desperately to keep it in place without using my unavailable hands. But my moves must have been too abrupt and my tea (that I drove downtown to get) began to slip. There was nothing I could do but watch it fall and explode on the ground. It lay in pieces – cup, lid, tea bag- in a puddle of tea and an actual puddle. This was clearly not my finest hour.

Shamefully, I looked around, pulled my wrap down one more time and said F*** it. That’s right. I just walked away from the mess I had made at my place of employment. Not to mention how incriminating the garbage was. I might have been one of only two people who drove in from Stratford and I was carrying a cup that was very distinctly from Stratford. Once I had composed myself in the meeting, I knew I would go back before leaving to clean up my mess. I also thought a photo of the tea cup carnage would make a great visual to go along with the story I knew I was going to write about. I was mortified when I returned and found someone else had already cleaned it up (and let’s face it I was disappointed to lose the visual).

And all of this for my hair - vanity at its worst. Had I seen one of my own children acting the way I did that morning – like an idiot I would have told them to smarten up and give their head a shake. And had I further seen them drop something and just leave it on the ground I would have told them I was ashamed of them and that I had raised them better.

Yes, I have many moments that are less than shining. Moments, that if I were to be judged by, would certainly secure my place in Dante’s inferno and probably cost me most of my friends. But there is more to me than just my worst of me. I can be selfish, difficult, high maintenance and a litter bug for sure but not always and thankfully, our friends, those we can really trust will laugh at worst parts of us because the best of us it worth it.

This is very close to the way I looked that morning except I was carrying the box balancing my tea and I wasn't smiling.

Fa la la la la

2012-10-27T16:18:00.003-07:00

Can you feel it? It is almost here. There are handmade tombstones on our front lawn, there is Halloween candy in the dish and the kid’s costumes are ready to go. And yet, I find myself wishing for Halloween to hurry up and get over with so I can start playing my Christmas CDs. Oh yes, the Christmas spirit, while still under the surface, is beginning to swell inside me. This might make some of you stop reading right now but I am not ashamed of my love for all things Christmas.

No, you won’t hear me complaining about stores decorating for Christmas too early. Christmas music and the whole holiday season is the most beautiful time of the year and I want to wallow in it as long as possible. Even the kids are feeling it. Just the other day they asked if we could watch Elf for family night. It is a true Christmas classic (I was proud of them for this selection) but I had to resist my own temptation and convince them that Hocus Pocus was a more reasonable choice for this time of year.

I used to think November was the worst month of the year – so dark and gloomy – what was I thinking? It is another full month to enjoy all that is Christmas. I do try and wait until after Remembrance Day to pull out any decorations. I don’t want to be tacky. It is always a little strange as well to be in full-blown Christmas mode and then head to Buffalo to celebrate the super late American Thanksgiving with my husband’s family.

Ah, it seems like just yesterday we were splashing in the waves at the beach on Labour Day to say goodbye to summer and in the blink of an eye we are about to usher in lights, tinsel and shortbread. Before the season is fully upon us the McCabes have a little homework to do. You see, we focus fully on the commercial side of the Christmas season. There has never been any discussion on its religious significance. Shameful, I know.

This slight oversight became very pronounced at our annual Christmas Eve open house a year or two ago when one the visiting kids announced that it was Jesus’s birthday to which my son replied, ”Who’s Jesus?”

For now, we’ll try and keep focussed on the fun of Halloween and I will simply enjoy the anticipation of being on the brink of non-stop Christmas music, holiday shopping and everyone being just a little bit happier.

Happy Halloween...I suppose.

Fall Fog

2012-10-21T09:55:00.001-07:00

Well, it’s been a long time. A long time considering I once penned a page or so faithfully every week. Many thoughts have come and gone but none have seemed to draw me to my computer. I knew once I gave myself permission not to write every week it would be a slippery slope to hardly ever getting around to it. I’m a bit of an all or nothing kind of girl. You know, I either don’t drink at all or I have four cosmos before everyone else has finished their first drink (ok, this hardly ever happens but there is never just one cosmo).

I would say I am emerging from a fog that hung over me all of September. I was exhausted every day, all day. I was too tired to even lie on my couch at night. How is that even possible? Most nights I was collapsing in bed before all of the kids were tucked in for the night. My favourite time of day is when the kids are in bed and I was too tired to enjoy it.

When we approach September (teacher or not) it feels like a time of renewal. It’s like the mid-year version of January. You know, get back on track, start fresh; that kind of thing. So I think we all go into September excited and happy and then the reality of our lives – specifically the pace of our lives – smacks us in the face. The routine I was craving all of sudden seems unmanageable. How can anyone be this busy and be happy??? Each day was a blur of getting up, going to work, making dinner, trying to have some form of family time, bedtime (which in our house is a complete gong show) and then going to bed ourselves. I felt unable to sustain the life I had created for myself.

Thankfully, October arrived and the fog has seemed to lift. Clearly I have just adapted, once again, to the pace of our lives because it certainly has not become any less busy. Now when the kids are in bed I have again found the energy to have a couple of hours to myself; To veg on the couch watching tv, to look through magazines and just to putter around and feel on top of things once more. We even started a movie at ten o’clock on a Thursday night last week - and finished it (How couldn’t we - Rock of Ages is a classic).

It feels good to feel myself again. This life that seems so crazy at times is our life and it is the only life I would ever want. Next year, when September approaches I will remind myself that while it is one of my favourite times of year it is equally one of my least favourites – if that makes any sense at all.

Cut

2012-09-15T17:15:00.002-07:00

It is almost too soon to be writing about this topic, as the emotions are still so raw and so close to the surface. But sometimes, these things are best captured when the feelings are still swirling, still right there.

No one has died. I have not found out I have an incurable disease. We have not lost the house. But on Wednesday night my son and I walked into the dressing room on the final night of hockey tryouts and received the blow that he had been cut. The room seemed to collapse on both of us.

Now, some of you might roll your eyes at this (maybe even I would have not so long ago) and think there are much bigger problems in the world than not making a hockey team. There are; of course there are. But at that moment, and still now, it hurts. It hurts to see my son upset, left behind and left out. It hurts to see our friends move on without us and to be uncertain about the future.

There were no politics involved, nothing to make me shout, “Wait! This is unfair. I want justice!” No, he just wasn’t quite ready for the ‘big leagues’. It is almost harder not to have anyone to blame.

My son walked out of the dressing room strong. My eyes on the other hand began welling up almost immediately. Leaving the arena, I did not want to make eye contact with anyone and by the time we reached the parking lot I was on the verge on becoming a blubbering disaster. You see, I wanted to go to the final cut so I could be the one with him to hear he had made it. I was not the right parent to deal face to face with his rejection.

It was not until we got home, wrapped in the strong but loving arms of his dad that our little guy fell apart (at least one of us had the sense not to cry in public). Then we were all hugging and telling our beloved son – and each other – that everything was going to be okay.

Prior to this year, getting cut from a team did not really bother #8. He was just happy to be playing the game. And damn it, I wanted him to care. But now he does care and I wish we could go back. Not caring would make all of this a lot easier. He is almost nine now and the carefree days of sport being only for fun are fading. He has learned the hard way that there is more to sport that just playing and that is simply a part of growing up.

This weekend, he will play for his new team and sooner than later these difficult days will be in the past. He will make new friends and find his role once again. The game rolls on and we will (try to) roll with it.

Domestic Shortcomings

2012-09-11T19:21:00.002-07:00

Well this blog practically wrote itself. We have entered the world of competitive dance and my daughter has her first ballet class tomorrow night. I sent her with a good friend (very good friend) to purchase her ballet shoes, tights, foot undies, shorts, etc. in preparation for the season. I say very good friend because shopping at the annual dance wear sale ranks among her least favourite and most stressful activities of her calendar year.

They returned home successful. Although the trying on of my daughter’s ballet shoes became quite a spectacle when everyone gathered round to see the six year old with the biggest and widest feet they had ever seen. She’ll thank me for those later.

When I looked at the ballet shoes I was sure that there was something wrong with them because the elastics that go around her feet were only attached at the back. Now why would said good friend come home with a ‘broken’ pair of ballet shoes?

After placing a distress call I learned the slippers were in fact, not broken, but had to be sewn to fit my daughter’s (gigantic) feet. This was not good. I don’t sew. I used to sew; in grade eight home economics class but I cannot recall sewing since.

It was too late to ask for anyone else to do this. She needed these ready for tomorrow. I booted up my laptop and pulled up a YouTube video on how to attach elastics to ballet shoes. I wanted to have the necessary materials ready so I went to get a needle and thread. Right. I don’t know where we keep our needles and thread. So, I had to ask my husband where he keeps his sewing supplies. In his closet I found a nice basket with a fairly large variety of needles, scissors and thread. Perfect. At least one of us can claim some competence in this area. Wait a minute. Why isn’t HE doing this???

I started the first video of a wonderful, domestically capable mother who did an excellent job of explaining and showing the process. I did have to watch the video several times and I replayed one particular part (about folding on the pencil mark) about twenty times. I apologized to my daughter who was watching me unravel and told her that her mommy had other strengths and that one day I hoped she would remember those and not this moment of shame.

I began to sew. F***! F***ing h*ll! The expletives were flying fast and furious. Who sells broken ballet shoes anyway? But I stayed focussed and persevered. I was going to fight my way through cramping hands and pricked fingers.

An hour later and approximately four centimeters of elastic sewn, the shoes were finished. It felt good that I had done this for my daughter. We are in this dance thing together; for better or for worse or until the next pair of ‘broken’ shoes comes along. And if nothing else, I had to try and make up for endowing her with gigantic feet.

So Long Summer

2012-08-19T19:47:00.000-07:00

Well, this may be a little premature to say this fine mid-August day but according to everyone on the street - it might as well be over. It seems most of us are feeling the super-speed at which the summer has passed. I am pretty sure that we all say it every year, how fast the summer has gone by, but it does seem to get incrementally quicker with each passing year. It must have something to do with – ugghh – our age.

Only a handful of weeks ago the summer laid ahead with all of its wondrous possibilities. The summer - at the end of June, not to be confused with the summer nearing the end of August - held endless potential. There were going to be regular trips to the beach; my entire house was to be de-cluttered; the children were going to keep up with their reading and writing; Eric and I were going to sit on our back deck more; I was going to actually play tennis instead of just making a donation to the tennis club; my son was going to golf regularly. I think a sufficient picture of wasted opportunity has been painted.

A small sense of panic has set in to make the most of the last remaining weeks. I am not sure we have had enough family time. Yet, as soon as were all together for any length of meaningful time, we are certain we have. I am not sure whether the kids have had sufficient ‘down-time’. You know, that elusive creative time you envision the kids having-making interesting discoveries and learning who they really are. Well, there were no creative, or otherwise, breakthroughs but there was certainly time for them to tell me that they were bored enough times.

I don’t think the summer we create in our minds during those first long days ever really comes to fruition. And maybe our best laid plans wouldn’t have been so great anyway. In spite of missed time to tutor the kids (which really sounds like a terrible idea when said aloud), book shelves and closets that are busting with clutter and too few tennis and golf games; this summer has been a great summer . There have been late nights in the backyard with the kids playing with friends and walks into town-enjoying our city. There have been movie nights and date nights and nights with nothing at all. And we still have the last few weeks of summer which are sometimes the sweetest of all.

So, so long endless summer days when the kids would not go to bed before 10pm and so long humidity. So long to sun-screening uncooperative children and wondering whether or not to turn on the A/C. So long to questioning if I am making the most of the summer and hello to just enjoying what is left. There is no point in mourning what is already lost - time to just enjoy the present. August sometimes offers the best of summer with warm days and cool nights – the ones that secretly make you excited for Fall’s arrival.

Yes, the summer has gone by quickly but it seems all time goes by quickly now; which is why we best just enjoy each day as it comes.

Regret

2012-07-31T08:05:00.004-07:00

It seems odd that I am choosing to write about such a downer topic when everything around me is so beautiful right now. I have been luxuriating in these hot, long summer days. They make me feel happy and refreshed and quite inspired. It also seems odd to write on this topic when just today I could choose from any number of events to share. I found my two year old playing with an open bottle of Aspirin. She had three in her hand and when questioned claims she did not eat any. I checked her teeth and there was no trace of the blue capsule. I took her word for it. She then ran around the soccer field half naked for the last half of my son’s soccer practice. And finally, while I was walking around the river tonight I told a woman who looked pregnant (at a distance) that she looked adorable only to be slightly horrified when she walked passed me and I started second guessing myself. Maybe she just thought I was a lesbian.

But, I do not usually choose my topics they most often just come to me and whatever the topic, I am usually game for sharing. And for some reason, this is the story that I feel I must tell. My tale of regret is a sad one and I am not sure why I feel the need to make it public but why start censoring myself now?

Regret, real regret, is a horrible thing. Sure there are lots of small things in our lives we may think we regret but we probably throw the term around a little loosely. I am talking about the kind of regret that eats at your soul.

As I have previously written, I just spent two weeks camping at a place I have been going for twenty six years. Going there is like having my past, present and future all rolled into one. I met Sarah there when I was just eleven years old. I walked up to her and asked her if she wanted to go to the beach with me. We were inseparable after that and our friendship would become one of constant letter writing and sleepovers in between our family’s annual camping trips to OTF in the summer.

Sarah was beautiful. I don’t think any guy even saw me all those years camping as teenagers because I was always with her and she had the body of a bikini goddess. But my friendship with her was worth enduring being invisible. Sarah lived with a heart condition that sadly took the life of her twin when she was just three years old. Still, Sarah was always casual about her condition (typical teenager) and she took her medication without much thought.

Sarah and I remained great friends and we would eventually stand up for one another in our weddings. A couple years after that, as life got to be too busy (whatever that means), we fell out of touch. I remember after I had my first child she called a couple of times but between a mild case of self-diagnosed postpartum and the insanity of having a first child, I didn’t return her calls. I am sure her feelings were hurt. Then, when I had my baby shower, she was unable to come. I am sure my feelings were hurt. And after that, even though I still thought of her as one of my best friends, we just never seemed to really connect again.

Seven years ago, Sarah’s father called me out of the blue. He called to let me know that Sarah was in the hospital. It wasn’t too serious they thought but she had been having some trouble with her heart. He thought it would be nice for me to call her. She had mentioned to him that it would be nice to talk to me. I instantly knew I should just go and see her. I took down her number and put it beside me on my nightstand.

That number, in red pen, sat on my nightstand for two weeks. Every night for two weeks I told myself I would call tomorrow. Then tomorrow came and went and I would make the same promise to myself. Looking back, I think the thought of calling her while she was in the hospital overwhelmed me. It felt like we had let a lifetime go by without contacting each other and I just kept putting it off those first awkward hellos.

On December 30, 2005 Sarah passed away. I never called her. Her father would later tell me that Sarah didn’t know what she had done to make me so upset with her. Sarah had meant so much to me for so long and in the final days of her life I let her down in a way that is hard to move past. I did not know that Sarah was going to die but that does not excuse the fact that I did not call her. She and her family reached out to me and I went to bed every night thinking, tomorrow.

Pictures like this haunt me. Our past is a little haunting though isn’t it. The girls in this photo only knew beach days and Boggle and staying up all night talking about boys and our futures. When I think of Sarah I feel ashamed but I am not so selfish as to let those thoughts erode my memories of her and our beautiful friendship. I hope if she could she would forgive me and know that I loved her.

1987 - The summer we met

Camping - Part III

2012-07-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

Contrary to what you may think, camping is no cheap vacation. My grocery bill alone this year come to over four hundred dollars (sorry Eric!) and that does not include the hundred dollars I spent at the butcher. And somehow, eight days into our trip, we were totally out of food except for some boxes of Kraft Dinner which we had already eaten for lunch. So, we decided on that eighth day that it would be a good idea to go out for dinner with friends and all of the kids.

Have I not yet learned that these ideas are always better left as thoughts only? Haven’t I learned that my children are notoriously misbehaved in restaurants – highlighting for everyone my parenting deficiencies?

The dinner stared out with normal behavioural infractions followed by empty threats like, “Sit down or we’re leaving!”

At one point, before dinner was even served, my youngest needed to go to the bathroom and her sister volunteered to take her. Lovely. Way to be responsible and helpful I thought to myself. See, I am a good parent I mused. About thirty seconds later my two year old appeared before us (and all of the other restaurant patrons) stark naked. Clearly, she had been put up to this by her mischievous older sister.

There was a small lapse of time, the babe continuing to laugh in all her nakedness, while Eric and I stared in shock, then in shame and then at each other wondering which was of us was going to budge first and claim the streaker.

I somehow lost the battle and scooped her up and went straight to the bathroom to get her clothing which was scattered all over the bathroom floor (gross). I took her outside to get her dressed again.

The evening settled back to the regular shenanigans we would again expect. You know, the older two telling the streaker not to say nipple or bum or boobies so that she would repeat those words at the top of her lungs. Honestly. Where did we go wrong? I may never win a parenting award but I will surely always have great stories to tell around the campfire.

Camping - Part II

2012-07-22T18:11:00.001-07:00

Two noteworthy events occurred on this year’s camping trip. The first involves an unfortunate incident with a chipmunk and the second (Camping – Part III) a streaking at a local restaurant.

About twelve years ago, on what would be (unbeknownst to him) one of my Dad’s final trips to OTF, there was a tragic incident involving his foot and a chipmunk. My Dad loved to feed Chippee, one of the many chipmunks (all named Chippee) that would crawl up onto his lap for peanuts at our campsite.

One evening around dinner I heard a blood curdling scream from my mother. We all came running to find Chippee convulsing our green indoor/outdoor carpet. My Dad had stepped on the poor thing and, in an effort to calm the situation and make my Dad feel better my mom just kept yelling over and over, “Peter, you stepped on Chippee!” Horrified and visibly distraught my Dad did the only thing he could do; he grabbed his shovel, scooped up the dying chipmunk and took him into the forest to finish him off.

Fast forward to July 2012 and the McCabe family had our very own Chippee as we do every year. One afternoon while we were all sitting around and Chippee was being particularly well fed something went terribly wrong. Our oldest daughter called out to us that something was wrong with Chippee. We ran over to find him (flashback moment) convulsing on our indoor/outdoor carpet. We all stood looking at the poor thing in horror and unsure of what to do. Pulling on my only reference for what to do in such a situation I advised (told) Eric to get the shovel and take care of it. He then looked at me in horror but somehow found the courage to scoop the little guy up and put all of us out of our collective misery.

We have no idea how poor Chippee ended up dying outside our trailer door. There are theories that someone stepped on him without knowing or that maybe he choked on a peanut. We’ll never really know but what we will always have is my daughter’s reenactment of the convulsing chipmunk which she will show anyone who asks.

In the end all I could do was comfort the kids and tell them the story of their Grandpa Pete. Fortunately, within half an hour another friendly chipmunk appeared at our trailer and both girls yelled out, “Chippee!”

Camping - Part 1

2012-07-21T17:51:00.000-07:00

When I was ten years old, my parents borrowed my cousin’s tent trailer for a virgin voyage into the world of camping. We were headed to a place we had heard about from them, a teacher’s camp of all places four hours away near Parry Sound, Ontario.

We loaded ourselves and everything we owned into our Silver Chevy station wagon. The drive there was excruciating – highlighted by my parents arguing and the grave fear by all of us that the trailer that was swaying behind us was going to unhitch itself at any moment along highway 69.

At about 12am in the morning, the Bowman clan pulled into the pitch dark OTF (Ontario Teacher’s Federation) Campground. Consider for a moment the ramifications of this. Our spirits had already been crushed by the six hour drive (recall me saying the trip only takes four hours!) and now my Dad would have to use the headlights from the station wagon to set up a trailer for the very first time. Needless to say, the arguing continued that night until we were finally able to crash in the trailer. We woke the next morning to find ourselves the lone trailer in the middle of a field. Even at ten years old I was totally humiliated by our location.

Twenty six years later I have only missed one summer at my beloved OTF. I would meet one of my best childhood friends there that next summer when I was eleven. We would stand up for each other in our weddings and when she was just thirty years old I would hear of her passing. I would have my first alcoholic beverage on a huge rock in the woods in the middle of the night. I would make out with boys (sorry Mom) and truly come to know what summer love meant.

I try not to take it too personally when I tell people that I go camping and they respond, “You go camping???” I don’t sleep in a tent anymore because we proudly own a tent trailer. And when we camp it is without hydro or running water – there is a fifty year old washroom that provides those luxuries.

Camping at OTF is a part of my soul and it has become a part of the fabric of my family - our children have never missed a summer there since they were born. We are relishing these days when the kids run around with their friends and stay relatively out of trouble. I don’t know what I’ll do when they want to stay out at night with their friends because I know exactly what they’ll be doing. I hope I’ll be more understanding than my mom but somehow – I doubt it.

My Grade 8 Graduation Dress

2012-06-26T19:46:00.003-07:00

Tomorrow is grade eight graduation night – one of my favourite nights of the year. It is always a nostalgic time for me as I remember some of my best years at school. I love grade eight graduation as much (if not more) than the graduating grade eights. It is not as if I completely live in the past, but what is wrong with periodically revisiting the highlights?

Every year at this time, I purchase a new dress for the occasion. I go to my favourite dress shop downtown and eagerly search for the perfect dress for my (I mean the kids') graduation. My colleagues mostly laugh at me (and surely make fun of me behind my back) but it doesn’t bother me. I take the time to explain to them that it is a great time to buy a new dress as I (hopefully) have a summer full of occasions I can wear it to.

Last year’s dress was particularly memorable. I found – what I thought – was the perfect number. I must have tried on twenty before making my final decision. It looked great. I took it home, put it in my closet and relaxed knowing I was prepared for my (I mean the kids') big evening. The night of graduation came and I casually started getting ready at 5:45pm for our 7pm start. I slipped on my dress and headed for the mirror to confirm my excellent choice. I stood in horror looking at the reflection that stared back at me. Was I wearing beer goggles when I chose this dress? The fabric clung to every roll, lump and bump I carefully hide every time I get dressed. I looked awful. Even my husband couldn’t find the right words. It was terrible and by now it was 5:55. F**K!

I dialed the dress shop. I was in a full on sweat. I knew they closed at 6pm but I was desperate. Sensing my sense of urgency they stayed open for me and were very kind in helping a lunatic on a mission. I knew I had already tried on many of the dresses in there. Still, I must have tried on twenty more before finding my best option. I arrived at grad at 6:50pm – the last to arrive. But it was worth it. This year`s dress is a winner (but I am going to try it on one more time tonight to make sure).

A slightly more embarrassing part of my grad night ritual is that I also get my hair styled. Wow. I am actually contemplating deleting this last sentence. Inevitably I am seated beside one or two girls that I teach and we politely complement each other`s hair. I have never been good at doing my own hair and this deficiency was highlighted the night of my own grade eight graduation when I burned my chest while attempting to curl my hair – a mark clearly visible in my grad photos.

Graduation night, even if only from grade eight, is a special night. Everyone comes excited to celebrate together and acknowledge what a special time in their lives it is. I know that these kids are on the cusp of becoming young adults. That they are at the precarious time in their lives where they are actually growing up and will soon be saying goodbye to the carefree days of their youth. High school lies before them and these years will make, or break these kids. I guess there is a part of me that wishes I was their age again, at a time when the decisions I would soon make would shape my life. It`s not that I would change anything. It is just a really amazing time – looking back on it anyway.

It`s funny how we never know how great something is until we are able to look back on it. It must be because we`re able to forget all the crap and only remember what we want to - the good parts, the highlights. I am sure my grade eight grad night wasn`t quite as spectacular as I choose to remember, but it doesn`t matter because my past is simply what I make of it. And it doesn`t hurt that I get to relive my graduation night every single June.