My Resolve to Resolute

I have a love/hate relationship with making New Year’s resolutions.  Some years I am inspired by the thought of them and other years I am just annoyed and I avoid them all together.  Last year, there were no resolutions. Why make something that was just meant to be broken? But this year, for whatever reason, I am being pulled towards making them and it feels good.

I sometimes forget how important goal setting is and I was reminded by a visit with an incredibly motivated, driven and successful friend of mine.  Making some New Year’s resolutions is just a given for her. I am pretty sure she not only has yearly goals but monthly, weekly and daily too.  Not me.  I don’t like to do anything I know I won’t succeed at so I generally just don’t set goals.  But not this year.  Nope. This year (well, right this second anyway) I am feeling the inspiration to aim a little higher.

My New Year’s resolutions for this year are to wear more colour, to take better care of my back and to be more affectionate towards my husband.  I don’t want to be too ambitious with these.   I am not setting myself up for failure here.  I think these are well rounded and perfectly attainable goals. Don’t misunderstand me; I didn’t say they would be easy.  My entire wardrobe is black or one of several shades of gray and sometimes just a sideways look from my husband can make me irritated with him for the rest of the day.  But, I am off to a great start already.  Right this very second I am wearing my new purple hoodie, I have booked myself a massage and chiropractic appointment for next week and Eric and I walked hand in hand almost all the way to a friend’s party this week.  I’d say I have pretty much conquered 2012’s resolutions.

Ah but wait, resolutions aren’t meant to be a one-time thing. They are meant to help pursue small but meaningful and long lasting life changes.  If we don’t take time to try and be better, we probably won’t be. It’s very easy to just let life keep rolling on and to just roll with it.  I am constantly trying to improve my husband and kids.  I think it’s only fair that I hold myself to the same personal improvement plan.  So I guess a purple hoodie in my closet and a relaxing massage next week don’t quite spell victory… yet.  Here’s hoping they stick and that I come out of 2012 brighter, stronger and even more in love.

The Christmas Card

I have the Christmas card that Eric gave for me this year sitting beside me for my inspiration today.  I love cards. I think they’re a great way to take a moment to let someone know how you’re feeling and it captures just a little bit of your relationship with that person at the time.  I love to find the ‘perfect’ card for people. It takes a certain kind of skill to find just the right card and I am particularly good at it.

Back to my inspiration – the message in this year’s Christmas card from Eric read, and I quote, “Thanks for a great 2011. Looking forward to a fun 2012! Hope you have a great Christmas.” (Stop for a moment of uncomfortable silence…). Apparently, my husband did not read my last piece of writing that specifically mentioned not writing general messages that could be given to anyone. I was speechless. Actually, I wasn’t speechless at all. Are you kidding me?  I had to reread the message again. Is that it?  Jesus. I was expecting a lengthy note about what an amazing mother and wife I am and how I have made this time of year so special for our family. I mean, it didn’t have to be in those exact words but somewhere in the general ballpark. I guess I’m not as ‘great’ as I thought I was. 

Eric did redeem himself with my Christmas gifts.  They were wrapped in beautiful paper which is also something I love.  He did however forget to put any of my wrapped presents under the tree so that I would be able to admire the beautiful paper…maybe next year.  One of my gifts was piano music for Adele’s Someone Like You, which was an incredibly thoughtful gift. It was also slightly incriminating as it proves he does read this blog and should have known better than to ever write a message like that in my card.

What this ‘incident’ points out is that my expectations are just too high. If you know me at all you’ll know I would never say that.  What this incident really points out is that people do for others what they ultimately would like in return.  If you give someone space during a difficult time, than space is probably what you would like during those times.  If you shower your friends with gifts, you’re probably hoping for a little loot yourself.  We all speak to each other and try to show our love for one another in different ways (read more with The 5 Love Languages by Dr. Gary Chapman).

I’ll go tuck this card away now, potentially never to be pulled out again.  I guess I need to appreciate that not everyone uses words in the same way that I do. And just because Eric didn’t write me a gift of writing to capture ‘us’ right now, I’m sure he appreciates me just the same (I hope so anyway).  Well done to those of you who took the challenge. I’m sure the recipients appreciated them very much.  Hell, who am I kidding, I’m going to go and ask Eric to try again. I’ll find the writer in him yet.

Merry Christmas!

Gifts of Writing - A Christmas Challenge

Every year at Christmas I have my students write poems to someone in their family to give as a gift at Christmas. They groan and beg not to have to do it but, in the end, they are always happy that I made them and they are always excited to take home their gift.  We talk about why a gift of writing is special - it’s personal, it took a special kind of effort so it shows how much you care, they last and they’re free.

Every January the kids come back to school with tales of sobbing mothers, teary eyed fathers and appreciative siblings who will treasure their gifts of writing forever.

I have decided to challenge you, my faithful readers (thanks for that by the way) to write your own gift of writing. I’ve included the tips I share with my students and that I have used to write my own gift which you’ll find below.

If you’re feeling really brave, post your piece in the comment section for everyone to enjoy. Now, find a quiet space, or a comfy seat at your favourite coffee shop and...happy writing!

Tips:

✵          choose something specific to write about - don’t be too general. Select a memory, tradition, ritual that is special or write about what is unique about them or your relationship. Avoid a ‘Hallmark’ poem that could be given to anyone (no offence to Hallmark, you make great cards!)

✵           it doesn’t have to be about Christmas

✵          consider using your own handwriting instead of typing, it’s more personal. I wrote mine out on nice Christmas paper.

Mia’s Magic

You have become the magic of my Christmas

My own little me spreading Christmas joy wherever you go

Admiring each beautiful, sparkling ornament

as you pull them out from their year long slumber

Placing them thoughtfully on each bough

Stepping back to admire your work

Racing to your advent calendar every morning

Colour coding the mini ornaments as you go

Hovering over your Christmas puzzle

Intent on its completion before you step away

All of these years, I’ve enjoyed the job of

bringing Christmas to our family

But now I have you, my very own angel

Whose beautiful and happy spirit

is beside me all the way

White Nightmare

I have previously written that I sometimes think my children conspire against me and my efforts to keep a nice house. But, on a recent trip home to visit our family in Buffalo, I learned that their efforts are not just concentrated in our home but in the homes of others as well.

My brother and sister-in-law very recently moved into their brand new 4800 square foot house.  It is stunning.  No detail has been overlooked. It’s the kind of house that makes it sad to go home to your own house which you thought was perfectly fine before you left.  It’s decorated in soft colours with beautiful dark hardwood and light carpet under foot.  The family room is particularly beautiful. It is done is shades of white. White chairs, a white couch, white ottomans and white carpet.  I’m sure you can see where this is going.

Now, my in laws are not without children.  They have a daughter the same age as our youngest. But let’s be clear here.  One daughter, a first daughter, is not the same as having multiple children of various ages.  Our youngest is a wild animal compared to her cousin.  It’s like comparing the Tasmanian devil to a fairy princess.  What I’m really saying is that they still actually have control and rules over their daughter where we’re just happy if no one is crying.

After taking my first tour of their newly finished ‘palace’ and sharing my admiration the first clue that things were to go awry showed itself. I could hear screams of delight slightly muffled by the sound of plastic wheels being shuffled along the hardwood floors.  Now, at our house, our plasma cars have their own race track that winds its way around our main floor. The proof is in the permanent marks left on our very nice laminate flooring.  On instinct, I practically dove in front of the Barbie car that my niece was being recklessly pushed around on like an Indy car driver.  I was terrified to look and see what damage had been done.  Thankfully, this hardwood was apparently more durable then our lovely laminate and the kids were given the go ahead to carry on.

Over dinner, my two daughters were seated at their cousin’s very charming Pottery Barn table and chair set for children.  My anxiety began climbing when the pushing started.  And it was my youngest that was to blame. Back and forth, back and forth, again over the hardwood floors went the table. I told them to stop a hundred times. Eric, are you seeing this???  I would later see my sister in-law subtly inspecting the floor underneath the table. I was too afraid to ask if there were any marks. 

Then, the return to dinner. You see, my children can never just finish their meal in one sitting. Oh no. They leave and come back to the table several times before the meal is officially over. This is when things took a really bad turn.  Again, it was my youngest. She crawled up to island where the grownups were eating and helped herself to some more pizza.  She then climbed down and headed for the family room. Now, when I say family room, I don’t mean my family. Oh no, this family room was not designed for this family.

It all happened so fast. One minute she was beside us with pizza sauce on her face and the next she was running faster than Usain Bolt and she was headed straight for the white, very expensive, brand new chair (did I mention the chair is white?).  Eric’s attempt to catch her was futile. We all just watched in horror as she dove face first into the white seat cushion. A gasp could be heard from the mouths of all four adults.  Why did we order pizza? It was a reckless decision.

We immediately went into action.  I was on the ipad googling any tips for cleaning pizza sauce off of a white, very expensive, brand new chair. My sister-in-law was working like a trauma doctor in an emergency room, trying desperately to save the life of the fabric.  Once we realized we had done all that we could, we just waited for the cushion to dry to see if it was going to make it.  My sister-in-law was very gracious considering inside she probably wanted to kill all of us.

I want to be welcome into the homes of others, three children and all.  But are we only safe in worn out shabby homes like ours?  Places where the carpet and furniture were once new too but have been maimed in the battle of living with children who believe every room in the house is a dining space.  This would exclude us from a lot of lovely homes and the homes of a lot of lovely people.  Or maybe we just continue being us, grimy hands and faces and all, and continue counting on the graciousness of our hosts who make us feel comfortable even under the circumstances described above.

The next day, I asked my brother-in-law how the white, expensive, new cushion was doing and he said you couldn’t see it at all…well, my sister-in-law still could but she was really looking.  I felt a flood of relief that we had not permanently ruined the chair.  The relief left as quickly as it came when he added that she was more upset about the purple yogurt on the walls and carpet that she found once we had left. Great.

A Tribute to my Dad

~A tribute to my Dad who died ten years ago today, December 2, 2001~

Ten years ago, on December 2, 2001, my father passed away suddenly. It was a devestating time and those early days still haunt me. But time has helped to heal that raw pain and allowed me to see beyond my grief. Now, I stand in wonder of the man I knew as Dad. How does one pay proper tribute to someone who was larger than life? To someone who left his life far earlier than he ever should have. I have been thinking about this piece for quite some time, as the ten year anniversary of his death approached. What could I say to properly acknowledge the man he was? How could I possibly put into words how much he meant to all who knew him and how much he has been missed over these last ten years? My father’s spirit was a generous and happy one. He left a legacy of being an amazing husband, father, son, friend, brother, neighbour and educator.

I am always so proud to tell people who my dad was. I am always so happy when people stop to share a story with me about him.  He was kind and he was sincere and he was loved by all who knew him.  This was a man who made breakfast every morning for his wife and dinner every night for our family.  He did all of the grocery shopping and all of the baking.  I know you don’t believe a man like this could possibly exist, but he did. We were spoiled by his generosity and we all wish we could go back and show him the gratitude he deserved.  Still, he knew we loved him and we know he loved us and that has to be enough.

One of the only things I can remember about his funeral was during the eulogy from his best friend, Dave.  He told the mourning audience that, “I know of no man who could overall an engine and then go into the house and make ginger snap cookies.” There are so many memories and stories that I could share, but I’m going to leave you with just one that is fitting for this time of year.

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Every year on Christmas Eve, for many years beginning when I was just a young child, my family’s very own Secret Santa would pay us a visit. Every Christmas morning, my sisters and I would run to the front door to find what secret Santa had left us.  My dad tried in vain to figure out who was paying us these magical visits. He would wait up until all hours trying to catch them in the act.  One year, he even followed the tracks left in the snow out of our front door and around the block. He suspected a few people but was never able to discover their true identity.

We were always sure that our Secret Santa came to us because of Dad and the Christmas Eve after his death we received this letter from them.

Dear Bowman Family,                                                                                                                  
Christmas 2001

No one can imagine how difficult this Christmas is for you and with that in mind, we debated about continuing the “Secret Santa”. Since it all started through the kindness and concern of one very special person, Peter Bowman, we decided that he would not want it to stop. Instead, we thought we would tell you how it all began.

Approximately seventeen years ago, in the staff room of Juliet Public School, a very concerned teacher came through the staff room door with a dilemma.  It seems that Peter had told his Grade 7 class that they should be cautious about making comments regarding Santa Claus on the playground as many primary students in the school still believed that Santa Claus was real.  Apparently, after saying this, one young girl in his Grade 7 class became very upset and said that she still really did believe in Santa Claus.  After much staff room discussion, the final comment was, “Surely by the time you reach Grade 7, you know there isn’t a real Santa Claus!”

This seemed to convince Peter that the young girl in his classroom was just looking for a bit of attention, but in the days to follow, he mentioned it to me often, “Do you really think she still believed in Santa Claus?” That year, we decided to remind Peter that there is a Santa Claus and we related it to the story ‘Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus’ and so – Secret Santa has been visiting ever since and enjoying every moment of it.

I only worked for your husband and father for a short time but have been in his company on and off for the past seventeen years.  He was one of the most conscientious and caring people I have ever met – one who touched the lives of many people and encouraged many of their personal worth.  Whenever I met him he talked of his wonderful family and how proud he was of his daughters. He truly was an inspiration to all of us.

Now, not only do I believe in Santa but I believe in angels too. For God to take someone so special from here on earth, there must be a much more important role for him in Heaven. 

God Bless Your Family,

Secret Santa

We miss you Dad and we are so sad not to have had you with us all of these years.

Thoughts from a Coffee Shop

Ahhhh, here I sit perched on a stool in the huge picture window at one of my favourite local coffee shops. I don’t actually drink coffee, I prefer tea. I want to like coffee.  I love how it smells and I love the idea of waking up to coffee brewing in the morning. But for now, coffee, like wine, eludes me and I sip on English Breakfast and Diet Coke instead (which, it should be noted, I have started drinking much less of).

Anyway, as I was saying, I’m perched on a stool, looking out over a bustling street.  Whenever I walk by coffee shops, I always want to be the person in the window on their computer looking all relaxed but important at the same time.  I wonder if that’s how I look. The guy beside me actually is important. He is on his computer and working with spreadsheets – potentially boring, but impressive. 

I’ve come here to write and to feel creative.  I’m here alone and there’s no phone to answer (well, my cell phone is right beside me but since I have yet to get a smart phone, I am barely connected by today’s standards).  There is no dinner to make and no kids to answer to.  Let the creative process begin. I wonder if observing myself in a coffee shop is considered creative.

I definitely need to do this more often and for longer. Currently, I have only a forty-five minute escape from my real life. You know the one that involves three children and two dogs that never seem to stop barking. I’m practically on vacation in here.  I’m oozing relaxedness. 

There are two actors on the other side of me and I might as well be part of their conversation we’re in such close proximity.  I so wish I could sing and act and dance but I am the exact opposite of a triple threat.  I’m like the anti-triple threat so I’ll eavesdrop a little longer and live vicariously through them.  Actually, it doesn’t sound that great…far too unpredictable for me. Hmm, I hope none of the people I’m spying on happen to spy back and to find themselves part of my creative process. 

I’m not sure what I came here to accomplish today. I think I was aiming for some sort of genius piece of writing that will inspire all who read it.  I think I may have missed the mark a little but it felt good nonetheless and if I looked relaxed and powerful while I did it, all the better.

Kids These Days

People often look at me with disbelief when I tell them that I love teaching seventh and eighth grade.  I especially love teaching at a school that goes from grade seven to twelve. Many people associate kids these days with raging hormones, an obsession with video games and you tube and texting, being out of touch with what’s going on in the world and a general lack of respect. But this is just a small part of who kids are. The bigger parts, the parts I know, are their huge hearts and their ability to make a difference.

To date, and less than half way into the school year, the students at my school have raised well over four thousand dollars. They have sent this money to help in the horn of Africa and to support the Terry Fox Foundation.  They have collected over one thousand pieces of sports equipment and clothing and sent them to schools in Nigeria.  They have sold bracelets to sponsor a child in need and they have been out collecting food for our local food banks.  And they will not stop here.

I am most proud to be a teacher when I am sitting in our gymnasium during one of our amazing assemblies.  They are largely student run and they have often moved me to tears.  At the Terry Fox assembly, students got on stage and sang and played instruments and their audience listened. They showed videos of Terry and his marathon of hope and their audience was inspired. They asked for a moment of silence to remember and acknowledge those who have been devastated by cancer and more than 1000 students were silent. It was a beautiful and sad and proud moment.

Kids these days make me feel like I want a do-over.  I want to do-over middle school and high school so I can be more like the kids I see every day. I want to lead and inspire my peers. I want to sing and perform at assemblies (I would first have to go further back and be born with these talents). I want to raise money and help those who need it.  I want to be cool…ok, I’m getting off topic.  Really, these kids make me want to be a better person.

Kids these days probably do play too many video games and text too much. You’ve probably heard them using inappropriate language and appearing like they just don’t care. But, they do care. They care more than most of us and they prove it every day in school when their words become actions and their actions help make someone’s life just a little easier.

Kids these days aren’t perfect, but who is? Instead of judging, be a believer. Believe that these kids know what is right and that they are connected to their world. Believe that simply by being around them they just might inspire you.  Believe that kids are getting better, not worse and know that one day it could be your life that they’re making just a little easier.

Sex and Santa Claus

I’ll never forget the moment I found out there was no Santa Claus.  I was in my parent’s bedroom rummaging through my mom’s dresser drawer.  It was a drawer filled with interesting things and I have a vague recollection of sifting through it like a treasure chest on more than one occasion.  On this day though, I stumbled upon something that I wished I could erase from my memory. I had found my baby teeth. My baby teeth that the ‘supposed’ tooth fairy had collected from under my pillow and taken to Tooth Fairy land.

My sophisticated nine year old brain went into overdrive. I was processing it all too fast. If there was no Tooth Fairy then - I came to the only logical yet sad conclusion - there was no Santa.  I was devastated. The magic of my childhood was officially over.  Why did I have to be in that stupid drawer? Why weren’t my teeth better hidden? But really, I was nine and it was only a matter of time before these truths revealed themselves in one way or another.  My son is eight and I hope to hold on to as least one, if not two more Christmases where he still believes.  I want to protect his innocence and allow him to hold on to the magic just a little while longer. 

Over dinner with friends the other night, the topic of what we tell our children and when, came up. One friend was telling the group how, on a lengthy trip to their cottage when she was twelve, her father started asking her questions about what she knew about sex the minute they pulled out of the driveway. She said it made for an extremely long and awkward trip.  In the next breath, she told us that she and her husband have already had the ‘sex talk’ with two of their girls, who were five and seven at the time.

I wasn’t exactly sure what having the sex talk meant to her.  Well, it meant answering the girl’s questions about how she became pregnant which involved, “Daddy putting his penis into Mommy’s vagina.”  What??? You told them that??? I was actually speechless and I teach over a hundred hormonally charged girls, sexual education every year. I needed to digest this. We had only ever told our kids that a baby came when two people really loved each other.  Were her kids ready for that kind of information?  Were mine ready for more?  Her children are armed with information that I’m not sure I’m comfortable with mine knowing…yet. Just like the kid at school who already knows there is no Santa –how long will it be until they spill the beans to everyone?

My parents never talked to me about sex, nor would I have wanted them to. But, maybe that’s because we didn’t have ‘open’ conversations about things like that and maybe that’s the kind of atmosphere I’m now subconsciously creating for my own kids. I don’t know. It’s up to each of us to decide when our kids are ready for certain pieces of information. Or, maybe, it’s really about when we’re ready to deal with telling them those certain pieces of information.

Nothing terrified me more as a kid than the thought of my parents having sex (except maybe them getting a divorce).  I don’t want to terrorize my children but I also don’t want them being the only kids in school who think babies are made magically by love. Actually, I think I’m fine with the kid who knows about Santa spilling the beans to my kids because it saves me from having to do it. And, while they’re at it, they might as well tell them where babies really come from.

My Grandma's Kitchen

This month, my Grandmother will be celebrating her 91^st birthday.  At 91, she is a picture of health and she really doesn’t look a day over 80.  There are many things my Grandma would say have contributed to her longevity.  She doesn’t drink alcohol or anything with caffeine, she spent most of her life living on a farm and she has a strong faith in God. Although I am a direct descendent of hers, I’m batting zero for three on these three significant markers of a long and healthy life.

I spent a lot of time at my Grandparent’s farm growing up, in particular, in my Grandma’s kitchen.  I watched her spend most of her time there, the hub of a very busy working farm.  Together (well, I was of some small assistance), we would prepare lunch for the men who were working in the barns, sheds and fields. These men were my uncles, my Grandpa and my father.  It was as if I were getting a glimpse of the life they lived as a young family working their family farm.

The table would be prepared, in my recollection anyway, in the same way each time.  Plates of pickles, vegetables, sliced meats and cheeses, homemade bread and a hot bowl of homemade soup with crackers would be set out, a banquet for the hungry men.  Grandma would then send me out to find them all in the barns, sheds and fields and call them in for lunch. The smell of fresh straw and farmer’s sweat filled the kitchen air. We would all take our seats around the table, wait for grace and then eat, what seemed to be, the most delicious food ever made.

I have always seen my Grandma’s strength. I have always known how hard she worked for her family and how she did it without complaint or need of praise. For a long time I assumed that the work she was doing in running that kitchen and home was something she had to do, not something she would have chosen to do. But now, I understand that this was how my Grandma loved and took care of her family. Those meals fed her families appetites and their souls.

The generational differences between my Grandma and I are great. And there is not much in my life that would resemble the life that she lived.  But those days in her kitchen, watching her and helping her, became a part of me. It all just stayed with me and when I’m in my own kitchen cooking and baking for my family and friends, I know that she is always with me.

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Here is the recipe for my most favourite cake she has ever made.  You’re welcome!

Grandma Bowman’s Banana Cake with Penuche Icing

½ cup soft shortening

1 ½ cups sugar
2 eggs
2 ¼ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
¾ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
¼ cup buttermilk (any milk will do)
1 cup mashed ripe bananas (2-3 bananas)

I use my mixer for this cake. Cream together until fluffy, the shortening and sugar; beat in the eggs. In a separate bowl, mix together the dry ingredients and stir them in alternately with the milk and bananas. Pour into a greased and floured 9 x 13 inch cake pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes.

Penuche Icing

1 cup brown sugar

¼ cup unsalted butter
¼ cup milk
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup icing sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla

Bring the first four ingredients to a boil and continue boiling for 3 minutes.  Turn down heat, and whisk in icing sugar and vanilla. Pour over cooled cake.

Dragons Live Forever

Today my first born, my baby, turns eight. Eight; how can this be?  Each year older he gets I get to know him in a new and amazing way but it also means that little boy I used to hold in my arms is being replaced by a memory. 

I’ll never forget the day when he was three and we sat on his bed listening to Puff the Magic Dragon. I had heard this song many times before so I was completely unprepared for the flood of emotion that came over me as I sang the words to him that day: A dragon lives forever but not so little boys. I fell to pieces right there in the middle of the song and those words have haunted me to this day.

He actually asked me what I was writing today and I told him it was a poem for his birthday. He asked me to read it to him and just the thought of saying the words out loud made me start to cry. He was definitely confused at this point and asked me why I was crying. All I could say to him was that it is hard for me to let him grow up. He looked at me and said, “Mom, I’m only turning eight.”

He was right. He is only eight. He is still a little boy and one who is starting to recognize his place in the world. I love watching him grow up and one day I’ll embrace his wings as much as I much as I do his roots.

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A Poem for Nicholas on his 8^th Birthday

Brave, tough and stubborn

Curious, wild and beautiful
It’s as if I can see all the pieces
Of the man you will be
                    falling
                         into
                                place

Strong, kind and admired

Curious, wild and beautiful
Each question, answer, triumph and frustration
Arming you for your journey ahead.

Selfishly I cling to you

Trying to hold onto my little boy
Who slips away from me with
                    each
                       passing
                            day

Eyes rolling, groaning “Mom”
You fly out the door
To your next big adventure.

You run back to hug me
and tell me that you love me
I wrap my arms around you
and then I
                    set
                         you
                           free.

Someone Like You

Note: This story is best read while listening to Adele’s Someone Like You. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLQl3WQQoQ0&ob=av2e

Driving yesterday I found myself lost in Adele’s Someone Like You.  Listening to the lyrics, I remembered a time in my life when these words would have really meant something and God, I don’t miss those days.  Love Hurts isn’t just a song. It’s reality that many of us lived starting in our teens and only presumably ending when we finally found ‘the one’.

I hadn’t taken a trip down this memory lane in a long time.  Who would want to?  All the highs and lows of our first loves and the agony of the breakups, it’s painful just to think about.  Playing that song (you know the one) over and over again until you were one with the words. Because, if you could just sing it to them then they would finally know and understand your pain.

I connected with this song in a different way than I would have fifteen years ago. I was actually thinking about my daughters - that the treacherous journey of unrequited love still lay ahead for them.  I can protect my girls from so many things, but this I can never save them from.  I weep at the thought of their fragile hearts having to endure all of the heartbreak and pain. But, in the same breath I wouldn’t change a thing. Well, ok, there are some things (ok, ok, a lot of things) that if I could I would go back and erase but, for the most part, I’d live it all over.  I’d live it all over because somehow in some way it got me into the arms of my husband.

A good love song doesn’t cut like a knife or offer me some form of therapy anymore. It’s just a moving song that sings about a part of my life I left behind a long time ago. But somewhere, under a heap of damp tissues and duvets, some poor wretch is singing her heart out to Someone Like You with Adele with her shattered heart strewn about the room. I wish I could give her a hug and tell her everything will be ok, just like I wish I could go back and give myself a hug and share the same wisdom. 

I can’t spare my precious daughters their own journeys through the euphoria and devastation of love and I guess I shouldn’t want to.  Part of our human experience is to endure the highs and the lows and to learn to grow from it all.  And sometimes, it a crazy way, in feels good to hurt to know that you’re truly alive.

The Bad Mood Blues

I think the high of my best Thanksgiving ever has left me with a happiness hangover.  I’m not wired to sustain that level of joy and contentedness for so many consecutive days in a row without there being some form of emotional fallout.  I was just too happy.  I’m exhausted from all the happiness.

I have some solace (a lot, actually) in the fact that many of my friends are under a gray haze these days as well.  Misery loves company and it’s a full party right now.  We give each other half, forced smiles and sulk about our business. This particular rut of mine hasn’t been brought upon by any specific incident, it’s just here, hanging around like an annoying…oh, I don’t know, something really annoying.

I also have a dull headache and I’m not sure which came first, it or the mood.  Has my grumpiness  actually manifested itself in a physical form?  Next, I fear I may grow horns and a tail with a spear at the end of it. My husband would argue this has already happened. The wrong word (or look for the matter) from him and I turn into some sort of caged animal, except I’m not caged. My God, who am I?

Right now I am overly sensitive to the words and actions of others.  I am overly sensitive to things that wouldn’t normally bother me. I am overanalyzing and, in general, just a little over the top.  One thing I am not is a pretender.  I don’t pretend that my life is always perfect or that I always do the right thing or that I’m always happy. But I embrace it all; the good, the bad and the ugly and it’s the ugly that makes the good so much sweeter when it’s here.

I’ve never liked roller coasters but it’s like I’m permanently stuck on one.  I guess I’ll enjoy the ride back to the top as tonight I have prescribed myself a remedy to cure this bummer mood.  I’ll get into my pajamas before 6pm, order a pizza and watch a Halloween movie with my kids.  It puts me in a better mood just thinking about being in a good mood again.  That’ll learn me for being so damn happy.

The Fall Frolic

Last weekend, Eric and I were guests at a wonderful, annual party held by our good friends at their cottage.  The weekend’s activities were based on celebrating the love and partnership between you and your spouse.  I don’t know about you, but I do a much better job of adoring my husband when there is no pressure and it isn’t the expectation. Well, I suppose a good wife would always adore her husband but, who’s kidding who?  There was just a lot of pressure going into the whole thing to get along and be happy.  Remember I said this was a celebration, not a challenge.

Eric and I led up to our ‘getaway’ by yelling at each other while we were trying to get the kids out of the house. I seem to recall both of us saying, “I can’t believe I have to go to this with you!” We were off to a good start. Leaving the house to go anywhere is never easy though so I had anticipated this minor road bump.  We settled down and made a pit stop to pick up a milkshake at a local ice cream shop. While at the counter I laughed when I saw a sign that read – Milkshakes are known to reduce tension.  Eric then turned to the server and said, “My wife will take two.” Really?

The car ride there was a good chance for us both to relax and get into a mood a little more appropriate for a weekend of love.  We arrived to the cottage and were greeted by our hosts and the other ‘frolickers’.  I quickly threw down a glass of champagne. Those who know me, know I don’t drink often, but I thought it was a necessity for this particular weekend. You see, not only was there pressure to be ‘in love’ but also to be fun. And fun is not a characteristic people would usually (ever) use to describe me.

It’s definitely a shortcoming of mine which is exaggerated even more by how fun Eric is.  And at this particular party I was surrounded by a bunch of fun people, just like Eric.  So, it was bottoms up for me, and let the good times roll.  Fast forward to the dance portion of the evening and see me doing the running man for the very first time. Everyone was very impressed by my new found skill. I was owning fun.

But, all good things must come to an end, and just like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, at about the stroke of 10:59, I changed back into boring Lori.  At this point, Eric’s fun factor was just irritating and I knew it was time for me to call it a night.  Eric’s alcohol intake also caught up to him and he ‘fell asleep’ before I was even done brushing my teeth.

After a lovely breakfast we said our goodbyes and headed home. I looked back through the images of the weekend and on our camera was the proof that not only do I have moves but, when infused with just the right amount of alcohol, I can be fun too.  We drove back, tea and coffee in hand, enjoying the beautiful colours of my favourite season.  I felt re-energized, connected to my husband and proud of myself for moving (very unnaturally) out of my comfort zone.  All of this, of course, came to a screeching halt the minute we stepped through our front door and were greeted by the rest of our family. But, the memories of the frolic live on and I hope one day to frolic again.

A Taste of Thanksgiving

As Thanksgiving approaches, one must enjoy the anticipation of the most delicious meal of the year.  I personally can’t wait to be put into my tryptophan induced slumber, wake up in a turkey fog and enjoy the whole meal all over again layered between two slices of warm bread.

I am famous for two things at Thanksgiving – my bread stuffing and my homemade cranberry sauce. Well, to be truthful, everyone loves my stuffing but I’m the only one who appreciates the cranberry sauce – so a famous in my own mind kind of thing.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Bread Stuffing - It ain’t fancy but it’s amazing. I usually double the recipe.

2 celery stalks – finely chopped
1 medium onion – finely chopped
¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) butter
9 cups (~14 slices) soft bread cubes
(I use half white and half brown)
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon sage
½ teaspoon thyme
¼ teaspoon pepper

Melt the butter in a large pot over medium heat.  Cook the celery and onion in butter 6-8 minutes, stirring occasionally, until tender.  Remove from heat.

Gently toss the celery mixture with the bread cubes, thyme, salt, sage and pepper until the bread cubes are evenly coated.

Put into an oven safe bowl and cover. Heat for between 30-60 minutes.  It could be made the day before and kept in the fridge. It can also be stuffed in the bird (obviously) if that’s what you prefer.

Cranberry Sauce

4 cups fresh or frozen cranberries
2 cups water
2 cups sugar

Heat the water and sugar to boiling in a saucepan over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Continue boiling 5 minutes longer, stirring occasionally.

Stir in the cranberries. Get back to boiling, stirring occasionally until cranberries begin to ‘pop’, about 5 minutes.  Remove from heat and pour the sauce into a bowl. Refrigerate about 3 hours or until chilled.

Mmmmm….so good.

Family Night

It was a friend of mine who first introduced me to the idea of family night. For some reason it really intrigued me. Why weren’t we having family night? What kind of family doesn’t have a family night? The very words rang of togetherness and connectedness. I think it really stuck with me because we always seem to be so busy and while we’re most often all together, it usually also involves friends or family or two people doing one thing and the rest doing another.

Family night is a night where everyone has to be home, no one is invited over and we all do something together.  We always have it on the same night and we choose a day during the week.  Weekends are just too busy and there are too many chances it could be interrupted by other plans.  It is such a simple idea but it always seems to resonate with people, as it did with me, when I tell them about it.    

Family night could really be called movie night at our house as that has become our chosen activity.  It`s like a family night for lazy people. We order pizza for dinner and we eat it early.  I mean, we’re done eating by 5:30 at the latest.  This ensures plenty of time to watch the movie and still get the kids to bed at a decent time.

Family night just feels good.  The kids look so forward to it and we know we’ve made them feel special just by being with them and only them.  Now, Eric and I have been known to doze off during the movie but unless he starts snoring the kids are none the wiser.  Having Chloe around has added another element to our night but we usually just let her throw popcorn around to entertain herself.

As the kids get older, I would like to see family night evolve a little. Maybe we could play board games, go out to dinner, see a movie at the theatre or take in something cultural. But for now, while family outings can quickly turn disastrous, movies at home are just right for our family night.

The F***ing Fair

There are many things I love to anticipate about the fall – going back to school, the beautiful weather, cozy sweaters and of course, the return of the fall fair.  I love the fair; at least, I used to love the fair.  Actually, I’m sure I will love the fair again as it approaches next fall but not right now. Right now I am tired, dizzy and broke. I’ve been smacked in the face with the reality of the fair not the family bonding; relive my childhood kind of fair I build up in my mind every year.

There is something nostalgic about the fair though. It never changes. You can count on the same rides and games and carnies.  The candy apples, cotton candy and caramel corn have tasted the same for some 30 odd years at least (kind of a scary thought actually).  I can remember going with my parents and sisters, then with my friends without parental supervision and then back from university to meet up with old friends and now with my own kids. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? 

This sense of nostalgia for the fair leaves me underprepared to handle the physical and emotional demands that the fair puts on me and all other parents. At times, I have no idea where one or more of my kids have run off to. While looking for my kids I am simultaneously helping one of my friends look for her misplaced child.  I am feeding my one and half year old whole hot dogs with no concern for the fact the she may choke or that maybe a hot dog isn’t the best meal choice for a baby in the first place. 

I have spent at least fifty dollars on tickets and know it’s not going to be enough.  I swat off carnies practically grabbing my kids into their games. But because you can’t leave the fair without letting your kid win a prize I throw my money at the ones that say “prize every time” and anticipate the look of disbelief on my kids face when instead of winning one of the GIGANTIC prizes hanging from the ceiling they win an unrecognizable and miniscule stuffed something or other.

And just when you think it can’t get any worse or any busier or any more stressful, the kids start getting tired.  And there is nothing worse than an overstimulated, junk food filled, tired child. Now one kid is crying, one is yelling at me and oh, there’s another one crying.  Wow. Do they even appreciate all of the MONEY I JUST SPENT ON THEM?

The joyful sounds of excitement and happiness that filled the house before the fair have been replaced by the crying and screaming of everyone in the car on the way home, including me.  Once home, we pull ourselves together, get tucked into bed with our new stuffed something or others and talk about what a great time we had at the fair. Without fail, someone always asks, “Can we go back tomorrow?” and the cycle of loving, hating and loving the fair is complete.

Football Feast

I fell in love with football when I fell in love with my husband.  Well, really I fell in love with the idea of football. There was something so right about spending cool Sunday afternoons in the fall cheering on the Bills with friends and eating delicious food. Ok, let’s face it, I fell in love with the food associated with watching football. We have football on every Sunday in our house but I’ve never actually sat down and watched a game.  I’m usually too busy eating and/or talking to be bothered with the game. 

Today, I’ve compiled some of my favourite things to make on football Sunday.  Sometimes I’ll make one of these and sometimes I make all of them. Most of these recipes have come from friends and when I tried them for the first time I knew they’d be perfect for a Sunday afternoon game.

Buffalo Wing Dip

Chicken Wings (hot and sweet)
Homemade Pizza         
Shredded BBQ Chicken on a Bun

I apologize for the lack of specific measurements. It’s really not that important. Dump the stuff in until it tastes good.

Buffalo Wing Dip…thanks to Janice and Jamie for this one.  The first time I had this I ended up moving the dish from the table to my lap to make devouring it easier.

1 250g pkg cream cheese

Blue cheese dressing (I am not a fan of blue cheese but it’s perfect in this)
Frank’s Red Hot Buffalo Wing Sauce
Shredded cheese
Fritos Original (the Scoops worked best but they don’t make them anymore)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In some sort of shallow dish (I use a pie dish or smaller square dish…9 ½ by 11 would be too big…something half that size) spread the cream cheese. I usually microwave it just to make it easier to spread.

Pour on the blue cheese dressing to cover cream cheese in generous layer. Then, pour the wing sauce over top and use a spatula to spread it around. You probably won’t want to use as much of this…you’ll have to make it a few times to see how hot you like it. 

Top with some shredded cheese and bake until bubbling.  Serve with Fritos or any other chip or nacho you have around. Delicious!

Wings…thanks to my brother-in-law Nick for this. His actual recipe is a little more sophisticated but this one will do.

Wings (2 packages of split wings)

Salt and pepper
Cornmeal
Diana Sauce (Chicken and Rib)
Hot sauce (Franks or your own)
Honey
Butter
One lemon
One lime

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Toss wings in cornmeal that had been seasoned with salt and pepper. Bake for 40 minutes. Always check to see that they’re fully cooked.

In one bowl, combine half of the bottle Diana Sauce, hot sauce (amount depends on how hot you want the wings) and squeeze the juice from half of lime.  Toss half of the wings (still hot from the oven) in sauce and serve right away or put back in the oven until you’re ready to serve them.

In a second bowl, combine half a bottle of Diana Sauce, a generous squeeze of honey and the juice of half of a lemon.  Follow directions from above.

Homemade Pizza…made for me by Brian when I was pregnant. It was the most delicious pizza I had ever tasted!

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

1 can diced tomatoes                                      

1 can tomato paste                                        

Fresh Mozzarella (comes in a ball) sliced into ¼ inch thick slices
Orange or yellow pepper (cut into thin slices and in halves)

2 cloves garlic (finely chopped)                 

1 small onion (cut into slices like the pepper)
Flat bread (I’ve been using the PC flat bread)
Olive oil                                                               
Oregano
Brown sugar

Lightly brown the garlic in the olive oil in a sauce pan.  Add the can of tomatoes and tomato paste and boil gently until it is thick (just so the extra water from the tomatoes is boiled away).  Add 2-3 tablespoons of brown sugar and some oregano. Simmer for another 20 minutes. Be sure to stir.  I can usually freeze about half of this for the next time. Set aside.

Heat more olive oil in a mediem pan and add peppers and onions, sautee until tender.

Spread generous amount of sauce onto flatbread and then spread the onions and peppers overtop. Top with the slice mozzarella, you’ll use about 9 slices.  Put directly on rack in oven and bake for around 15 minutes. Cheese should be bubbling.

Shredded BBQ Chicken on a Bun   A slow cooker gem.  Once you’ve tasted one, you’ll be hooked.

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

1 jar Chicken and Rib Diana Sauce
2 celery stalks – diced
8-10 good white buns (please don’t ruin with wheat or Wonder buns)
butter

Boil the chicken breasts until they are cooked through. Then, cut them up into cubes and toss in the slow cooker. Add diced celery and Diana Sauce and stir.  Turn slow cooker onto low setting and cook for 6-8 hours.  When you’re ready to eat, take a whisk to the chicken and it should shred.

Cut buns in half, butter and place on some sort of griddle to lightly toast.  Pile on the shredded chicken and voila, you’re a hero.

Go Bills Go!

Poo in the Toilet… Among Other Things

There are, of course, many things that one discovers along the way of being a parent. One discovery I was not prepared for was the amount of times I would find unflushed poo in the toilet left behind by our resident poop bandit. It is a disgusting and dirty little secret that those of us with young children share. Each ‘discovery’ is a slightly disturbing event but it is dealt with quickly and without too much drama.  I  shake my head, yell out to anyone who might be listening that “there’s poo in the toilet again” and carry on to better things…which is just about anything.

To compound the problem, I have more than one poop bandit on the loose.  I have brought each of the suspects into the bathroom to try and shame with them with the evidence.  But they don’t fall for it.  They quickly try and transfer the blame to their sibling in an attempt to divert the focus off of them. As they’re running out the door, I’m yelling after them, “Well if you’re not flushing the toilet, what else aren’t you doing?” I cringe at the thought.

My laissez-faire attitude about poo in the toilet has had me scrambling on more than a few occasions. My attempt at creating a beautiful atmosphere in my home can quickly become undone upon a guest excusing themselves to the bathroom. A shot of fear runs through me as I remember that I forgot to do a last minute check.  I try to read their expression when they come back. Have they found us out? Do they think we’re gross? It’s like a public shaming and I can’t even defend myself because I’m too afraid to know the truth.

And poo in the toilet is just the tip of the iceberg. It’s as if my kids are conspiring against me in my efforts to project the image I work so hard for.  Our guests might also find an empty toilet paper roll and/or no hand towel. Or maybe there is a hand towel but it’s visibly dirty and damp and in a heap on the floor.  Books are tattered and torn and board games are missing pieces. There are pen marks on our beautiful butcher block and the list goes on and on.  There are even things that I’m too ashamed to ever write about. It’s not that I don’t care about our things. I do care. I care a lot. But my will has been worn down and poo in the toilet, soiled lines and unwashed hands seem quite normal at this point.

Then there are the glorious moments when you realize that it could be worse and actually is at someone else’s house. I was wrapping up a nice visit with a good friend one day when I excused myself to the loo. I must say I was shocked (and relieved) at the sight of poo in the toilet at someone else’s house.  Without flushing (I should have) I left and went to another bathroom. To my surprise I had come upon more poo in the toilet.  This was precedent setting. I have stumbled upon a lot of unfinished business before but two? Never.  “Oh for God’s sake,” was all I heard from the other room. She was a comrade in the trenches in the war to restore order.

When I finally composed myself, I thanked my friend for a good laugh and the comfort in knowing that the poop bandit strikes (sometimes often) in other homes too.  I left satisfied in the reassurance that the goings on in my house are going on in other people’s house as well.  Before having kids, I never would have guessed that this would be the natural order of things. I probably would have even judged. Now, I’m off to set a trap to try and catch the poop bandit in the act!

A Rainy Day

Ah, the joy of a rainy day.  I tend to be a bit of a homebody so, to me, rained out days are a gift from nature.  They offer me a chance to spend the day indoors to rediscover treasures in my house, clean a neglected space or to curl up on the couch with a good book or watch a great movie.   Rainy days are a reprieve from working and playing and visiting outside because when nice weather calls one just has to answer and embrace it.

I think it’s equally important to answer the call of the rainy day. It has such a bad reputation for ruining weekend plans and dampening people’s spirits.  I should acknowledge that as I sit and write this on a weekend that is calling for only rain, we have no such weekend plans to be spoiled.  Stay tuned for Rainy Days-Part Two –The Wretched Rain.

But it’s not the wretched rain today. Today we will spend the day happy to hear thunder and the pattering of rain on the roof. Today we will have friends over, clean the basement, have more friends over and end the night on the couch watching a movie – the same way we started the day.