December 14, 2012

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



                             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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Constructive Criticism – I Don’t Think So

This week`s lifestyle challenge in The Globe and Mail, and I quote, ``Learn to take constructive criticism. Meet up with key people in your private and professional life and ask what you could do better”.  Are they serious?  Well, I for one am out.  I don’t know about you but this is about the last thing my already fragile mental state can handle.  Are they trying to destroy my friendships and get me fired?  Ok, I may be being a little over dramatic but I’ll choose ignorance on this topic any day.

It is a very noble idea. And I’m sure a stronger, more stable and less sensitive person could handle it. I have never said I wasn’t self-aware – I know what many of my many faults are, I just don’t want anyone else telling me. (Side note – when searching for the word faults, my husband asked if I’d like some help identifying what mine are. I didn’t say people didn’t want to tell me what’s wrong with me).  The idea of the challenge is to improve people’s lives but in my inconsistent pursuit of being a better person, I have drawn a definite line.

Why not have a sit down with those closest to me and give them the chance to tell me what they have been holding back for years? Not a chance. Some people may disagree with me and think that this is a great idea. I envy them. I wish I could be like them. But I am just not wired that way.

We all have areas that need work. And usually we either accept the faults in our friends or we move on. Sometimes, in indirect ways, our friends and colleagues drop subtle hints to keep us in line. And don’t we love to talk about other people’s shortcomings? I think we do this because it makes us feel better about ourselves. And sometimes quite frankly, it does. Here’s a good challenge – stop thinking about what other people could do better and try to be better. That, I will attempt.

My Clothesline

If you had told me fifteen years ago that one of the things that would make me happiest in my mid-thirties was a clothesline, I would have told you to kill me now and put me out of my inevitable misery. But it’s true. My clothesline does make me happy. And in a life that some days has me busier than I ever imagined possible, it also offers me a sense of calm and total satisfaction.

Part of the reason I am able to enjoy my clothesline so much is that it is just out of the sight of the kids when they look out the back door to find me.  I can sneak out with a nice full load of laundry and stay out of view just long enough for them to forget about me and go find their dad.  Wow, alone with the laundry – every girl’s dream. 

I sometimes feel very pioneer like when I am out there in nature, the birds chirping around me and our clothes and sheets flapping in the wind.  It’s like I’m connecting with my sisters from simpler days (well, the days weren’t actually so simple because ‘my sisters’ would have first had to wash all of the clothes and sheets by hand). It’s like I’m an environmental crusader, doing my part to save the earth by not using my dryer from June until August. 

I love that by the time I hang the basket of laundry, it has already started to dry. I love the smell of my sheets.  I love that everything is just a little crunchy and has those clothespin marks in them – no – I don’t really love those things about hanging my clothes but nothing is perfect.  

I grew up with a clothesline in our backyard. I remember its rusting, white posts and I don’t really recall much laundry being hung on besides the odd, damp beach towel. An unused clothesline is just wasted potential – a wasted opportunity to experience one of the simplest pleasures in life. 

Like I said, I would have been devastated to have been told in my twenties that I would find happiness in a clothesline. But out in my backyard, hiding from my kids on a sunny day and hanging my underwear for all my neighbours to see is truly a beautiful thing.

Are You Kidding Me???

One day I may thank my children for the abundance of material they provide for my writing. But right now, it seems as if I am a part of some elaborate practical joke meant to test the limits of my sanity. This weekend was no exception. 

On Friday, I returned home from a four day class trip to Quebec City. It was a fantastic and nostalgic trip as I can vividly remember my own grade eight trip there some twenty years ago.  But I was only home for a pit stop and after arriving home late Friday night, I was off to Toronto by noon on Saturday. 

Moments before we were to get into the car, my youngest decided to play with the toilet. Any parent who has ever been busy knows that an occupied child, whatever they may be doing, is a beautiful thing. Our toilet however, has been acting up, and I should have known better. I heard the toilet flush once and then again and I looked over just in time to see the water pouring over the side of the bowl and flowing like a river to the other end of the bathroom.  A master under pressure, I began screaming and wasn’t sure whether to save the laundry basket or the child first. I went for the basket and then scooped up the misfit.  I then grabbed all of our shower towels and threw them on the toilet water. Gross.  Will they ever truly be clean again?

I then had to get on my hands and knees to try and sop up as much ‘water’ as I could.  I was now sweating as well.  Great.  I couldn’t be bothered to get out the mop (I’m not even sure I know where it is) and I was tempted to just walk away. But then I saw the Chlorox Wipes and figured they were as good as anything.

Fast forward to the drive home where I took an hour detour to avoid a probably 20 minute delay due to an accident. My navigational skills are questionable on a good day and I wasn’t really in the mood for a scenic tour around the Niagara Escarpment but that is exactly what I got. This hiccup can’t be blamed on the kids but I thought I’d throw it in for good measure.

Back at home, I was trying to catch up on a week’s worth of work. The girls were in our bedroom and I had given the youngest my nail polish to play with. I know, what was I thinking? From downstairs I could hear her banging them together. I went up and asked her, a two year old, to be careful. Am I out of my mind? A complete idiot could see where this was going. But, happy that she was still occupied, I went back downstairs to carry on with my jobs.  Not more than 30 seconds later Mia called for me to come fast.  My body moved toward the stairs but my mind was telling me to run anywhere but my bedroom.  When I got to my room, I saw what I knew I would see…I just wasn’t sure in what colour. 

There on my white carpet, only feet from the poo stain was an entire bottle of bright pink nail polished smashed on the floor.  There was no reaction from me - just a long, defeated sigh. I am officially numb to any destruction my children can cause.  I knew there would be no way to clean this up. I gave it a futile effort but I only made it worse.  This time the babe looked up and kept telling me, “Clean it up! Clean it up!”

I decided to have a shower as I was sweating (again) and I reeked of nail polish remover. Yes, I dumped buckets of nail polish remover on my carpet.  While in the shower, my older daughter came barging in with my crying two year old to tell me she had fallen down the stairs. Seriously people – I’m not making this shit up.

I have included pictures this time as proof of the incident. As you can see, my efforts to clean up only made it worse. I am now in the market for an area rug.  Lucky for me, I don’t think I’ll ever run out of things to write about.

The Crime Scene...

 My failed attempt at cleaning it up...

 The perpetrator...

Eating Ourselves Out of House and Home

The Globe and Mail has been running a series of articles aimed at having people try and improve their lives one small step at a time.  Last week’s challenge: try not to buy groceries and eat up what is already in your cupboards and freezer.

Inspired – we’ve decided to take up the challenge. There are massive stockpiles of food in both our cupboards and our freezers – enough to live on for at least several weeks.  Still, I know this is going to be no easy task.  We are grocery store junkies. We frequent them at least three times a week.  We just started the challenge three days ago and I have already had to reign myself in from emailing hubby my list of this and that.

We have set the following rules in place:

1.       Only items like milk, juice, toiletries, etc. can be purchased at the grocery store ( I should probably define etc. – it could mean a lot of things)

2.       Fresh produce can be freely purchased but is encouraged at the Farmer’s Market

3.       Lunch meat can also be purchased from the butcher but must be put on bread that has a questionable purchasing date and is in the freezer.

I think I also need to add a fourth rule because since we began the challenge we have managed to eat out almost every meal.  We are now avoiding the food we have set out to eat.

4.       No more eating out until the challenge is over (rules we meant to be broken, right?)

I can already hear the complaining of the kids. My son will be in all out revolt if we run out of Bisquick. That reminds me, yogurt is on the approved list. Hmmm, what if we have company over?  Are they to be fed from the depths of our freezer, too?  Maybe company should be another exception.

Oh, it’s a slippery slope back to the glorious grocery store. But, we are going to do our best.  It will be amazing if at the end of this we can open our freezer without risk of some random frozen item free falling from the freezer and possibly breaking a toe.  It will be wonderful to open the freezer and actually be able to fit something in it.  Be gone grocery store flyers: To the recycling bin for you. 

I do believe my life can be marginally improved by having cleaned out cupboards and roomy freezers.  Just like I believe my life is marginally better when my bed is made and the kitchen is clean.  The rest of the house could be falling apart but made beds and a clean kitchen gives me a sense of calm. I can often be found making my side of the bed as I get out of it in the morning. Does a half made bed make me half as happy? Some days I think.

Tomorrow we are in fact having company over. Without even having to think about it, I told them we’d pull something out of the freezer for dinner.  They will be unsuspecting accomplices in our quest to rid our house of the perfectly good food, that until now, we couldn’t be bothered to eat.

P.S. You can follow the rest of the challenges by reading the Globe and Mail (obviously) or checking out their facebook page - Globe Life - The Globe and Mail