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.