She Laughs at the Days

I know I said I’d finish the how we met story, and I will, but not today. My great grandmother passed away a little over a year ago. I don’t even know exactly how old she was, though I knew last year, she was closer to 100 than 90 is all I can say with absolute certainty, and suddenly I miss her so much. It was when I was knitting the other night, somehow I just started remembering her, her hands, the way they worked with a crochet hook my whole life, the way they got in the last few years when she couldn’t use them anymore, But what I miss, and need from her more than anything else is her joy. She always had it pressing in against whatever sadness or disappointment she lived through, she always returned to joy, to an indomitable love for life, whatever it looked like. She lived through so much, and she always loved, she found a way to laugh about it, she was never down long. I feel as though I didn’t say goodbye. I was there at the funeral; I gave one of the tributes. I didn’t see

I’ve been whining quite a bit recently, though I prefer to refer to it as processing and a healthy outlet, you can call it what you want, just don’t tell me unless you think I’ll like it. Any way, I thought I’d like to write about something really good that happened to me once, and remind myself that it is good in the process. One May long weekend I found myself at this big/giant youth conference in Kelowna, BC. I wasn’t exactly a youth anymore, I think I was 20, had a couple of years of post secondary under my belt, and had driven a bunch of kids out, and a few friends my own age for this event. At the very last day, during the very last meeting, this guy named Trey, who was a California surfer dude, but also the organizer of the event, got up on stage and announced that he was thinking about trying something, an experiment of sorts, he wasn’t sure what it would look like, but here was the basic idea, and anyone who was interested should talk to him afterward. In my life to that poin

If you don't have a paper shredder, and you have a large amount of documents that you have just culled from your files and need to shred before discarding, try giving them to your 4-year-old, along with a pair of scissors, and telling your 2-year-old that she may tear them to ribbons if she would like to join the fun. The result is a floor covered in itty bitty pieces of paper, in squares, triangles, circles, etc. several little "notes" on your desk from your son, and two or three hours of quiet while they are vastly entertained by this new enterprise. They even helped put it all in the trash when it was done. Operation Shredder accomplished.

I’m teaching my son to clean the toilet. Last week I taught him to wipe the rim, underneath the seat, and the entire outside of the bowl. This week he will also be introduced to the wonders of the toilet brush. This will be his job from now on, until there is another boy to train. While we were in the middle of this lesson he asked, “Why are you teaching me this mom?” I responded, in complete seriousness, “Because it’s something every boy should know.” Come on, you know it’s true. Who makes the mess in the toilet, and on the floor around it, and the wall behind it, and… You get my drift. So why is it always girls and women who clean up the stinky mess. I decided that the job of cleaning the toilet would always fall to my sons if I had any. I started this train of thought while observing my father, who was raised by a meticulously tidy woman. My grandmother had 11 children, and a clean house, in the days when you did the laundry by hand and grew your own food, and made your own clot

For the past two nights I’ve been trying to get my two year old to drink Vodka, so far no luck. She’s in the final stages of teething; her very back molars are coming in on the bottom, and maybe the top one as well. So that’s at least two at once. She wakes up crying, and sleepy, and in pain, and I want to help. I am grossly under prepared for a teething emergency, I have no children’s Tylenol, I have none of my surefire homeopathic remedy, but I do have good quality Vodka. We have used such remedies before around here, in a dropper for the little tiny people, because its actually cleaner and has fewer chemicals than in Tylenol in terms of what goes into their little bodies, Tylenol has worked but in the end it seems that a pure distilled alcohol, in little doses, works better. They go to sleep, and they stop feeling the wrath of the tiny teeth finally breaking free. So when she woke up two nights ago, inconsolable and in pain, I tried the regular ways of soothing her back to sleep.

She’s standing on a stool in the bathroom right now, talking to herself in the mirror. Cradling the tube of toothpaste in her hand she tells her image that she has to be very careful with it, she can’t break it. This is her toy that she “paid at the store”. She is very serious and intent in this instruction. Just as I walk by to see what she is doing she hands it to herself in the mirror and says, “Here you go. It’s for you.” She talks on the pretend phone to people, and if I didn’t know she was pretending, I’d swear someone on the other end is responding to her. The one-sided conversation sounds so realistic. The pretend part of having kids is super fun.

The great home schooling adventure has begun for us. The Boy will be 5 in October and I’ve realized that it’s time to dedicate a large chunk of our morning to activities that promote learning specifically, and set a few educational goals for him. Oh and it’s time to say goodbye to a show, by this I mean feature length, every single morning while mommy takes a pregnant nap, sits and cries, showers, take your pick. So far it’s going well. I remembered how much I love teaching. I have always been aware that I am just a teacher by nature. I don’t just teach. I am a teacher. Making the decision to home school was easy; even if it wasn’t one of those pivotal childrearing discussions we had before we were engaged. (The Genius Husband was home schooled, as were all his siblings, which I truly believe has contributed to his genius because he had the freedom to think and develop his brain along it’s truly unique lines. You may think I’m kidding about the genius label but I’m not, the guy is smar

I may not have mentioned it before, but the Genius Husband is a phenomenal cook. People used to pay him to go to their houses and cook for their dinner parties, he’s that good. I was already in love with him when I discovered this quality, as the first meal he ever gave me was desert camping food, which consisted mainly of toasted soy nuts and Gingeroos from Trader Joes. (Still the best soft ginger cookies on the planet by the way.) We also had tea, and I was thinking, uh, I thought this dude said he would supply the food, what the heck is this. No matter how good for you soy nuts are, I was thinking something a little more substantial, but then, I’d never hiked in the desert before. Turns out he was right about what heat does to appetite. After that he took me out for food a lot when we got around to dating, but I was already engaged to him before he cooked for me. Now, I haven’t ever considered myself a slouch in the kitchen. I’m quite comfortable improvising recipes from scratch,

So yesterday I was talking to a friend I have been out of contact with for a long time. She asked the dreaded question. “You don’t sound like you’re doing that great right now, are you sure you’re okay?” I have been fooling everyone close to me, I think, but an old friend thousands of miles away can hear over the phone lines that I’m not fine. I immediately produced the dreaded response, which was to start sobbing into the phone, so hard I couldn’t talk. She did what good friends do, she listened, and she built me up and reminded me that I am loved and of who I am. She told me for the first time what she thought when she first met me, and why it was that she introduced herself, why she liked me and wanted to be my friend. I needed to hear that so very badly. She made me laugh when I was finished crying and I needed that too. She also confirmed something that I had started to think to myself last night. I am strong, Dammit. Look what I manage to do while I feel like shit. I’m still ta

If you were to ask me right now how I am I’d probably say “I’m fine.” Today I’m fine means I’ve felt like shit for months and I don’t know when I’ll feel better, but I’m certain you don’t want to hear about it. I’m fine means that I’m afraid of someone who genuinely cares asking because I don’t want to break down crying in front of you because I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop until I told you everything, embarrassing both of us. I’m fine means I don’t feel like anyone loves me or cares about me and I feel lonely, and abandoned by the people closest to me. I’m fine means I’m afraid of appearing weak because I don’t feel like you or anyone else will love me or accept me if you knew how frail I really am, and what a slim thread I am clenching in order to stay functional. I’m fine means I’m trying to be strong even though I know I’m not. I’m fine means, “Please someone help me before I fall apart because I don’t even feel able to ask for help and I’m going down fast.” I’m fine

Oh Lego how I love thee Thou dost keep my children quiet for hours at a time. I do not mind thy presence underfoot, Unless I step on thee directly, Then do I curse both profound and profane, And threaten to vacuum up thy scattered remains. This though is nothing to the sheer bliss of quiet, As the short people silently create from thy many colored splendor. Wonderful things emerge from the bedroom Airships, dragons, boats, and penguins. All presented with shining eyes, Demanding examination and approval. I rejoice in the skills unfolding before me. Motor control, engineering, imagination. The joy of handmade toys. Until… They both want the same Lego Guy. The black clad one will not do, For it is the green shirt who hath gained the greater glory They scream and shriek A sound most shrill, And beat each the other upon furrowed brows. Then does my peace become fleeting, And my voice rises in annoyance. But since, oh Lego, You last much longer than any other toy Before the shrill

So I have a post that I wrote while offline, that I wanted to put here. For some unknown and frustrating reason the modem and my computer are not speaking to each other right now. Perhaps the modem was jealous at the computer's brief experiment with that whore of a wireless connection which isn't even password protected and won't take him back without a sincere apology for straying. Anyway, I am borrowing the Genius Husband's laptop, which is frustrating all by itself because it has none of my settings. Now it won't even let me copy and paste a word file into this little blogspot page so that you can all enjoy my brilliance, or kill time while waiting for something better to come along. AAARRRGGGHHH. It's late, I'm going to bed. I promise to try again tomorrow, when I'm exhausted because once again I am up way to late.