Denied a Dance (for the first time)

His face appeared round, flushed and expectant at the back door.  His small chest bare, clad in his Green Lantern bathing suit, he had one hand against the door, the other holding up an empty blue sippy cup.

I walked over and slid open up the heavy glass door.  He stepped into the cool air of our home and I quickly shut the door to keep out the heat of the day.  It was an unseasonably warm summer-like day.

"Hi angel!"

"Mummaaa!  I need more water.  But I want to put it in myself!"

I picked up his not so small body, too big to be carried really, but I still do.  I sat him on the edge of the sink.  Music played in the back ground.  A song I wanted to dance to with my son.

I turned on the faucet and we filled his cup together.  

"I want to put the top on!"

He placed the top on, twisting it to tighten it just so, without help from me.

For the first time

A sweet song by Bruno Mars (Count on Me) was playing.  I swooped him into my arms from the kitchen counter and into the small 'dancing area' of our living room and spun around.

He protested.  His little boy hands with blue sippy cup pushing gently against my chest.  Orange-summer-scented sunscreen surrounded us.  

Even still I twirled with him to the music.  

"It's booorrrring!  I want to go play with my friends!"

With a mixed smile and a small forced laugh I reluctantly conceded lowering his bare feet down onto the cool wooden floor.

He walked to the glass sliding doors where he'd come in from as I stood rooted to the spot where we'd briefly danced.

He opened the sliding glass doors, pausing briefly before exiting.  He looked back at me his smile perfect and happy.  

"It's a beautiful day!" he declared before stepped out into the bright sunshine, running across the hot deck to jump through the sprinkler with his friends.

Caught!

I walked into the kitchen to find this strategically placed on the counter by my four year old son.

He gets an A for effort - he even opened up the jar and that is not easy for little hands to do.

He does this once in a while.  Places items of food or drink on the counter when I'm not there and then disappears...as a not so subtle hint. It's usually things that he thinks I might say no to.  Food or drink items that I consider a once in a while indulgence.  (I've also found him 'hiding' underneath the kitchen table with a large spoon and container of Cool Whip.  Then there was that other time that he convinced his brother to join him up on the counter to eat a bag of marshmallows while I was trying to catch the last few minutes of the Regis and Kelly finale folding laundry upstairs - but ha! caught them in the act! They think they're sooo sneaky.)

No need to point out all the fatal parenting flaws going on in this picture.
A big fat parenting FAIL all over the place here.

I'm obviously not against this chocolate spread - being that it's in my cupboards and all.  And though I'm not a big fan of it myself due to having over indulged in it by about a thousand spoonfuls 4 years ago when my Danish neighbours introduced it to me, I can understand why it's appealing for most people, especially kids. (okay, okay.  So there may have been times since when I'm feeling a bit crazy for lack of chocolate and I grab a few fingerfuls spoonful.)

I'm not saying that I don't allow him have it on toast for breakfast once in a blue moon...(I'll admit that when it's the third week of my husband being away on business and he's having a freak out about needing to have a cookie for breakfast I'll hand it over without a second thought.  Child wears me down some days.) I would just rather him choose to eat something with a bit more nutritional value.

Like the Eggo waffles doused in butter and syrup that he had instead.  (Alright - so in my defense the waffles were whole wheat and the syrup was the delicious Canadian 'real' kind - which! by the way! is loaded with antioxidants!)

Anyway...I'm not sure of my point here.  I guess I just thought it was adorable and wanted to remember this as something he often does now before I forget and before he stops doing it.

Also?  When I went to look for him after finding the Nutella on the counter, I found him upstairs with suspicious smudges around his mouth that looked a lot like chocolate.

"What's that around your mouth Aidy?"

He looked in the nearby mirror then back at me with an expression that could only be described as sheepish.

Poor child of mine.

He obviously got his chocoholic tendencies from yours truly.

Excuse me while I go make my son a long overdue Nutella sandwich.

He is Home

I felt him awaken just as the sun was rising.  It was early.

He leaned over and kissed my cheek.  The sheets crumpled and twisted between us.  

"Good morning honey."

"Mm-hm." My eyes remained shut, my limbs heavy from sleep.

He pulled on his sweatshirt as he always does before he proceeds down the stairs to the kitchen.

I was alone and awake. Still so tired.

I could hear the crinkling sound of plastic as he emptied the garbage.

The running of water and clinking of dishes being emptied from the dishwasher.

The birds chirped pleasantly in the tree just outside our bedroom window.

The cool morning breeze flapped the blinds on our window and I turned over to my other side, pulling the covers over my bare shoulders, burrowing deeper beneath my duvet.

 My face feeling the chill, my body warm.

I could smell the delicious, pungent aroma of coffee brewing.

And I drifted.

Awoken again to the sound of my 2 year old's chatter-babble and abrupt giggles from large Daddy handed tickles on little boy bellies.

An out of the blue question from my eldest to his father, "Daddy can I come to work with you tomorrow?"  And the feeling of sweet relief from my husband's baritone-tender reply, "I'm not going to work tomorrow Aidy.  Daddy's staying home again with you."

The morning sunlight peered cheerful through the crack in the blinds and fell wonderfully optimistic through the open door of our bedroom, spilling yellow onto our beige carpet.

The scent of coffee heavy, rich and close, I peeked open my eyes to find my large black mug emblazoned white with 'The Boss' filled to the brim and now cool on my nightstand.

I stretched beneath the blankets and savoured the feeling of no urgency or must do's.

The birds sang peacefully, the sound of my boys playing happy and loud.

My husband's voice clear and loving, "Okay guys, how about we go downstairs now...we don't want to wake up Mummy."

My smile sleepy and serene.

It was a perfect start to the day.

He was home.

Golden Memories

I sat on my bike at what seemed like a very steep, long hill in front of our home.  When in reality, as a grown adult now, would probably be a not so long, not at all steep pathway.

But!  As a four year old little girl?  Very steep.  Very long.

My Dad ran alongside me a few steps and let go of the back of my bicycle seat.

Away I went.

And from the blurry memories..I recall I fell.

And fell.

And fell again.

But I don't remember the physical pain.

Nope.  Not a bit.  I was determined.

After a few times of failure I was let go once again...and there I went.

My strong, sturdy little legs pumped, to keep me going.

All by myself.

A child's first taste of freedom is the first time they learn to ride a bike.

All on their own.

I truly believe that.

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As my neighbour kindly pumped up the air in the tires of a bicycle I had been reunited with for the first time in 5 years I became excited.  I have so many wonderful memories of the adventurous (though not altogether safe! - helmets for bicycling did not exist - or were not enforced at all 'back then') bike rides my father would take us on.

As a teenager I often biked to school.  As an adult I once biked over 50 km.  For fun.

Once my kind neighbour had finished his neighbourly duty I strapped on my helmet and hopped on. My boys became quite enamored by the fact that I was actually on a bicycle too.  Or quite possibly I mistook their look of being enamored with amusement by how dorky I looked in my helmet.

I can't quite be sure.

I took a few spins on the road in front of our house and raced my eldest.

The exhilaration was still there.

A soul-spark was reignited.

We had decided to go for a quick ride around the block but ended up at a nearby school.  Just behind the school is a large pavemented area with spray painted games...not like the hop scotch 'back in my day' (really? did I just say that?!)...but games unfamiliar to my generation (really? again? MY generation!? Yikes) with lots of numbers and complicated patterns.  There was also a large yellow smiling face with the top of his head open like the lid on a cookie jar with symbols emerging from it and a statement that read beneath, "Fill your bucket".

I liked it.  (sounds much creepier than it looks)

It had rained that day but the sun had shone hot that afternoon so there were only a few puddles left.

Feeling like a kid again I peddled fast and furious, flying through the puddles with my legs up and out like a v-shape as the tires slashed through the water, splashing high.

"Wooooooo!"  I yelled...and of-course my boys followed.

We raced, we splashed, we woo-hooed!, we played 'bike tag' (much less risky than one would think - in fact I'm still a bit confused by the rules my four year old made up), we rode in circles, zig-zags and in straight lines.

It brought back a wonderful deluge of memories from when I was a young girl.

As the early evening white-gold warm sun shone upon us behind that school, I felt like I was looking down from above.  A huge smile on my face.

There are first moments for everything in life and this was another. For truly wonderful memories of my childhood had just come full circle.  


I didn't want to forget this one.  No.  Not at all.


This memory?  I wish to keep safely preserved.  


Beautifully golden.  


Strong, precious and untouchable.


And I wonder, as I often do when a moment with my children rings clear and authentic, if this will be one of their golden memories...

When He's Gone

"I am master of the bubbles!" my eldest declared from the tub of water and plenty of bubbles that almost reached his and his brother's neck.

"Master of the bubbles!" his little brother mimicked.

I was wiping down the bathroom counter, placing toothpaste on their brushes.  I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror.

Tomorrow would be Day Nine of my husband away.

Unsurprising that I looked more than a little pale.....completely exhausted.  But I noticed my mouth was drawn up listening to my son's chattering.

Friends often wonder how I do it.  Honestly speaking...I don't know how I do, other than the fact that I have no other choice.

When I know the day of departure is looming...it looms dark and foreboding.  But while he's gone I'm too busy to even think most days.  I just go, be, do.  Whatever must be taken care of...whoever must be taken care of.  I suppose I've gotten used to it.  The excessive travel that begins slowly in September and increasingly more frequent come the New Year.  I also suppose I should be thankful that the summer months he's here...but there are also the late nights and long days.  It's been over 6 years of this but the struggle for balance in both of our lives is constant.  Him, family over work...me...my boys over myself, over marriage.  It's not a new story and it causes a strain and a stress on the best of marriages.

I begrudge him the fancy dinners as I sit home and eat the boys leftover half eaten Kraft Dinner and chicken fingers.

He would rather be with us, eating a home cooked meal (which, when he's home, does not involve Kraft Dinner or chicken fingers - not that he would care in the least).

I begrudge him the fact that he's actually hanging out and having face to face intelligent conversations  with people the same age.

But I know he would rather be with us, listening to the  Superhero stories spun by our four and two year old, however hard they are to follow.

I begrudge him having undisturbed sleep in a beautiful hotel room, with room service.   Not having to clean up after himself.

But I know in my heart that with the dark of the night comes feelings of lonliness and longing for us.  Although I'm sure he is quite content not to have to clean up after himself.

It is the constant influx of emotions....the up-down...the wow - I am supermom - I tie dyed 5 shirts with my 4 year old today and didn't lose my mind.  Then comes the wow at bath time when I realize the green dye isn't coming off of his legs...and did I check the box to see if it was toxic free...and OMG will he get ink poisoning?!

What kind of Mother doesn't check to see if the dye is toxic free?!


What kind of Mother tye dyes FIVE shirts with her FOUR YEAR old son?!!!


And why am I calmest in situations I normally would lose complete patience but then yell at my boys when they won't stop goofing off and get ready for bed?  

Will they remember these moments?  Have I scarred them for life?!

"Close your eyes Mumma".  I sit on the boy's bumpy white plastic footstool in front of the tub that contains my sons, a million bubbles and lots of bath toys.

I close my eyes.

"Okay, you can open them now!"

I open them up to see the sopping wet blue washcloth folded and lumpy at the edge of the bath tub.

"Oh!  What's this?"

"A present for you!"

I carefully peel the dripping cloth away to find my gift.

An R2D2 toy.

I thank him profusely and he beams with pride.

He arrives home at the tail end of Mother's Day.

I hope his gift to me is just as heartfelt.

Though possibly a little bit more thoughtful.

10 Things I do Every.Single.Morning.

Listicles!!!  I love them. And so here I am again.  What do you do in one hour of your day?  Perfection.

Funny thing is, I was just thinking about this today as I was doing about 4 things at the same time. Folding laundry, cooking dinner, scolding my children and drinking wine.

It's a well known fact that women are born master multi-taskers.

That is why we make such great Mothers.

Here is my typical morning between the hours of 7am - 8am.  I stay at home with my boys so I have the luxury of not having to really 'be' anywhere which is nice, I will admit.  But that doesn't make my mornings any easier.

7am (this can vary between the 6 - 6:30...7 am is being extraordinarily optimistic here!) - awake to my 4 year old climbing into my bed, snuggling all warm and cozy with me under the covers and giving me the false impression that I can do the same...before he demands asks for juice.  I tell him Mummy just woke up and he needs to give me a few minutes.  He falls silent for about 1 minute...and then whines for juice again.

7:05 - stumble to the kitchen for said juice.  While I'm in the kitchen I figure I should probably start up some coffee so that I can begin to feel somewhat human.  (that's 2 things there right?)

7:10 - bring eldest juice, climb back into bed and pray to God that littlest doesn't start yelling for 'MUUMMMY' for at least another 20 minutes.

7:15 - littlest starts yelling for 'MUUUUMMMY!!!!'  I retrieve smallest child from crib and fail to change diaper as he screams, squirms and completely LOSES HIS SHIT when I even attempt to bring him near the change table.

7:20 - bring him into my bed, lie between him and his brother so as not to cause any disturbance and turn on Scooby Doo.  Try to fall back asleep but all I can smell is pee and little elbows and knees are jabbing me in places that should never see nor feel elbow or knees.

7:30 - Littlest says he's 'Hummy'.  In other words he's hungry and must have his morning dose of Cheerios with milk.  Stat.

7:35 - Descend the stairs with Mr Stinky Pee Pants on hip - pray that his diaper isn't so full he leaks onto my pj's, retrieve cereal box, pour cereal and milk into a bowl and bring to Master Finley who awaits on chubby kneecaps at his usual chair.

7:36 - Pour myself a massive cup of coffee with milk and sit with youngest at table.

7:40 - Youngest demands more milk.  Trudge over to fridge, retrieve milk, bring to table and pour more milk into bowl.

7:50 - Eldest yells from upstairs that the PVR'd Scooby Doo is done and he wants another - trudge upstairs to do as told.  Or else risk the wrath of Master Adrian.

7:52 - Rush back down the stairs to ensure smallest child does not choke on Cheerios.  Notice that he's finished his Cheerios and is now on his way to undressing himself right down to his stinkin' saggy diaper.  Which promptly I ignore.  I can't handle the hysterics of attempting that diaper change again.  I have yet to finish my coffee.

8:00 - Feed the dog.  Feed the plants.  Feed myself.

Oh wait.

That was more than 10 wasn't it?

The Stitches of my Heart

After a couple of story books and a Chapter from Charlotte's Web I tucked Adrian in on the top bunk, asked for a kiss which was deliciously and promptly given (as always). We said our 'I love you's'.

"To the moon and back, forever and ever and always...don't you forget it!"

As I climbed (mercifully) down the ladder (I don't remember those rungs hurting my feet so much as a child) I saw my littlest snug as a bug in the duvet on the bottom bunk.

Would tonight be the night?  For both of them to share the room, the bunk beds and all?

"Fin, do you want to sleep here or in your crib in your own room?"  He is, after all, an independent soul who craves his own space and doles out his affection at his own accord.  Do not push or invade into his personal territory.  You will be shunned.  Mercilessly so.  Not even a fake pout or cry will get you sympathy.  Not any more.  Not even to his own Mother.  This is not to say he is as prickly as a cactus, for he is not at all.  He loves giving hugs and gives the most scrumptious and juiciest of smooches.  But on his own time.  At his own free will.

Clingy girls of his future...be warned.  I fear for your broken hearts.

"Sleep here."  The decision was made.

I laid my head down beside his to ensure no after dark parties would be taking place whilst Mother's not around.

I hadn't lain beside my youngest for naps or bed time since he was a newborn babe.  I wondered how long it would take for him to settle.

After a couple "Hellooo down there's!" from Adrian on the top bunk calling through the crack where the bed and wall meet I heard some rustling and settling in.  Then quiet from above.

I laid on my side facing my little one.  Despite the black out blinds in the room the light from the evening sun spilled through the window of our foyer into the upstairs hallway and made it's way into the bedroom.

I closed my eyes and every now and then would peek out of one eye to see if he'd fallen asleep yet.

Every time I would meet his big blue eyes staring at mine, his zazzy (his own made up word for soother) making the adorable rhythmic up and down motion in his mouth.

I quickly shut my eye again.  I felt his fingers trace my face and tickle my lips.  I kissed his sweet fingertips.  Then pretending to munch on them.

Nom, nom, nom.

Belly giggles.  The best kind.

Finally.

Quiet.

Just as I thought sleep had descended and I could make a break for it, a shadow crossed my closed eyes.  I opened them up to find myself eye to eye with Sleepy Sheepy, Finley's impish face peeking out behind his off white fluffy ear.  I laid Sleepy Sheepy between us and we said good night again.

The shadow moved across my shut eyes once more.  And there they were again.

So this was what it was like to try and fall asleep with my little one.

Silly, sweet and a little restless.

Eventually Mr Sandman entered and all I could hear was the beautiful sound of deep, even breathing.

The sky was now darkened. I gave his soft warm cheek one last kiss good night and quietly made my way to the door.

I paused at the doorway giving one last wistful glance from the doorway at my sound sleeping sons.

In bunk beds.

My heart swelled until I felt it split open - just a tiny bit...like a seam on a well loved toy.

An unravelling in the stitches of my heart.

There would be more.

This was just the beginning.

My babies.

They were growing up.

The Wisdom of a Four Year Old

I surveyed my kitchen which looked like every cupboard including random food items from the refrigerator were strewn across my small counter space trailing into a pile in the sink.

Sighing with the thought of not knowing where to start I donned my pink rubber dish washing gloves.

I really hate the colour pink.


My boys ran into the kitchen and began rummaging through the drawer that housed the utensils they're allowed to play with and came up brandishing wooden spoons.

"Mumma!  Come play Harry Potter with us!  I will be Harry Potter and Finley can be the other boy and you can be the girl."

"Bud I just need to get these dishes done and then I can play...it's okay.  You guys go on ahead and play together."

I'll admit right now...playing imaginary games with my boys is not my forte.  Give me a hockey stick or a soccer ball.  A puzzle or a colouring book. A walk in the woods or even the park.  But imaginary play?  I suck at.  And truth be told...I would rather wash dishes than play imaginary Harry Potter.  Especially cast as the frizzy haired bossy curmudgeon with the unfortunate name of Hermione.  Why couldn't I be Ron?  He's funny!  And likable!  And I can pronounce his name!

"Pleeeease Mumma!  Come play!"

"C'mon Mummy!"  Even my 2 year old was in on it.

"I will play with you.  I promise.  Just give me 15 minutes to clean up the kitchen."  Quite possibly the game of Harry Potter might be done by then.  My fingers were crossed.

"What's gonna happen if you don't clean the kitchen?"

I stopped.  I looked at my 4 year old and my 2 year old's adorable faces.  Tilted up.  Staring at me expectantly.  With magical enthusiasm.  Their 'wands' held tightly in their little fists.

Ding.    Ding.   Ding.   


Ding.Ding.Ding!!!!!!


I pulled off my dreadful pink latex gloves one by one.

"What will happen Mumma?  Will the police come?"

Alright, alright kid.  You got me.  


I laughed and told him, "Nothing honey.  Nothing will happen if I don't clean up the kitchen right now.  Let me get my wand out..." as I reached into the drawer and retrieved the last available wooden spoon.

They say your children will teach you more than you will ever teach them.  How true that is. I learned some  very important lessons that day.

1.  Nothing actually does happen when you don't get the dishes done.  

2.  Imaginary play I may still be terrible at...but my sons' will cut me some serious slack.


3.  I can make a mean pair of Harry Potter glasses with cardboard, black electrical tape and an elastic.  Clearly I am much craftier and innovative than I've ever given myself credit for.

So he's missing some clothing.  But how can you not be impressed with that magical stance!??
(he even made me draw the scar on his forehead...except I put it on the wrong side)

My Favourites! Quotes and Pictures

Today I'm linking up over at Ado's, The Momalog for a very cool online baby shower for Alison over at Mama Wants This.  She's due the first week of May with her second baby boy!  So exciting.  I wish you the best of luck Alison!  Two boys bring loads of craziness, chaos and FUN.  Bring on the superhero costumes!

Our task from Ado was to choose our favourite baby picture and quote about Motherhood. (Ado already stole my quote but I'm gonna use it anyway).  Jackie Kennedy said it best.  I remember reading this quote in one of her biography's.  It was before I was even married with children but it was like a light bulb (bing!) went off in my head when I read it.  It has stuck with me ever since.

"If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do well matters very much."

I also read a wonderful sentence just the other day that made me feel so much better about what I'm doing as a Mother (frankly most days I don't know what the hell I AM doing as a Mother).  I wish I knew who it was, to give them credit for this, but they just said it was something that an older mother had said to them at one time.  Cheers to that older mother wherever she is!

"Motherhood is only hard when you're doing it right." Amen to that.

I couldn't decide on just one picture and didn't want to seem like I was favouriting one over the other - so I chose a favourite picture of each of my boys. Gotta be fair.  And all's fair in love and Motherhood or something like that.  (not really but anyway).

Adrian at 8 months.  Do you see why I call him angel face?

Finley at just over a year and a half.  Delicious.  

My Discomfort Exposed

So last week I walked into the change room at my gym and WHOA!

A woman exposed from the waist down was bent over lotioning her legs, one foot placed on the bench seat.  Her white derriere was a like a blaring neon sign.  And to make it worse,  her neon white behind faced a very, very large mirror which reflected it back into the change room and into everyone else's poor unsuspecting eyes.

It could not be escaped.

Now. I realize I'm a modest gal...the type of girl that brings her towel, moisterizer and undergarments to the shower area fully dressed, hops into the shower - fully dressed - then throws her gym clothes in a bag through a very thin curtain opening...because there are no private change rooms.  (WTH?!) After my shower I scurry back towards my dark corner of the change room and dress under my towel so that no one else sees a glance of my hide nor..hair.  There's nothing wrong with my body. It is not perfect but it is in perfect working order.  I am in good shape because I work at it. I'm healthy and proud of what it's done.  It carried and nourished two beautiful, healthy, perfect babies.  I'm strong.  I can lift heavy weights, run, bike, carry both my boys at the same time.  (that's 70 plus lbs right there).  I have my 'things' my 'hang ups'...there are certain...areas I'm self conscious about and I really wish I wasn't but I don't think that's unusual.  I'm not a prude.  Just take my word for it.  And that is all I will say about that. ahem.  I believe all woman's bodies that are healthy are something to be respectfully admired...not ogled or jeered at.  And by healthy I'm not talking about a forced size 0 where all of one's skelebones are visible.  Or women that have dieted so much they look like bobble heads.  That's not hot.  (Here - have a burger.  With cheese. You are sadly missing out.) I just don't think it's necessary to stand, bent over at waist lathering body cream on your legs with your bare behind sticking out when the rest of your body is perfectly clothed.  Or hanging around with your (clothed) friends chatting about the weather. I can tell you right now lady.  It's cold outside.  Put some damn clothes on! I also don't get why one must stand buck nekkid brushing her hair when it's pretty clear to me (by a quick and dreadfully mistaken peep) you should be concentrating on the grooming of the hair...in other areas.  You get me?

 I will never, ever understand gratuitous nakedness. There is actually a family nudist resort not 15 minutes from where I live and every time I pass the sign for it on the highway I shake my head in disbelief.  A couples nudist resort is one thing...but a family nudist resort!!!  REALLY!??? Chunky, dimply naked baby bottoms are one thing but chunky dimply adult bottoms are a whole 'nother.  Combining all that chunky dimpliness in one place is just...too much chunky dimpliness.  And bums are not the worst thing to look at.  Human anatomy is full of floppy...areas.  And I speak not of just the backside of a middle aged woman's upper arm.  I have to admit that I'm a tad bit curious what kind of activities go on at a Family Nudist Resort.  I can see swimming and sunbathing but picturing a family game of shuffle board wearing nothing but your birthday suit?  It's just too much.  And what about meal times...uck.  I just lost my appetite. (and here is where all the weirdos come find my blog thanks to google)

Be naked all you want in your own home. Have at it.  Dance, do handstands, watch t.v. play tag, sing, cook,(actually please don't cook - that's just plain unsanitary) clean your whole house naked for all I care.

Just please ensure all blinds and curtains are closed.

Especially if you happen to be one of my neighbours.

Huggles and Ham Sandwiches

He clomped in from outside, rosy cheeked and smelling of grass, fresh air and that inexplicable smell of boy.  He was riding his bike outside with the other kids on the street and had worked up an appetite as he so declared as soon as he came through the door.

"Mumma! I'm hungry!"

I was already in the kitchen feeding my little one who sat on his knees on the chair at our round, wooden kitchen table.

"Would you like a ham sandwich?"

"Of-course!  Or uhhh....maybe a hot dog?"

"Did you know that ham is actually a flattened hot dog?"  The energy for hot dog making wasn't in me.

"Okay!  With mustard!"

As I squeezed the tart yellow spread onto the bread, he asked if he could help.  I gave him a butter knife and told him to spread it out right to the edges.

(It's important to me that each mouthful has perfect portions of ham to bread to mustard ratio.)

He spread some out and then asked for help with the rest.  I placed my grown Mother hand over top of his still growing four year old boy one and we took the time to evenly cover the rest of it together.

I finished up the sandwich and placed it on a plate (uncut as per his request) with baby carrots and off he went carefully carrying the plate out to eat his lunch on the front step amongst his friends.

Later that night in his bed, twilight surrounding us, I scooped him close and cradled him like the baby he is no longer.  His long legs hung lanky across my forearm, his already muscular arms folded between my chest and his as I curled him in close to me.  I kissed the top of his head and told him my thanks for the day....

"I'm thankful for your hugs and snuggles.  Your huggles!"  I said with a smile.  It's a word I recently made up and it makes my boys laugh.  He looked up at me and giggled and said, "Mumma?  You know what I'm thankful for?"

I love hearing what he has to say during these moments.  It always surprises me.  Pleasantly so.

"No...what are you grateful for today baby?"

"Ham sandwiches."

Ah yes.  I knew just what he meant.

Ham sandwiches made with the special ingredient that makes everything taste that much more delicious.

Ham sandwiches...made with love.

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Yeah Write #54

It's been a few weeks since my last link up over at my favourite writing community and I've missed them all! Please take some time and head on over to read, read, read to your heart's content.  It's worth not getting anything done around your house! (just make sure your kids are fed and watered)

A Temporary Moment of Panic

My Mum didn't have too many hard and fast rules while we were growing up.  But she had one that I knew she was very serious about.

``As long as you are living under my roof no one will be getting tattoos.``

And we didn`t.  I never had the desire anyway.  Ear piercing was a far as I would go.

Rebel.

Right here.

Then I turned 30, had a baby and went to visit my best friend in Vancouver for 4 days.  Okay so there was much more that went on in that 31st year but nothing else that has to do with this particular story.

While visiting my best friend, we impulsively decided to get tattoos.  My first, her third (I think).

And no...we were not inebriated.

My first son`s initials, his birthdate and a heart (obviously)

Just to put it out there - this was way before the celebrity trend of getting their child`s name tattooed on them became all the rage.  Clearly I`m the trendsetter here.

And now that we have that background story established....

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The other day as I was emptying the garbage from under the kitchen sink I noticed a spill of goodness-knows-yuck spreading it`s brown ugliness on the white surface.  As I`m so glamourosly scrubbing away, my littlest came over and started prodding me with his pudgy two year old little finger on the lower right side of my back - where my tattoo is. My tattoo became visible as my shirt came up a bit from all my vigorous cleaning.

Scritch scratch...poke, poke.

"What`sat?"

"That`s a tattoo."  I suddenly became anxiously aware that I must get one for him before he becomes of an age to assume that Adrian is my favourite son. (Obviously this is untrue.  I have no such thing as a consistent favourite.  Quite honestly it changes from minute to minute depending on who's plotting the demise of my sanity via ongoing demands and tantrums, making wild amounts of mess and noise and refusing to eat anything remotely healthy - sometimes I choose my dog).

Someone thoughtfully pointed out a while ago, as I was discussing my next tattoo, that my youngest son's initials happen to be F.A.S. which also stands for Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. I'd rather not have a permanently inked part on my body that stands for horribly sad and awful child birth defects.

So now I'm back to the drawing board.  Because now, if I get his first name written in full - will Adrian then think that Finley is the favourite since his are merely initials - and what about the symbol - I can't get another heart...there's no originality in that!  And then there's the whole location of where to put it.  Ack.  It's simply all too stressful to think about.  Maybe you can put your minds together and help a Mother out.

"Ouch." he says, still prodding away at my lower back;.

"Yes, it did hurt."  I remember worrying about the needle part of the tattoo getting. (kind of how the tattoo gets there - I know - I can't always be logical).  I have a serious fear of fast stabby needles which is primarily the reason why I don't sew.  But I figured if I could give birth to a 9.6 lb baby and feel every bit of it, what's a few minutes of fast stabby needles on my backside??  Bah - no biggie.

And while a tattoo is nothing comparable to giving birth to giant babies, I have to admit that the first seconds of that fast stabby needle stung like a mutha.

Adrian came into the kitchen just then and having seen my tattoo and commenting on it many times before he didn't have much to add.

Except this...

"Mumma, can I have a tattoo?"

All of a sudden he's 16 years old, standing in front of me all handsome and 6 feet plus deepened voice and whiskery faced.

My heart stopped.  I fumbled for words.  "Uh well...when you get to be 30. 35 years old.  Then. Um. I suppose. You can make. That decision...on your own." Clearing of the throat. Sweat on my brow.  Praying, "Please dear God, NO!  Why is he asking me such questions!?  Nooo!  Not yet!  My baby!"

I blinked my eyes and he was four again.  I stared up at him from down on the floor where I had sat scrubbing away seconds ago.

 My beautiful boy.  So big eyed, sweet and innocent.  Unmarred Perfection.

"No Mumma!  The Toy Story tattoos!"  He practically rolled his eyes at me.

"Oh!  Oh yes!  Of-course you can have your Toy Story tattoos!"

Then I pretty much galloped in gleeful relief to the drawer where his temporary tattoos resided.

Holy Smack a Pony!

My husband was due to arrive that evening.  It had been 8 days since his departure to Europe.  Work purposes.

Eight.Long.Days.  With two very rambunctious boys.  Both of whom hate getting dressed.  One who refuses to brush his teeth.  Both all too occasionally refusing to eat the foods from the bottom of the pyramid.  One who cries every single morning because he must have Shreddies when he only ever eats Cheerios...and we don`t have Shreddies.  One who still has epic meltdowns when I refuse to give in to his wiley ways.

By 8 am I had already dealt with two tantrums, screams for chocolate, refusal of fruit for breakfast. 160 pieces of Mega Blocks were scattered beneath the kitchen table, random papers were strewn on the counter amongst pj`s that were stripped almost immediately upon wake up.  Rubber boots were worn through the house leaving a trail of dirt...then tossed across the room in a fit for reasons I couldn`t comprehend.  Both boys were clinging to me like a fifth and sixth appendage and the damn dog couldn`t figure out if she wanted to be in or out resulting in incessant whining and barking.

All this before my morning cup of joe.  And I desperately needed it.

``Holy macaroni!`` I yelled in frustration.  Those are some harsh words I know.  Believe me...I wanted to use other, more stress releasing words but alas I am a responsible Mother who, when stubs her toe, screams, ``Fart in a windstorm, that hurt!`` or ``Oh sugar!`` when I really want to scream the acronym of Sugar Honey Iced Tea.

I`m a badass.  Obviously.

My son has been obsessed with rhyming lately.  Random words he`ll bring up in the car as we`re driving.

``Four, door, more...car, tar...melt, belt...poopy, Snoopy...fart, cart``

So when I exclaimed the ever so daring, ``HOLY MACARONI``, his response was the oh so brilliant....

``Holy smack a pony!``

And all of a sudden, my day became that much brighter.

It`s only hair.

That hair!

Remember when Jennifer Aniston chopped her long locks off into a bob and everyone went bananas?  Well, not that I'm comparing my kids to celebrities or anything but that's kinda what happened yesterday...with my boys.

You see...I have (or had, up until yesterday) an aversion to cutting my boys hair.  Call it wanting to keep them babies forever or me a hippie (I`m not - though my name might mistake me for one) or whatever you wish but they've always (all 2.5 and 4 yrs of their sweet lives) had longish hair.  Everywhere I'd take my boys it was inevitable that I would get stopped at least a couple of times and get comments like "That hair!  I wish I had hair like that!" or "Wow...your kids have great hair."  I'm sure for people that didn't know my name but saw me frequently (like the grocery store, library, community centres) I could very well have been referred to as 'The Mom of the boys with 'the hair'. There was the occasional mix up of-course...referring to him as a her but I can't blame those people for their mistake - my boys have soft features.  My neighbour often says I could put a dress on Finley and he`d pass as a girl.  It`s true.  I make pretty boys.

After far too many battles with the brush and detangler spray I finally decided it was time for a change.  After all...it's just hair right?  I never had an issue chopping my locks off in my younger, more daring days...

Yes...that's me.
I asked my 2 year old who that woman was and he said `Superman`
I`m not sure what to take from that.

So it`s a horribly unflattering photo...clearly I`d had a few
glasses of wine and was feeling oh so celebratory.
Obviously my husband was having a good time as well.
 It was a wedding after all.

As my eldest son`s curls fell to the ground in perfect, beautiful ringlets I started to feel a bit faint. She was sheering him like a sheep for God`s sakes.  I resisted the very strong urge to wrestle those clippers out of her hand and run screaming from the shop, both boys under my arms, my son`s hair half shorn.  It was difficult...but I remained calm.  Though I`m sure the hairdresser started become a bit annoyed after my 50th ``OHMYGODOHMYGOD``.

After I`d posted a few pics to facebook the responses, emails and messages...the OMG`S and WHAT`s!!! kept rollin`in!  Both my son`s hair do`s were practically as famous as Jennifer`s!

I actually kind-of like this look.  Very `Flock of Seagulls`
What can I say...kid can rock an 80`s do.

He looks so BIG and handsome.
And.
I miss those curls already.

Next up was my baby.  He`d had two `invisible` haircuts in his 2 years of life - meaning that less than an inch was taken off each time.  And though his hair wasn`t full of the curls like his older brother he still had beautiful hair.

And there it goes...

I didn`t think my kid could get cuter.
I was proven wrong.

Now those are some cool (and much older!) looking
dudes with their token after haircut lollipop.
Don`t worry everyone - this was taken in my driveway at
a complete stop...which means there`s no excuse for
the lopsided angle this was taken at.  

I must admit, looking back at Adrian`s beautiful head of curls, that I miss it already.  I`m a hair tossler and am constantly playing with their hair...but now there`s none to toss or play with. *sobsob*

But - sigh - it is just hair.  It grows back eventually.  Mine did.

Easter Sunday: An Untraditional Take

The moment eventually came when it was time to say good-bye to Daddy as he drove off in the silver car to his airport destination.
As we waved our good-byes and blew our kisses he took a picture from his phone.

I can imagine how heavy his heart feels driving away from that picture.

Two sweet boys, barely half dressed, mussy haired with their little fingers waving, mouths calling out, "Love you Daddy!"

Me standing behind them.  Solemn and still feeling sick.  Tired already.  Smiling weakly, hands at the small of one back, on the head of another.

It was Easter Sunday and just as everyone's family was arriving for a delicious Easter dinner, my husband was leaving on a jet plane so to speak.

I was feeling oh so sorry for myself.  Another week plus a day sans the husband and father.

No turkey or ham for us.  No mashed potatoes and gravy.  No external family gathering for a big feast. 

Just us three.  And the dog.

I flipped through take out menus.

Pizza?  Bleh.

Sushi? Only I would eat it.

Middle East? Thai?  That would mean ... looking over at my mostly naked children ... I would have to dress them and pick it up with them in tow.  I barely had the energy to dress myself.

I listlessly paced the kitchen as my boys played as hard as they always do.  Running, wrestling, making a fine raucous with the all too often reminders from me to take it easy, be nice to each other and stop yelling

Perogies it would be.  With sauteed veggies.

I begrudgingly made dinner while calling out to the boys to 'behave', 'settle down', 'stop playing on the stairs...for the hundredth time today!  Someone is going to get hurt!"

I sighed, I flipped veggies and dumplings.  I cursed the fact that I was even cooking dinner for ungrateful little turds who wouldn't even eat them anyway.

I was feeling terribly sorry for myself.  And I hated myself for it.

Then it was time for dinner.  I set their plates down on the table and called them for dinner.

They came.  They sat.  They ate.  (most of their dinner).

Frankly, I was shocked.  And pleased.  Oh so pleased.  My spirits lifted a teeny tiny fraction.

After dinner was done and I began the clean up, music requests came in from my little ones.

I obliged, placing the dishes to the side of the sink noticing the sun shining through our windows.  I opened the doors to let some fresh air in and turned up the music.

This family of mine?  We love our dance parties. 

As they boys and  I did our rendition of Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey's 'The Lift' over and over again to Paulo Nutini's 'New Shoes' and Taio Cruz's 'Dynomite ' my arms became blessedly tired, my face shone with a sheen of sweat...as we swung around, dipped and spun together in the early evening golden light that poured through our living room windows ... as we smiled and laughed til our bellies hurt I realized that though this was not a traditional Easter Sunday with all the family and fixin's, Easter Egg hunts and delicious gravy, though we already missed their Daddy, my husband, with an ache in our hearts and a void in our home, it still was pretty darn special. 

Bittersweetly unforgettable.

Parenting Consiously

After our first movie date, my son and I watched as the trolley of many, many, too many colourfully bright presents emblazoned with Birthday Wishes was pushed out the door of the movie theatre by the father of the birthday boy who trailed behind.

Another family approached as we exited and the little boy who was about my son's age, 4, smiled in delight, clapped his hands and exclaimed, "Ooooh presents!"

I laughed - everyone did.  It was cute.  He was an adorable kid.  But something else, quite contrary to laughing, a twang of something else occurred inside my conscious...uncomfortable, uneasy.

My thoughts whirled...and I hate to seem like I'm preaching from somewhere up above...these are simply my thoughts, my feelings about...well....things.  Because that's all presents are...things.  Things that get broken, forgotten, left behind, thrown out.  Sure there are certain objects that one holds on to for sentimental reasons.  We all have them.  It's the outward and upwards overabundance of 'these things' that we keep giving to our kids that concerns me.

Do you remember having bins and bins, boxes and boxes of toys in your house growing up?  I don't. 
Do you remember opening gift after gift after gift...after gift at your birthday parties?  I don't.  It's quite possible that I had presents but all I remember from my birthdays are the dresses I wanted to wear, the games, the cake and having fun with my friends. It was about the birthday experience.

Life, to me...and I hope to you, is about more than the 'things' we can buy for our children.  For us.

Last year for Adrian's third birthday party I asked that people bring canned goods in lieu of presents. Some people still chose to bring presents.  "Just something small."  We were invited to a birthday party and they'd asked the same as I had.  My husband felt strange not bringing a gift - it was a little girl's birthday after all.  And I understood where he was coming from...we're so used to living in a world of 'stuff' and 'things' and and more, more, more.  Or as the late Dr Seuss so succintly put it in the movie we'd just watched, 'biggering'.  But I said, no, that we must respect the wishes of others.  This something that is important to them.  And it was important to me too when I asked the same.

This year, for Adrian's fourth birthday party, we did not ask for people to donate canned goods. Or anything for that matter.  I felt a weirdness, an unease about this since last year I had asked that people not bring any gifts.  However, my thoughts were that he is of the age where gifts are 'expected' at parties and he's a good boy who deserves gifts on his birthday.  And while all this is true it still didn't feel good to me.  It was completely against my better judgement and I immediately regretted not doing what my gut had told me to do.  So with a stomach that felt like it was filled with stones he opened present after present...enthusiastically ripping one after the other open and tossing it to the side for the next...and the next....and the next.  John and I kept up a consistent running reminders from, "Open up the card and we'll read it first. Let's see who it's from...' to 'What do you say to so and so - thank you...'

Manners, gratefulness, graciousness and respect.  These are all important attributes that my husband and I wish to instill into our children.  These are things that I hope all parents teach their child...failure on our part to do this risks raising a generation of rude, disrespectful, entitled boors...(in my opinion.)  This is most definitely not how I wish to raise my sons.  I'm sure you don't want to raise your children this way either.  And as much as people can argue about the fact that their children have their own minds and personalities, when it comes to certain values and characteristics such as the four above...those are up to you.  Up to us.  Parents.

I kept seeing the toys pile up...not just in my house...but years...decades from now in our already terrifyingly large ever growing land fills.

My disappointment deepened as I pasted a smile on my face...thinking every time we had to remind him about his thank you's, "Oh it's just a stage...we have time to teach him appreciativeness."

But the time to teach him the values in which we wish to instill in him is right now. It's never too early for such lessons.  Though they might not completely grasp the idea of what you're teaching them right away, eventually they will.  Consistency and being pro-active is key.

At bedtime tell them what you're grateful for that day.  Maybe it was the nice weather because you all got to play outside together.  Or maybe you felt thankful for your warm jacket because it was quite chilly out when you were playing outside.  It could be something as big as the roof over your head...or as small as the delicious snack you had with them before bed.  After you've done this, ask them what they feel thankful for.  They might surprise you.  My son told me he was thankful for his cup of water (if only because it was what was in his hand at the time - it was a start).  I told him water was a wonderful thing to be thankful for which opened up a small discussion about how some other countries in the world don't even have the luxury of clean drinking water.  Whether this made any sense to him at this point I'm not sure.  What I do know is that these are discussions that shouldn't be shied away from. I keep it simple.  I don't want to scare my children or put their minds on overload, and one must be sensitive to what their particular child can and cannot handle especially before bed time.  My belief is that they can handle more than you may give them credit for.

This is the time for us to teach our children our values, beliefs and expectations of them.  This is it.  It's called conscious parenting...teaching our children be socially conscious, environmentally aware and individually responsible.  To be aware of the world around them and to realize it doesn't revolve around them. (although this is a very hard concept for pretty much all young children to grasp!)

I'm doing this not just for my children and the future of theirs and many generations to come...it's also a reminder to myself.

Because even us adults need to keep ourselves in check every so often.

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If you have toys you need to get rid of:

Please do not throw out old toys (unless broken of-course or no longer in good condition) - consider donating to the many organizations out there that would welcome them.  
http://www.ehow.com/how_2042415_donate-childrens-toys.html


If you wish to make a little bit of money, there are many sites online such as Ebay and Kijiji as well as consignment shops that accept gently used toys and clothing - my favourite being Once Upon A Child.

Ideas for moving away from people bringing presents to your child's birthday party:

Canned goods in lieu of birthday presents are always a good idea - food banks are always in need.   Also, this is a fabulous idea! - A Toonie Party!  You can donate to a good cause and your child gets to shop and pick out their own toy!  


You can also go the way of online donations.  There are many out there, I would highly suggest researching before recommending but also because it's very much a personal decision, the charities you prefer to support.  

A Dedication to my Inspiration: Grandma Belle

My Grandma Belle never drove a day in her life but that lady could walk for miles.

She had chocolate brown eyes and a smile that could light up a room.

She was witty, sassy, smart, warm.

She made money cakes without putting tinfoil around the coins.

She could make a bed like no one's business.

Her favourite colour was purple.

She loved Lawrence Welk.  Then again...didn't that entire generation?

She got her hair done at the same place every Friday for years.  She would always walk there.

When I smell roses, I think of her and the first time she told me to breathe in the scent of the peach roses that sat on her kitchen table.

She made her chili with brown beans and broken spaghetti noodles.

She always offered jelly beans upon arrival to her home.

Snacks were often smoked oysters and sardines on buttered soda crackers.  I loved them.  Still do.

We never left their house without eating prunes.  My grandparents were always strangely concerned about our bowel movements.

I loved hanging out in their basement with it's bar and fake fireplace, old 1920's tunes playing on their  Victrola.

Often during our visits as young kids she would 'tickle our backs' lightly and more often then not we would fall asleep in her lap.

She loved to play with my hair too.  She couldn't find any elastics once after she had braided it and used twist ties instead.  Innovation at it's finest.

I always felt like her favourite grandchild though she had many...perhaps this is how we all felt, now looking back. Though, I have no doubt we had a very special connection.

My Grandma Belle was a huge inspiration to me.  Such an inspiration that my youngest son was named after her.  Her Maiden name was Findlay, my son's name is Finley.  She remains an especially big influence to me now that I'm a Mother.  A woman that can raise five children basically on her own, that have all remained close and are fun, adventurous, loving, intelligent and with such wonderful senses of humour while taking care of a husband who was ailing a lot of his life has done something very right and incredibly remarkable.

A while back I sat across from my Dad at his kitchen table and asked him what kind of Mother she was.  His reply said it all, "Ahhh...she was the best.  She was always there.  If you needed to talk or you needed to cry...she was just always there."

I was about 12 when she gave me a Royal Doulton figurine.  She told me to turn it over.  Her name was printed on the underside of the figurine's skirt -  Belle.  She told me she would be a reminder to me of her when she was no longer around.  I had protested, "Don't say things like that Gramma!" I couldn't imagine a woman as full of life and feist like her could ever die.  She smiled and shook her head and said, "I won't be around forever January."

I still have that figurine.  She sits displayed in my living room hutch in all her light green ballroom dress glory amongst the china of hers that was given to me from her children, my aunts and uncles, days after my wedding.

Not a day goes by that I'm not reminded of her beautiful spirit.

She loved her walks.  We took a long walk once, just the two of us...she took me to Wendy's and bought me a Frosty. To this day I can't pass a Wendy's without thinking of her and that special day.

When I was around 13 I started to notice her forgetfulness.  She would give me a compliment on my shirt...and then again minutes later.  In the beginning, she could read my face - perhaps I looked confused...but mostly it was upsetting.  I knew what was happening.  She did too.  Shortly after, my Poppy, her husband, passed away.

Her Alzheimer's became worse.  She was to be moved into a nursing home.

I remember my first visit at the home with my Mom.  She was up in arms about how she went out the front doors to go for a walk and was tracked down and brought back like a prisoner!  A criminal!  For wanting to go for a walk!  She was right pissed.  She may have been losing her memory, but she hadn't lost her zestiness.

I didn't visit her often when she became really sick.  It hurt like hell to see a woman so strong become a shadow of her former self.  Maybe I was wrong, but I have very little memories of her that way...maybe that's awful and selfish, but I remember her for the woman she really was.

When she was in the hospital nearing the end of her time here on Earth and she has lost all memory of who anyone was, my Dad was visiting her.  A song came on the radio and my father asked her to dance.  He said to me later, with tears in his voice, that as they danced together in that hospital room, Mother and Son, he believed that she recognized who he was.

I believe she most definitely did.

I received the emotional phone call from my Dad when I was 18, telling me that she had passed on...I knew it was coming...I just wasn't prepared for it.

I had a dream that night that she was sitting at my bedside, holding my hand as she always sought to do when we sat next to each other.  I don't remember the conversation, I just remember how vivid it felt.  In my dream I asked her for a sign..."If this is really you Grandma, give me a sign."  I awoke to the phone ringing at 7 am.  I answered it.  There was no dial tone.  No one on the other end.  The call display said 'Unknown Name, Unknown Number.'

I knew it was her.

The three days her obituary was in the paper, the newspaper was delivered to our door.

We didn't order the paper.  We didn't have a subscription.

At her funeral, I remember sitting on the couch of the parlour crying.  Her presence beside me was palpable.  I felt her holding my hand.


I felt her hand in mine.


To this day I have dreams.  Of her and I just sitting.  Talking.  Like we always did.  They give me great comfort.  I know she is always around.  But I still miss her every day.

Today is her birthday and I hope she's celebrating as hard as she always did, with a groove in her gitalong and a big smile on her face.

Happy Birthday Grandma Belle.

You've never been forgotten.

You never will be.

Beautiful Belle  XO

Marriage: A Sharp and Intimate Fragment

Just as I was drifting to sleep I heard the sharp bark of my dog and a soft knocking at our front door.

I laid there for a moment, annoyance rising in my chest. 

My husband was working late this week and must have forgotten his house key.

I trudged sleepily and grumpily down the stairs.  Riley was now whimpering, her whole body one entire vibration at her excitement to see John.

I unlocked the door and opened it to see my husband standing there looking sheepish.  The outside light shone on his face.  He looked very handsome when he left that morning in his tan checked sports jacket and lavender shirt.  He still looked good.

He also looked tired.

I was tired too after a long day of tending to feverish, sick kids.

I opened the door wider.

“How could you forget the house keys?” I snapped.

He whispered unperturbed by my tone, “I’m sorry.  In my rush this morning I forgot to grab them.  Sorry babe.”

“Well, I can’t exactly leave the door unlocked when I’m going to bed.”  Unnecessarily stating the obvious, I turned and stomped back up the stairs, into our bedroom and flung myself back into bed.

I willed myself to fall back asleep.  I tossed this way.  And that way.  My legs seeking out cooler spots beneath the blankets and settling there until they became restless again.

I waited.  Wondering what he was doing down there.  Irritated. Why wasn’t he coming to bed? 

My conscious kept whispering at me…"What if those were your last words…"

I became annoyed with myself.  Why couldn't I just turn off?  Go to sleep?

Go to sleep!  Sleeeeep!


You are so sleeeeepy...


"What if...what if..."

Funny thing about a conscious. You can’t get away from it.

I threw the comforter back from my body and dragged myself out of bed once again.

As I descended the stairs, halfway down I peered over the banister I saw him by the light of the stove checking emails, messages…or maybe just facebook by way of his phone.

I came to the landing, noticed his jacket that he’d hung on the banister.

Once again, not in the closet.

I stifled a frustrated sigh, pushed down my rising annoyance and put my mind to the reason I’d come down.

He heard my footsteps and came around the corner towards me.

I put my arms around his waist and his went around my back.  My head rested on his chest and my face turned to the side, I said the words that I all too often find difficult to say, “I’m sorry for getting mad.”

He hugged me close and responded, “That’s okay honey.  I'm sorry I woke you up.”

We stood like that for another moment and then our arms fell away.

I ascended the stairs once more and crawled back into bed.

I could hear him in the kitchen getting the coffee ready for the morning and then he too came to bed.

After a kiss good night we went to the far sides of our large king sized bed.

And then our feet found each other beneath the sheets as they often do before sleep eventually made its welcomed introduction.

What Does God Look Like?

Growing up our family didn’t go to church.  In fact I wasn’t baptized until I was 13.  My Mum and I were baptized together.  I made the choice on my own when I attended a youth group for a short stint in my adolesent life.

My family was not religious in any sense of the word but we were brought up to believe in God.  Though I was not and still am (embarrassingly) not all that familiar with the stories in the Bible. 

My husband grew up very differently than I did.  He is Catholic.  He was an Alter boy.  He went to church with his family regularly.

Now as parents, as a family, we don’t go to church.  I have nothing against the church.  I think it is a wonderful place for people to find comfort, meet others, build a community but we're simply not church going people.  We believe in God.  We are very spiritual in our beliefs.  I pray every night before I go to bed.  It’s not a hand steepled on my knees prayer but as I lay in bed at night I send my prayers out there into the big, wide universe, to Him.  I pray for my family, my friends.  All of my precious loved ones.  Sometimes it’s a general prayer.  Sometimes it’s more specific.  But that is what I do.  I thank Him for all my blessings.  I have many.

Late last year I bought a children’s bible for my eldest son.  I read a couple of chapters to him over the course of a couple of nights and he seemed to really enjoy it.  I did too.  I loved that we were both learning about something together.  And then the story of Cain and Abel came along and I shut the book quickly on that.  Being that he’s a brother to a brother and all.  I knew there’d be too many questions from my 3 year old that I wasn’t ready to answer.

It’s been a while since I re-opened up that chapter of the book so to speak but some things stick in child of mine’s mind for months…years even….making random appearances now and again. 

Like this evening for example.  Finley had gone to bed and Adrian felt like a snack.   As I stood in the kitchen smearing honey and peanut butter on soft, thick whole wheat bread under softened light, Adrian and I had the following conversation…

“Mummy, who made the Earth again?”

I brought over his sandwich, placed it in front of him and sat down adjacent to him.

“God did.”

“Why did God make the Earth?”

Wooooo.  This was a good question.  Did they even cover the ‘why’ in the Bible?  Since I was so (shamefully) unfamiliar with the Bible I crossed my fingers that I was getting it right at least a little bit and answered as best as I could.

“He made the Earth for us.  So that we could know love, have relationships.  Learn.”

“Does God look like an old man?”

“Well.  God looks like whoever we want him to look like.  Do you think he looks like an old man?”

“I think that he looks like an old elf.”

“If you think he looks like an old elf, then that’s what he looks like to you.”

Thankfully, mercifully satisfied with my answers he began to eat his delicious peanut butter and honey sandwich.

The Ant Story - told by Adrian, 4 yrs old

As I  stood in my kitchen wiping counters, putting dishes away, my son walked up behind me and asked me a question that he's never asked me before...

"Mumma, can I tell you a story?"

I immediately stopped what I was doing and turned to face him.  His upturned face was full of smiles and his hands held something behind his back.

I couldn't wait to hear this story.  I was riveted already.


Yes.  Yes, of-course you can tell me a story honey.


"Once there was an ant.  And he went pee on the potty."

So this was a 'big boy' ant.  


He nodded.


"And then he put pepper in his eyes."

Ooooh.  Ouch!


"And then he got squished!  By a boat!"

Out from behind his back came a toy boat.  His intention, I'm sure, was to enthusiastically thrust it at me but instead it slipped from his still small four year old hands and crashed against the fridge.

He picked it up and gave it to me.

Oh no! What a story!  That poor ant!  What about a happy ending?  Can he have a happy ending too?


A short pause.  And then.


"He went back to his ant castle.

And he had a knight sword.

And a knight shield.

And a knight vest!"