Today is that last day of a long month of celebration for our family. Birthdays and anniversaries seem to fall one on top of the other. My parents would have been married for 45 years this month. We have been married for 16. 16 years... This isn't monkey business anymore. 16 years is serious stuff. We had known each other just a few months when we got hitched. And now... 16 years. Did I say that already? I'm amazed.
But the reason for today's celebrating is my baby sister. Today is the day that 36 years ago my mom became a mother to her fourth daughter. The baby. The last of her brood. This is the baby that she wanted to rock and cuddle and hold for hours. To soak up her last drink of mothering a baby. I don't actually believe that my baby sister was ever still for long enough to be held for any length of time. I should have been her last baby. I wanted nothing more than to be in my mothers arms. Still do.
All things being fair I should have blogged about my other sisters on their birthdays. But... well....life isn't always fair. And the reason that I was compelled to share this day is because it is close to my heart right now. I feel deeply akin to the woman that my mother was when she was basking in the joy of this, her last baby. My best guess is that Lola will be our last baby. And that means that she will be the baby of our family. Meg's baby sister. Just as Kathy is to me.
When Lola was born and I brought her up and into my arms I was immediately filled with a sense of peace. I know that I would have loved a son. That our lives would have been turned upside down by it, in a good way. But I have to admit that I cannot imagine a life without sisters.
Happy Birthday baby sister. And Happy "Birth" Day warrior mama to four pretty fantastic girls.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
...a sketchy past.
I was listening to CBC... I start a lot of stories that way these days. I am addicted to Radio One. I know I am not the only one! I am often in the car on Wednesdays. I have a regular coffee date with my dear friend and her daughter so I listen on the way there and the way home for sure. On the way there it is the Debaters and I often laugh out loud. And on the way home I catch the tail end of Writers and Company, my new favourite show. The authors are just so fascinating and the way they speak is so eloquent and lyrical. This week Eleanor was talking to Eva Hoffman. I caught such a short bit but it was so good (actually the end of her interviews are usually the best part). Her latest book is called Time. So they were talking about time in general. And she said "the present reconstructs the past". I know that I have always known this but the way that she spoke about this really brought it into focus for me. It is truly amazing how our stories change. In so many ways and for so many reasons. Perhaps they change purely due to the fact that our memories fail us but often it is so much more than that. Ultimately it is because that person we are as each day passes is new. We are seeing our history from a new assemblage point with each passing minute. So with the veil I wear today I will see my history differently than with the veil I will wear tomorrow. Fascinating isn't it? Our stories are not static. They are as full of life today as the day that they played out. Shifting and changing as we need them to in some cases.
This last week I have been getting the email updates of a friend that has just had her tonsils removed. I had mine removed at the age of 7 or 8. She is in her thirties. When I heard that she was going in for this day surgery it immediately took me back to my memory of my tonsillectomy. It was a defining time for me. I remember it very well. Back then it was a few days stay in the hospital and I had to be overnight in a strange place without my mom. Of course a lot of what I remember is not clear. The passage of time has taken its toll on many of the details but there are a few things that have stayed with me. I remember that there was a girl a little older than me staying in the same room that had just under gone back surgery. She had a rod in her back and was unable to move. The nurses would come in and rotate her from one side to the other every few hours (or maybe it was twice a day). I talked to her from across the room but I wasn't really supposed to get out of my bed. I also remember promises of ice cream and jello leading up to the surgery. I recall that going down a hallway lying flat on my back was dreadful and that hospital porters should respect that and slow down. 100, 99, 98, 9...... I remember feeling ripped off by those promises of ice cream when afterward ice cream was not even close to enough to soothe my raw throat. And I really remember this one incident over a bowl of oatmeal.
My mom had come in for a visit on one of the evenings following my surgery and she had asked the nurse about my meals. She was very excited to tell me that the next morning I would get porridge. This was one of my favourite things. I loved being in the kitchen with my mom when she made the quick oats in a sauce pan on the stove. It would bubble and burst while she stirred them down with the wooden spoon. I loved the little volcanic eruptions in the pan as the oatmeal spewed a little lava with each bubble bursting. The sound, the smell and the anticipation. It was often served on particularly cold mornings and I would alternate between watching the oatmeal boil and sitting on a heat register at my mother's feet. The promise of a meal like this while I was in the hospital held the comforts of home and I was tickled at the idea of it. That night I literally fell asleep with thoughts of oatmeal dancing in my head. I dreamt of the warm, soft oatmeal mixed with the cold milk and brown sugar. How I loved the hot/cold and salty/sweet perfection in a bowl porridge. In the morning I silently and eagerly awaited the sound of that food cart coming up the hall. It arrived without much fanfare on the hospital gray tray and I lifted the lid to find a cold, solid ball of oats. And if that wasn't enough of a disappointment... I can clearly remember the lump forming in my raw throat at the realization that there was not a spec of brown sugar in sight. So I sadly poured the icky 2% milk (not the skim I was used to) over this gooey, grey sludge and tried to gag it down. I think as I was trying to stomach it my mother arrived for a morning visit. I could feel her disappointment too. I think we cried together.
But of course this story holds a whole new tenderness for me. I am a mother now. I feel my mothers heartache as well as my own. I imagine her rushing to park her car and run up to my room to steal a few minutes with me before having to rush off to tend to the needs of her other three children at home. I see my disappointment, fear and frustration as if they were the emotional mine field of my own school age child. This memory is somehow closer to me now then it was a few years ago even though chronologically it is further away. Time... In poems, plays and books time has been written about as a character. Sometimes even given a human form. Father Time, for instance. We joke about time playing tricks on us. We struggle with not being able to reconcile details of our history in the stories we tell of it. But perhaps it is just this. Our history is more akin to folklore and the oral tradition than it is to a factual account. And we are just once again caught up in this crazy media driven culture that has a quest for knowledge, facts and numbers. The Wikipedia Age.
I say screw it. Let the details blur and melt together. See your history as a watercolour landscape. Let your story be as rich and alive as you are. Allow yourself a chance to examine your life anew every once in awhile. It gives us a chance to feel as if we have lived more than one lifetime. The path behind us as mysterious as the one that lies ahead. In a few years when I think back to that porridge again I wonder what I will see...
Thank you, Laurel for sacrificing your tonsils last week so that I might take this journey again. To see my mom in another new and tender way, to see my girls through the eyes of my childhood. And thank you Eva Hoffman for reminding me that is what I was doing.
This last week I have been getting the email updates of a friend that has just had her tonsils removed. I had mine removed at the age of 7 or 8. She is in her thirties. When I heard that she was going in for this day surgery it immediately took me back to my memory of my tonsillectomy. It was a defining time for me. I remember it very well. Back then it was a few days stay in the hospital and I had to be overnight in a strange place without my mom. Of course a lot of what I remember is not clear. The passage of time has taken its toll on many of the details but there are a few things that have stayed with me. I remember that there was a girl a little older than me staying in the same room that had just under gone back surgery. She had a rod in her back and was unable to move. The nurses would come in and rotate her from one side to the other every few hours (or maybe it was twice a day). I talked to her from across the room but I wasn't really supposed to get out of my bed. I also remember promises of ice cream and jello leading up to the surgery. I recall that going down a hallway lying flat on my back was dreadful and that hospital porters should respect that and slow down. 100, 99, 98, 9...... I remember feeling ripped off by those promises of ice cream when afterward ice cream was not even close to enough to soothe my raw throat. And I really remember this one incident over a bowl of oatmeal.
My mom had come in for a visit on one of the evenings following my surgery and she had asked the nurse about my meals. She was very excited to tell me that the next morning I would get porridge. This was one of my favourite things. I loved being in the kitchen with my mom when she made the quick oats in a sauce pan on the stove. It would bubble and burst while she stirred them down with the wooden spoon. I loved the little volcanic eruptions in the pan as the oatmeal spewed a little lava with each bubble bursting. The sound, the smell and the anticipation. It was often served on particularly cold mornings and I would alternate between watching the oatmeal boil and sitting on a heat register at my mother's feet. The promise of a meal like this while I was in the hospital held the comforts of home and I was tickled at the idea of it. That night I literally fell asleep with thoughts of oatmeal dancing in my head. I dreamt of the warm, soft oatmeal mixed with the cold milk and brown sugar. How I loved the hot/cold and salty/sweet perfection in a bowl porridge. In the morning I silently and eagerly awaited the sound of that food cart coming up the hall. It arrived without much fanfare on the hospital gray tray and I lifted the lid to find a cold, solid ball of oats. And if that wasn't enough of a disappointment... I can clearly remember the lump forming in my raw throat at the realization that there was not a spec of brown sugar in sight. So I sadly poured the icky 2% milk (not the skim I was used to) over this gooey, grey sludge and tried to gag it down. I think as I was trying to stomach it my mother arrived for a morning visit. I could feel her disappointment too. I think we cried together.
But of course this story holds a whole new tenderness for me. I am a mother now. I feel my mothers heartache as well as my own. I imagine her rushing to park her car and run up to my room to steal a few minutes with me before having to rush off to tend to the needs of her other three children at home. I see my disappointment, fear and frustration as if they were the emotional mine field of my own school age child. This memory is somehow closer to me now then it was a few years ago even though chronologically it is further away. Time... In poems, plays and books time has been written about as a character. Sometimes even given a human form. Father Time, for instance. We joke about time playing tricks on us. We struggle with not being able to reconcile details of our history in the stories we tell of it. But perhaps it is just this. Our history is more akin to folklore and the oral tradition than it is to a factual account. And we are just once again caught up in this crazy media driven culture that has a quest for knowledge, facts and numbers. The Wikipedia Age.
I say screw it. Let the details blur and melt together. See your history as a watercolour landscape. Let your story be as rich and alive as you are. Allow yourself a chance to examine your life anew every once in awhile. It gives us a chance to feel as if we have lived more than one lifetime. The path behind us as mysterious as the one that lies ahead. In a few years when I think back to that porridge again I wonder what I will see...
Thank you, Laurel for sacrificing your tonsils last week so that I might take this journey again. To see my mom in another new and tender way, to see my girls through the eyes of my childhood. And thank you Eva Hoffman for reminding me that is what I was doing.
Monday, January 25, 2010
...adoration.
I just cannot get enough of how my two girls look at each other. Both of them always delighted to see the other. Every once in a while I catch myself in some melancholic thought process that leads me to a time, not too far away, when this will not always be true. When curious hands will ruin a well loved toy or tear up an art project. When the hot tears of frustration will well up in the eyes of a babe that cannot follow her sister up the stairs or join in her more mature games with friends. But I do catch myself and bring it back to what we are so fortunate to be enjoying right now. This incredible adoration for each other that seems to know no bounds. Because for right now I continue to be amazed that no matter how many times Lola grabs and pulls Meg's hair, she never complains. And no matter how over zealous and wild Meg can be in her hugs and helping, Lola seems to tolerate it and mostly even enjoy it. When Lola cries or fusses and I have my hands full, Meg will dance and sing to keep her amused. She has learned the complicated lyrics to an old Scottish folk tune and will sing it with gusto whenever it's called for. She will endlessly pick up the dropped toy while we try to sit together for our evening meal. And she will cry in sympathy when Lola seems inconsolable. I could not have imagined a better sister in Meg. And Lola... well she just comes alive when Meg walks in the room. In fact she has burst into fits of laughter just at the sight of her. The other morning Meg climbed into bed with us and pulled the covers over her head. Lola clawed at the duvet to try and uncover her big sister. For now I am completely satiated with this incredible relationship I am so lucky to witness. 
I was going to delete this photo but it actually really sums up the two of them. Meg moves slowly and intentionally in everything she does. Lola is a blur!
And then the funny faces...
LOVE
Sunday, January 24, 2010
...a midnight blogger.
I look forward to a day when I will not be trying to write a new entry for my blog every night and actually achieving my goal every two weeks or so. I have so much I want to write, remember, share... And I have really begun to crave my time at the keyboard. I am always happy when I am creating. I am a knitter, a seamstress, an artist... I love to give handmade gifts. This Christmas it was fairy wings, felted crowns, a knights tunic and scabbard and of course pints and pints of lovely red jam. But I have now discovered that writing falls into this category too. I love to weave a tapestry with words. It fills me up in ways I had no idea it would. For about 10 months I have been writing when I can and wondering if my musings make sense to anyone but me. I have been doubtful that my grammar would pass muster in an English class and am pretty sure that my misuse of vocabulary would make the average linguist cringe. Not to mention my liberal use of non traditional punctuation... and sentence fragments? I decided right from the start that I would write how I am thinking or at least how I would speak so I have stuck to it and it fits.
I struggle with the legitimacy of all of this. I am not a writer. I am just a soulful thinker trying to put my thoughts into words. And when I can steal the chance I tap them out on this keyboard. Almost always it is at or near the witching hour because that is when my house is sleeping, my work is as done as it's going to be for the night and I can briefly turn my attention inward to see what is bubbling up and trying to get out. Often the tap, tap, tapping at my keyboard wakes the babe sleeping next to me and I stop for a nurse. Sometimes the break gives me a chance to let my mind shuffle the chaos into something readable. It isn't glamorous, my nightshirt often wet with breast milk and my snack of chocolate buttons and a glass of water is hardly romantic. Maybe that is what keeps it real.
And although I crave to write more and more often I am pretty happy with my midnight blogging. The things keeping me from being here more often are precious to me too.
And I have decided to let myself be a writer. I'm tired of feeling like a fake so I've decided that I'm not.
I struggle with the legitimacy of all of this. I am not a writer. I am just a soulful thinker trying to put my thoughts into words. And when I can steal the chance I tap them out on this keyboard. Almost always it is at or near the witching hour because that is when my house is sleeping, my work is as done as it's going to be for the night and I can briefly turn my attention inward to see what is bubbling up and trying to get out. Often the tap, tap, tapping at my keyboard wakes the babe sleeping next to me and I stop for a nurse. Sometimes the break gives me a chance to let my mind shuffle the chaos into something readable. It isn't glamorous, my nightshirt often wet with breast milk and my snack of chocolate buttons and a glass of water is hardly romantic. Maybe that is what keeps it real.
And although I crave to write more and more often I am pretty happy with my midnight blogging. The things keeping me from being here more often are precious to me too.
And I have decided to let myself be a writer. I'm tired of feeling like a fake so I've decided that I'm not.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
...a "birth"day.
Seven years ago today I was blessed to be witness to my first birth and welcome my third niece into the world. She arrived at the perfect time. Born on my grandmother's 85th birthday. Tonight we celebrated with family, cake and presents.
I have never celebrated a birthday in quite the same way since her birth. I used to celebrate the babe that was born on that day. The day that, miraculously, brought this spirit earth side to walk among us. This in itself is a remarkable thing to celebrate. And now I cannot think of a "birth"day without thinking about the other spirit that was born on that day. The spirit of the warrior mama. It seems impossible to separate the two now... to not honour that moment when the maiden is no more and the baby-mother emerges from the wreckage. And when I say wreckage...I mean wreckage. That which brings forth life is so explosive that it does leave us in pieces. I find that when I look into a mother's eyes on the birthday of her child it's as if there is a window opened to that raw place of being in pieces once again. There is maybe even a wistful realization, when going back to that place, that when those pieces/bones were gathered and placed back together the wild, warrior woman that emerged was not the innocent maiden that resided in those bones before the explosive force of birth.
Tonight my niece kept saying and singing happy birthday to her mom, my sister. I'm not sure why. Most seven year olds wouldn't dare think of sharing the spotlight on their special day. After all, the cake is for them, the presents are for them, we sing to them, light the candles for them... And somehow this little soul, consciously or not, knew to deflect a little of the love to her mama. The woman standing in the background with pride all over her face. Seemingly doing nothing more than marking the passage of time with a party for her child. But I know otherwise. I was there. My life changed forever as I watched the layers peel away to reveal her true self. Allowing her to be fully present as she brought her squirmy, wet newborn daughter into her arms. It was my humble honour to watch her face light with joy and awe in those first moments, those first breaths. Until then I had never seen anything more genuine and pure in my entire life.
Since that night seven years ago I have been truly blessed to witness this incredible sight over and over again. It never gets old.
This is that babe today. Toothless, tousled and full of joy.
Happy Birthday Madeline!
And Happy "Birth"day Mama Arden...
I have never celebrated a birthday in quite the same way since her birth. I used to celebrate the babe that was born on that day. The day that, miraculously, brought this spirit earth side to walk among us. This in itself is a remarkable thing to celebrate. And now I cannot think of a "birth"day without thinking about the other spirit that was born on that day. The spirit of the warrior mama. It seems impossible to separate the two now... to not honour that moment when the maiden is no more and the baby-mother emerges from the wreckage. And when I say wreckage...I mean wreckage. That which brings forth life is so explosive that it does leave us in pieces. I find that when I look into a mother's eyes on the birthday of her child it's as if there is a window opened to that raw place of being in pieces once again. There is maybe even a wistful realization, when going back to that place, that when those pieces/bones were gathered and placed back together the wild, warrior woman that emerged was not the innocent maiden that resided in those bones before the explosive force of birth.
Tonight my niece kept saying and singing happy birthday to her mom, my sister. I'm not sure why. Most seven year olds wouldn't dare think of sharing the spotlight on their special day. After all, the cake is for them, the presents are for them, we sing to them, light the candles for them... And somehow this little soul, consciously or not, knew to deflect a little of the love to her mama. The woman standing in the background with pride all over her face. Seemingly doing nothing more than marking the passage of time with a party for her child. But I know otherwise. I was there. My life changed forever as I watched the layers peel away to reveal her true self. Allowing her to be fully present as she brought her squirmy, wet newborn daughter into her arms. It was my humble honour to watch her face light with joy and awe in those first moments, those first breaths. Until then I had never seen anything more genuine and pure in my entire life.
Since that night seven years ago I have been truly blessed to witness this incredible sight over and over again. It never gets old.
This is that babe today. Toothless, tousled and full of joy.
Happy Birthday Madeline!
And Happy "Birth"day Mama Arden...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
...teeth, teeth, teeth.
For a week in December I felt the heart-tugging, hot tears that come when one realizes that her babies are growing and nothing can be done to slow the process. And it came in the form of a seven day toothapalooza. On December 11th, I ran my finger along Lola's gums to soothe the ache of teething only to find that that razor sharp tooth had finally sliced through her gums.
Why was this so jarring to me? I knew it was coming. I could feel the raised line of the tooth straining against the tissue of her lower arch for weeks. She was approaching 6 months. She had been drooling, red-cheeked and a bit off her game for weeks. This was not a surprise. But still I was jarred by it. I sat on the sofa in a bit of a stunned, silent moment of disbelief or perhaps denial.
Five days later Meg lost one of her front top teeth. I pulled it out in fact and then proceeded to sit on my knees in the middle of our living room with her little stump of a tooth in between my fingers and a tear in my eye. What had I just done? This was the tooth that would make her say "toof" instead of tooth. This was the tooth that would change the shape of her face and soon be followed by an adult tooth that will look awkward, and misshapen and ten times too big for her little mouth. And here I was holding it in my hand.
Closely on the heels of this, on the 18th of December, Lola's second tooth popped through her tender little gums. This was more than I could bare...
My mother has often spoken tenderly of her time spent with her fourth baby. She knew that this would be the last of her brood and she relished every little moment of that little ones first years. She held her, rocked her and cuddled her more than any of her three previous babes. At that point she had a 7 year old and three children under four years old. And yet she managed to create the time and space to give this baby a little more... Or in fact to give herself a little more of this baby. She has spoken about this so much in my lifetime that I wonder if she feels a little guilty that she never did that with the rest of us too. It comes up again and again when we are holding our babies as they sleep in our arms. I think she is trying to tell us that we will never be sorry that we did that. And as I hold this baby I now see the depth of what she was speaking. She was saying "don't be in such a rush". "In your joyful exuberance of motherhood don't wish away these precious days for the can't-waits of tomorrow" Meg cut her first teeth at 3 and a half months. I was proud. And I "couldn't wait" for the next great thing she would do. I was in a rush.
Now I am clutching at the moments and holding them close. The pendulum has swung wildly in the other direction. I am melancholy and wistful with each small change that takes Lola closer to becoming a little girl. I am so thoroughly ensconced in her infancy that I am forgetting that she is growing. One day a few weeks ago I sat her up to see if she could balance. She had it mastered in a few minutes. She had been ready for that weeks earlier but I had been blind to this fact. In my heart and mind she was still a newborn.
I absolutely and completely adore the people my two girls are becoming. Lola has a quirky charm that brings a smile to light on my lips hundreds of times a day. She looks at her sister with complete and total adoration ... Meg is a truly creative and independent soul. She loves deeply and does not hesitate for a moment to show it in any situation. She makes me laugh a lot and I admire her in a way I did not know was possible. When asked in the past who my hero was I would have answered "my mother" but now I would have to add that my daughter is too. This is a surprise to me. So I do look forward to seeing more of the people they will become. I really do... and for now I will try and find some balance. I will hold fast and let go. Or maybe for a little while longer I will just hold fast.
Tonight Meg lost the second of her front top teeth. She worked away at it herself all afternoon. It was hanging on by only one side and when it was very nearly falling out she lost her courage. She said she was scared and she didn't seem to know why. I was too. She called my mom and asked if she would come over. She wanted her to pull that tooth. Nanny is the go to lady when it comes to teeth. She pulled every last one of mine. I remember it clearly. Most of the time she was sitting on the lid of our green toilet seat with me standing between her legs. She would expertly squeeze my tooth right at the gums and it would painlessly pop out into the tissue she had used to get a grip. Tonight was no different. And immediately my big girl's face was changed. She looks beautiful. The huge gap in the front of her mouth making her look incredibly vulnerable and yet more mature. She made quite a production of the tooth fairy preparation tonight. Insisting that we leave her a snack, a small gift and a note. She has an absolutely blind obsession with fairies at the moment so this is almost a spiritual phenomenon for her. She mindfully prepared a beautiful alter on the bathroom counter for her fairy to behold. A snack of tiny chocolate covered sunflower seeds in a very tiny dish, a small piece of soft fabric that she found after a soulful search in her room (she imagined the fairy could use it as a sleeping bag), her tooth floating in a small dish of water, and a lovely handwritten note with pictures.
She will wake tomorrow to find that her fairy has taken her tooth and in doing so has dipped its wing in that dish, revealing its colour by tinting the water green. We have kept the water from each tooth she has lost in the freezer and in the spring we plan to water some flower seeds with it in hopes that they will grow with a bit of magic inside. Kinda like my girls...
...growing with a bit of magic inside.
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