Mothers In Arms

I cross the lawn to her right away as she steps out of the van, leaving the others to gather around Little M.   She has been in my thoughts all night, and when I opened my eyes early this morning, it was her that I thought of first.  I hold her close to me and hug her, tell her I have no words to express what had happened.  Suddenly out of nowhere “But I love you very much, you are very strong” tumbles out of my mouth, without any effort.  Her tearful face pulls back, a tired face like that of a little girl who has cried most of the night, and she says:  “I know you know what this feels like.”

What “this” feels like is watching your child nearly die.  “She” is my children’s stepmother, wife of my ex-husband, mother to their boy, Little M.  I will call her Elle.

Mr. C. and I, my son P and my daughter G, had trooped out to our front yard, to greet Elle and my ex-husband, and their Little M, like they were surviving heroes.  In a way, they are.  They had just spent the night at the hospital, following Little M’s terrifying near-drowning in their pool the previous evening.

Little M stands in the driveway, bare-chested, with the two little stickie clamps still stuck on his four-year-old body; he is pale but talkative, and he seems almost proud to show them to Mr. C, like they were medals awarded to him by the paramedics and doctors for his bravery at coming through this most scary of episodes.  We all stand and watch him munch on the cookie that G has given him,  we are awed at him pulling through, and we’re quietly drinking in this moment of gratitude.  I feel peace wrap itself around us in the morning sun, like a silky ribbon, a calm reassurance that it’s ok, he’s ok.

It had all happened very quickly, as these things usually do.  G spotted him going under and yelled out.  In a flash, Elle was in the pool, scooping Little M into the arms of his father.  Everyone’s quick thinking and even quicker reactions probably saved Little M’s life.  In tears, G had called me while the paramedics were there, and I drove over to see what I could do to help.  Which wasn’t much, really, I had no idea what to say, what to do.  So I hugged my kids and tried to reassure them and their dad that it was going to be okay, that I had met the ambulance carrying Little M and his mom as I was driving over, and they did not have their lights flashing, so he’s going to be okay.  The three of them left for the hospital, and I drove back home, pushing down that horrible feeling that kept rising in my chest, that feeling of thinking your child will die before your eyes.

I’ve gone through two of these traumatic experiences with my own daughter G, and Mercy brought her back both times.

I ponder God’s hand in these experiences.  I don’t believe God actually interferes in the sense that we think He should, because that raises the impossible question of why does He spare some and not others?  Death is a part of life, and life and death are part of the plan, His plan.  And, anyways,  I don’t think that that’s the kind of power God has, to slice through humanity, deciding who lives and who dies, who He’s going to rescue today and who He’s not.  I think that’s reducing God to something of a caricature,  and who am I to say what God thinks?  His power is above that.  I’m not as Bible-savvy as I aspire to be, but there’s surely something to be found in there to reflect on.

This is what I do believe:  God was standing right there on that pool deck last evening, knowing that Little M would survive.  They may not have felt it at the time (then again, maybe they did),  but His Spirit flooded the hearts of P and G, of their dad, and of Elle, as they frantically did all they knew to get Little M to breathe while waiting for the paramedics.   In our darkest, most terrifying moments, He is the ultimate.

And there is nothing darker or more terrifying for a parent than to receive the sudden, face-slaping reality that you could lose your child.

When Elle married P and G’s dad, I thought I would find myself feeling bereft somehow, (as Mr. C. had not yet glowed into my life), but I wasn’t.  I have liked her from the first time we were introduced at P’s soccer game all those years ago, when she wore her hair long and straight.  Since she’s had Little M though, she has cut it into a stylish, practical bob, like most new mothers do.   She is a vibrant woman with a fabulous smile, quick to help anyone in need, bravely soldiering on through her own difficulties and ready to shoulder anybody who needs it.  She works hard to build a good life for her family, and I take much solace in the fact that she compliments P and G’s father so well; my children’s well-being is always important to me, and his happiness with Elle and Little M can only bring good blessings to my own children.

When I talk to people about Elle, I know they expect me to be catty about her, or to say things to disrespect her.  But this is not how we roll in our modern, blended family.  As revolutionary as it seems, the adults in the family have genuine concern for each other, and we all try to hold the children’s best interests at heart, even though we sometimes blunder through the maze of parenting.  When I talk about Elle, I sometimes jokingly say:  If she wasn’t my ex-husband’s wife, we would probably be friends.  

As I think about the events of the past twenty-four hours, I wonder why I say “probably be friends”.  We may not be girlfriends, but we are friends in the “I’ve got your back” kind of way, a friendship built on many unspoken things, a deeper understanding of two women whose families happen to overlap, who try to be allies in the growth of both families, and who now share another bond.

We are mothers in arms.

Barefoot On Broken Glass

I don’t want to hear how it will get better.  I don’t believe it will.  It was lost somewhere in the past and I cannot retrieve it or make it into something that is remotely salvageable.  There comes a time in a mother’s life when she must accept and surrender.  Some children are attached to their parents, they are emotionally tuned in to each other.  Some children are attached to their peers and to any adult other than their parents, regardless that their parents care for them and do all that is humanly possible to keep the child close. 

Sometimes a mother will have to stand alone and be outraged at policies that do nothing for her child’s development, policies that encourage her child to be secretive and to not share crucial information with her mother.  These policies are designed by law and wholly supported by schools, and specifically exclude parents.  Sometimes a mother will have only one recourse at her disposal, and that’s to voice her anger at those officials who are purportedly responsible for her child’s well-being.  And when a mother sometimes does this, sometimes there will be silence at the other end, but not a shameful silence.  No.  It’s a silence of disbelief at the mother’s overreaction.  It’s a silence that says:  You are angry for no reason.  Shame on you for being so angry and for jeopardizing your child’s trust in us, her school counsellors, we who know your child better than you do.  Now because of your overreaction, we told your child, and your child will no longer feel like she can talk to us, we who are much better at parenting than you could ever hope to be.  We hope you’re proud of yourself; are you humiliated yet?  You should be. 

And sometimes the silence is shared by those officials, but not with the mother.  They share it with the child, the same child who is peer-oriented, and the child is happy to know that those adults care about her much more than her own mother does.  Her mother is an over-reactor, that’s the implication.  A nuclear over-reactor.  All the child’s friends say so, and the mother is the laughing stock among those wise and sophisticated 14-year-old peers.   And among those university-educated, professional women who hold important titles and have years of experience dealing with peer-oriented children, including being mothers themselves. 

What’s a mother to do?  She cannot protect her child from the psychological consequences of certain actions that her child has decided to do.  Anything the mother says is overriden by the All-Knowing school counsellors, and most important, her child’s decision to take matters into her own hands at 14 years old is lauded by these same wise gurus of child psychology.  This leaves the mother out in the cold, standing barefoot on broken glass.  Wherever she turns, any step she takes, will be a misstep, and will result in pain and bleeding. 

Sometimes a mother must stand still and not move.   She wants to scream and holler at the top of her lungs.  But it’s futile, nobody will hear her anymore.   The question is how long can she stand still before the glass under her feet start to feel like icepicks?  She must be patient.  Surely there is a glass-sweeper that will come by soon with His broom and dustpan, to clear a path that she can walk on again without cutting her feet.  A path where she will be able to take her child by the hand and the child willingly will walk with her mother on that path, trusting her mother to guide her, just like she trusted her mother all those years ago when she learned how to walk. 

Fat chance of that ever happening, the mother thinks.  Sometimes the mother loses faith.  She thinks she can regain it by being patient and trusting the One who brought her this far.  It’s all she has left.

Her feet are hurting, though.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Christmas…..

“Is there an A”?

“No”.  He draws a leg.

“Is there an R?” 

“YES!” 

I’m looking at my son’s Hangman phrase, and can’t figure it out.  I laughingly ask him if he spelled it right.  The two of us are killing time this evening, the night before Christmas Eve.  While my daughter G is at her piano lesson, P is keeping me company at Tim Horton’s.  He’s eaten his cookie and is drinking his hot chocolate and he can’t stop talking about Christmas.   The boy is eleven and tells me:  “I’m Christmased out!   I can’t wait anymore!  Tell me how many presents I’m getting!  Ok, then tell me what you bought for G!”  I remember how it was at his age, the anticipation making you jump up and down all over the place like a monkey on Red Bull, your mind thinking only of what you might find under the tree, and counting down the days with great impatience. 

So at Tim Horton’s, I’ve pulled out my notepad and we make a list of the food we’ll be having for our “réveillon”, the traditional French-Canadian custom of eating a feast late on Christmas Eve (usually after midnight mass) to celebrate Christmas.   Along with the expected tourtière,  bûche de Noël, sugar pie, sparkly juice for the kids, and wine for Mr. C & I,  we’ve added our own destined-to-be classics:  meatballs, onion rings, mozza sticks, and taco dip.   After talking about what we’ll do Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, I suggest a game of Hangman to P.    He loves this game, and tries to come up with words and phrases that are as gross as possible, and giggles til his cheeks hurt while I try to guess.  If I guess and say it out loud, he does the silent laugh where he can’t even catch his breath.  I love these moments with him.

So we’re both very focused on our Hangman game, to the point that we become oblivious to the trio sitting a few tables from us.  We don’t notice who’s coming in or out of the coffee shop, or the cars driving by at the drive-thru.  We’re relaxed together, having fun, our guards are down, we’re happy it’s Christmas.   Then a man comes up to me on my left and hands me a wrapped present saying:  “Here Mum, something for the little guy.  Merry Christmas.”   Caught unawares, the words ”Thank you, same to you” automatically pop out of my mouth as I accept the square package wrapped in Christmas paper.   He quickly exits the coffee shop without looking back, walks to his car parked a few ways down, gets in, and drives off away from the building, rather than driving in front to the main highway.   By this time, my Mama-Bear radar has gone off, but I don’t want to overreact, and I want to preserve the good feeling that P and I have been sharing, so I set the gift aside and continue chatting with P. 

“Are we going to open it?”  “Later” I say.  And thankfully the warm & fuzzy mood is preserved, and we carry on with our game.  As we leave, he asks me again if he can open it.  “We’ll wait til we get home, and Mr. C and I will have a look.  It might be something very innocent, but I just want to be cautious.  It was a little weird, don’t you think, a complete stranger handing us a wrapped gift and walking away?”  I didn’t want to alarm him, but I also thought it was a good opportunity to show him that caution is always a good approach.   As we drove home, my mind was turning this over and over…..what if this is some kind of perverted prank and the “gift” is really a framed picture of something really scary or sexually graphic……what if it’s a crazy person giving out bomb-packages to unsuspecting people…..Did he give any presents to any one else at the coffee shop?  I couldn’t remember, I wasn’t paying attention.  I don’t even remember him walking in, and to be honest, I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, what kind of car he drove or any important identifying details of that nature.  I just remember his empty grocery-shopping bag.  

As soon as we walked through the door, P announced to Mr. C what happened at the coffee shop.  So I handed the package over to Mr. C and told him I thought it best if he opened it in private and let us know.  G, in all of her 14-year-old thought processes, piped in:  “It’s probably porn and he was stalking you!”  P, in all of his 11-year-old innocence, asks ”What’s porn?”  I, in all of my 43 years of existence, suddenly feel very weary. 

Mr. C opens the package on our bed, P waiting patiently in the hallway.   After a moment, P comes to me & hands me a small note, where the following is scrawled out:  This is a coin collection….it’s better to give.  Merry Christmas.”   The gift was a framed print of Canadian collector nickels and their descriptions…..along with over a  dozen nickels matching those in the print, some dating as far back as 1924, each in its own little cardboard pocket with a cutout in the middle to show the coin. 

I was mystified and flabbergasted.  All four of us crowded around, looking at this most unusual gift….and yet not so unusual.  My son has been collecting coins for the past few years and he & Mr. C are always rooting through Mr. C’s change to see if any old or unusual coins have turned up.   I read the note again.  This is the strangest occurrence…..I don’t know if he had other gifts in his shopping bag and if he gave any to anyone else at the restaurant.  In my recollection, it seems like we were the only ones he gave something to.  Regardless, how ironic that he should give this particular package to a boy who collects coins….it’s like kismet.  

As I write this, my mind is spinning with possible explanations  for this man’s actions….what if it’s stolen property?  But Mr. C. quiets my suspicious mind by saying that it’s just somebody who wanted to give this away and thought of a unique way to do it.  Ok, so it’s probably not stolen property…..what kind of thief would include a handwritten note with the ”stolen” merchandise that he was trying to get rid of?   

In my dramatic imagination, I’m going with the following possible scenario:  this man is alone in the world, is faced with his impending death, and is slowly giving away his treasures, hence the “It’s better to give” reference in his note. 

OR he may have made a decision to simplify his life after an illuminating, life-altering event or epiphany, and what better time of the year to give away his valuables then Christmas? 

OR maybe this was his father’s coin collection, and maybe his father while on his deathbed,  requested him to do this unusual give-away, and the son, puzzled, asked him how will he know who to give the gift to, and the father answered:   You’ll know.  And so maybe P gives off a “coin collector” vibe and the man knew he had to give the coins to P when he walked into the coffee shop. 

I thought of putting an ad in the paper that read:  To the kind gentleman who gave my son the coin collection at Tim Horton’s on Thursday, December 23, 2010 at approximately 8:15pm…..thank  you.    But that might embarrass him, even if I didn’t give any personal identifiers. 

Here’s what I really want to say to him: 

Dear Sir,

Your very small act has caused very big ripples in my heart.  I try to lead a life where I forget myself to be present to others, but I so fall short of the mark.  I become jaded and cynical, especially at Christmas, and for no reason.  I have abundance and blessings every single moment.  I get caught up in acquiring, even though what I acquire is small in comparison to others’ material acquisitions.  But small or big, it’s all the same racket, and only serves to alienate people from each other.   Preoccupations with “getting” abound at this time, and like kids at Christmas it’s a childish view of the world that should be left in childhood.  I’ve been moaning with a full belly about how I never have time to do what I think is important, that Christmas is all just one big commercial downer, that parenting is the hardest job I’ve ever done and why the heck doesn’t anyone warn you about this before you have children (like you would listen….).   You may have caught me unawares this evening with your gift, dear Sir, but I don’t think that it was random or coincidental.  Nor do I think it was meant only for my son.  The physical object, yes, the coins were meant for him.  But the act itself was meant for me. 

Sometimes, when someone is searching in her heart to know how to heal her soul, and what can she do to feel close to God again, her caring husband will hold her in those moments and with great wisdom and simplicity (because he knows her better than she knows herself), he will say:  What if you prayed about it? 

 Sometimes, when someone takes that advice and opens her heart to God on a morning before work and figuratively  falls on her knees, asking for His guidance, He gives a sign.  Maybe not right away.  Maybe it takes a few days, and one night, when her mind is not on her troubles, there’s the sign at her elbow, giving her a gift with a handwritten note that says: “It’s better to give.”

Dear Sir, I may be extrapolating something completely far-fetched from a completely meaningless encounter.   But you appeared as quickly and quietly as you disappeared, and if I wasn’t the overthinking type, I would have accepted this for what it is, a kind person giving something to a stranger.  This whole event would be out of my mind, and I would be in bed by now.  But I’m here, writing, and it’s going on midnight, which means it’s almost Christmas Eve Day.    Everything this week that has led up to tonight was like a whisper from Someone, and if I wasn’t so darned sensitive, I might have missed it altogether.  

Dear Sir, I was paying attention tonight, even if you caught me by surprise. 

It IS better to give, and with gratitude I’ll pay it forward.  Amen.

I’m still not exactly sure what I’ve been given tonight by this gentleman’s actions; all I know is that sometimes, you don’t need to know, you just need to open your heart and feel it transform you.  I guess that’s what faith does.  That’s what faith is. 

Now I can go to bed.  Goodnight, and merry Christmas to you and yours.

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

The Cure

Sunday morning.  Slept in and woke up amazed that it was so late (8:30am….).  But like a spin of the kaleidoscope, my thoughts quickly turned from snuggling in a warm bed to wondering what is the measure of my faith?  Yeah, I know, that’s a leap, isn’t it…… It’s the Sunday-morning-thing, where I’m now like a fish out of water, feeling I should be in one place, but finding myself in another, afraid of judgements (from others) and loathing (from myself).    This brave, new territory is unfamiliar, I’m unsure of how to express my spirituality anymore.  I’ve reached that crossroads that so many face, and yet I always felt it would never be my own experience.  I always thought I’d travel the safe road of organized religion til the day I died.   Despite having been preyed upon (as opposed to prayed upon, ha!) as a kid, and despite being officially excluded from certain rituals and sacraments because of my remarried state (thankfully no one human person has ever made me feel excluded from the Church, except the Church itself), I found lots of comfort and healing, doing all the things I did to express myself spiritually, Catholically (that’s my new word).

And then I didn’t.  No comfort, no healing.   Only sorrow and sadness and bewilderment. 

And it’s the sorrow and sadness, and especially the bewilderment, that trickle and flow inside me, like a thawing creek bed with melting snow and ice, revealing the cold, hard rocks underneath.   These cold rocks and pebbles that are smoothed by the passage of time and water.  Maybe the sorrow/sadness/bewilderment works the same way on my soul, smoothing, shaping, pushing along.  

(Spring Creekbed by Jake Wells, 2006)

The questions bubble to the surface and break:   Where do I go from here?  How do I find me a new set of spiritual chops?  Better ones than I had?  I have this craving inside to be close to Him again, and yet I don’t know how.   This makes me cry.  I question all of my attempts at prayer, I start off with gratitude and praise for His gifts and then quietly mumble my apologies for my smallness, my doubts and my unwillingness to reconcile what I know of Him with what I’ve come to despise about the Church.   In my heart, I know He’s bigger than the Church.  In my heart, I know that He knows that I try to let His love shine through my actions, even if I’m not an “active participant”.  And I know that He knows I fail at this, and sometimes I fail miserably. 

I can separate church and state, I can separate church and God.  It’s finding Him after I’ve separated Him from church that seems elusive.   I lack understanding of His word, and I wish for more discipline and desire to read and meditate what He tells me in those pages.   I take Him for granted, because I know He’s there in all the kindnesses and love that I give and receive, but I’m so slow to realize it.   

But He is patient.  And for that, I sob in my bed on a Sunday morning, certain that a rekindling in my soul is imminent, but not knowing how to build an S.O.S. that is worthy, that my journey into this darkness is unknowable to myself, having now lost a compass.   The crying doesn’t last long, just long enough for me to sense that it’s more than just a boo-hoo-hoo kind of thing.  Maybe it’s an expression of my faith, of my soul.  Maybe my tears are a balm.   Maybe they’re a cure.

” Do you know a cure for me?  Why yes, he said. I know a cure for everything:  salt water.  Salt water?, I asked him.  Yes, he said, in one way or another:  sweat, tears or the salt sea. “                                                                                                       (Isak Dinesen, “The Deluge at Norderney”, from Seven Gothic Tales, 1934)

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Wolf Cub, Do Your Best

He stood in the centre of his pack, promising to do his best.  Straight as an arrow he stood, shy,  his cheeks a little flushed when he unexpectedly had to say why he wanted to be a cub (“Because I love the Scouts and I want to have experience”). 

My son made his Wolf Cub Promise last night, to do his best, to love and serve God, and to do a good turn for someone everyday.  For three weeks, we’ve been talking and practising, going over the motto, the law, the maxims, the left-handed handshake, the hand sign.  As we drove to the school gymnasium, he was nervous, worried he would forget what he had learned in front of his pack. 

I reminded him that his grandfather, my dad, was a Scout Leader for decades, and one who was much loved and respected by the youth he guided and by the other leaders that he worked alongside.  I told P that his grandfather was smiling down on him right now, and that P should remember this when he was making his promise:  that my father was also a very shy man who overcame it to serve others all of his life, a Scout through and through. 

P’s father attended the little ceremony as well, and we took lots of pictures.  When P received his neckerchief and his badges, as well as his Good Deed coin, he was beaming, and so were we.  As the Cubs sang out their song of praise and guidance, my thoughts went to my father, wishing he could be here to know my boy, to witness this little moment in a school gym, just as he had attended countless ceremonies like this in his day for boys who have grown into men, men who hold special memories of my father as their Scout leader.  

When we arrived home, P showed his treasures to Mr. C., and we looked at the pictures from the ceremony.   I took P aside and presented him with a gift on this special day:  12 years ago, the Scouts held a Jamboree, and presented my father with a special plaque, honouring him for his dedication and hard work throughout his life for the Scout movement.  Translated, it reads:   For you, Victor.  You are always ready to help the Scouts without expecting any reward.  Baden Powell would be proud of you as we all are.  The District thanks you.

When P unwrapped the plaque, I explained what it was, how my father had been so proud to receive it that summer day, how he would have wanted P to have it, and how I was now passing it on to him.  The look of sincere joy on my son’s face said it all.  He had been asking to see my father’s mementoes from his scouting days for some time, and I kept putting it off.  I’m glad I waited until this moment.  I know P did not expect me to actually GIVE him something of my father’s, so that made it all the sweeter.

The plaque now rests in P’s room, on a shelf he cleared especially for his Cub Scout things.    This warms my heart to no end, to be reminded of my father through my son’s experiences as a Wolf Cub.  As I told P after giving him the plaque:  You are a generous boy, and you have an open heart, full of love for others,  always ready to do your best.  Just like your grandfather. 

P thinks being in Cub Scouts is the best thing, and he thanks me often for signing him up, even though he was extremely shy.   After last night, though, I think sometimes it’s a gift I gave myself, to see and feel my father again. 

Dad, your grandson’s tenderpads have toughened up…..he’s ready to follow his pack on their adventures.  You would be proud of him……

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Honey, I Think There’s A Teardrop On My Letter

“He can come Friday night if he doesn’t cry for you on Saturday night.  And he can’t be following me around, clinging to me 24/7.   It’s up to him.   And if  he starts coming here every other Friday night, too, we’ll have to revisit the financial arrangement.”

I hung up the receiver, swallowed the lump in my throat, and turned to the pile of  letters on my desk.  They needed my signature, gotta mail them out, they’re dated today.  Don’t cry.   Pick  up the pen and sign your letters, if not, they’ll be stale-dated and you know what that means…..you’ll have to re-do them.   Don’t cry.  Drink some tea; it’s hard to cry when you drink something. 

Ok, deep breath and don’t don’t don’t think about how your heart is breaking for your little guy.   Don’t think about how you are still regretting separating from the children’s father nearly five years ago now,  because of the hurt and pain that the divorce has caused.   Don’t think of how callous and selfish Father of Children sounded when he firmly stated that P can come one extra night if he meets his criteria (no crying, and he has to keep himself busy).  Don’t think of how you can’t imagine yourself ever saying: “Nope, I don’t want P to stay with us if he cries because he misses you.”  or “Here, take your daughter, she’s driving me crazy and I can’t live with her anymore.”  You know you’ve thought those things, everybody does, but you’d never say it, and you certainly wouldn’t follow through on it.   Don’t think about how you would much rather put up with some crying at night then seeing your boy only 4 days a month.  Don’t think about how selfish YOU sound, worrying about your kids’ hearts and feelings when so many children have it WAY harder than yours do.  More guilt.   Don’t think of  how much P is missing out on his life with his father, with his little baby brother whom he adores.  Don’t think of how P is at the age when he wants to be his Dad’s shadow,        10 years old is when your Dad is The Superhero Of The World, isn’t it?   Don’t think of how P is slowly being alienated.  Don’t think of how this never would be happening  if you hadn’t left that marriage  in the first place, so this is your fault again.   Don’t think of the guilt you feel about the divorce, don’t think about the guilt, don’t think about guilt, don’t think…..don’t think.   

Too late.

I set the pen down, put my elbows on my desk and hold my head in my hands.  Defeat and sadness wash over me.  I don’t even realize I have tears rolling down until I hear one teardrop hit the letter, Mr. Client 28476′s letter.   Shoot….that kind of snaps me out of it, and I quickly soak it up with a tissue, blow my nose and hope to heck nobody walks by my desk with a cheery good morning.   Surely, the person who sits on the other side of me will wonder what the heck all the sniffling’s about.

I look at Mr. Client 28476′s letter and the teardrop has dried up, no wrinkly spot.  Good.  Phew.  I sign it, and think about Mr. Client 28476 receiving this letter with my now-invisible teardrop.   He’ll never know that the letter-writer was having a melt-down while she signed it.   He’ll never know that in the margin of his official-looking letter, there’s the trace of sodium chloride and water, a tiny unproductive pool of sadness and sorrow.  

Can someone pass the hugs and the chocolate, now?

Ok, I’m at work, you can’t hail a hug like you hail a taxi.   But I get the next best thing….Mr. C calls before I go for lunch, and I fill him in on my depressing  morning conversation with P & G’s father.  In his reliable, comforting way, my husband manages to lift my spirits and renew my confidence in myself, without bringing down the father of my children.   Sitting at my desk, listening to his words through the receiver, I can feel his arms around me, his hands smoothing my hair back, kissing my tears away; the chocolate is melting in my mouth.    My afternoon is much better, and a phone call from P, fresh and so hyped up  from his first day at soccer camp, is all I need to restore my faith in my ability to keep doing the right thing by my family, despite the guilt. 

I realize this might not be a big deal compared to what you may be going through, and because I know this,  I really try to keep things in perspective.  Sometimes though, telling yourself  it’s no big deal is the same as repression, which leads to depression, which is anger turned inward.   Know that I’m offering up my struggles for you, so that you can have hugs & chocolate, too, when you need them.  

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Growing Pains

My son has a simple concussion.  So said the emergency room doctor.  P was sitting on a bench in the gym at school, bent over to tie his skates, getting ready to enjoy the outdoor rink with his classmates, when the kid sitting across from him managed to whack him on the bridge of his nose with his skate blade, which was covered with a skateguard THANK GOD.   I don’t know how one’s foot can accidentally come up suddenly and so hard that it nearly knocked P unconscious, but it did….especially when the foot in question is attached to the body of a child known to be more than a handful.    I guess it’s not that hard to imagine  a class of 10-year-olds fidgeting around, anxious to get out on the rink, one can easily picture a kid sitting there, dangling his legs, waiting for the teacher’s all-clear to go outside, trying hard to be patient, then….WHACK! 

P said he fell forward, then couldn’t remember what happened or what people were saying.     The secretary called me at work, explained what happened, that his nose was very purple and he was in pain.  On the way there, I mentally prepared myself to what I might see (she hadn’t mentioned blood, so that was good), and I set my face in an expression of tender motherly concern, with my mouth glued in the form of a gentle, it’s-gonna-be-alright smile.  If the injury was horrible, I didn’t want P to be shocked by my shock.  

But it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting……his nose seemed somewhat swollen, but apparently the swelling had gone down quite a bit thanks to an ice-pack.  He was sleepy, though, and dizzy, and had blurry vision….time to head to the hospital.   In the end, the doctor declared him neurologically-sound, and that the concussion symptoms should clear up within the week. 

P’s injury today brought back the time when my daughter G choked on a rubber toy a few years ago….that was an ambulance ride we won’t soon forget.  http://crrz07.wordpress.com/2007/08/01/deja-vu/ .    

I’m afraid I really didn’t have any direction that I wanted to take by writing this post, nor do I have any particular message or life-lesson.   No rhyme or reason.   I just needed to write this out.  It’s been a very emotional  walk in the Parenting Park lately, one that is testing my motherhood mettle.  My daughter G has been feeling the consequences  of making bad choices, which means that I’m the one making her feel those consequences.  Tomorrow morning, her father & I meet with her teacher to discuss G’s behaviour at school (it’s a little jarring to hear several teachers tell you that G is not the girl they know her to be).  I’ve decided not to give a detailed account of what’s been happening in the past six weeks, because I don’t think I would feel too good if my mother blogged about my behaviour to the whole world.    Let’s just say that  pre-teens are a whole different animal.  

I can’t be sure that I’m ready though.   I’ve gone through some heavy thinking lately, as opposed to heavy drinking, to which heavy thinking about family life can sometimes lead to; thankfully not in my case (but I’ve thought about it!).  Anyhow, back to my heavy thinking about being a parent…..so I cycle around & around the block of guilt, spinning my wheels….I return to the fountain of regret and soak long enough to watch my toes turn into wrinkly raisins…. I run through the forest of anger (at myself, at God, and ultimately back at myself)……Then, tired & spent,  I sulk in the What-Did-I-Do-To-Deserve-This sandbox.  

Our children really are like gifts…..when you open a gift, you have no idea what’s in it.  What if it’s something you don’t really like?  We don’t select our kids like we select a pair of shoes or a box of chocolates.   We accept our children graciously, through Grace, with Grace, because of Grace…..and we do our best to love them through all of the joys, pains, triumphs and disappointments.   

Because for them, we are also like a gift……children can’t choose their parents any more than parents can choose their children.   With Grace, we can help our children grow into the gifts that they are.  And hope that we become the parents that they need. 

 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Dear Little Blog

I’m sorry.  I’ve been neglecting you.  I HAVE been thinking about you, but that doesn’t quite cut it, does it?  So what if I’m thinking of you?  Thoughts are not the same as giving attention, nurturing, loving, caring.  So what if I have a gazillion thoughts and ideas in my head, a myriad of things I want to fill you up with, dear little Blog?  They mean nothing if I can’t find the wherewithal to even come into your house with my special pass key.   I sometimes feel so neglectful of you, that I can’t even face the screen that asks for my user name and password.  What if you spurn me, what if you pout and don’t ever want to open yourself up to me again?  What if I let this go so long that I can’t find the passion that I felt initially?  Or the courage to even come and say hello?

It’s kind of been like a crisis, trying to regain my momentum and write again.  Never mind the momentum…it’s balance that I’m seeking.   Equilibrium.  I know where the answer lies…..I know I just have to let it be and it will come.  That the more I look to be balanced, the more it eludes me. 

http://fc69.deviantart.com/fs32/f/2008/231/7/4/Rotational_Equilibrium_by_xentek.jpg

In my defence, I do want to let you know, dear little Blog, that I have had reasons for not visiting you, let alone spending a few hours with you where you gladly take in my musings.  You know my family life has changed a little now,  my husband is by my side, my son is now living with us full time while my daughter continues alternating between our home and her father’s home.  There are MANY things that require one’s attention when one becomes a blended family, and although every night my husband and I remark that despite the struggles we feel that things are going much better than we expected, there are still alot of emotions and personalities to consider. 

And at work, lots of changes there, too, that need some getting used to.    And my faith, I sometimes struggle, sometimes not….And I’m not sleeping so good.  And I need to exercise more but don’t feel like it because I’m not sleeping so good.  And I’d like to not be so darn sensitive and cry at the drop of a hat.   And children need their mother, even when they act like they don’t, even when they cause you worries and tender moments, sometimes back-to-back.    I seem to be whining, dear little Blog, as if I’m finding excuses and justifications to ignore you, but I’m not.  I have everything to be thankful for, and  so much to write about, but these things that form the core of my life are all-consuming at the moment. 

So here’ s my olive branch, I ask you just to be patient a little while longer, dear little Blog, while I try to find the center, knowing that I get such pleasure and satisfaction, and deep personal gratification from sitting down and filling you up with my thoughts. 

 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

A New Wind Blowing

After a gorgeous, warm, and sunny Thanksgiving long-weekend, back-to-work-Tuesday dawned with a sudden rain storm.  The power flickered on & off in the apartment, and the wind howled through the trees.  When I arrived at work, the rain had stopped, but the sky was that dark blue steel colour, and the wind was blowing the clouds, hurrying them on their way East.  Stormy fall days are soaked with energy….even the most dreary rainy days have this special glow. 

                                                       (http://www.criativa-arts.com/home)

My parking spot at work is about a 10-minute walk from the building.  That day, my focus was on holding on to my purse and lunchbag while negotiating the wind.  I was thinking about the week that was, fit for an episode of a reality show, full of the challenges and tears that parenting brings.   Alone with my thoughts, I was digging deep inside to find a little bit of optimism and renewed courage, you know, kind of like a Pep Talk to Self.  

As I walked along, the wind blew the clouds behind me and for a few seconds, the sun shone through, bright as can be, and its light was made even brighter by the golden leaves twirling and rustling in the wind.  It was such a sudden change, like someone flicking on a switch, that I turned around and smiled at the sun and said thank you.  I’m glad I did, as no sooner had I turned that the wind once again covered the sun with clouds….a fleeting moment of gratitude. 

www.allposters.com

So I continued walking, across the road, onto the sidewalk, up the ramp.  I’m leaning into the forceful wind, feeling my coat being blown out and around me, the wind whipping my hair into my face one second, then blowing it straight back the next.   Which didn’t really matter because my hair always looks like it’s caught in a windstorm anyways.   A sudden noisy gust makes me look up in time to see a blitz of leaves being blown in a farandole, spirited, swirling, dancing, and they’re heading right for me!  I turn my head and continue walking up the ramp, cocooned in crimson and gold jewels, and all I can think is:

Exhilaration.    Pure.     Joy.  

I start to laugh to myself, and couldn’t help smiling, because I had this yearning to dance around with the leaves and the wind, and to laugh out loud!  I wanted to twirl like Maria in the Sound of Music, on top of the mountain!  I wanted to sing and laugh!  

It was an incredible feeling, to sense that the wind was not just another weather element I had to contend with……it became this breathing entity, this presence that I could nearly touch, it made itself known to me very briefly, yet unforgettably.   For a few blissful seconds, I was filled with such a desire to be with the wind, to abandon myself to it, to answer its call to be joyful, to be what I was created to be.   Like a little kid reluctant to leave her game when being called in for dinner, I reached the front entrance to my workplace.  I found I wanted to stay outside, in the gusting wind, not only to feel its energy, but to become its energy, to feel it transform me. 

God is in the details.  It’s in simplicity that I find deep riches. 

And as Bob says:  the answer is blowin’ in the wind…..

Love,

Chantal  xoxoxox

P.S. That new wind blowing has brought sweeping changes in my life, as my husband has now relocated from his warm Floridian climate to the crisp and chilly North.   It’s been a little over a week that he’s been here, and I’m so happy!  I’ll write more on the transition of our marriage and relationship going real-time from being super-long-distance……but  now, I’m enjoying my real male, rather than my e-male

To Lighten Your Darks, Wash In Courage

tr.v. re·lin·quished, re·lin·quish·ing, re·lin·quish·es

1. To retire from; give up or abandon.

2. To put aside or desist from (something practiced, professed, or intended).

3. To let go; surrender.

4. To cease holding physically; release

Today is the Autumnal Equinox, the day is as long as the night.  Perfect balance. 

In a week, it will mark five years since my Dad passed away.   Before we headed back to our hometown for his funeral, I remember my sisters saying that our father had gathered everyone together at a time of the year when Nature was at her most spectacular.  It was like he was giving us these rich colours of the season to show us that our joy at having him as our father was as meaningful as the pain and sorrow we felt at losing him.  Perfect balance. 

When you think of courage, who do you see?  Courageous people don’t think or talk about courage; every day, they live it.  They don’t pray for it or look to others to give them courage.   They just live as they do.  They actually do something on a regular basis that makes them courageous. 

Like getting up early every day to go to work and provide for their family.   Without complaining.    Like being generous with their time and money.   Without even thinking of being thanked or expecting recognition.    Like being up to their necks in financial hardship.   Without letting the stain of neediness tarnish their own self-respect.   Like having rock-steady faith in the darkest of journeys.   Without giving creedence to false arrogance and delusions of being able to do it alone. 

My Dad was very much a man of courageous relinquishment, if you will.   For as long as I’ve known him, he’s had to let go of a part of himself in order to live as he felt God asked of him.  And if you asked him if he was courageous, he would’ve laughed and said any courage he had didn’t come from him.   It would be easy to think that he lost it all, his health, his money, and in the end, his life for nothing.    That would be true if he gave up.  But he never did, he never let it show if he did.  Any darkness that he found himself in was befriended and turned over to God.  Probably not in that exact moment when he felt most vulnerable, like in that moment when your eyes are unaccustomed to the dark after the switch is thrown.  It always seems darker than it really is.   I’m sure there were times when my Dad was scared sh*tless at what he faced.  I never knew if he was.  He always carried on, like a wounded soldier on the battlefield, determined and sustained by unknown forces, to seek the light at the end, to complete his tour for the good of those who fought alongside him. 

It’s not the big, tough loudmouths of the world who make a difference.    The real heroes are not the politicians or the celebrities who have it all,  yet who have nothing.   It’s the quiet, ordinary people who sit beside you at work, the ones who serve you coffee, the ones who make sure their elderly neighbour ate supper that night.  It’s the ones who give a damn about that one kid in their class who everybody else has written off as a “problem child”, it’s the ones who give up their own free time to deliver Christmas hampers during a blizzard.   It’s the ones who stand up to the meanies of the world by offering them a helping hand or a genuine “Good morning”. 

So when my father had filled all of his days with unsung acts of courage, when he had relinquished all that he had been given,  when his light came into perfect balance with his dark, it seems now, in retrospect, that he truly began to live, even though he had passed away. 

I would give anything to be with my father again, and I can’t.    There’s too much I still didn’t know about him, there’s so much that I can’t remember and I can just kick myself for not paying closer attention when he WAS here, there’s so much I want to say to him now that I’m older.  This is my relinquishment, part of what I have to gradually let go of. 

As time goes on, and memories (although always present) become more like still shots instead of the moving pictures they once were, the light of joy edges closer in balance to the darkness of grief. 

Love to you, Dad

Chantal xoxoxo