As You Wish

I had alot of fantasy games that I would play when I was a child, and being as I was mostly a solitary kid, I never ran out of imagination to fill my time with.    I had friends, of course (some real, some not), but I was mostly content doing things on my own, letting my creativity and imagination come out however it would.    I remember once playing with paper cut-out dolls (by myself), and I guess I was really good at giving my dolls voices, because when my mother came upon me in the living room, she was sure I was sitting there playing paper dolls with friends (real ones)!  She  told me about that later on in the day, and for some reason, that story stuck.    As an adult, I came to find out that people were worried about me back then, because I was a loner kind of kid; and sure, there were periods of time where I was too alone, but in retrospect, I see that now as being a form of self-preservation from what I was going through at the time as a young girl preyed upon by a vulture.    But no worries, folks, I turned out ok!    At the time, however, I don’t remember feeling lonely, and I don’t remember longing to play with other kids when I was alone.   I just preferred doing my own thing, I suppose. 

One of those “own things ” was playing school.    I liked school, I didn’t love school.   But I looooved playing school at home.  I often converted my bedroom into a classroom, with stuffed animal students, and my little round  formica play-table serving as the Teacher’s Desk.   When my parents bought the corner store, I had a whole basement to play in, and over the years, many parts of that basement were converted into my school space.   I loved playing school so much that on the last day of school, I would bring a garbage bag, gather all the discarded workbooks from my classmates who had better things to think about, and I would drag my loot home, where I would divvy all the papers into piles and prepare my “class”.   This, on the LAST day of school!  Good grief….

Going to friends’  houses and discovering that they loved to play school, too was the greatest!  I’d get ideas from how they did things, how they set things up, what they used for desks, and how they decorated their “classroom”.   My friend  in grade 5 or 6, her name was Darquise, (yes she was real…..),  she was a popular girl, always the teacher’s pet.  So it was a privilege to get invited to her house.  She had five siblings, and part of their basement was converted to a classroom, with real student desks that their dad had obtained from some sale at the school board.  They had it all, the supplies, the decorations on the walls, the blackboard, even the little bell on the teacher’s desk.  I was in heaven.   Darquise, her siblings & I would play til I had to leave for supper, and I’m only sorry I didn’t get to go back more often.  I met Darquise again a dozen years ago, where we ran into each other at  Wal-Mart (surprise), and guess what she is now?  A school principal! 

But that’s not the point of my story.   Little girls who play school don’t all grow up to be school principals.  Some little girls who played school grow up to be government employees with dreams of writing writing writing.   And they have the good fortune of marrying a man who is a heart-reader.   

We’ve just moved from an apartment to a house,  which means Mr. C. & I are having a blast, shopping the classifieds and visiting the bargain stores for some much-needed good used furniture.   Little by little, we figure out what we need the most, then scour the ads, hoping to find THE bargain.  And we usually do.  So as we slowly settle into our little castle, I saw the need for a small desk that might be set up in the kitchen,  like a little office space kind of deal, you know, to put our papers in, pay bills, make lists, a place where we can find our stuff.   We left it at that, and continued our search for some piece of furniture that would fit the bill.  (When you furnish your house this way, as opposed to walking into a furniture store and saying I want this & this & this,  you need patience and the undying faith that something good will turn up if you just wait long enough…..hold on to that thought because it will become important later on in the story).

So I drive up to the house one night after work, and Mr. C’s truck is backed up in the driveway, and there’s this HUGE old-fashioned wooden desk sitting in the back.  It’s like a schoolteacher’s desk from the forties, with three drawers on either side, pull out shelf-y things at the top to write on, and a drawer in the middle.   And brass drawer pulls.  Not cheapy metal, brass.     Think Sherriff Andy Taylor’s desk in the Andy Griffith Show.    It’s very scuffed and the top of it would need some serious refinishing.   But that’s not what I see. 

I see that little girl again, playing school in her room, sitting at her formica table, imagining herself a great teacher to her panda bears and dolls…I see dreams floating out and around, dreams of being someone special, dreams of mattering to someone, dreams of accomplishing good things but not quite knowing how, dreams of creating a life,  long-ago extinguished dreams of following her heart only to find out that her heart wasn’t in it, dreams of writing.  Not the next great novel or bestseller, just writing.  Period. 

“It’s for you.  We can put it in the family room, and you can set yourself up in there.”  He’s come outside to see what I think of this big old piece of furniture.  He thinks I’ll be disappointed in his offering.   Two weeks prior, at the pharmacy  he & his co-workers were renovating , he asked if anyone wanted the old desk up in the bookkeeper’s nook.  Nobody did, it was free for the taking, so he put dibs on it, paying his work buddies some  beer money to help him load this used-up unwanted desk onto his truck.  Two weeks without saying a word, two weeks of holding in this most wonderful surprise.   He thinks I’ll be disappointed with this old beat-up desk that was so big & bulky back in its day that they had to saw off the back legs  just to get it into that bookkeeper’s nook. 

He thinks I’ll be disappointed…..heck, I am so excited that I feel I could pratically haul the thing out myself!   Over and over, as we set it down, as we clean it off, as we position it in the corner in the family room by the French doors so that there’s lots of light, I thank him, over and over.  I can’t come up with anything more profound to say than “This is the best gift anyone has ever given me!”, hoping he can  really feel how much his thoughtfulness means  to me.    At the time, that was all I could articulate, but this is what I was really trying to tell Mr. C.:

You haven’t yet  sought to create any corner of the house as your own, as your domain, your own special place to write.   Between the two of us, you are the writer,  I’m more the putter-downer-of-ideas.   And yet, the first piece of furniture that could serve you as YOUR writing place, you give it to me.   To set up with my things, my books, my pictures, my laptop.  My space.  A room of my own, as Virginia Woolf would say.  

You bring me this beautiful desk, this very used and abused desk, with sticking drawers and wobbly tablets, a desk only a dreamer could love.  A desk to store all my dreams in, all of my school-girl aspirations that grew and eventually dissipated….or maybe those aspirations only clouded up  into a different atmosphere, re-shaped into different purposes.   A desk only a dreamer could love,  loving it with each object she places on it, loving it by filling up drawers, loving it by running her hand over the rough-yet-smooth surfaces while she ponders the past, while she ponders passed the regretful past and into the joyful present. 

I have never received a more meaningful gift from the heart, Mr. C.   The desk is a tangible symbol of who I was before, and who I am now.  It ties you to me in a way that nothing else does.  Had we found this desk together in the classifieds or at a used furniture shop, it would not have the same meaning for me.  The fact that you saw it, you saw its possibilities, and you offered it to me is one of the purest expressions of love.   When you furnish your house this way…when a couple seeks to care for the other more than for the self, it requires patience and faith.  When the motivation is the other person’s joy, it makes patience and faith a piece of cake.   Adjusting to being a couple is not always a piece of cake, but I’m grateful to Him for having given me the patience to wait for you to mosey on into my life, and the wisdom to recognize the gift that you truly are.        

My relationship with Mr. C. is much like my relationship with my desk:  it’s a work-in-progress.  I move things around, I try different approaches, I make mistakes,  I  appreciate it more and more as time goes on.   I see the faults and the quirks (his, mine, AND the desk’s) as part of  the whole, without which it would not mean anything to me.   I get to take my dreams and bring them to new levels of realization.   So no, I won’t be looking to change it, or refinish it, or give it a new look.  If anything needs changing, it’s my own perceptions.   From the moment I laid eyes on my desk, I accepted it as it was, and I love it as it is.   From that early moment when I knew that Mr. C.  and I were true companions, I accepted that moment as it was, and I love him as he is. 

My desk

Class dismissed.

Love, Chantal xoxox

Being

End-of-the-school-year (G is gone camping for 3 days with her class, little graduation ceremonies, school concerts, outings).        Soccer season starts (P is playing competitive soccer this summer, which means 2 games per week  one hour after I get off work, which means rushing to pick him up at school, then trying to find time to get something nutritious in his body, then get him to his game on time…..plus practices and tournaments…..need to find alternative to McD’s….find time this weekend to come up with fast easy things to eat that can be prepared at home & taken along).       Mr. C has a new job (have to brush up my massage skills to counter those 10-hour days on his feet….and need to make those minutes left over at the end of the day count.   It’s nice to take care of those you love).     New digs await us in a few weeks (we haven’t started packing yet…..but we are SO ready for our new place with THREE bedrooms!  No more mouldy apartment……).    Meeting my new sisters-in-law (SIX of them!) and their families next week at a family wedding for which I don’t have a dress yet…….I tried one on yesterday, a nice cream silky number with a beautiful purple flower print & a sash, except I looked like a big grape   (no pressure, I still have 7 shopping days left……minus 3 soccer nights and one child’s friend’s birthday party evening, so 3.5 days left, really….ok, there’s a little bit of pressure there); need to find something that makes me look like I am, a happy woman, wife and mother, not something that makes me look like I’m rushing from one thing to the next, trying to keep up with this culture that imposes too much on everybody, and certainly something that doesn’t make me look like a giant fruit, no matter how tasty. 

So I’m taking this little moment with you, to breathe and thank God for all my blessings.  I don’t usually like to ask Him for favours, but if I can be given what I need, to be the mother, the wife, the woman that I have to be, that’s all I can ask for.  And I’m willing to put all my energy into being that being.   In spite of my human frailties.   Maybe because I’m such a human.

Blessings to you as you go on living your day and being your own being for those you love. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Skål!

 Way back in 1990, almost 20 years ago now, my first husband and I took the one and only trip we would ever take  together in our entire 17-year marriage (a weekend in Montreal 5 years after the birth of our kids doesn’t count).  I know that sounds like a sad commentary on the state of our marriage, and it is.   In retrospect, our lack of taking time to be alone together was a contributor to our eventual disintegration as a couple.  That, and many other factors, of course.   A marriage of nearly two decades doesn’t fail on one issue only, just as an enduring marriage doesn’t hinge on one aspect.  There are many spokes to the wheel of love, and it takes two to keep it turning.

So back in 1990, the  Meech Lake Accord was on its way to defeat,   the Oka crisis was unfolding,  The Tragically Hip won a Juno for Most Promising Group, going on to become one of Canada’s most influential bands,  the Hubble Space Telescope was launched, leading to important breakthroughs in astrophysics.    And M & I were flying to Stockholm, Sweden for three weeks of discovering a new country.    I had always wanted to visit a Scandinavian country, and to his credit, M was game to go anywhere I chose.  So we saved our money, planned our itinerary, including a side trip Baltic Sea cruise to Leningrad (before it became St.Petersburg again) and set off on our adventure.

It was an amazing trip,  my first time flying, a learning experience in self-sufficiency, and an awakening to how big, beautiful, wonderful and small our world is.  We met Swedes  (the most healthy-looking and attractive people on this planet that I’ve ever seen, from the youngest baby to the oldest grandpa);  our trip was coloured with their warmth and humour.  We befriended Polish immigrants who worked at the student residence where we were staying, and we enjoyed many late nights being regaled with stories from their country and served extra helpings  on our dinner plates of the most delicious Swedish meatballs I’ve ever had.  On our last morning, we had to leave early, before the breakfast canteen opened, but to our surprise, our Polish friends had prepared a huge breakfast tray for us, with way more food than the usual yogurt and cereal!  

We met the friendliest Americans from OshKosh, Wisconsin, from California, from New York.  Some of them we met while in Stockholm, some we met on the cruise to Leningrad.   On the ship, Fred and Winnie, a couple in their 80’s from New York who were seasoned world travellers, took us under their wing and were delighted that the youngest couple and the oldest couple on the cruise were at the same dinner-table.  We were pretty smitten with them, too, and felt very protective of them when our group ventured into Leningrad for an evening at the circus; Fred and Winnie were immediately surrounded by young Russians wanting to exchange cigarettes, but M & I worried for nothing…Fred and Winnie were prepared with a shopping bag of chocolates and American flag pins that they doled out to the boys while never breaking their stride on their way to board the bus to take us back to the ship. 

We met a German Mercedes-Benz dealer on that cruise, whom we avoided after our first encounter, convinced he was a spy or smuggler or dealt in some type of illegal activity.   A little  overactive imagination while travelling is a good thing sometimes.

We walked everywhere we could in Stockholm, we got lost on the bus (we weren’t really lost, M was getting upset, but I just told him “Hey, if we stay on it, eventually the bus will return to where we got on, and then we won’t be lost anymore”).    One morning on the bus ride from our residence to the centre of the city, I saw a woman across the aisle from me who had a lidded basket on her arm, and out popped the head of a sweet little dog!  I was amazed that animals were  allowed on public transport.  

Another day, with our overactive imaginations in high gear,  we thought we were being tailed by someone on our way to the Toy Museum and tried out our evasion techniques (but we weren’t really being tailed…..at least that’s what we told ourselves).   We drank strong coffee that cost $2.00 for a teeny tiny cup in outdoor cafés, we marveled at the cleanliness of a city with nearly 2 million residents.   Walking with our trusty map (which we forgot on a park bench somewhere on our very last day),  we quickly learned the main streets and spent our days wandering and discovering this beautiful city.   We visited the island of Djurgarden twice,  the Skansen museum, and the very impressive Vasa Museum with its fully restored 17th century Vasa Ship that sunk on its maiden voyage.    Stockholm Palace was grand, and watching the changing of the guard was something else.  During our tours of all the museums, during our walks along the cobblestone streets and alleys lined with centuries-old buildings, I came to realize how new my country was in comparison, how here in Canada we don’t have this identity steeped in thousands of years of history.  We cruised the archipelago, we visited the Nordiska  museum, we went to the Museum of Modern Art.    Our newly-bought 35mm camera came in handy and we  took a gazillion pictures.  Which brings me to the point of this whole post.

When I separated, I made sure to take all the photo albums and pictures with me.  I sifted through them all afterwards, giving M his pictures and those of him and the kids, and of course all the pictures of the kids that we had double prints of.  But the pictures and souvenirs of our trip to Sweden, I kept those.   I don’t know why I needed to hang on to them, but I did.   I haven’t looked at them since I moved out, which has been almost 5 years ago now.

If you have a look-see on my sidebar, (yep, right there on the right), there’s  a link to Archerfoto, which is the website of one of THE primo photographers whose work leaves me dreaming.   Her photographs of buildings, nature, people, streets, animals, they ALL pull me into their world.  I know diddly-squat about taking pictures except point & shoot, but I’m amazed at all I’ve learned just staring at her wondrous photos that she has on her website.  I have to hold back on commenting on every one, lest she thinks I’m some obsessed fan, but I swear, every single photograph that she puts up there elicits a reaction from me, there’s a story in each one of them being written out in my head as I contemplate them.    And you can tell alot about a person’s creativity, quality of workmanship,  and level of skill by the comments of photographers and non-photographers alike.  I visit her site daily, eager for the new photo, but just as grateful to browse and locate my favourites.

So when she came out with this new site  to display more of her unique and beautiful work, I was excited at the prospect of losing myself in her world, of  stopping to figuratively smell the roses (and the tulips), and especially of being inspired in my own creative writing.  Because that’s what gifted artists do, they inspire the rest of us to imagine and dream and create.

I know, I know, I’m getting to the point of this whole post now.  I clicked on her new site, Amy Archer Photography, and I scroll the galleries, wondering which one to open first.   The title “Family In Sweden” catches my eye; as I slowly cycle through this “family album”, I’m floored by how I’m transported right back, nearly 20 years ago, to Stockholm, to the colours, the cooling dark green of the foliage, the building facades, the sunlight reflecting off waterways, bathing the city in warm liquid gold.  I’m back in Djurgarden, feeling the cool June breeze.  I can smell the highly-polished scents of the museums enveloping the murmuring of tourists, I’m sitting again at the open-air restaurant in the middle of the city by the life-size chess game with the soft wind blowing clouds to hide the sun, momentarily turning the brightness into muted tones of shade and coolness.  Kind of like the Swedes, bright and cool. 

Through the sharing of her pictures, Amy has allowed me to connect to a time when I lived  a special dream of visiting a country that I had longed to see since I was a young girl.  I was a soulfully sad girl back then who grew into a soulfully sad but content woman, and I seemed to identify with Swedes for some reason, admiring their clean living, their social structure, their industriousness and inventiveness, their soulful sadness that seemed as ingrained in them as it was in me.  Since then, I’ve discovered that soulful sadness underpins warmth and joy, and that we are complex humans, no matter where we come from. 

And maybe that’s what Amy’s pictures give me, a sense of warmth and joy in their tranquility, in their reflectiveness.  That even in something that brings me sadness and melancholy, and makes me feel that I’m still in mourning for a marriage failed, I’m renewed and continue healing.  

I discover a deeper self, one who brings much to the life of her children.

I uncover the womanloverfriend I have become for my Mr. C., who helps me keep the wheel of love turning.  

Most of all, I recover the young girl with dreams of writing and living a simple life. 

Thank you, Amy…..you are a gift. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxox

From Mayberry to Sud-Berry

Do I have to tell you that parenting is not for wimps?  Of course not.  You know this already.   Everybody knows that.  You learn this from the moment you begin to express in public your desire to have children.  Everyone and his dog will tell you how having children is the easy part, it’s raising them that tests your mettle.    Somehow, the instinct and desire to procreate tunes out the part that warns of the boatloads of patience and consistency that you’ll need.   THAT YOU MIGHT NOT HAVE.  Somehow, you BELIEVE people when they say “Watching them sleep at night makes all those struggles during the day worthwhile.”   Somehow, you think that once you’ve cleared the baby years and the toddler years and the pre-school years and those pre pre-teen years, that you’re home free, piece of cake.   Somehow, you think that the diapers, the nursing, the trying-to-figure-out-what-that-crying-means, the YEARS OF NOT SLEEPING, are things of the past once your children enter their pre-teen years. 

WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!  Diapers are replaced with you constantly reminding them of the importance of DAILY bathing,  the challenges of nursing are replaced with the challenges of how to get nutrition into their bodies without actually resorting to something resembling a torture chair, and what used to be called the  Name That Cry game  has now been expanded to Name That Attitude/Whine/Mood Swing game, Version 6.8.  The only thing that remains consistent are the years of not sleeping…..they sleep, but you, on the other hand, cannot for the life of you teach your body to unlearn sleeplessness. 

Now, close your eyes and imagine yourself trying to do your parenting thing, with all its faults and inconsistencies, all its mistakes and failures, on your own, without a partner to support you.   That’s one challenge many of us face.  Now, close your eyes again, and imagine yourself finding the love of your life, bringing that person into your family circle, and trying to do your parenting thing, your faulty, inconsistent, failing parenting thing in full view of your new spouse.  You would think that having someone by your side would make things better.  And it does, truly nothing can beat having someone who loves you in your corner. 

But I didn’t think it all the way through, you see.  I was looking at all the benefits and the positive impact on myself that having my new husband in our lives would make.  And those benefits really do outweigh the struggles, just as the little moments spent with my kids that make my heart swell with love for them outweigh the maddening moments when I bite my tongue from wondering out loud “Who ARE these children, and please take them back!”.  

What surprised me, and you can go ahead and call me naive because you’d be right, was how I did not anticipate that when things sometimes get chaotic in our family, and I’m called upon once again to mediate, to lead by example, to lovingly and patiently correct behaviour when all I wish for is a mute button,  I feel like the parenting spotlight is shining on me even brighter.  I see all of my shortcomings, all of my flaws are highlighted and magnified for the love of my life to see. 

It’s embarrassing.  I am so not ready for that close-up.  Thankfully, I’m slowly learning that Mr. C. wears glasses coloured with love and understanding. 

Becoming a blended family is a delicate dance.  The adults in the relationship need to have a very strong attachment to each other, because their committment and love for each other forms the core around which they ALL dance.   It’s like a maypole, festooned with ribbons, and each person holds a ribbon in their hands, dancing around.   When the pole to which the ribbons are attached is strong and supportive, the dance will continue on, even if the ribbons get tangled and some dancers miss a few steps; in its consistency, strength and unwavering support, the pole (like the couple’s love) gives each dancer what they need to continue.   Support.  Forgiveness. Love. Understanding.   

Since Mr. C’s arrival in our family, he & I have had to be patient as our love for each other reveals itself to be a strong core for our family.  I marvel at my husband’s inner fortitude, and his ability to continually give me his support and optimism, in spite of seeing me at my weakest mother-moments.  Mr. C, in all of his imperfectness, is perfect for me, especially for the Mom-me (ok, he’s perfect for the womanly-woman-me, and the creative-woman-me, and the spiritual-woman-me…..heck, he’s just so perfect for me, but you get what I mean).  So what does Mayberry have to do with all of this?  I’m glad you asked.

My husband is a movie-buff, especially old black-and-whites.  When he arrived, he brought boxes of DVDs, filled with movies and TV shows.  Sometimes the kids will ask to root through the boxes, but their attraction to and appreciation for old black-and-whites are not as developed yet.  But one day, Mr. C. took out a boxed set of the Andy Griffith Show.  He had been home with P, who was sick, and they watched an episode or two together.  That night, P told his sister about Opie and the gang, and so we sat down on Sunday evening to watch the first DVD.  I had heard of the Andy Griffith Show, of course, from my parents and sisters, but I had never watched it on TV.    But it had been a week of high tension in the household, and although I was very skeptical that my 12-year-old daughter would sit through an episode without rolling her eyes or casting criticism, I was looking forward to all of us watching something different. 

Kids will surprise you. 

Mr. C. & I kept looking at each other over the kids heads, and smiling in that ”Ah-Ha we’re on to something!” way, as the kids laughed and enjoyed one episode after another.   To our amazement, the kids loved it.   Heck, I loved it!   Whatever it is about that TV series, it works.    The more we watch it together as a family, the more we laugh at their corny jokes, the more we wonder what life was like when haircuts were 25 cents,  the more we talk afterwards about the morals of the stories.  I know it’s scripted and all that, but sometimes seeing someone else dealing with issues in a way that’s respectful of others helps me in my own life.   

We now have regular screenings of the Andy Griffith Show (we may have to buy the next boxed set, Mr. C.),  it’s something we all look forward to watching together; no one’s drifting off in the middle of the show to do something else, and I still get a charge out of hearing the kids or Mr. C. laugh at Barney Fife’s antics.  Since Mayberry has come into our living room, the tangled ribbons of our maypole have untangled somewhat, giving us the much-needed breathing room to once again be able to offer each other support and love.  It’s not a TV show from the 60s that can miraculously erase all the hurts, but for us, it was a small bridge that we crossed together, to reach a new place to continue our blended-family dance. 

I’ve been working on this post for awhile now, and it’s fitting that I’m done writing it today, because today is Mr. C’s birthday……in all that he does for us, with all of the right things that he instinctively knows to say at the right time to make us all feel like we are shining stars, in all the little ways that he lightens my load, I’m convinced that HE is a gift to the kids and I.   During one episode of the Andy Griffith Show, Opie asks Andy:  “Is there anything I can do for YOU, Paw?”    To which my son turned to me and said: ” Hey!  That’s what Mr. C. says to you EVERY day!” 

Happy birthday, Sweetie…..

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxoxo

Gifts My Husband Gives Me

I’m married to a wonderful man, and I know it.  We’ve just celebrated our six-month anniversary, and although our marriage is a long-distance one (which will soon come to an end……the long-distance part, not the marriage part!), there is no one else with whom I can truly be myself.   We’ve had to be vigilant in our methods of communication, and extra-sensitive to the other’s moods and feelings.  When all you have are phone, email, and the postal service to communicate with each other, you develop your Spidey-senses and you know from the first hello what mood the other is in…..but sometimes we become very good at hiding our true emotions on the phone, for fear of upsetting the other one unnecessarily (it takes practice to become a good shoulder to cry on when you’re miles apart).  

You also become creative in your methods of communication, but when you truly love each other, it’s not a hard thing to do.   Mr. C. and I write letters, real hand-written letters, to each other (he more than me).  We send emails, we chat online, he calls me throughout the day, every day.  He makes sure that I know that he’s thinking of me.  We send care packages, filled with books and music (oh the music he’s opened up to me….I could write chapters and chapters on how music is an integral part of our romance).  

A few months back, we started exchanging a notebook……I write in it for seven days, then I mail it to him, and he writes in it for seven days, and mails it back to me, and so on.  We write little entries about what we’re doing, where we are when we’re writing, sometimes we pour our hearts out, sometimes we just write how much we love each other, other times it’s about current events, or things that we’re going through at the moment.  Sometimes we just write about what we did that day, or what we ate, or what we bought at the store.   It brings another link into our relationship, helping us to share the little details of everyday life at a time when we can’t physically share those things.    Mr. C. loves the idea of the notebook, and because sometimes he’s impatient and wants things his way, he’s started another one, so now we have two notebooks on the go, criss-crossing North America in little bubble envelopes.  

Soon, my sweet man will make his final trek from the hot & sunny southern U.S. to the not-quite-as-hot-but-still-sunny northern Ontario.  When we are finally living out our dream of being true companions together in the same place, we decided that we want to keep the notebooks going.  We’ll continue to write to each other, seven days at a turn, even if we won’t be separated by distance any longer.    Sounds a little silly, but it’s incredibly romantic and touching to read your lover’s random thoughts, or to watch them writing in your special notebook, knowing that in a few days, a little more of their heart and soul will be revealed to you.   It’s amazing what you can learn about your loved one in those little handwritten lines…..my husband and I always seem to reveal more when we write to each other.  Equally impressive is what you learn about yourself in those little notebook entries:  patience, anticipation, taking turns, giving in to being whimsical and love-struck in a crazy, screwed-up world. 

Communication is vital to all relationships, and in a long-distance relationship, taking advantage of all forms of communication is not only life-sustaining, but it’s also life-giving.   Like I said, it’s really effortless when you love truly, madly, deeply.  I would be worried if I felt that it was a burden to send a letter to my husband, or if I felt annoyed at having to talk to him AGAIN on the phone for the seventh time that day.  We’ve never felt that way…..I mean, I’m in love with the man, and I don’t have the pleasure of touching him or holding his hand or feeling him hug me……what would constitute too many phone calls in a day when it’s his voice that thrills me, comforts me?  How many letters are too many when I’m writing to my soulmate?  We talk on the phone for a bit, we say goodnight, and then 2 minutes later, I’ll send him an email, or I’ll send him a special card I’ve found.   In my journal, before bed, I’ll write about him, about us, about our dreams for our life, about what he means to me.  I’ll wake in the morning to an email from him, we’ll be online at the same time and chat before he goes off to work.  He’ll call me a little later, before I leave for work, then he’ll leave me a message on my voicemail at work.  That makes my day, everyday…..I see the flashing light on my phone at my desk, and I know it’s him…. we’ll talk maybe two, three times during the workday, we’ll write to each other in the notebooks, we’ll see things during the course of our day that might interest the other and make a note of it to talk about later on, we touch base when we get off work, we check our mailboxes for the weekly letter, card, specially-made CD, or even sometimes a care package.  We are constantly in each other’s thoughts, in each other’s actions.  We exist in our separate countries, our bodies are going through the motions of living in those separate places, yet we’re living together on another plane, somewhere our consciences meet up, we fuel each other’s psyches, we can almost read each other’s minds.   

We’re fortunate that we’re both die-hard romantics who love the idea of courtship and seduction through words.  On the Fridays when my children are with their father, and I am free, I’ll ask Mr. C. during one of our afternoon conversations if he would like to go out on a date that night.  I get a kick out of it, and I know he does too, pretending like we were actually making plans to meet up somewhere later on after work.  Instead, I hurry home after work, I shower and change into something I know Mr. C. will like, I put on some Led Zeppelin, I light candles and incense, I pour myself a glass of wine, I spray on a little of the Nina Ricci perfume he bought for me during that cold November visit, I settle on my bed with his letters, with our poetry books… Mr. C. calls, and our “date” begins….. we’ll talk for hours, about mundane things and things that we find fascinating, we’ll discuss issues of the day, we’ll talk about what’s on our minds, we cry sometimes, and we laugh alot, too.  We’ll go over details of what it will be like when we actually live together (during these conversations, jokes abound of being banished to the balcony, or sent to do laundry).  We’ll read poetry to each other, poems of love and lust, poems of longing and desire from our favourite collections.  We’ll talk until one of us is too drowsy, with the promise of the other calling first thing upon waking the next morning.  

This is what it’s all about for us, this is how we’ve bridged the 1800 miles that separate us.  Every form of communication we use is linked to the one before it and the one after it, creating a continuous flow of ideas and inspiration.   We’ve wrapped ourselves in this faith-blanket, a renewed faith in our spiritual life, a trusting faith in each other, faith in our friends and family who love us and who support us in our marriage, regardless of what they think about our unconventional approach.   

I don’t think we’re any different than any other couple who is deeply in love and committed.  For us, our love for each other is a blessing, a miracle, and we often refer to our life as glorious…..in fact, we had the word Glorious inscribed on the insides of our wedding bands.  

Judging one’s future on one’s past is usually not recommended, and besides, it’s the present that matters.  But when I look back on my life so far with my husband, it bodes well for my life to come.    

This post was supposed to be about 3 books that my husband has given me, hence the title for the post.  I wanted to recommend these books to you, and I wanted to thank him again for those great selections….but I got off on a tangent and this is what evolved from my original thought.  My husband gives me wonderful gifts, and the best ones are the ones I hold in my heart.    

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

P.S.  I’ll be posting about those books soon…..

Number Five With a Bullet

I’ve been tagged!  My insightful poetic friend, Polar from In the Court of the White Bear, has tagged me with the following:

Five Gifts I Would Buy For Myself This Christmas If I Had Unlimited Funds:

1.  A five-bedroom villa,   just like this one: 

Yes, in Italy.

2.  A state-of-the-art sound system, the likes of which I’ve never had.   The whole house wired for sound.  No dinky little portable CD players, no tinny-sounding music coming from the laptop.    Music shall be felt, not played. 

3.   All my family’s and friends’ debts paid off, myself included.   A clean slate for everyone, so that we can worry about the important things in life like family and friends.

4.  My very own used bookstore/café, where I can putter and write and touch books daily,  to feel their magic, where I can  talk with the locals, offer them a place to show off their artistic talents, bring a sense of community to people who might not otherwise have the chance to exhibit their creative gifts, where everybody knows your na-a-ame, doo doo doo doo and they’re always glad you ca-a-ame….where I can make bad coffee & serve it with a smile, and call it earning a living.

5.  An open plane ticket good for unlimited flights for me and my children and anyone else we choose to bring along, to travel to the places we read about in our bedtime stories.  

I now tag the witty and delightful Jazmine over at GardenSpot to give us her wishful list.

See, Polar, two posts in one night!  I DID find time!  Thanks for thinking of me,  my friend……

Peace, Chantal  xoxoxox 

  

When The Steam Clears Up

I step out of the shower, the fan above me whirs loudly…..you’d think I was in a helicopter for all the noise it makes…..  The mirror above the towel rack is all fogged up, but I don’t wipe the steam away….I wait for it to clear up on its own, patiently towelling myself off, wrapping my robe around me.  I walk out, towel-turban head, and make coffee.  I return to the helicopter launching pad…..can I shut that fan off now?   Is the steam all gone?  The steam hasn’t evaporated yet….. I look at the mirror, and see something appear, a secret message in a childlike script…….

I brought my car in yesterday before heading off for work, for its regular three-month checkup thingie.  I love my Hyundai dealership, the people that work there are fabulous.  So  I’m waiting, reading the newspaper, and Kevin the service manager calls me to the counter.  Roger the mechanic is with him.  Inside I’m going “Uh-oh, this isn’t good if both the manager AND the mechanic need to talk to me….”  So they go on to explain the work that needs to be done (front brakes are toast, back brakes need lube or whatever it is they need, an oil change needs to be done, parts & labour) along with the cost.  Roger is there holding my front brake pads for me to see how worn they are (like I would know the difference between a healthy brake pad and a sick one…but still, very considerate of him).  And he has that sad puppy dog look in his eyes as Kevin the service manager explains the cost (which includes taxes).   Steam fogging up the mirror…… 

Roger looks at me, sort of bracing himself as Kevin tells me the grand total, taxes included.   I’m doing my best to take it all in stride, as if I’m used to paying this kind of money all the time, just like that.  I AM an independent woman, after all, earning my own money, paying my own bills, providing for me & my children.   I smile at Roger the mechanic and Kevin the service manager, and say something breezy & nonchalant, like “It’s gotta be done….”,and shrug my shoulders while I say it.  Meanwhile I’m thinking “HOLY GEEZ!!!!!! That’s half my rent!”  Steamy, foggy bathroom alert….can’t see…..resist the urge to wipe the mirror….

As the Hyundai shuttle driver brings me to work, I’m still in a state of shock at the amount I’ll have to pay for the car.  There goes Christmas spent somewhere warm.   There go the kids’ mattress foundations I was going to shop for this week. 

Darren the driver is one funny guy.  Good thing, because I need all the comic relief I can get right now as I contemplate some kind of criminal activity to rob Peter to pay Paul.   Darren is 26, stands about 5′ in his workboots, as round as he is tall, and reminds me of a scrappy, scruffy little teddy bear.  And he has the best stories ever (he should be on George Strombolopolous’ The Hour).  I laugh all the way to work as he recounts his hilarious days of losing his keys, finding his own wallet that he didn’t know he had lost,  his dreams of going back to school to get a better paying job, his worries about being hugely indebted with student loans after said job is obtained.  But he’s an optimist, Darren is, and he always brings a little bit of sunshine to your day.   And I take a little bit of that sunshine back to work with me as I come up with a workable solution to pay for the car’s repairs. 

Steam clearing a little……

As I’m calculating what I owe for the next 2 weeks, I check the calendar, then check it again:  YESSSSS!!!!!  October sees me getting THREE cheques, rather than the usual two.    Hello Christmas holiday, hello mattresses! 

Steam dissipating til it’s nearly all gone….

Night falls, and the voice you long to hear is there, close and reassuring, asking about your day, making you laugh three seconds after you say hello, wondering what you’re reading, telling you that you’re amazing, that voice that wants to know all about you and how you’re doing.  You can’t see that voice yet, (are voices seeable?) but you know it’s there, you can hear it……if you’re patient, it will come.  Don’t wipe the mirror, be patient, it will all become clear.

Coffee cup in hand, I read the message my daughter has left for me, written on the mirror in her curly script:  I love you. 

I don’t wipe the mirror, I don’t clean it…I want to see that message again & again, each day.   Even when the steam clears, I know the message that my daughter wrote is still there.  Even when my children are not with me, they are.   Even when I’m faced with the unexpected, I know the answer is somewhere for me to discover.   Even if I cannot see the gentle, true voice that I’ve been hearing lately, I know he’s in my heart. 

Resist the urge to wipe down steamy mirrors, be patient and watch what manifests itself when the mist clears…..

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo 

Hockey Socks Go INSIDE the Skates

It’s official…..I’m trying to keep it on the downlow, because what I really want to do is SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS!!!!!   

I AM A HOCKEY MOM!

I am so thrilled at this new development in my life that I can’t contain myself when I talk about it with people.  The following is an example of how it went  as I chit-chatted with various people today:

So what’d you do on the weekend?

Me (smiling a mile wide):    P started hockey this weekend…..for the first time….  

GET OUT!  So you’re a Hockey Mom now! 

It’s amazing how instinctively people get it.   Hockey is a big deal in this part of the world.  This is OUR game (in spite of  Gary Bettman).   Canadians who don’t like hockey, I’m guessing they keep it to themselves.  Although their opinions are respected by the majority of Canadian hockey-nuts (as Canadians, we are polite, after all), most people I know are fans who grew up playing, who watch the game, who play hockey as adults,  or who have kids who play.     Generally it’s all of the above.    It’s very clichéd, but hockey brings us together.  In fact, I’ll be joining my friends this week to watch the Hockey Night In Canada double header (Toronto vs Ottawa, then Philly vs Calgary).   

So my boy, my son, is playing hockey for the first time in his young life.   At eight years old, he’s a late-starter by any standards….  kids usually start out at around 4 and 5 years old.  His father signed him up in the playground league (cheaper, more fun, not as competitive I’m thinking as other leagues).  P had his first practices on Saturday and Sunday.   His father couldn’t make it to P’s first time on the ice, because he was on the East Coast with his wife.  I knew my ex was very disappointed at missing this “first”, as he’s played hockey all his life and was thrilled when P finally showed an interest in wanting to play.   I felt disappointed for M also,  but in another way, I was glad that I got to take P to his first practices.  I’m thinking that I needed this with my boy more than M did.  M had enough good things in his life, what with the new wife, the new house, the trips, and now the new baby that will arrive in the Spring……that’s a post for another day, though.  

So Saturday morning was our initiation into the world of hockey, our rite of passage, our baptism by fire.   His practice was at 7am at an arena 30 minutes from where I live.  I barely slept in anticipation.  When 4:30am rolled around, I got up, checked & re-checked his hockey bag, hoping he remembered what order he needed to put his equipment on.  Because I did not have a clue.  I could tie his skates, but as for the rest, I was counting on him.  His father told me that P had practiced putting his equipment on & taking it off at least 10 times, so he should be good. 

At 5:30, I woke the kids up, and it was like Christmas morning….you know that feeling of excitement you have, you’re still sleepy & tired, but you get up anyways because it’s Christmas?  Well, this is how P was.  He got up smiling, and with his little bedhead, he took himself to his hockey bag to check that he had everything, and didn’t want to eat til he was semi-dressed (so as to take less time in the dressing room). 

G got up (not quite so smiling), we dressed, ate breakfast & headed out at 6am, in the dark morning.  Walking to the car, P is carrying his bag & looks up at the sky……there were thousands of morning stars above us.  Magic.

I stopped to pick up the required Tim Horton’s coffee, we drove to the arena in good time, and found P’s dressing room.  Other parents were there already, helping their kids get dressed.  Most people knew each other from last season……we were the newbies.   The coach, his wife & his 2 daughters (who play on P’s team) arrived, and  immediately welcomed us with terrific smiles,  & asked P what number jersey he wanted.  I helped P with his equipment, tied his skates, and then it happened…..how do I hook the mouthguard onto his helmet? 

Arrghh….I couldn’t determine if another Hockey Mom’s child had a mouthguard attached to their helmet.  And I certainly didn’t want to ask a Hockey Dad & show that I really WAS New Hockey Mom, but time was of the essence, so I asked the coach’s wife….she kind of looked at it, trying it this way & that, then turned to a Hockey Dad & asked him if he knew how to do this….And there it was, the dreaded frosty look, the impatience, the annoyance with a female who shouldn’t be here if she doesn’t know how to hook on her kid’s mouthguard!   I thanked Mr. Personality-Hockey-Dad & made a mental note to be extra-nice to this guy, just because….kill ‘em with kindness is what I say!  

Actually, that guy was the only one who made me feel a little like a fish out of water (which I was, but I do a good job of doing that myself, I don’t need others to help me out).  Maybe he wasn’t a morning person, maybe he had a fight with his wife before leaving the house…….Whatever the case, everyone else was friendly and laughing, and you got the feeling that THIS is what it was all about, cheering on your kids at 6:30 in the morning, with other parents who loved their kids and The Game as much as you did.

I tell you, it was a religious experience, watching my son on the ice with other little kids, and when I saw him go through drills, like skating backwards to the blue line then turning & going forward to the red line & back again, my heart was breaking for my little guy…..because he has a hard time skating backwards, he kind of tries to walk instead of glide.  I know it’ll come with practice, but seeing his courageous little self give it his best shot and not give up despite being last to reach the red line, well my eyes got all watery as I gave him the thumbs up when he looked over.  He gave me a shy wave back.  G was sitting next to me & when she saw me all misty-eyed, said “You’re not going to cry when he falls down & hurts himself during a real game, are you?”  I told her no, I won’t, & that one day she would understand how it feels to be a mom & see your child try his very best.    

Afterwards, as I helped P take his equipment off, one parent had bought a huge box of donuts & handed them out… the whole mood in that dressing room was happy parents with their tired but happy kids who were about to feel not so tired soon thanks to a donut-sugar-rush.  The energy was just real positive, people heading out to their vehicles, their kids’ hockey bags slung over their shoulder (me included, just like a real Hockey Mom!)…. 8:30 on a Saturday morning, the weekend having gotten off to an awesome start.  The sun had risen by the time we left, the air was a little frosty.   Perfect Autumn weather.   Magic.

All the way home, I kept looking in the rearview mirror at P, and we kept smiling at each other, no need for words to say how great it felt. 

I learned alot this weekend, about my son.  Like his strong determination, his attention to the smallest details, his great desire to do well and have fun.  His wanting to be like the others, to fit in.  How he needs my reassurance and my presence to be able to let go & move forward into this world. 

I learned alot about myself this weekend.   That I’m my child’s Number One fan.   That I really like being part of this dedicated group of parents, and that despite being shy, I found that little efforts on my part helped to make me feel like I belonged.   I learned of my own determination at making the best of being a parent who does it on her own, and that I’ll do what it takes to make sure my kids know that I’m there for them, that I’ll skate to the front of the net & pass them the puck so they can score (and who cares if I fall in the process?  Falling and getting back up is all part of the game).  How I need their reassurance & presence in my life to be able to keep moving forward. 

And oh yeah, one more thing I learned……hockey socks go INSIDE the skates.   

Love, Chantal xoxoox

Butterflies In My Stomache

Have you noticed the Monarchs this year?  They’re huge!  Big as bats, and their size just adds to their delicate beauty as they flit and float in the sunshine.  All summer long, I’ve noticed that there are lots of butterflies this year.  Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that every day that I’ve been outside, at work, at the beach with the kids, anywhere,  I’ve seen at least one huge Monarch butterfly.   Remarkable.

I haven’t written in a while.   That’s not true……I’ve actually written alot of drafts (17 to be exact) on different things, but I’m having a hard time putting my thoughts down, or at least in a way that makes some sense to others other than me.   So I haven’t felt that I’ve written anything worthy enough to post on here. 

Until I started reading Paulo Coelho’s book, Maktub, on the weekend….it’s like his writing sets me off on these tangents where I reflect and can’t help but put the book down after reading just a few passages, and think think think….. 

Until I saw this on Amy Archer’s site this morning, and was inspired once again by her photos:  http://www.archerfoto.com/photoblog/index.php?showimage=251

And so I had to write.

So what is the relation between Paulo’s book & Amy’s photo, you might ask?  Well, Maktub is a collection of wise, soulful thoughts that he’s put together, like short anecdotes that you read over and over and find a different meaning each time.   And Amy’s photos are wisdom & soul in visual form.   I get to page 18 of Maktub (which means ”It is written”) and I read the following (which I’ve loosely translated to English, as I’m reading the French translation of the book):

Imagine a caterpillar.  It spends a large part of its existence looking up at the birds flying, and becomes indignant of its own destiny and of its form.  “I am the most contemptible of creatures, it thinks, ugly, repugnant, condemned to crawl on the earth.” 

One day, however, Nature asks it to weave a cocoon.  There it is, all scared:  never has it woven a cocoon.  Thinking its constructing its own tomb, it prepares itself to die.   Even though, up to then, it had been very unhappy with its lot in life, it wails again to God:  “Just when I thought I was finally accustomed to it, God, You take away from me the little that I have!”  Unhopeful, it shuns itself in its cocoon and waits for the end.

A few days later, it finds itself transformed into a superb butterfly.  It can fly in the sky, and is admired.  It is amazed at the meaning of Life and at God’s plan. 

I’m reading this very simple text, about something that isn’t new to me, I mean I KNOW how butterflies become butterflies.    I had never considered how a caterpillar might see its own life, though, assuming caterpillars can contemplate this to begin with.   I believe they can.   The caterpillar crawls along on its own way, and one day it’s compelled to do something it has never done before, something it has never been prepared to do, yet it feels this force that drives it to go on and weave this cocoon.   And despite its fears, or maybe because of its fears, it resigns itself to its destiny.  

I’ve sort of been caterpillary lately.   A sad, pathetic, crying, green-with-pink-and-yellow-fuzzies caterpillar:

Being superficial and nasty with myself about my appearance (shallow) and feeling not-too-good about myself physically.   

Resentful about things that happened too long ago and that I thought I had dealt with, but which seem to rear their ugly heads once again, about things in my childhood, about things that contributed to my marriage breaking down.    

Wondering, and being really ticked off:   ”OK, which grieving phase am I in now, after 3-4 years?  And shouldn’t  the grieving intensity become less, not more, as time goes on?  Should I not have moved on to something else at this point?”.    (When I say grieving, I was talking about grieving for my parents, but when I reread it, I realize I’m grieving for my parents AND for my marriage, all of which are gone).  

Missing my parents, and finding myself thinking of my mom more than I ever did, in ways I never did, alternating between being so angry with her I could spit, and then flipping the switch to wanting her to hold me like I don’t remember her EVER doing, really, but I still want to curl up in her arms and smell her Bluegrass perfume while she’s wearing her sleeveless, A-line turquoise party dress with the sparkly rhinestones sewn on the bodice. 

Feeling denied by Love,  trying to turn away from someone who gives me something that may happen only once my life, and yet is so unattainable.  And feeling so lonely as a result, the kind of lonely that makes me hide under the covers & hope the feeling passes (it doesn’t, and I gotta get up because the children need breakfast)…..And by the way, Dolly Parton, love is NOT always like a butterfly, it’s more like a heartcrushing-rollercoasting-elephant.  But that doesn’t make a pretty song, does it….. (Love is like an elephant, A heartcrushing, rollercoasting behemoth, A rare and brutish thing…..) I think I like Dolly’s version better….. 

Resentful at M for putting his life back together after separating, so much better than I have….and maybe a little sad that he really didn’t love me back.  That’s a hard, unexpected one to get through.    

Regretful at the sadness my children are experiencing at living with divorced parents.  That’s the most predictable but hardest one to get through.   

And did I mention a scaredy-cat caterpillar?  I’ve been looking for a house for over a year now, and all of a sudden I seem to get cold-feet, thinking I can’t really possibly own a home and care for it all by myself without declaring bankruptcy at some point, can I?   Then there’s the dog (still imaginary but becoming more & more of a reality) that the kids & I want and dream of and talk about and plan for, because I really need a dog in my life right now,  a living being that I can transfer some of my sadness to and give the surplus of love that I have in my heart.   And it would be good for the kids, too.   And the volunteer work that I really want to do with an organization that I think is really important to the community, who left a message for me nearly 2 weeks ago, asking to call them if I’m still interested in doing volunteer work with them (YES!  I AM!)…..I still haven’t called them……The What Ifs,  Are You Nuts, and You Can’t Afford This, they all  dance their little jigs in my head to the rhythm of  Be Happy With What You Got & Forget Those Silly Dreams, You Big Chicken.   

So you get the picture, it’s the Feeling-Sorry-For-Myself Syndrome.

Maybe being afraid and yet abandoning yourself to what lies ahead, without knowing what lies ahead and trusting that what lies ahead is for the best is a mark of courage and faith.  Both of which I think I’m seriously lacking, but maybe I’m more courageous  & closer to (worthy of?) God than I think.   Like Coelho’s caterpillar.  Maybe Nature is asking me (just like it’s asking every other human being on the planet) to do something I’ve never done before, to follow my path and trust.  Because I was created a free being.  Maybe all this emotional merry-go-round is just me weaving my cocoon with silken threads of hope.   

So that I can be strong enough to fly.          

Love, Chantal x0×00x

A Little Bit of Sunshine….

So M calls me at work yesterday morning, telling me he received the final bill for the after-school care program that the kids attended, and because we share the costs for that, he wanted to let me know the amount I owed. 

I asked how G was doing after she had called me the previous night, crying and missing me…..he said she was ok, and then he brought up the topic of living arrangements for the kids.  He mentioned that maybe we could look at changing things a little. (!!!!)  So we talked about different arrangements that would be best for the kids, including maybe the children living with me during the week and visiting him & L on the weekends. (!!!!)

This is far from coming to fruition, but holy smokes I was just floored that HE brought up the topic, and that HE could see that maybe it’s in the kids’ best interests for them to be living with me most of the time.   (And wasn’t I just thinking about this yesterday?)

I’ve known the man for 20 years now, and I know that if I want to get anywhere with him,  if I want to have any kind of leverage if you will, I need to be patient and let him realize things on his own.    Really, it’s his pride that has been driving the various arrangements that we have had for the children, combined with what we thought would be best at the time.  When I told him I was leaving, back in February 2004,  the next morning he was fueled with anger at my decision to leave, and said that he was keeping the house and the kids.   He was really flipping out and for the next 3 or 4 months, he really let me know how I had ruined his life.  So at that time, I didn’t want to rock the boat any further than I had, I was in a bad way emotionally and deathly afraid of possibly losing my kids to him in a custody battle (which would never happen, but you know when you’re freaked out, crazy thoughts take over), and I wanted the kids to be as stable as possible. 

So we worked out that he would stay in the house with the kids, but that we still shared custody of them…..I’d pick them up after work every day, keep them with me til about 7pm & bring them back to him at night.  Then I’d have them on the weekends.  That was hard on everyone, but I wanted to make sure that the kids saw me every day.  We did this for about a year until I brought it up that maybe it might be better for the kids if they lived one week with me, then one week with him.   I did this gradually, because my greatest fear was that he would call a lawyer and take the kids away from me out of spite.  I know that’s not a rational thought, and I know M, it’s not something he would actually do.  He may have threatened to do it, but those were things said in anger to hurt me.   Regardless, my motivations at the time were to always have as much contact with my kids as possible, and I felt it was important that they live with both of us. 

I look back now and would have liked it if M had had the courage to see that the disintegration of our marriage was as much his responsibility as it was mine, that his actions early on and his inactions LATER on contributed to our drifting apart.   And if he would have been able to realize that, then maybe HE would have been the one to leave, and I might still be living in my sunny house today, with my two little rays of sunshine.    I know I could have fought back at the time of separating, dug in my heels, and told him that there was no way I was leaving the kids and the house.  But I didn’t, it’s not how I deal with things, and I feel it would’ve been much worse for everyone for me to fan the flames of his anger by standing my ground.   I know him to be a good father who adores his children, so it wasn’t that I was fearing for my children’s safety if they stayed with their father….had that been the case, then there was no way on earth that I would have just walked away like I did, accepting all that he was proposing.   Inside I knew it was his pride talking, and that one day hopefully things would change. 

I think maybe that day is dawning soon…..

Love,  Chantal xoxoxoxoxo