Conversations with kids

Before the rewedding, I took them both in for haircuts.

"What'll it be?" asked the hairdresser, looking at MlleL. "Short" she says, pointedly ignoring me in the mirror. "No" I say. no. Except that then the stylist suggested donation.

She gave me her reasons, involving her ability to do her own hair, to wear her hair down, and the like. And I get it. I'll make the appointment to get her hair cut (which is very, very long) and she can donate it. We've discussed length, and options for donation, and she's given me a deadline. As I brush it at bedtime, I try to take my time now, knowing that these moments are limited.

The other night, she watched me in the mirror as we talked and I brushed and she finally got it.

"Will you miss it?" She asked.
"Yeah," I said, "but this is your hair. It's your body. It's ok."
Suddenly, she looked closer. She took the makeup mirror and moved it closer to me, flipping it to the magnification side.
"What do the cracks do?" She asked, pointing at the corner of my eye.


This morning as I was making my coffee:

MasterP "Mama, where does Santa live?"
"In the North Pole, buddy. Remember? With the elves?"
"Yep. Where dat?"
"Where it's winter all the time. Remember?"
"oh, yep. It not winter time now. It's rainy day."
"Nope - no snow. Which is good, right? Summer time is Mama's favourite time."
"Summer time is not my faborite time."
"No? Well, when is your favourite time, sweetie?"
"Well, not bed time."

Writer's Block

I wake up at 6:15ish each day - and get things ready for the day - breakfasts, coffee, clothes, snacks and then at 7, I shower after Husband is out and down, and get myself ready and then I get us out the door.

And then I'm at work and I'm worrying about, oh, tons of stuff, and writer's block. It's with me everywhere. I'm worried at work. I'm worried in runs. I'm worried and irritable at home.

I leave a little after 5 and get myself home, racing through the door and cooking dinner, most often in my suit, and from there, I try to change and it's already 7:30, and the kids need to start getting to bed at 8, and I've fought the homework fight and we finally get them to bed and we come downstairs and it's after 9, and writer's block.

I have 45 minutes until I go to bed, but there's nothing on to watch (what the hell is wrong with TV execs?) and I go to bed.

During runs the thoughts don't flow anymore. I think about my feet pounding and pushing me forward and making the distance. I worry about relationships and people and work. Always work and what's next. What's next? And writer's block.

Words won't line up for me. They refuse - dancing just out of my reach. I have flashes before I fall into a fitfull sleep of the amount of things at work piling up that I need to get to that won't come - words finally aligning somewhat, but not in the way I want, but during the first half of the night, before a child wakes me, they slip away again, leaving me disjointed, and anxious and exhausted again at 6:15.

I'm running Saturday mornings. Which is hard, brutal, really, to wake up the first morning of the weekend for a growing distance, but then, I've got the rest of the day to hang out, and then Sundays are gymnastics, but at an hour that allows me to a) sleep in a bit and b) have a decent breakfast with the family before we head out. It might be the sweet spot. It's ok.

My neighbor came over a few weeks ago and asked me if I was training again - when I replied in the affirmative, she asked abruptly, "don't you think that's too much?"

I don't. Is it? Is that the thing that's wonky?

I yuv you ma-ma, MasterP says, I yuv you the moshe. (hee. awww. me too!)

Things are good. Really. They're ok. I'm ok. The trip to the Dominican was awesome, and I kid you not - resort weddings are fantastic. FANTASTIC.

I'm busy now, but what is the thing that keeps the words at bay?

I can't help but think that people are noticing by now, but I can't find them anywhere I look. And beleive me, I've tried. I've looked everywhere.

Can you think of somewhere I haven't?

So many things, really, but all about the love

"Hey!" says MlleL as she bursts through the door after school, "Valentine and Valentine are the same! EVERY DAY IS VALENTINE'S DAY AT OUR HOUSE!!!!"

"Yep" I grin.

I've seen arguments for and against, for and against this celebration, and I most recently saw one that said basically, it's about family. And socks with little hearts all over them. And for kids. Because love is an every day thing. You can't just pull it out and shine it up and have it work once a year.

It's as Churchill may have said (I've also seen arguments about this too) 'Never, never, never give up.' Really, that's pretty applicable in all aspects of life. With the laundry monster in the basement, with the never ending plumbing issues at the Casa Valentine, with friendships, and arguments, and work.... And Love and Marriage.

With the rewedding so close now (just over a week, y'all) on February 24, at 6PM on the beach in Punta Cana, we've been discussing what real vows you would say to your beloved after 10 years of marriage and a couple of kids:

1. I can assure you that I'll go to bed mad at you, but I'll still love you when I wake up.
2. I will cherish your mother, and strive to roll my eyes only when you aren't looking.
3. I will not try to change you, but will love you anyway.
4. I will laugh at your jokes.

Many of you know the story of Husband and I, how on the first night we met, in January of 1999, after I had just finished explaining to the entire change room at the gym that he seemed awfully nice, but that I wasn't into Asian guys, how moments later in the hall, as he explained why he wasn't coming out with the group for dinner (he was heading out to see what he could do to diffuse a domestic situation between two friends of his) I heard a click.

I did. And it was loud enough to change my life. Later, in that intense period where things are said that never seem corny, but really, really are, he told me that the thing about warriors was that they were there to the end. And so. I am my beloved's, and he is mine.

In about a week's time, after months of the WW and training, ten and a half years of marriage and two kids, I'll meet my husband on the sand, just as we promised, and promise, again, to never, never, never give up.

Ooooh. And I'll be doing it with a new ipod touch in my bag!!

Mrs. Maiden, political activist

Now. Some of you will recall that Mrs. Maiden's wintertime abode is in the middle of a small, south-western town currently the centre of a giant amount of world-wide attention.

As you may imagine, I've been receiving updates on the situation from quite a different view point from the at-a-distance news casters here in Canada.

While Mrs. Maiden does not live within reasonable walking distance of the intersection in question (that's rather in the northern, more expensive side of town, y'all), she does live about a mile (or a 20 minute walk) from the hospital in which some of the victims, including THE victim are currently being treated.

And while steadfastly not an AMERICAN, she does feel as if it is important for her to take action as an individual in the ways she finds possible.

To whit:1. She has reported that the Healing touch community (herself included) is focussing their efforts on Ms. Giffords, particularly with respect to minimizing brain swelling. These efforts can apparently work over a distance. She offers as proof of their effectiveness the Doctor's comments that they have no explanation for her success as a patient, but continue to be positive.

2. She has been walking, daily, to stand outside the hospital for an hour or so in the afternoons, so as to be able to extend her energies that much more closely. (that's fantastic, mum, I tell her, and well, at least you can feel like you're actually doing something. (and boy, that's not at all creepy) Yes she says happily, I feel VERY powered up...)

3. In the lead up to the youngest victim's funeral, this awful hate church announced their intention to attend the event and protest America's increasing tolerance to homosexuals. In response, the Arizona leg made any protests of this nature at funerals illegal. Despite this, it seemed as if the haters were going to appear anyway. Mrs. Maiden had read about groups of opposes to the hate church forming a human barrier between the bereaved and those spewing hate filled messages. So off she went, 65 year old granny, to be OF USE. (I mock, and yet, am so very proud of her.) She described the scene - and you, I am sure, may have read of it, but it wasn't really explained that the 'attendees dressed like angels' were a team of people who have trained to act in opposition to the members of this church, in white robes carrying pvc tubing framed 'wings' to create a visual barrier between the grief and the hate. And hundreds of avenging angels had come from miles around (mostly Phoenix, she thought) on their motorcycles, with their slightly darker robes, in a slightly more sinister fashion, to stand in protection of the mourners. And the rest of them stood, hundreds of citizens of Tucson, ready to 'sing very loudly' when the shouting began.

But they didn't. They never came. And so instead, thousands of normal people stood and mourned a child.

Fambily Reunion

I don't think I've ever mentioned the little known fact that I've graduated from two high schools, have I?

There's home town from grade 12, but then, there's also that other place, Parts North from grade 13. Anyhow, the only person I'm currently in touch with from that year is Mindy, and honestly, that's probably more because of the genetic link than it is the deep bond we formed during that year our high school experience overlapped - she in grade 9 and me in 13 - excellent though that time was.

Imagine my surprise, then, to have found myself smack in the middle of a Parts North high school micro reunion. Which, really, is strange, considering I had no idea who these people were. Well, except a few.

See, Mindy's got a few best friends from her time there, so when she's in North America, she usually tries to get a visit in with them - and luckily for me, one of them is in the Toronto area. This visit, we weren't able to make it to Parts North, so we met up with the fam in Toronto. At Ms. R's place for a wonderful weekend slice of family and kids together time.

Ms. R married her high school sweetie. Who invited his high school best friend over to dinner. Both kindly asked if I knew their older brothers. (NO.) They were born in 72? Nope. Still older than that.

But Ms. R's awful older sister? (Yep. I said it.) Oh, as soon as she walked in the door, I remembered her. Sigh.

As I walked in the door from the drive on that first night, Ms R's first words were 'Hi honey! You look exactly the same as you did in high school!'

The thing is, I like to think of myself as rendered near unrecognizable through the urban fabulousness of 20 years of hard work, beautification and polish. True, I wore a bob that year, much as I do now. Apparently, the truth is, I still look like an 18 year old from a small town in the mid-west living on a remote island in Northern Ontario, riding the bus for an hour and a half each way and eating far, far, far too much buttered toast.

And Mindy? Mindy is so unrecognizable that I spent the weekend looking into her grown up turquoise eyes (still, stupidly unfair of genetics to do that to me) and trying to see in her the teenager I remember. She is a virtual stranger, my only sister with an incredibly gorgeous blonde German baby - a confident, smart, accomplished and beautiful stranger, pulled together and fabulous, and I am 18 and unchanged to the world.

I know it is so unfair to say this, but I am looking forward to the expiration of the Irish visa in 2014. I'm hoping Berlin doesn't make the cut (although I somehow expect that it will), and I'm really, really hoping I get the chance to reaquaint myself with the girl who left 10 years ago.

Bedtime.

It is far, far past bedtime. Especially for one we are trying to wean from afternoon naps before she starts afternoon kindergarten in two weeks.

"Mama," she says in a small voice, "I can't sleep because I keep thinking about zombies."

"What?" I say, "Zombies? Where did you see them?"

"On tv," she says, "they eat brains and make other people zombies too."

"Oh," I say, trying to think of a solution, "first of all, that was not great tv for you to be watching. It sounds way too scary. Also, zombies aren't real. They're scary make believe."

"But I can't stop thinking about them."

Remembering past success with logic - monsters? Not in Ottawa - Monsters have big feet, too big to buy shoes and boots, and you sure can't live in Ottawa without shoes and boots - maybe somewhere warmer - polar bears and Elephants? Well, when they knock on the door, we just don't let them in. Also, they can't really fit through the door anyhow. Witches? We don't let them in either, but because you don't want to offend a witch, I offer them tea and cookies on the deck - I start to think about how I can make her safe.

"Well, honey, number one, zombies aren't real. But if they were, did you see them walking around? I mean, number two, zombies are stupid."

"And number three," I say, counting them out on my hand, "their fingers don't work all that well. All of our doors are locked, so the zombies, if they were real, wouldn't be able to open the doors."

"oh!" she says, inspired, "and they're really old and break really easily!"

"Right!" I say. "Number four, they break really easily."

"But what about them coming in the windows?" She asks. (Stupid tv show. What the hell was the care provider doing while this was on?)

"Well, honey," I say, "remember they're stupid. And break easily, and their fingers don't work. So they really can't climb up anything, and if they tried to get in the windows down here, they'd just break up into zombie bits. If they were real, which they aren't."

"AAAAND," I say, moving the party back upstairs, "They're really slow. So if they were real, which they're not, they can't get you inside the house because they're stupid, and slow, and break up really easy and their fingers don't work."

"But what's the most important reason," I ask?

"They're not real." She agrees and climbs back into bed.

"Exactly."

Unless, of course, zombies are real, and you took a day off this week to drive one home from dental surgery.

And although she wasn't stupid, she was kinda slow, and her fingers didn't work all that well, and if I had dropped her while I walked her crazy zombie laughing self to the car, I bet you she would have broken into pieces.

During a recent visit from Mrs. Maiden

Oh, by the way, she says, if you find one of your new Mr. Clean Erasers with a teensy corner bitten off, it was me - not mice.

Ok, I say, but you know you're allowed to use the whole thing?

Well, I use it to clean my teeth. She explains, See? See how much whiter they are? It's what the tea does, and I just can't get it off with toothpaste alone.

But, I say, what about whiteners? I mean, have you considered that?

Well, she says, but those are chemicals! I mean, I don't want that, right?

But mom, I say, um, I think the thing about the whiteners is that they were designed to go in your mouth. Unlike, say, a Mr. Clean Eraser.

But do they taste bad? I mean, Mr. Clean has no taste! [you got that right, lady! Have you seeeeeeen that earring? I mean, so 90s!!]

Uh, I say, I guess I've never noticed. Sorta minty, I'd bet? I guess the downside is the sensitivity, but that goes away when you stop using it...

Hmm. She says, am I going to look like a grinning skull when I use them?

Well, no, I explain, see, because you are in charge of how long they are in your mouth, and it's a gradual thing, so if you start to feel like you're good, that you're white enough for right now, you stop. No one makes you keep doing it until your teeth are blue.... [she has seen the results of overzealous whiteners and is concerned.]

Hmm. She says, whiteners....

(I can see that Mr. Clean is going to continue his unconventional responsibilities unless I buy the gels and watch her use them.)

Supplements

By means of explaining what the past month has been, a series of vignettes:

1. Prepping for the funeral, MlleL asks "Mama, when the daddy puts the seed in the mama to start a baby, how does he put it in there? Does he.... (mimes swallowing something)" (Aaaaaaa!) I figure that when they're ready to ask, they're ready to know, so I answered in a way I thought she could understand - and vague enough for me to be ok with it. We came up with something along the lines of 'privates kissing'.

"Does it hurt?" she asked. "Umm, no," I said, "it's nice. It's like kissing, right? Kissing's nice." "Ok," she says, and we continue dressing.

2. After weeks and weeks and weeks of tough training seemingly only getting worse (you guys, says a colleague. You take it so seriously. It should be fun. Sweetness and light. Last time was sweetness and light, I say, this time is all pain and darkness. Only I really am telling the truth.) I am rejected from donating blood for the second time in a row. I am low on iron. Apparently, really low. Enough for a surprised noise from the nurse rejecting me.

3. Regardless, I stop in at Running Room to pick up supplies. Because I am convinced that somehow, if I just eat enough carbs and try harder, I can force my legs do what they are seemingly physically incapable of doing. Running Room staff and coaches explain just what exactly it means to be anemic and try to train. And also offer very supportive advice on how to deal with the disappointment of not running the half marathon. Because this is also a large part of the advice.

4. During a particularly sad and hungry day, I run into an colleague, who claims shock at my weight loss. Of which, I stress, there has been none in a year, but she grabs my wrist, and in a way that only someone who has known you for a long time can, pokes me in the place between my ear and jawbone to prove her point. Somehow, this makes me feel miles better.

5. I am driving MlleL to shopping, and she says "K is afraid of having a baby." K is the 4 year old at her day care. "Oh?" I say? "She's afraid of the blood." She tells me. "She's afraid of it hurting, but I told her what you told me. I told her that it wouldn't hurt. Because the daddy will be gentle, right?" "WHAT?" "When he pokes the seed up your vagina. He'll be gentle, right?"

"Uh... Yeah....... Sweetie, are you telling K about having babies?" "Yeah....."

Oh god. Oh, God. My kid is that kid. THAT kid in school!!!

Passing

If I were a character in Harry Potter, I'd be able to see thestrals now.

This is what I'm thinking to myself in the hospice room. Only what I'm really thinking is those scary skeleton horses, because I can't remember the official name because my father in law just died.

It was like a breath of air that wasn't, his passing.

We were all there, and then suddenly, he wasn't.

And we were all alone together in our grief.

Thank you, I told him moments earlier, for letting me be a part of this family. I am blessed, I told him, to have had you as my Pop too. We will miss you so much, I said, but we will be ok. We will always, always love you.

I'll see you again, he had told me a few days earlier, during his last words to me, I love you.

That's a promise, I had said, smiling at him over my shoulder on my way out the door.

An AWARD!!!

Hey y'all!

So, look what I won!!! Cause' I'm brilliant in honest content!!

Awesome! Cause' look. I know I'm not here very much right now, and it's not that I don't love you, it's just that Mummy's a little busy right now. No, look at my eyes, I'm talking. No, I'm not CLAZY!!, nor am I LUUUDE!, and I will not have a TIME OUT!! I'm talking and I'm the mama.

My very good friend Wondermom gave me this. I think it might have been to inspire me, and it worked. Thanks very much, honey, it means a lot!!

But, as always, there are rules to follow, my dears, so...

1. Brag about the award.

2. Include the name of the blogger who gave you the award and link back to that blogger.

3. Choose a selection of blogs that you find brilliant in honest content (umm. This is hard. I kinda read like, four blogs, and one of them gave it to me, and I'm also really bad at tasking others, so..... You're all fantastic, and I mean that!!)

4. List at least ten honest things about yourself:

1. I frequently write everything I eat in a little book. It somehow clears my head of food clutter and allows me to do real work.
2. Sometimes I feel completely unprepared for parenting. I usually lock myself in the bathroom when that happens.
3. I'm really, really bad at telling lies. Pretty much, what you see is what you get.
4. I am always, always exhausted. I can't remember a time when I wasn't.
5. I'm also incredibly old. My American birth certificate says I was born in 1917. Heh. Which must be the reason I drink hot water before bed time, love cherry imperials, and drink Bristol Cream Sherry.
6. I am also very forgetful. (must be the age.) I write lists of everything everywhere. I've even left myself sticky notes on the dashboard to try to remember errands on the way home from work.
7. I am a perfectionist, but also a bit lazy, so my house always looks cluttered.
8. I am a number 6 on this crazy-assed personality test. My type is called the loyalist, or the skeptic, depending on which site (or book) you're forced to read. It would appear that I have (as I may have mentioned before) inherited Mr. Maiden's tendencies. Except I'd like to think that I might be a bit less on the umm, concentrated side as Mr. Maiden tended to be. If not, please feel free to drug me through my morning coffee. Which brings me to Number 9.
9. The number 9 has always been my favorite number (it's so neat and tidy - 3 sets of 3), and I was once responsible for helping family members secretly drug other family members to ease awkward social tensions during a very important family event. Ask me sometime. I'd be happy to tell you ALL ABOUT IT.
10. And one last, aching bit of honesty for you tonight before bedtime. This past month has made me wish more than anything I can explain that I had hugged my dad before he died. It is one of the biggest regrets of my life - We kissed, and held hands, and I rubbed his shoulder, but I did not hug him. We did not have that type of relationship. We loved each other terribly, but he wasn't able to be very comfortable with physical affection when I was an adult. Instead, I hug and kiss my father in law every day I see him. Stroking his now almost silent noggy in the hospice before he drifts back to sleep.

Two views:

a) Three years ago, when MasterP's pregnancy was just beginning, Death came (uninvited, but I understand this is usually how it works) for a stay of undetermined length at Lolo and Lola's. (It was indicated that he would be with us anywhere from 3 weeks to 3 months).

He has sat beside us on the couch for three years. I find it helps to think of him like the stinky footed phantom of Bill and Ted fame.

Thankfully, he's not been a difficult houseguest (despite the feet), and we've grown increasingly accustomed to him, so much so that it's been hard to recognize that over the past six months or so, he's been getting tired of watching pro-wrestling and soap operas.

But he has.

And the questions now are more of how long and what to do (well, not much I guess. It would appear Death refuses to be distracted with the story line of All My Children any longer.)

b) During MlleL's new favorite activity of looking at her own baby photos, we come across a photo of her baptism party, in which a six month version of herself is being held by a smiling, ebony haired man, and she asks who it is. I reply, surprised, that it's Lolo. Her Grandfather.

"That's not Lolo," she laughs "That doesn't look like Lolo."

Looking at the picture, she is right. He is virtually unrecognizable.

March already.

I am frequently told to blog more.

I know, I sigh. I know.

It's not that I'm not thinking of you all, my guests, waiting patiently for another funny story, it's just that I'm presently a little lacking in the funny.

I can tell you about MlleL, when being chastized by our care provider last week, cocked her head, looked her right in the eye and said 'you know, we're looking for another daycare because you boss me around.'

I can tell you that MlleL has begun to crack the written code and is reading words.

I can regale you with stories of french and half-marathon training (again). (For both)

I can tell you of the magic power Janey has - after a somewhat damp coffee session last week, she suggested doing something more fun, and cupcake samples magically appeared by our sides. Red velvet with cream cheese icing. (Cupcakes DO make EVERYTHING more fun.)

I can tell you about the remarkable lack of humour shown by the parking attendants in Hull (sketchy lot) who, after their spectacularly bad advice resulted in me losing my parking last month, didn't even crack a smile this morning at 6 AM when I presented myself, unwashed and still in pajamas, on the off chance there were some passes yet unclaimed for the month of March. (There were. Awesome. I'm back in business!!)

There are, of course, the worries left unsaid, which creep in and disrupt my sleep, allowing the fibro to stake its insidious claim to further territories of my body, like for example, my hips and hands. (Listen, Fibro, we've lived together for a while and I understand that no amount of medication will make you go anywhere, but I feel like I can speak to you frankly. I need my hips, and I really, really need my right hand, particularly my thumb. So please understand that this comes from a place deep inside of me when I encourage you most sincerely to get bent. The hands are mine. I already licked them.)

But for now, for you, my beloved guests, I search for the funny.

Ch ch ch changes

So you know that picture of Snoopy?

The one where he's wailing, with his head back and mouth wide open, and tears showering all around him?

That's what I look like, only without the floppy ears and generally more blotchy. Ok, and maybe better hair, because I got it cut yesterday to make myself feel better.

What has brought this on?

A space becoming available at MlleL's care provider. Care Provider B, to be exact, a space that fits, exactly, the dimensions of one very busy two-year old boy. A two-year old who wants very badly, very badly indeed to be with his big sister. Who despite the fact that he's not terribly verbal, has enough words to make that abundantly clear.

So we won't have to negotiate the two drop off points and two pick up points much longer. We won't have to worry about coordinating coverage for two different care providers' scheduled (or unscheduled) holidays and doctor's appointments, but we are leaving our beloved behind.

And it's like breaking up with someone you still love because you know in the long run, it's better for everyone. It's just like that. Someone you've been with for almost four years. And it sucks.

All of it. Every last bit of it. Right down to my toes, it sucks.

Mom crushing

Seriously.

How awesome is this site? I want to send so many pictures here.

Mindy - Remember the University grad shot Mr. Maiden took? How about the one with her in the blue bikini, pigtails, and us crawling around on the rocks like little hermit crabs? Or how about the one she hides each time the Viking or Husband come for a visit (and I love that she hangs it on the wall!!)?

http://momstyleicons.blogspot.com/

Thanksgiving

It's American Thanksgiving today; Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!

I've been in Ottawa for 13 years, and there hasn't been one of them that I didn't wish to be on my couch, in my jammies, basting turkey, drinking coffee and watching the parade. Let alone planning the day of attack tomorrow. Although to be fair, that's mostly started in the years I've been here.

In true Thanksgiving kitsch, let me now enumerate for you my thankful fors:

1. I am thankful for the safe arrival of Miss Isabella Rosa Brandt, born on November 21 at 9lbs to my LittleSister, Mrs. Mindy Dallas.

2. I am also very thankful for the safe arrival of Mrs. Mindy Dallas' milk, a few days later. Heh.

3. I am thankful that I got to spend an evening with one of my very longest standing friends - may even beat Ms. Katie B. (to whom I know I owe a call and promise is forthcoming) - it's very lucky when a childhood family friendship can grow out of childhood and loosen itself from all of its baggage by herks and jerks and arrive at something greater and more honest than one can imagine. I'm thankful for that too, and for training in the Capital Region.

4. I am thankful for my family, and my children, and for the fact that I have a job that I can call in to, and a husband who tells me to, when they are causing me to suffer from exhaustion. Seriously. (But I'm feeling better now, and promise to pay attention to my bed time - it's a rule, not a guideline.)

5. I am thankful for Janey, and the Ms. Gs, who have stuck with me for never ending conversations of self-doubt and recriminations - and still, I hope, love me as much as I love them.

6. In the past few weeks, mostly as a result of the anticipated arrival of Isabella, we have been discussing the possible routes a baby might take when exiting from a mama's tummy. Possible routes put forward? 2. Out of your 'privates, or out of your head.' Tempting, right? I mean, I KNOW. So we had a bit of the talk. So far, no questions about how babies get in. So I'm very, very thankful for THAT.

7. I am thankful for the very fabulous literacy talents of Dr. Watson.

8. I'm thankful for YOU, dear readers, whoever you are.

Remembrances

Growing up the daughter of a once upon a time Marine Corps Officer in teensy town America leads to several facts of life.

One: It is difficult not to be imprinted on the military man - uniforms are all around you, and they look good. Early remembrances of my father include seeing him march as a veteran in the Memorial Day parade in our little village, I suppose you'd call it - a little place with several hundred folk living there and a war memorial with at least a quarter of their names on it - two little general stores, a legion, a Masonic lodge, and a church - too small, even, for a school. The men folk wore their uniforms, or the parts of it that still fit - grandpas, uncles, dads, and brothers home on leave, they marched together on a hot day in May and at the end, we'd all gather in the park for popsicles - me in my girl scout's uniform having just marched myself. He wore his medals, and to this day, I don't know what they all meant. I do know, however, how very, very proud he was to find (late in the day) that he was a Nobel prize laureate - a number of years ago, the UN Forces in Korea won - and, as a US Marine, he was a member of that force.

Two: The military in the US is one of the only ways out of a small town. If your folks couldn't afford university, and many couldn't, it was what a guy did. Fresh out of high school, they'd enlist, get on the job training and possibly go to school after the 3 year enlistment with the money they'd accumulated as part of the GI bill.Military staff and service are just all around you - it is a part of everyone's lives. High school sweetheart? Now Lt. Colonel in the Army Corps of Engineers. Big Brother? Did at least 10 years in the Navy, and came out with the professional training that is still serving him today as a fire marshal.

Having imprinted early on and spent the grad school years in Tidewater Virginia, I crossed paths with a number of servicemen. And so to all of you - submarine operators, fighter pilots, Hughie mechanics, engineers, infantrymen and fire fighters, I say thank you.

My thoughts are with you all today, and I'm hoping that wherever you are, you are safe and have clean sheets to lay your head on tonight. And if you don't have clean sheets, then I hope you've got some clean, dry socks.

Wear your gear and keep your fuzzy heads safe.

Semper Fi, and pax.

September Wrapup

oh goodness, I can't focus.

September, my dears, almost killed me. Seriously. It really, really did, with its huge stresses of two (!) new care providers, and negotiated changes to bus routes, and school, and Grammar exams, and interviews, and Doctor's appointments - mine and care providers', and a half marathon, and visits to and from family, and you know, some work in there somewhere.

Let's just say that it's a pretty good thing that boss-man apparently likes me, because the work/life pendulum has been swung away from him all month. Sorry, boss-man.

What I can say is this: October looks pretty good so far. The new care provider is good and MlleL seems to really enjoy being there - except for the double drop, which gets me to work late every morning - bus routes were changed in time for the first day of school, school is awesome (MlleL loves it. And is learning crazy new stuff every, every day), Grammar exam was passed (woooot)!, Interviews completed, Doctor's appointments attended, visits with family joyous.

Oh. The half? You'd like to hear more about that?

Well. It began bright and early on a sunny and cool September 20th, when I stopped by Janey's to pick her up at 8:15. Start time was 9:00 - and we were there in plenty of time this time not to have to jump fences and elbow our way into the crowd far from our intended corral (Ottawa 10k, I'm looking at you.) The start cannon scared us all, and a few moments later, we were off. About four blocks into 21.1k, Janey looked back over her shoulder as she always does and waved, and I blew her a kiss like I always do and I wouldn't see her again until I crossed the finish line, standing waiting for me after the medals with the biggest grin I've seen in a long, long time and a super sweaty and pretty teary hug. It will shine for me as one of the best moments of achievement in my life, and I'm so, so happy to have been able to share it like that. Sigh.

Mrs. Maiden drove down from Places North to see it - but was too teary eyed herself to see me cross. Well, she saw, but didn't recognize me until I was standing just on the other side of the fence yelling "MOM!"

Oh, the run?

Yeah. It was really, really long, but I ran it every step. Maybe you saw me? In the back of the pack with the shades on? I smiled the whole way.

Homesick

I have heard a constant inner complaint for years - a half forgotten recurring dream.

As I'm walking to the bathroom at the office, I'll hear the sigh "I need to get out of here; I want to go home." "But," I tell it, "We like this new job. We really just need to finish the note. We'll go home when it's time. Concentrate."

Running up the stairs to the kids' bedroom, I hear "I wanna go home." "umm," I point out, "we are?"

It's an index card that pops up during times of mental inactivity. We are home, I tell it. We live here. I don't understand.

Janey wrote a love note to her quasi-hometown a while ago. While trying to think of what I would say of the place I spent part of my summer vacation running through, I just felt anger. Sure, we'd been going there since I was young, but it's so buried in resentment now, I have a hard time feeling the joys and freedoms we had as kids - running free for a week with spending money, eating all the egg rolls, ice cream and candy we wanted.

You're too young, they said twenty years ago. When you were a baby, and we went to BigBrother's kindergarten graduation, you cried from the noise. University would overwhelm you. You will come with us, and go to grade 13. In a year, you'll be older, and go to the University we've chosen. They accept grade 13 as University courses.

Fresh from the defeat of running past the cemetery (twice) and up hill both ways for 10 miles, through a community of people who do not recognize me, I hit the wall of why I could not write a love note to this place I have lived, on and off, for 25 years.

It is my prison. My tower. I have struggled for years to get past the feeling of being spirited away to a place not of my choosing (fat lot of good that did - just like Rapunzel, I found my own trouble). I have not.

And I don't think if you asked Rapunzel to write a love note she could either. Even if she loved the witch very much, and was happy with the way things turned out in the end, and used up her vacation time to return with her children every summer so that they could all be together as a family.

"Finally," said the voice, as I stood on the beach in South Haven and looked at the lighthouse, "You wouldn't listen."

"I couldn't," I said, as I drove away.

Whew.

Ok. So you can check me out on the Facebook.

I'm tagged in a few photos. You'll know me because I'm the one grinning like a fool. Let's just say that I waited 20 damn years for that whole "early bloom, early rot" thing, and I may have been a little gloaty to see it finally happen. Heh. (Mrs. Maiden, also on the Facebook, just called me to congratulate me on my late bloom.)

Did you know that the only body part that does not change size from birth is a persons eyes? That's why babies eyes look so large - they'll be exaclty like that all through life.

Looking into eyes that known me since grade 6 - that's a pretty significant thing. They knew me before puberty, before braces - and although we've not been in touch in 20 years (and frankly, thank god for name tags) the affection in the room was palpable. I haven't hurt that much from laughing in a long time.

I learned some lessons: I saw what it was like to have been a mean girl in high school, and then come to the reunion. (It looks pretty lonely, actually.)

I've learned how to live with my head held high despite everything (from the little sister of the only 'out' guy in a really small, really conservative town), how enthusiasm for others is the key to relationships, and what lasting friendship looks like after more than 20 years. (Thanks, Katie! Love you!)

It was amazing.

It was heart breaking to leave. 36 hours was not nearly enough. I didn't get to the beach (it was raining) and I didn't get ice cream.

I don't think I'd choose to live there - there's not that many public service jobs there - but it's my home. And you know what? Husband has agreed that a week in a beach house might just be a perfect family vacation.

How awesome is that???

Every day victories

Dudes.

In rereading the entries for the past month or so, it would seem I've been having a tough time. That's a misrepresentation. I feel in a good place; it's been a great summer, so I think I might be just finding written inspiration in my battles lately, instead of victories.

So here are some delicious victories to remind me of the summer I'm really having.

I'll be an honest to goodness auntie in late October. I'm already lucky enough to be an auntie to 6 really cool nieces and nephews, but this one will be the first baby from the Maidens (we got a ready-made nephew a few years ago in the really sweet two for one deal that was BigBrother's wedding). It's pretty exciting. I look forward to more Skype viewings soon.

In mid-July, Mrs. Maiden came to visit on her way to more healing touch training in Arizona. She stayed a day, which I was able to take off to be with her while the kids were in daycare. I had hoped to spend part of the day peeling the deadfish wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom, but as that took such a short time, we actually painted the whole room - and changed out the accessories to achieve fish eradication and new look in one day. Yipee!!

At the end of the month, she returned to care for the kids for a week while Husband and I planned to do foundation repairs. Unfortunately, as it rained each day, we were unable to dig, but what we did do was spend four days finishing all the carpentry work and prepping to allow us to finish painting the foyer, staircase and upper landing of the house - FINALLY - after 4 years of living here and two years of living with a partially scraped and prepped staircase which made me cringe just a little whenever someone new came to the house. A major, major accomplishment.

Oh, my goodness, it's delicious. The fish are gone. The decals also. As Janey said when we first bought the house - it's a matter of scrubbing out the crazy. (The sun, however, in all its subterranean glory, remains blissfully unaware of the fate which is slowly, but surely coming its way.)

Sundays I'm up when the kids are up (usually, husband takes the early shift on the weekends to let me sleep to 8. It's an amazing gift.) to do my distance training run. Doing it at the crack of dawn lets me have more of a family day with everyone, and allows time for essentials like rest, laundry and groceries. Usually, as I leave, MlleL and Husband chant "go, mama, go! go, mama, go!" (MasterP has simplified that to go, go, gooooooo!) It's tremendous motivation for me, and helps me get out the door. Yesterday morning, after my puttering around for a half hour or so - folding a load of laundry, having a snack, getting my road id on, and ensuring my iPod has juice - MasterP started his chant early, before I even had shoes on, and pushed me towards the door. "Go, go, gooo!" he crouched down and yelled through the window of the screen door as I walked out the carport, "Go, go, goooooo!" he yelled shutting the inside door.