I have a new post up on Just.Be.Enough (in the Be Enough Kids category) in which I argue with Yoda’s philosophy.
What?
Just come and visit.
Puns and All: It’s What I Love About Him
August 12, 2011 by ·
My husband thinks he’s funny.
He’s King of the Puns. Some of them are cheesy, some of them are witty, and all of them make me laugh.
He’s the master of making up new lyrics to songs. I secretly find this amusing, even when he mangles my favourite songs and John Denver’s poetic “You fill up my senses, like a night in a forest” becomes “You fill out my census, with a number 2 pencil.”
He does funny voices, and thank goodness because I’m no good at funny voices.
He’s never afraid to act goofy, and I truly hope my son got this quality because it’s one of the things I love most about my husband.
So far all the evidence suggests that he did.
Looks like I’m in for a lifetime of laughs with my very funny boys.
xo
***
Linked up with Multitasking Mumma for It’s What I Love About Him
Hello, Inspiration – The Matter of Motherhood
July 17, 2011 by ·
Saturday. I am at home alone with my son for the day, for the first time in weeks. Months? A long time. For the first time since the day that precipitated this and this.
This is significant. How the day turns out matters – not just because I don’t want to have a bad day. It’s so much bigger than that.
***
We had friends over to play this morning – a girl Connor’s age who he’s known since he was weeks old. She is quiet and focused. He, generally, is not. Today he was buzzing, like a balloon you’ve blown up but not tied off so that when you let it go it flies everywhere, impossible to catch and making that pppbbbbttttpppphhhh noise as it releases all the energy inside.
A small part of me thought, really, Universe? Today? You couldn’t ease me back in?
It was not to be.
He only napped for 45 minutes, then got up and commenced whining and falling over on the floor.
I took him out of the house, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to manage at home all afternoon with him like that. It was a risk. I’ve done it before on rough days and had it blow up, quite spectacularly, in my face.
He wasn’t a whole lot better out in public but bribes for toddlers work wonders, though not magic. We still had meltdowns, throwing things, attempts to break things and running away in a store where I had to leave my wallet at the counter to chase him down.
But you know what? We made it. I talked. I redirected. I negotiated. I used positive reinforcement and when that didn’t work I took his new truck away. He got the message and we got home without anyone getting an arm ripped off.
I did it. And what I did today will help me do so much more.
***
Show me something I’ve never seen before; a treasured photograph of your grandparents or a handkerchief your father wore in his lapel.
Take me somewhere I’ve never been; a place where the land meets the sea, the breeze is cool and your mind calms.
Sing me the same soothing lullaby night after night; the one that helps ease my fears and dream vividly.
Let me make mistakes and learn as I go, no matter how difficult it may be for you to witness.
Guide me through life as though you were my tour guide, exposing me to places near and far but always emphasizing the importance of home.
Show me something I’ve never seen before, mom.
***
As a mother, my job is to take care of my son. To feed him. To comfort him. To love him.
But my job is also to teach him about the world and to introduce him to new things and new experiences. To help him develop the skills to interact appropriately with others. To teach him patience and respect and kindness.
My job is to help him make sense of the world so he can grow up to be the sort of person who helps the world make sense.
In the past I’ve had trouble doing that. At times it’s taken every ounce of energy I have. Some days I’ve felt like I’m faking it.
I’m going to have bad days. We all are. But for me there’s a difference between a normal bad day and a day where I drown in motherhood and forget that every parent has a bad day now and then and it’s not just me and it’s not because I can’t do it.
Yesterday was not a bad day. It was frustrating at times and tiring, apparently, because I lay down for a few minutes at 5:00 and slept, not hearing anything including my husband telling me dinner was ready, until 7.
Yesterday was a good day. And as I sat in the evening quiet, I read a really beautiful post by Tonya from Letters for Lucas. The italicized section above is excerpts from that post and Tonya kindly agreed to let me use them. I encourage you to go and read the whole thing. I guarantee it will inspire you. It inspired me, because it sums up exactly why finding my ability to be a mother matters.
I’m So Glad He’s Not Sixteen
July 16, 2011 by ·
“I’m supposed to have friends over for a party tomorrow,” my son tells me.
This is news to me.
“What kind of a party?”
“A big one. With a big box full of animals.”
Images of cock fights flash through my brain. And then I realize it’s more likely to be plastic dinosaurs, the animals from his Little People sets, and a few stuffies.
“And a big box of snakes,” he adds. “Would you like a big box of snakes?”
I’m not sure what the right answer to this question is, so I go with the simple, straightforward and honest approach.
“No.”
He seems unfazed by this. Meanwhile, I am grateful my son is three and not 16.
“It will be the biggest party ever and we’ll have party hats.”
Grateful for many reasons – because he is not bringing weird animals into my house, because he couldn’t access a box of snakes if he wanted to, but mostly because he’s old enough to want a party but young enough to appreciate the whimsy of party hats.
Credit: bunchfamily.ca
Hanging Up His Skates
June 15, 2011 by ·
Practices. Hockey camps. Games in chilly arenas. Concession stands. The whiff of a sweaty dressing room. The dampness of gear set out to dry.
I grew up in a hockey family.
My brother played, my dad coached, and the rest of us went to countless games.
When I was 10 we boarded a hockey player who played for the local WHL team and I spent a lot of time running up and down bleachers and buying orange pop at hockey rinks.
But hockey to me is mostly about my dad.
He has played for longer than I can remember – longer than I’ve been alive. It’s something I always remember him doing, and so much a part of who he is.
Growing up, I looked forward to his annual trip to a hockey tournament because he always brought t-shirts back for us. They were huge, and we wore them as nightgowns for years, not caring that they bore logos of teams and sponsors we knew nothing about.
When he got injured I was old enough to know it was worrisome even if I didn’t really understand what had happened.
As an adult, I understand more just how much hockey is in him.
I’ve heard his broken nose anecdote countless times. I’ve listened to stories of teams and players long retired who defined the game before it became about money. I’ve smiled at his reflections of playing before helmets were the norm.
Combine Ron MacLean with Don Cherry and you’d get my dad – knowledgeable and well-spoken about hockey, but passionate and not afraid to say what he thinks. The game is such a part of him – his opinions and priorities – that I’ve learned when not to comment, even when he delayed surgery for prostate cancer so it didn’t interfere with his hockey season.
Because of my dad’s love of hockey I grew up with it as part of my life. Now I have a little boy who’s growing up in that same hockey family.
When Connor was younger, we timed visits around Grandpa’s hockey practices and family dinners around Flames games. When we watched games on TV, Grandpa made sure Connor knew who to cheer for. (If you’re part of this family you’re a Flames fan, and that’s that.)
My dad got older, as dads do, but he didn’t give up the game. A few years ago my mom got him a new hockey bag as a gift – a fancy one, with wheels and lots of space for gear. He got good use out of it, carting it over and over from the house to his car and to the rink and back again, complaining, at times, about “old guys” who were a little too slow for a guy who just wanted to get out there and chase the puck.
But no longer. After almost 70 years my dad has hung up his skates. Admitting to the emotion of it, he posted on Facebook: “I just cleaned out my wheeled hockey equipment bag for the last time… It’s been a great sport.”
The bag has now gone to my brother, who carries his own flame of passion for the game.
He might not play anymore, but my dad’s involvement with hockey isn’t over. There’s a new generation coming along – someone who has the right jersey and just needs to learn how to skate. Luckily we have someone who would love to teach him.
