When I was 18 we were sitting in this park by Dh’s parent’s house. I was a couple months into my first year in college and Dh was leaving in the morning for St. Jean, Quebec where he would start Basic Training for the Canadian Army. The drama. Oh, friends, the drama of the 2 of us, me blubbering, sitting on the blanket at our makeshift picnic at the park, terrified to be without him, completely lacking in independence or maturity. A mess. I was a mess. There’s a picture, I can’t find it. That’s probably for the best. The next morning his parents dropped him off at the recruiting center and he took a bus to the airport and off he went. His mom had his room turned into a craft room before that plane landed. Without cellphones we racked up ludicrous collect call long distance bills. He made just over $500 paycheck. Most of it paid for the phone bill. Then he couldn’t use the phone and I thought that might be the worst thing that could ever, possibly happen. Ever. Oh. To be 18 again. When he left, it was no surprise. He’s the 5th generation in his family to enlist. He wanted to be a police officer he thought. That meant go to college or join the army to earn the life experience needed to apply, so he joined the army because he didn’t want to go back to school. 3 years. He signed that initial 3 year contract. He told me when it was up, he’s apply to the police and if he was still too young at 21, he’d sign another 3 years and…
I’m standing in a crowded bar watching the UFC when it hits me. There’s a stage of life that Dh and I missed. I look around, listening to invincible young men give commentary on the fight and realize the reason I feel so out of place is not only my age now, but that at their age, Dh was in Afghanistan for the 3rd time and I was expecting my 3rd child. Our life then was far removed from their lives, now. Not better, or more important, or more mature. Just removed. Different. Our life looks like the life of any Canadian middle class family. We go to work, our kids go to school. We go to the gym, we drive kids to Youth Group, running club, babysitting, birthday parties and martial arts. But then, someone in line behind me at Starbucks has a loud and mostly ignorant conversation with their partner about the current government and the illequiped Canadian Forces who are ‘war hungry‘. And I think to myself, perhaps they confused ‘hungry‘ with ‘weary’. In 2002 my country reacted with overwhelming pride when Dh left to fight a war against those responsible for acts of terror. Surprisingly, the Prime Minister didn’t call and ask his opinion on whether was the right place to fight, or the right time, or with the right equipment. The powers that be said ‘Go’ and Dh left. In 2004 my community acted with overwhelming indifference when Dh went back to the same war again, as though somehow maybe he was at fault that they didn’t get it all sorted out those first 6 months. When I responded to people by telling them Dh was in Afghanistan…
I like having work to do. Time goes faster and as I’ve started back at work this past year, I’ve enjoyed the way that I get excited about the things that used to excite me professionally. I thrive on days that pass quickly because it seems I jump from one thing to the next. I feel like I get things accomplished that way. I feel useful. We’ve established I was never very good at being a stay-at-home-mom. I feel like all I ever really excelled at was finding an excuse to leave the house and go shopping, or waste time on the Internet. It’s just not me. But lately, I’ve let ‘useful‘ become ‘busy‘. And there’s a problem with ‘busy’ Busy is when you run around all day but never feel accomplished. Busy is when you keep adding to the list of things you’ll do ‘when you have a minute’. But you know deep down that minute is never going to come.. Busy isn’t useful, it’s tired. This morning I had a day off and as I checked over the list in my head of things I needed to get done, I realized I still hadn’t called my son’s caseworker back, even though she called late last week. I realized now I was the mom who was so busy being a caseworker I wasn’t allowing a caseworker to help me be a mom. When does that line get crossed? That line between productive and frantic? Is it that first day you can’t return the phone call? …
Dear America, Do nations read letters from nobodies? Probably not. But there’s something that today, I wanted you to know. I am proud to call myself a Canadian. I wouldn’t trade my country for anything. I am not American. But I hurt with you anyways. For over a decade. Many years ago, I was a newlywed. Living my life in Northern Alberta until one day after the long bus ride to the depot and walk home after a 9 hour shift at the shelter downtown, I collapsed asleep on my bed just after 8a.m. without changing. And that’s how September 11th, 2001 found me, after a phone call woke me up less than an hour later, watching the horror of the 2nd tower get hit while still in my nursing scrubs, sitting in my living room on a pile of laundry. And even though I am not American, not only could I not understand the unspeakableness of what the news was showing me, I acutely aware that this day was going to somehow change my life, here, completely. I couldn’t reach DH, I didn’t even try. He was in the bush training with a military competition team he was a part of. I wondered if he knew, if he was watching. Would he come home at all? Would I even see him before he had to go? Was there anything we could do? Had this been a third world country that was the victim, I have no doubt our Canadian Forces would have mobilized a disaster assistance team to be there as we have done for dozens of countries in need before and since then. But instead this was arguably the most powerful country in the world we were…
Yesterday, posting season sucked. I have had here one those friends that ‘s been around more than one posting. She moved here with her family a year before us and was our first home cooked meal, friendly face and emergency contact on all those forms when we got settled. Our families shared a common bond not only through the place we had come from, but our experiences with war and our spouse’s Combat trades that can seem a little out of place and even a little alienating at a Logistics base. With her here when we arrived our kids had instant friends, our Christmas’s didn’t have to be completely alone and when you are two families who were blessed with each other during a time when both are plane rides away from family, I didn’t ever take for granted what it meant to have them here. But since she arrived a year before me, she heads out this year to another place for her family to call home. I can’t count how many times her family has been our family, her husband has been Dh’s sanity and her kitchen has been my refuge. I’m going to miss her. Goodbyes are hard, but I never do goodbyes anyways. See you later, my friend. Do me a favour and head over to Wives of Faith to read my post on Postings, Timings and what it means to look for home. Let me know your thoughts on how you make peace with wherever you are for however long you’re there. Find the post HERE…
I didn’t plant flowers this year. Usually, about May I start to get all anxious about flowers. The vain part of me wants to look like everyone else’s house, and so I head out and try and ‘start over’ with a garden, buy flowers and dirt and plant a bunch of things I don’t have the care or understanding to look after. I’ll plant some vegetables, I’ll spend money we don’t need to on baskets and potting soil and just like every year before it, I’ll put all this half-assed effort into making it work. Part of the problem with my ill-advised and always mostly wasted money is that I never buy perennials. A little bit because I don’t figure I’ll get to enjoy them all that much after we move. Selfishly I think “I won’t be here to see them year after year so why should I plant them?” Mostly though, it’s because I lack basic faith in the plant growing process. I am completely unconvinced that the plant that I plant, with my terrible gardening skills, the one that dies and disappears in the fall, will come back in the spring. I have a hard time believing that what I plant will return year after year, especially when the winters are harsh and the ice is thick and I don’t see the flowers for months and month. So I buy annuals every year. And most die before their time because I have a black thumb that is only reflecting the rest of me that deep down knows it doesn’t like gardening, it just thinks it should…
As many of you may have read, this summer we are hosting a Belarusian child as part of the Canadian Aid for Chernobyl‘s Relief from Radiation program. For 5 week our little 9 year old Dasha (I tried to think up a blog name for our little one but it seemed wrong to give a pet name to someone else’s child, and Dasha is already a nickname) will live with us, sharing a room with Drama and becoming a part of our family for 5 weeks. Having a foster child who is expencing a dramatic culture shock and speaks very little English has proven a little difficult (who would’ve thought?). I’ve so loved getting to know her and seeing her interact with our family and friends, but it certainly hasn’t been an easy 2 weeks this far. Our kids have had a learning curve as well. Drama, who usually has a room to herself, is sharing her tiny space with another. For all of them, toys and time are now shared 4 ways instead of 3 and there can be a lot of pressure on them to ensure that Dasha feels included when they are with friends. I have to remind myself that it’s not just our vacation time but theirs too, and while this is an amazing and positive experience for them, it’s also a challenge. In fact, 6 months ago when we applied to be a volunteer host family, it was that challenge that was part of the appeal. I want my kids to learn to share because joy comes from giving. I know right now it’s popular to fill your news feed explaining why teaching your kids…
At the request of some who have asked for more info about our No-Gift Birthdays, I thought I’d explain a little. When Freckles was turning 3 I found myself down in the playroom, sorting toys and packing some away for charity. Some had barely been played with. I thought of the time and expense those toys had cost the people who had picked them out for him. I thought of how many toys we were holding on to not because my child liked them most, but because of who bought them for him. I thought of how many more toys were coming at this upcoming party and how long we would hold on to those ones, too. Mostly, I thought of how unnecessary it all was and how there had to be a better way. For the next couple years, we played around with birthdays for my oldest 2. We tried themes, one year buying a fish tank and encouraging people to help fill it with fish and accessories as a gift. Which was nice until the fish that your best friend gave you dies. So that was a no-go. Then we tried nothing. Bring nothing, we said. Just yourselves. People still brought toys. Then that next year my youngest son was born and my friends wanted to host a Baby Shower. Except, my goodness I had more than enough from my last babies. I couldn’t possibly need more. So since Dh was deployed in Afghanistan, I decided instead that if my friends wished to bring a gift to the shower, it could be a generic gift for a new mom/baby and we would drop them off at the Regiment to be given out to all the new moms giving birth…
So it’s been several months and well, I’ve started to get some messages about where the rest of my Pink Elephant Series went… Well, friends, I’m just not very good at Jiu Jitsu. That’s not to say I don’t do it, I do lots of things I’m not particularly good at. I run (slowly). I cook (occasionally). I walk and chew gum at the same time. I also go to Jiu Jitsu class, usually at least a couple times a week, sometimes 3 or 4 times depending on my schedule. And most days when my brain isn’t full of parenting dilemmas or the last client I had at work, I try my very best. So I guess I could tell you what I’ve learned. It’s not what you expect. 1. Whoever was worried I might get hurt should have been worrying about the other guys. I have never said “I’m Sorry” more times in my life. I have kneed people in the face, elbowed them in the ribs, and I’m slightly concerned that there may be a few guys left unable to have children by the time I learn how to keep my feet to myself. 2. Hair elastics are a no-go. They fall off within 1 minute of rolling every time. Between adjusting my Gi top/belt that I’m still terrible at tying, and redoing my hair, I feel like I spend far too much time fixing myself up in class. So I gave up. My fight name shall be Medusa. 3. Some bruises are harder to explain…
“He’s clearly A-Typical in many ways. Just not in the ways we are used to.” We’ve been hearing the same line for 3 years. “There’s something up, but it doesn’t quite fit.” “We want to offer a diagnosis, but there’s too much he doesn’t do and too much he does.” “We know it’s frustrating, but he just doesn’t check all the right boxes.” Right now, my house looks a little like my heart. Disheveled and a little grimy, the floor has a new throw rug of dog hair and if I’m starting to feel like the hygienic answer to using my bathroom at the moment would be to put down toilet paper over the seat before I sit down. Balancing work with my kids, especially when Dh is away, is a little precarious on the best day, but this week we are in the middle of long awaited psychologist assessments with my youngest and I’ve reached the point where the mental energy required is starting to effect my physical ability to not fall asleep in the 10 minutes between kids home time, dinner and out the door for Jiu Jitsu. Naively, I was hoping for answers. It seems like lately the number of people on my social media and daily life outside the Internet who have identified their child as Autistic is growing constantly. And in what is possibly the most terribly short sighted and evil admission I will ever speak on my own parenting, I’m almost jealous of them. Because we talk about Autism. We don’t talk about unusual, undiagnosed A-Typical behavior. Monster…
