Races

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

iPhone Notes Purge

I watched "Men in Black 3" with the boys other day and one of the non-aliens said something cool and I wrote it down in my notes section. He said, "A miracle is what seems impossible but happens anyway." Profound, right?

I wrote it right above my grocery list:

milk
cream
cinnamon buns
cat food
cucumber
tampons
greek yogurt

...which was above my "to do" list:

get Jane a birthday card (which I never did, because I suck)
get saran wrap (sounds way more exciting than it is)

...which was right above a note that I made myself about a book someone told me to read:

Cloud Atlas (which I ended up buying for $22 Canadian, soft cover, which is like, $4 American, and it looked way too Sci Fi for me so I returned it and instead bought a $22 latte from the Starbucks adjacent to the bookstore).

...which was right above my license plate number, that I have no idea why I'd write down, and I'm not telling because that's like, suicidal.

...which was right above a quote that I heard at church:

"It's not about ability--it's about availability"

...which was (ironically, and not surprisingly) above a wine someone told me I'd like:

Liberty School Cab Sav 2010 Australia

...which was right above the lady's name and number from CIBC credit card fraud because there's nothing I need more than some asshole to steal my Visa number and go eat $1000 worth of chicken kabobs from Greek Islands Restaurant in Abbotsford.

...which was right above the name of 4 boys in Jake's grade who are "known" for being rude to girls (as per a convo I had with a girl in Jake's grade about 3 months ago, bless her heart)

What do I get from all this?

A headache. Please pass the Cab Sav and saran wrap!

Monday, May 27, 2013

My Ride

When I was a child, I would find God between my Grandpa Douglas’ strong, rough fingertips and the silky pages of his well-used leather Bible. God showed up at Sunday school on the posters of Noah and the Ark. I’d live for snack time where we’d eat saltine crackers and sip apple juice out of little Styrofoam cups. I’d stare up at Noah and the rainbow and thank my lucky stars that I didn’t drown in that horrible flood. Then, I’d wash my dry crackers down with my juice, and resign myself to memorizing books of the Bible in hopes that my dedication to the big guy would save me from my own desolation. To me, God was (stereotypically) masculine: strong, steady, angry, and powerful. He went to war with King David and He parted the ocean for Moses and his posse. What did that mean to me? When I needed help, I’d look up into the sky and pray for God to come down and kick some ass.

I was listening to the radio at work the other day and this song came on by Jo Dee Messina, “Silver Thunderbird.” I remember listening to it when I was about 19 years old or so, when I was going to Trinity Western University. I was at a point in my life where I was trying to break the God-mold, and figure out who He was to me, personally. I remember listening to Jo Dee’s words, “if there’s a God up in heaven, He’s got a silver thunderbird” and giggling to myself, imagining God cruising around in a car like that. He’d be chilled back in his seat, his arm outstretched over the steering wheel, his wrist draped over the edge. I’d blast this song and bellow out the seemingly blasphemous lyrics at the top of my lungs, grinning in delicious rebellion.

A few years later I read a book called “The Shack” where the author portrayed God as a black woman. A lot of people in Christian circles were shocked and offended that God would be “misconstrued” like this, but personally, I lapped it up. She was empathetic and strong. Passionate and steady. Loving and angry. Gentle and powerful. If I got caught in high waters, I’d want her on my boat. And if I’m going down? It’s in a silver Thunderbird.


Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Freddy

Eleven years ago tonight I was sitting in the leather recliner across from my mom while Jake was fast asleep in his big boy bed. I was two weeks away from my due date and feeling every ounce of baby pushing against my insides, begging for respite from the strain. We had just moved into our new house, and because it was new construction, we hadn't had the chance to get window coverings up yet. Hot and uncomfortable, I climbed into bed and felt my water break. Like a whale in a fishbowl, I tore around the house looking for the phone to tell Jason that my water broke, and when he got home in the 5.3 seconds it took him to drive home from Eric's house, we took off for the hospital. Freddy was born a short time thereafter, and our lives then changed forever.

He was a quiet baby. Huge, but quiet. He lay there, eyes wide and watery, his lips plump, cradling the light of the heat lamps. Back in my arms, he remained as peaceful as ever, blinking up at me with expectation and knowing. There's just some things we know like gravity and a parent's love, and Freddy knew it that morning, just as sure as he knows it now in his bed, eleven years later.

When I think about Freddy, my mind and heart fill with constancy. Steadiness. Strength. Quiet sensitivity. Empathy. The gentle leader.

He won't fight to be heard. But when he speaks, we better listen. Freddy knows how to love. He makes mistakes, and he's made some big ones, ohhhh some big ones. But he knows, and his heart breaks for them. His gentle presence moves mountains. His very first word was for my dad: "Rumpah" (Grandpa). He'd spot my dad from a mile away and his raspy little voice demanded my father's arms. He'd point at him, nod, and blink in assertive expectation, "Rumpah." And there, Vern would melt. Every time.

My life is full of twists and turns, of endings and new beginnings but my children will always be my light. Eyes wide and watery, lips plump and cradling the light of the heat lamps, I'm right here, arms open.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Suzy, I'm Sorry

Andrew, his daughter Kylah and I were chilling on the couch on Friday night watching cooking shows and talking. I can't remember what Andrew had said but it was (jokingly) self-critical in nature, and Kylah and I turned to simultaneously scowl at him. And without any thought whatsoever, the first thing that came to my mind and out my mouth was, "Andrew! Say sorry............to yourself!" And we all burst out laughing. It just sounded so ridiculous. Then we went on to act it out, how we'd apologize to ourselves, which made it all the more comedic.

But if you think about it, saying sorry to ourselves might not be a bad idea. The kids fight, and when they are tearing each other down I will always tell them to stop hurting each other because we all are so hard on ourselves already--we certainly don't need assistance! Makes sense to me. I bet that the million horrible things we tell ourselves about ourselves are way worse than what anyone else would ever say about us. When bullies get sent to the principals office and then forced to scrub floors as penance for their crime, we all feel better that justice has prevailed. But what if we bully ourselves? I think it's time that we march our asses down to the principal's office and spend some time cleaning our own house. Be nice. Play fair. Practice kindness. Say sorry to yourself.




Friday, May 17, 2013

Open

One of my favourite things to do is to watch Jake play guitar. He's been taking lessons for a few years now and he has no problem keeping up with the ever-increasing demands that his teacher, Tim, puts on him. Every Wednesday night the three of us sink into Tim's couch and watch Jake play. Tim's couch is one of those big, soft puffy ones. Our bums sink to the floor and our ankles end up against our ears. It's a trap, quite honestly, and quite honestly, a good one. Give me a fruity drink and a pair of diapers, and I'd gladly spend the next 30 years on that couch.

Tim assigned Jake the song, "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses. Tim himself is a genius on the electric and so we have the honor of watching him play. When he played the intro to the song on Wednesday night, a sacred hush fell over the room. I'm convinced that the one last spring from the couch collapsed in reverence. Katie and Freddy were staring at Tim's fingers going crazy on the guitar, and I was staring at Jake, who was staring at Tim's face.

His face contorts around in various grimaces and open-mouthed concentration. Tim doesn't merely play the guitar, he makes love to it, and the result of this union is truly breathtaking. He stopped the solo, looked at us and grinned. We exhaled a whispered, "wow" in unison, gave our heads a little shake, and then plowed forward with the lesson.

But that look, the one that Jake had on his face when he was watching Tim play, seemed familiar to me and I spent a couple of nights thinking back to where I have seen it before. Jake's eyes were wide as saucers. Not a fearful-wide, but a hungry-wide. His face was soft and his mouth was open a bit. He had absolutely no socially protective walls up in that I could tell that in that moment it was just him and the music. Nothing else existed. No girls to impress, no parents to obey, no itch to scratch. The vent between Jake and that solo was directly linked, and it ended only when the music stopped.

I remember when each of my babies were born, the nurse would put them onto my chest and we'd melt into each other. It was in those first moments that I would see that same expression of awe and reverence. Eyes hungry and receptive, face soft and open. Nothing exists in that moment except my baby and I. When Jake was about four months old, he and I were playing on the floor in the family room and my sister Tracey walked in. She stopped and stared at the both of us and said to me, "you're in love with him, I can see it! The way you're looking at him!"

Andrew and I were snuggling on the couch with my head on his lap and as we were drifting off, I opened my eyes and had that moment where everything around us faded away and all I could see was art. My gaze consumed each part of his face and I let the beauty of it all fill me up as I sunk into the soft couch of familiarity and safety.

Sometimes moments like that are expected, like after the birth of a baby, and sometimes they show up in the most random moments but in both circumstances, they are gifts just waiting to be opened.


Monday, May 13, 2013

Mother?

Have you ever read that book, I think it's called, "Are You My Mother?" where this little bird gets separated from its mother and then he searches around desperately for her, mistaking her for all these other sorts of things such as a bulldozer, and a cat, and shit like that. It gets me a bit panicky and quite empathetic for the sweet little tuft of feathers, but then he finds his real mother at the end of the book and all is well. Phew.

You know what happened to me when I became a mother? I became less self-absorbed, which I like to think happens to most people when they become parents. I cared more about the temperature at which water boils so as to sanitize soothers than I did matching my socks together. Three consecutive hours of sleep and an uninterrupted poo was like, something worthy of scrapbooking (I tried scrapbooking, but I have zero patience for cutting and gluing and drawing letters with curly cues--I came close to lighting everything on fire, several times). I'd twist my formerly perfect spine into an "S" shape to drape one of my boobs over the edge of the crib so I could feed the baby without having to move him. Mashing up steamed sweet potatoes and freezing the mush in little cubes took precedence over running, and my ever enlarging ass was the incriminating evidence.

But it was all, it IS all, worth it. Because when my little tuft of feathers lose their way, they'll know who to look for because they will have memorized my constant presence in their lives. They'll follow the sound of my laughter as I tell stories of how the fire department came... twice... because I left the rubber bottles and breast pumps boiling on the stove. They'll know that when they wander off and lose their way that I'll be right there to hold them when they need the comfort of home.


Thursday, May 2, 2013

The Love Chapter, Re-Visited

In the Bible, in the New Testament (the book that Christians read and hope to follow), there's a chapter nicknamed, "The Love Chapter" because the writer (his name was Paul) basically made a list of what love is, and what love isn't. This is one of the official translations  (italicized) of this chapter:

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I posess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing."

So what is love? Paul goes on to tell the reader:

"Love is patient, love is kind, It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

And this is how I would apply the love chapter to my life in a way that makes sense to me:

If I can make myself sound like I give a shit but I really don't, then I belong alone in a cave with a bear. If I have a university degree and can write a really good essay but I work at Starbucks, then I will probably gain 5lb from eating broken pastries. If I believe that the 5lb looks awesome on me but in reality my muffin top is spilling over my too-tight pants, then I should probably re-think the consumption of broken pastries. If I give all of my second-hand furniture to someone who needs it and then whine about having nothing to sit on, then the extra 5lb will probably come in handy from having to sit on the cold cement floor for the rest of my life.

So what is love? This is my take:

Love untangles Christmas lights and puts together Ikea furniture... anonymously. Love takes anger for a run and leaves it on the road. Love is happy when my best friend has a great hair night. Love is more love when I am happy that someone I don't like has a great hair night. Love is telling the most popular kid to stop being a bully, even when I know that I just became a target. Love knows that when I come home with a scar on my face, he will see only beauty. Love doesn't only exist on date night but in spite of date night.  Love is made on the cold cement floor. Love is.