A Safe Distance

The first time I took a CPR course was in high school. I can't remember why we had to do it but I remember being snotty about having to breathe into a mannequin's mouth, pressured to do all I could to save a plastic torso from the world hereafter. At sixteen, I barely cared about anyone besides myself and a fake choking and drowning germ magnet was no exception. I rolled my eyes, breathed new life and a new mutation of the latest flu bug into the plastic mouth on the floor at my feet, and passed the course.

Thankfully, the only time I've ever needed to use any knowledge from that course was when Katie was about a year old. She was perched in her high chair, chewing on a piece of meat from dinner when it suddenly became lodged in her throat. Not before long the food got loose and she proceeded to throw up her entire meal all over the floor at the dinner table.

There's something that has stuck with me, though, for all these years and that is the fact that when a person is choking, their first instinct is to get up from the table and isolate themselves and that we as observers should never let them wander off alone because it's in these moments that they often choke to death. And what I've also noticed is that when people suffer, like when we are emotionally hurting, we do the exact same thing as the choker at the dinner table. We go off on our own, work at the hurt that is lodged in our hearts until we can breathe freely enough to function and then we return to society.

But you know what? It's a good idea for us to not wander off too far, just in case we have a hard time breathing on our own. We don't need to be superheros, all the time. Sometimes we need a little extra oxygen to help dislodge the slice of life that's strangling us, and that's a lifesaver, too. But hopefully without the throw-up.

Panty Lines

A long-time friend of mine posted a note on Facebook the other day that read, "One of the greatest freedoms in life is simply not caring what other people think of you." And it made me think.

I know what's she is saying here, I do, and I believe her heart is in the right place. But very few people, if any, can actually NOT care what other people think of us. It's like saying, "One of the greatest freedoms in life is simply not having to go to the bathroom anymore." It's like duh. No shit. Would it be nice? Sure. Is it going to happen? Not as long as we're living.

I've thought about this many, many, many times and I have tried, OH so hard to not care what people think of me. But if I truly didn't care, I'd probably wear full bum underwear under stretchy pants. And when I dropped Special "O" sauce onto my shirt out of my White Spot cheeseburger, I'd rub it in instead of change into something clean. And when I let one go in public, rather than duck behind one of my kids I'd puff out my chest, cup my hands around my mouth and holler, "THAT WAS MEEEEE, BAYBEEEE!!!"

I think what my friend was trying to say is what the doctor and theologian Gerald May once wrote, "self-acceptance is freedom." THAT is where the money is. And to take it even further, Anne Lamott writes in her new book Stitches: "they taught me that maturity is the ability to live with unresolved problems."

So to me, it makes much more sense to strive toward something attainable (such as self-acceptance) rather than something that is impossible to acquire: the skill of not caring what others think. And to accept Self means to accept us Just As We Are Right Now. Not when we're perfect, because that will never happen. But to accept the scar on my nose and my bad choices and my blotchy skin and my quick temper and bouts of emotional immaturity. And because I care about me, and because I care about my family and friends and how I view myself and hold myself up to the world, I hope that I continue this journey of learning and solving problems and resolving conflicts with a clean shirt and no panty lines.

Raw in the Middle

Life is full of second, third, fourth chances. Just when we think we have our lives labeled, filed and organized, the label sticker gets ripped off taking our body hair with it. We're left vulnerable and exposed against the elements, completely lost and shivery. But then grace happens, and someone or something comes along and gives us another chance. An opportunity for reinvention, renewal, redemption.

Gump compares life to a box of chocolates and although I can't really argue with him (he's a runner, after-all) I have to add that life is also like a pile of pancakes. The box of chocolates is full of surprises, while the pile of pancakes is full of mistakes.

The first pancake is almost always burnt on the outside and raw in the middle. We learn from the experience and turn down the heat of the pan a bit. We add more water or a little less butter to the pan, and then we try again.

The middle batch of pancakes are usually melt-in-the-mouth fluffy, perfectly browned on the edges. Then the phone rings or someone posts a hilarious video on Facebook or one of the kids runs out of toilet paper. We get pancake-cocky, take our eyes off the pan and wander away for a bit only to jerk back to the sound of the shrieking smoke detector. The last three bits of breakfast are charred and rubbery, almost unrecognizable.

I don't think my purpose in life is to make the perfect pancake. And thank God for that. I can't even toast a pop tart. I believe that my purpose in life is to learn from my mistakes, to do what I need to do to stop from making any more of them, and then forgive myself when I do.

And most of all, to be thankful for my loves who show up at our table for breakfast. We don't huddle around the garbage can grieving the hot mess of pancake batter, but rather we gather together and eat the melt-in-the-mouth fluffy ones, perfectly browned on the edges.

Love kind of does that, you know? It pulls our focus off the garbage and fixes it on each other, instead. And without having had burned a few of my own pancakes, I would never have known this. Because without mistakes, there is no grace. And without grace, there is no love.

Evergreen

Before I met Andrew, whenever I'd come across a blended family, I always imagined that the relationships within would be dominated by tension and discord. That the number of times the sullen teenager dipped his little stepbrother's toothbrush into the toilet water would exceed the warm and happy times ten-to-one. But we have been lucky or blessed or whatever you want to call it to be able to honestly say that it's much more like a "real" family than we ever could have imagined. There's fighting, but it's mostly between blood-siblings (mine... okay? sigh...) and there's tension and discord and frustration, but it's no different than any other family.

I like to think that we are empowering our children with the life skills necessary to survive out there in the real world. That when they venture out and encounter conflict, that rather than panic, they'll be able to face it all head-on and with confidence. 

Today hasn't exactly been a Martha Stewart Christmas decorating day and nor did we expect it to be. Andrew and I can plan all sorts of lovely festivities but when we start the day with Jake and Ethan rolling up their boogers and burning them in our space heater, we also set flame to our high expectations. Our tree went up despite an inevitable game of Booger Tag, and Andrew made sure that the chocolate chip pancakes that I started to make for breakfast actually got cooked in the middle (he is our culinary saviour).

But when Andrew left for his open house, Freddy, who has been battling a fever for a few days, gave in to The Puke and threw up his morning dose of Tylenol. What was supposed to be a holiday movie theatre day quickly became a stuck-in-the-house day. But despite the disappointment, the kids made the best of everything. I made pumpkin muffins and bread, Jake and Ethan resumed their game of Booger Tag and while Freddy slept, Kylah made him a "get well" card which cheered him up to no end when he finally left his bedroom at 6pm to help decorate the tree.

It's days like this that reveal the true heart of a family, blended or not. We may not have the picture-perfect Christmas postcard but our hearts are all in it. I just wish they'd leave out the boogers and puke.

Decorating the tree together...

This was taken a split second before Katie took justice into her own hands, punching Jake for accidentally kicking her in the face...

Prison Food

Once in a while my dad and I like to hit up this little hole in the wall breakfast spot. We met there this morning and each ordered the Big Breakfast: 3 over-easy eggs, sourdough toast, 4 slices of bacon and a pile of hashbrowns. We proceeded to murder our food, leaving barely a trace of our crime, nearly wiping out our digestive systems with animal fat. My heartrate is still a bit elevated and it's nearly 12 hours later.

Are hashbrowns Canadian? Do people from other countries refer to them as fried potatoes? Jason used to call them hashBROWNS, putting the emphasis on the last syllable which drove me insane because I've always known them to be HASHbrowns. I could never let it go, either. He'd ask about hashBROWNS and I'd reply, "you mean, HASHbrowns?" I'm pretty sure it's not the final reason we pulled the plug but it may have been pretty darn close.

It's like that with everything, though. Right? Each person experiences life differently. Jake begged me to have a boy/girl sleepover tonight, lamenting that "all the other parents let their kids go." Now, obviously over my dead body is Jake going to any sort of co-ed sleepover within the next 40 years and naturally Jake began to lament his current condition, claiming that compared to most kids his age, he has way less freedom.

Thus began our discussion of perspective. What might feel like prison to him is in fact keeping him safe. Just because he feels the cold bars pressed against his face doesn't mean that he's locked up. That one day when he looks back at this moment, he will see himself standing on the freedom side of the bars, rather than the prison side. It's the danger that's locked up, not him.

I think he got it, as much as a 13 year-old boy can get it, for now.

It might taste like freedom. We can gobble up the hashbrowns, but who knows? One day we can look back and see that all we've really been eating is a bunch of fried potatoes.

Cat Fight

Kylah had a soccer game in Abbotsford this morning right before Freddy's game at the same field which worked out quite nicely. Ethan, Freddy and I dropped Andrew and Kylah off at her game for her warm-up, and the three of us headed off to Tim Hortons for some breakfast.

I have had the worst pregnant-mama heartburn this side of the Mexican border and so therefore I go to bed hungry in hopes of warding off the horizontal food-burble. I am usually off-my-face starving in the morning but we were in a rush and I hadn't had the chance to eat anything and so by the time we pulled into the Tim Hortons parking lot I was ready to pick off and eat the dried bits of food stuck to the van seats.

Pulling into the parking lot, we noticed that the drive-through lineup was uncharacteristically long so we decided to go inside to get our food. They were out of sausage, so I ordered two bacon and egg sandwiches, some bagels and coffee. We waited through three Christmases for our food to be ready at which point they informed us that they have also run out of bacon. I decided to get my money back and get the hell out of there, but while I was doing the transaction, a lady in the back of the lineup yelled at the top of her lungs (red-faced, protruding forehead vein, balancing on a pair of crutches), "GET TO THE BACK OF THE LINE, BITCH!!!!!!" The whole place went silent. I spun on my heels and took two steps toward her and informed her that I was not budging, but that I was getting my money back for the food I ordered that they didn't have. Keeping her eyes fixed on me, she repeated again, "BITCH." I swear that the only reason she didn't come over and put her fist through my face was because a) she couldn't walk and b) she really wanted her doughnut. 

The boys were behind me and knowing that they needed both their food and an intact human being to drive them back to the game, I decided to keep quiet. And where were all the cops, anyway? They're always there when we don't need them but as soon as I lose my bacon and get screamed at, they're nowhere to be found.

You never know who the bad guys are, you know? Like walking through the mall or sitting in a coffee shop. And in fact, we're usually totally wrong when we think we know who people really are. The guy in the trench coat could have just had a laundry day, and the lady living with 148 cats in the feline rescue house probably waxes her bikini line and insists on leather interior.

The other day I mistook a raccoon for a cat scurrying across the road, and this morning at Tim Hortons I mistook a doughnut-crazed woman for a sane person. Despite each animal's similarities, one will leave the other for dead in an instant. And probably all over a fight for some food scraps.

Our Voices Carry

The greatest human need is the need to be heard. Take away our voice and our story becomes disabled, stunting our ability for healing and forward movement.

And yet in the other direction comes things like blogs and Facebook and Twitter: turbo-charged vehicles that carry our voice straight from heart to Universe. At least a biography takes time and editing and patience and approval--all this social media horse shit (and I'm excreting it on my keyboard right this second) if, manned by a driver under the influence of wrong motive, can cause a major wreck.

And yet we do it anyway. Because for the ten people who will squelch our voice and ridicule our story, there will always be the one who is encouraged and helped.

I find it to be like eating and drinking, and any other verb in this world that we tend to soak dry to fill unmet needs. Eating and drinking can bring people together if done well (when I use the term "well" I refer to an action filled with things like integrity and good health) but if abused can lead to sickness and death. This is why I keep quitting and re-joining Facebook--because I am aware of its explosive nature and I want to tread lightly through its minefield.

I have a friend on Facebook who, like me, is pregnant and due around the same time. And yet she found out that her baby probably won't live until her delivery day and if he does live, he won't live much longer out of the womb. Would it be easier for her to let her voice be disabled along with her baby? Much easier. But this woman stepped out in vulnerability and courage and shared her story with the Universe. I have no doubt that for every ten people who ridicule her and her family for the decisions they have been forced to make, there are a hundred people who are healed by her voice. Who hear her story and from the guts of our humanity, hold her up, breathe in and out beside her and let her speak.

More often than not, that is all we need.

It's Not Pretty

My iPhone 4 has been acting up. Every few days it will kick me out of an app and when I re-start my phone, all of my contacts are erased, and when they get iClouded back over, for some reason the contact info is matched up with the wrong profile picture and ring-tone. For instance, whenever the kids' elementary school phones me, my friend Lora wearing a cowboy hat pops up on my screen and my phone plays "Bad to the Bone."

I figured since my phone is on its way out, that it's about time I did another edition of iPhone Notes. Here goes:

Vitamin K (for blood clotting, to help heal the blood clot in my uterus)

Parsley
Kale
Brussels Sprouts
Broccoli 
Asparagus
Cabbage
Prunes   

Can you say, "diarrhea?!?!?" But I have to admit that my steady diet of Vitamin K foods must have done something for me because that nasty blood clot is all gone!!!

And another one:

www.squatpoop.com

I don't even know what to say about that. I don't remember why I wrote it down but I do remember forwarding the link to my father. He always appreciates these types of things.

Then, thankfully something completely unrelated to bowel movements, I jotted down the name of the girl at the Water Shed who always knows my name and I forget hers (it's Satori), and an author I'd like to check out, "Isabel Allende." Followed by the license plate number of a car parked too close to my van at the Rec Centre (just in case I came back and saw a dent... aren't I a SPAZ?!?)

I jotted down "Shawshank Redemption" (I must have wanted to re-watch it again one day soon) and then the title of a future blog post, "Noodles in My Scarf" which originally held profound meaning I am sure, but now for the life of me, I've no clue what that might have been.  I do, however, remember dropping chow mein down onto the front of me while I piggishly wolfed down dinner while driving somewhere, and feeling frustrated at the difficulty I had of removing the sticky noodles from my woolen scarf. In my head, there's always a possibility for a story and a metaphor. As soon as I am allowed to resume drinking,  I'll be sure to come up with something grand.

And lastly, I jotted down some thoughts on the subject of love:

Feelings are yo-yos. Sometimes we feel like loving and sometimes we don't. The ability to love well is revealed in the secret dark corners, not just when the world is watching. Love is a choice, not just a feeling.

There's so much I would love to write about in regards to those thoughts but maybe I'll save it for another post when I can weave it into some chow mein noodles and wool. For now, I'll stick to the kale and prunes.

Lola Lied

I'm not a cook. I know my strengths and weaknesses and I have no problem admitting that cooking falls into the latter category. Smoke and oven fires are commonplace, as are the shrill sound of the smoke alarm and the carcinogenic char stuck to the side of the meat dish.

Lying has never been my specialty, either. I've gone through phases, dabbled in a huge ass lie or two but I quite suck at it. If my extremely guilty body language doesn't immediately give it away then I will surely pay my penance at night when I lay my head down to try and sleep through my guilt. It just doesn't happen. And quite honestly, (he he) in my experience I have found that a) the pain caused by the lie almost always exceeds the pain found in the truth and, b) truth always comes out anyway. It just does. Maybe not the way we imagine it to surface but it does ooze out in some capacity or another and I know that we all know this. So why do we keep doing it?

Because we're human. We have pride, we have excuses, we have perfectly self-validated reasons for lying and now we're so good at it that it would be a shame to stop. It's addicting. It fulfills our need to be something other than who we are. But then it hides who we really are, and all our pride and excuses and reasons and addictions grow larger than life and all of a sudden we've disappeared altogether. And we're alone. We have nobody left around us to lie to. 

Freddy reminded me tonight of the time we lost "Lola" our red corn snake. One moment she was throwing down mice in her tank and the next she was gonezo. We went on a snake-rampage, searching every little corner of the house, imagining where a little snakey might hide but we kept coming up with nothing. We eventually gave up. Days passed. Weeks passed.

And then one day I sat down on the floor in the computer room to go through my school binders to find an old assignment and when I flipped open the pages, Lola was found folded, chilling and peaceful along the spine of the binder. I fucking FREAKED. I screamed and jumped and threw the binder in the air. The kids ran over to laugh at me and to collect their beloved pet.

Truth comes out. Lies can hide in cool dark corners but nothing charms them to the surface better than a bit of light. And then once they surface we can let go of all that worry that weighs us down, of when it'll show up, and where, and how much will it hurt? Because once it's out, we're light and free and able to go on living.

Smooth Legs and Gasoline

My very first car was a blue 1987 Pontiac Firefly. It only had four gears and three cylinders; every time I climbed a hill I'd lean forward and hold my breath. Taking it over 80km/hour on the freeway satisfied my teenaged urge for an adrenalin rush.

We lived in a huge home in a prestigious area and I parked my Firefly on the side of the road in front of our house. Other drivers hated coming around the corner and near-missing my little blue wonder and so it was no shock to any of us that one balmy summer night, we were awakened by the sound of banging on our front door.

It was just the three of us in the house at that time. My parents were sleeping in the room across the hall from me while I slept soundly in my double bed beside my beloved orange cat, Harley. I was startled awake by the combination of banging on the front door and flashing lights assaulting me through my bedroom window. I jumped up and burst into my parents' room to wake them up.

My dad, leaving his false teeth soaking in the cup in the bathroom and wearing nothing but his tighty whities and a too-tight t-shirt, busted out of bed to see what was going on. He stormed down the stairs and whipped the front door open to greet the group of firemen who were asking if a "Susan Hutchins lives here."

Sitting on the stairs with zit cream on my face, I was too embarrassed to come to the door so my dad, toothless and half naked, exchanged some information with the firemen. Apparently someone had tipped my car over onto its side and my gas tank emptied into the middle of road. We got it all worked out and my dad retreated up the stairs to his bedroom only to realize his too-tight t-shirt was a souvenir from a Deana Carter concert which read, "Did I Shave My Legs For This?" We didn't laugh about it that night but we've made up for it many times since. It's a classic story that goes down in Hutchins' history.

Sometimes we come up with these grandiose plans of how we believe our lives will unfold, you know? And we prepare ourselves for the Good Life: money, success, beauty, prestige, smooth legs. But then sometimes life just happens and we're left standing there, vulnerable and unprotected, wondering who tipped us over when we weren't looking. And it's in those moments where true character shines through and differentiates between the people who stay tipped over and the ones who get right back up. I'm glad that I am surrounded by the people who get right back up. My dad didn't teach me fashion sense, but he taught me tenacity, and that type of thing can't be bought at a concert.

Blazing Battles

The morning after our wedding, I had to wake everyone up really early to get Freddy to his soccer game. I set my alarm on my phone, and when it went off I forced my eyes open just long enough to turn off the obnoxious ringing. Closing my eyes and burying my face back into my pillow, I noticed that I could still see my phone screen lit up behind my eyelids.

Maybe I don't get out much, but I find it fascinating how I could see the details of my screen with my eyes closed even after only looking at it for a split second! Glowing like a hot fire before me, I could read the writing on my iPhone wallpaper: "Worry is a misuse of imagination."

We've all heard how adversity builds character, right? Well Andrew thinks that adversity doesn't build character so much as it shows the world who has got it. Whatever we focus on in the daylight grows us and forms us and then when the lights go out, these things will be what give us the light we need to see through the darkness. If we don't toss a line to the people we love when the going is good, then chances are we won't have anything to hold onto when we're stumbling around through the fog.

I've heard more religious people pray for things they need than ones who thank their God for the things they already have. We walk around like we're entitled to a smooth ride, self-absorbed and stuck in our driver's seat but as soon as we hit a detour we throw our hands in the air and weep bitterly for our misfortune. We wonder why we don't see God in the darkness? Maybe because we don't first notice him in the light.

I completely suck at this--don't get me wrong. If my lights were to go out right this second, I guarantee that the only things left glowing in the dark would be things like Halloween candy and my Costco list. I want to be that person who, when stepping into adversity is guided by the resplendent glow of goodness. I'll get there one day, I hope. As long as I first warm my cold little heart by the heat lamps of gratitude, service, and love. Right after I finish this chocolate bar.

Tossed in Translation

I accidentally dropped my tea bag down the kitchen sink this morning which meant that I had to stick my hand down the garburator to fish it out. There's nothing much worse than feeling last night's dinner of beef and barley soup squish between my fingers while the blades' sharp edges threaten me with bloodthirsty possibilities. My body's physiological signals got crossed between fits of nausea (caused by the idea that I'm palpating vomit) and heart-pounding fear (of getting my hand shredded to bits). For the sake of the kids, I held it together just long enough to drag the tea bag out into safety at which point I collapsed from the sheer energy expense of it all.

I really miss my coffee.

Our cell phones are like garburators. Except not really at all, but I really want to talk about both, and I'm going to make this work. Both are functional and practical, taking in substance from one side and processing it through to the other side. But if used haphazardly, can chop us up to bits. Texting is the worst for this! How many times have each of us had one of those miscommunication moments where what we typed into our phones came out the other side looking like puke? And how many times have we found that the miscommunication has nearly chopped up a perfectly good relationship?

There have been many times in my life when I've decided to just toss my cell over the bridge but then clutched onto it in fear of missing out on something. Or maybe I could get rid of the texting feature and just use my phone for talking. I'm chewing on the idea, procrastinating as best I can as I know it will be a tough swallow.

A cup of coffee would sure help it go down.

Baby Steps

I'm sitting at the Water Shed in Langley, one of my favourite coffee shops. They make the wickedest Americanos; the espresso is dense, practically beckoning to me in Italian prose while the crema on top swirls me in and dunks me under its healing waters. It's decaf of course but even its decaffeination loses not its potency.

Six-books-deep into my must-read pile, I decided to use my morning off to make a dent in the stack. However, my brain had other plans. What should I bring to work for lunch? I have to go pee. The baby kicked! Then this lady teetered into the coffee shop in a pair of high heels, reminding me that I need to practice wearing mine for next Friday, when I marry my love.

Several weeks ago I bought a fabulous dress. I was pleased to find something to wear in advance so as to have one less thing to worry about, until I tried it on again a couple of nights ago and now I most definitely have something to worry about. I'm trying to work with the new developments, but they seem to have a mind of their own. At this point, I'll be lucky to even see my shoes.

A couple of years ago I had to dress up to go to an awards ceremony with Andrew. I nailed down a dress but hadn't worn heels since my dear friend Renata's wedding in 2004. Jane came over with a bottle of wine and several pairs of shoes. I put on my dress and, attempting to showcase the first set of heels, I stepped gingerly down the stairs, wine glass in hand, to show Jane. I had only taken one step when my heel slipped and to catch my balance, I threw my hand against the wall only to realize it was the hand that held the wine glass. I smashed the glass into a million pieces, sprayed red wine all over the walls, railing, stairs, my dress and legs, and proceeded to tumble head-over-high-heels down the entire length of stairs.

We can alter what we look like on the outside to make everyone believe we're something that we're not but as soon as we start to move about and live our lives, we showcase the truth of who we are. We all get judged from the outside looking in, but if those people lived and walked with us, they'd know something very different.

Shouting our truths from the treetops will only make us look like assholes but quietly living them out, day by humble day, will grow our truths to the point that who we really are will be obvious to everyone around us. Even if we look down and can't see our own shoes.

"What's On Your Mind?"

You know how some people post their status on Facebook ten times a day? I have to admit, it's something I love to hate and hate to love. When I'm stuck in bed wearing fat pants looking like I just got washed up on the banks of the Fraser River, I like to read these statuses and imagine my life as:

"lunch at the Cactus Club in Langley"

or...

"on our way to the Justin Timberlake concert!!!"

I'd even take...

"stuck beside man doing hot farts on flight to Calgary."

I'm not picky.

Now, if I were to post my statuses on Facebook for a day it would go something like this:

"accidentally brushed my teeth with Katie's toothbrush"

and...

"made a healthy kale and avocado wrap for lunch and then ate food court Chinese food instead"

which would be followed by...

"mistakenly covered my stretching belly skin with a lotion that I am severely allergic to and am now covered in a rash."

Obviously, this is why most people don't post stupid stuff like that on Facebook, but rather nice, pleasant updates. Their children say the sweetest things, their jobs are rewarding, their skin glows with vegan health, and their significant other is selling his dirt bike collection to buy her diamond earrings and a Bikram Yoga membership.

Nobody wants to know that Katie screamed, "don't TOUCH ME!!!!!!!" when I tried to brush her hair or that I ate half a jar of nacho cheese dip only to find the lid covered in mold once I had polished off the last drop.

I know that I post nauseating lovey-dovey posts about how much Andrew and I love each other. And that I'll write about how much I love my kids on their birthdays. I paint my life (we all do) a certain way but I do it with the assumption that you all know me well enough by now to know that my life is not perfect. And not only is it not perfect, but that I thrive in the mess because that's where love is found, and that grace grows in the cracks, right? Grace grows in the cracks.

Andrew and I adore each other enough to make everyone around us a bit nauseous, but don't get the bucket yet because we are well aware of our imperfections. The two of us have been through more adversity in our two-plus years of togetherness than a lot of lifetimers. We've had our share of rashes and moldy nacho dip. We take great pictures, but we don't post the ones where he's sitting broken and defeated at the end of our bed with his head in his hands, or the one of me after I got a piece of my nose burned off from potential skin cancer. Or when we're in the hospital being told that we're losing our baby.

We all want everyone to like us, right? To think we're not fat and ugly and that we don't yell at our children or eat carcinogenic hydrogenated oil and drink crown and coke with hardly any coke in it. What we have to remember is that no matter what we do, even if our pictures are cute and our kids are lovely and our husbands are charming, there will be a whole bunch of people who think we're idiots. And we have to just accept that.

The only people who matter (in our lives) are the ones who stand next to us. They don't have to like us all the time. They can find us annoying and frustrating and downright maddening but they see our rashes and our mold and our tears and scars and they love us anyway. Right here, right now. Day in, and day out.

And for them...

"I am thankful."

Swerve

I used to have huge anxiety problems. It peaked when I was in grade 5 after I spent a week throwing up in an outhouse at camp. It triggered in me this irrational fear of puke. I spent a year eating toast and honey, convinced that it was humanly impossible to throw that up. I didn't exactly Carpe the Diem in grade five, but I also didn't throw up toast and honey. Mission accomplished.

My anxiety seemed to disappear for a while and then pop back up like hammer pants and acid wash. Equally unpredictable and frustrating. 

Everyone obviously deals with anxiety in some capacity or another, and most times it's manageable. We get cut off in traffic, we panic, and then self-regulate back to normal once the coast is clear. Sometimes, though, we need to adapt to a "new normal." Say we blow a tire, and instead of driving away in the same condition as we entered, we need to self-regulate while we balance on three wheels long enough to come to a safe stop. We then figure out how to fix the problem and before too long we're back up and running on all four wheels.

For me, the key to managing anxiety is self-regulation. It's like a head-check. Fear is just an emotion--it's not a truth. Just because we feel something doesn't make it true. Right now, I can make a list of a hundred things I'm afraid of, no problem. But my list of truths exceed this list by a million.

Focusing on the truths in my life make them grow. Acknowledging my fears and then balancing on three wheels to drive through them makes them disappear into the distance. And once I come to a safe stop, I can only hope I'm not caught on the side of the road needing a tire change, wearing hammer pants. 

Expectation

We saw the specialist yesterday and he showed us on his portable ultrasound machine where the blood clot still resides. The star of the show was moving about, opening and closing its mouth and flexing its wee little toes. The doctor flicked off the machine, leaned back in his chair and smiled at us. The panic in my chest certainly did not match his calm demeanor.

Andrew and I tag-teamed him with a gunfire of questions and concerns and his response can be summed up like this:

1) The baby is healthy and safe in its amniotic sac, and so we have nothing to grieve.

2) While most women with subchorionic hematomas (blood clots) go on to deliver full-term healthy babies, some do not. The blood can irritate the uterus and sometimes deliver the baby much too early.

3) There is nothing that we can do to control the blood clot (besides take obvious precautions). He looked at us in the eyes and told us to "let go." To stay connected to our baby just as we are connected to our other children, but to let go of the control that we really don't have. And to stop grieving something that hasn't even happened yet.

I guess they use the term "expecting" for pregnancy for a reason: we carry the baby and grow it and our accompanying body to gargantuan proportions until the baby is ready to breathe on its own. We expect these things, because this is how life most often plays out. Yes, there is tragedy, but it's not what *usually* happens. We don't cry in our cereal every morning, fearing the death of our 13, 11, 10, 8 and 7 year-olds (dear lord, that's a lot of kids), so why would we mourn the healthy person inside of me?

We shouldn't. We have our moments when our knees buckle in fear but we vow to hold on to the expectation that all six of our children will live, and be filled with our love.

"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you're expecting to give - which is everything."

Katharine Hepburn

Hold On

One lazy teenage summer, a group of us packed into a boat and took turns pulling each other around the lake on an inner tube. With our bellies full of ketchup chips and toaster strudels, one by one, we hopped onto the tube and trusted the driver with our lives for five minutes of delicious torture. Tyler was in charge of my ride and he spared no wave. He showed no mercy. Screaming, I spent every second in that tube debating which was worse: letting go to signal him to stop (and most assuredly causing him to speed up in malicious rebellion) or holding on for dear life until the spine-twisting, spleen-chattering ride was over.

I didn't have to wait too long because I was quickly cartwheeled over the edge of the tube and into the cold water at lightening-speed. Unfortunately, I hit the water in such a compromising position that water was forced into places where it should not be. I climbed back into the boat, eyes burning with tears. I punched Ty in the shoulder and sunk down into my seat and vowed to forgive him never.

On Saturday, we almost lost our baby. I stood between Freddy and Andrew while we watched Kylah's soccer game, and I started hemorrhaging. One second I was fine, the next I had blood pooling into my running shoes. As I waited on the ground for the ambulance, Freddy sat beside my head and I held his hand. With the very same strength that was birthed at each child's conception, I faced him and told him that I will be okay. That the baby probably won't be okay (Freddy nodded...he understood) but that I wasn't going anywhere. He hopped into the back of the ambulance with me and for the second time in his 11 years of life, we listened to the scream of the siren and road the ambulance together.

Despite the rocking boat and tumultuous waves, this baby in my womb remained safe and warm, healthy and vigorous. We rejoiced through sobs of relief. We were confused and sore, but this baby lived. And not only lived, but lived well.

We never really seem to know what kind of ride we're jumping on, do we? Until we're pulled along. We hold onto each other for dear life when the waves are hitting hard and then when we're deposited onto the beach, crumpled and compromised, we look up and squeeze the people we love, who have chosen to ride it out with us.

I'm thankful for my best friend, a man whom I didn't think I could ever love more deeply but do. Oh, I do. For our children, who give us a strength that we would never be able to construct on our own. For our friends and family who held us and cried with us. And for this baby, who is teaching me all over again, about love and letting go.

Sometimes it seems the smaller the gift, the more powerful the message.

The "F" Word

When Jason and I were first married we made a pact to never mention the word "divorce" and if we ever had to talk about it we'd refer to it as "the 'D' word." Looking back, and I can only guess, I'd say that our pact was fear-based rather than founded on the security of our relationship. Like how when we were kids, we'd ask Jesus to forgive our sins each and every night for fear of dying in our sleep and waking up naked at the judgement gates with our sins on the big screen. Was I sorry that by throwing Wes' pants into the pile of sawdust puke I'd be burning the bridges of friendship? No. I just wanted to make sure that me and my pants weren't being thrown into the fiery furnace.

Ignoring the urge to throw up and swallowing back the vomit won't stop the purge. Like, I thought I was done my morning sickness phase as the last time I threw up was about two weeks ago but just this morning my orange juice met porcelain. And I always believed with my whole heart that I wouldn't be a divorce statistic. I'm a non-conformist. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorces? Fuck that, not me! I dug my heels in, but into the wrong foundation.

Fear sucks.

I came into work yesterday with puffy eyes and cry-face. I told Bonnie through pathetic gaspy sobs that I had listened to Lee Ann Womack's song "I Hope You Dance" on the way to work bawling my eyes out, thinking about my kids. It's these lines that get me every time:

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance, 

Never settle for the path of least resistance.

Living might mean taking chances but they're worth taking, 

Loving might be a mistake but it's worth making.

I think our biggest obstacle in life is fear. I really do. It's not death that kills us. I mean, ultimately death has the last word but it's fear that snuffs our life out before death can even touch us. We're so scared of failure that we don't even look up. We're all just heads down, hands tied behind our backs, two feet in the grave. As if by not looking up at the climb we can pretend that it doesn't even exist. Meanwhile, we're left behind while everyone else digs their heels into the side of the mountain to get to the top to enjoy the view.

I want our kids to shake off fear and face their mountains. Of course I don't want them to feel the pain of the climb. But even more so, I don't want them to miss out on the view at the top. If I truly want this for them then I need to be an example of a fearless leader. Trudging through uncharted territory, often messy with sawdust puke, we'll eventually get to the top. And then we'll all look back down at what we went through, and it will all seem so small from way up here. 

So small from way up here. 

Everybody Dance Now

My baby belly is starting to pooch out a bit so that people are starting to clue in that it might not be the result of too many post-run Coronas at the river with Lora. And that maybe Andrew and I have been up to a little something or other.

It's a bit funny being in our situation. You wouldn't really know unless you're in it, what it's like. We know people who got divorced and then found love again and had babies together, but there's not a whole lot of us. Whenever we do catch eyes with "our people" we tend to glom onto them the way fat girls do at a freshman dance. It's just nice to be understood, right? To be related to. To relate.

People in our immediate circle obviously know our whole situation and so it's easy to just be around them. But often times we run into people whom we haven't seen in a while and I swear it can take us anywhere from 20 minutes to 3 hours to catch them up on everything. Now that my belly is baby-ized, it's become quite the information overload. I found the quickest way to break the ice is to pump my fist in the air and chant, "Jer-ry! Jer-ry!" and then they laugh and relax and we can all catch up with ease.

What we have often said is that we wish we could walk around with a billboard tied around our necks that give people all our basic information so that we can keep eating our dinner or doing whatever we were doing before we ran into them.

But one day something totally different happened. About a month ago I ran into a girl I knew quite well in university. Anna had NO CLUE about anything so I totally thought I'd be giving her a bit of a shock. Know what? She wasn't shocked. Even though her story was nothing like mine she still nodded along with me. Relating, understanding, connecting. She told me a story of her own that shocked me more than mine, and I learned a lesson that day. Again. That we ALL carry emotional billboards around our necks and that we can stay isolated if we really want to with our heads down, faces full, or we can look up and pull up a few chairs and invite other stories in.

I didn't need Anna's story to match mine in order for me to connect with her. Connection just naturally happened when we told our own stories.

Sometime last year Andrew and I went to a real estate awards ceremony and after dinner there was a dance. We watched a super large lady rock out on the dance floor. She owned that space like whip cream on pie. Her limbs were seemingly everywhere all at once and it was a miracle that nobody got carried out in a stretcher. If she waited on the sidelines until enough big ladies agreed to dance out there with her, she'd be waiting a long frigging time. She would have missed out on the dance!

We will share our stories and we'll listen to yours. Even if it takes 3 hours, and even if somebody gets carried out in a stretcher. Because Andrew and I would way rather live a little than sit on the sidelines. Let's cut a rug.

Loop Back

On Tuesday of this week I walked Jake into his new high school to get his class schedule. He tugged at his shirt and looked around nervously to see if he recognized any of his friends from his elementary school while I tugged at my own shirt wondering if the new baby was making its sweet little presence known on this momentous day. Jake and I realized together that when this baby goes into Kindergarten, Jake will be going into University. We laughed at the thought of it. What a lucky little brother or sister, having all of these big people to look up to!

Freddy was asking me one night about what makes up a family. I had explained to him that there are all different kinds of families. That I had grown up with three moms: my mom, and my two sisters who were a lot older (ha ha!) than me. When I was in grade eight, Tracey was married and I would often go to their place for sleepovers. I have fond memories of snuggling with their cat "Muffin" who, to my utmost glee, had kittens. I got to sleep on their pull-out couch and listen to the symphony of purring beside me on the floor. We'd always have peanut butter toast in the morning for breakfast on whole grain bread. We'd listen to the chickadees outside of their bathroom window, and that's when Tracey taught me how the chickadee got its name.

When I stayed at Lori and Dave's she always let me use all of her really expensive skin cream and makeup. I'd take a steaming hot shower and wash my hair with fancy salon products, slathering my locks in $60 leave-in conditioner. The best part? Lori would throw a huge fluffy bath towel into the dryer for me while I was showering so that when I got out, I could wrap myself up with it.

I imagine that I would have driven them nuts and so I'm not sure how I deserved all this sweet treatment but for some reason or another, they still gave it to me.

What makes a family? Even though we accept that it isn't always a mom, a dad, a son, a daughter and a golden retriever, we still tend to bend that way. Andrew and I giggle (giggle?) nervously about what we'll look like at Costco with my belly out ten feet and 5 kids rallying around us like protesters. Or school Christmas concerts when we have to reserve the first two rows...for just our immediate family. Meanwhile we'll be texting our exes about who has the shepherd's costume and oh, Katie just threw up in her angel wings.

I guess just like any other family, it's a group project. We look out for each other from the oldest to the youngest, looping back for hot towels and peanut butter toast. Everyone has something to offer and nobody knows what the hell is going on but at the end of it all, we all link up arms and take a bow.

As long as the baby is walking by then.

Alice Would be Blushing

I added a new label: "blended family." There aren't a whole lot of blended family blogs out there. If you're in a blended family yourself then it would be cool to be able to relate to someone else going through similar experiences. If you're not in a blended family then reading about them might help to broaden your horizon a bit! And a blended family is just that: a family. So a lot of the things our family will go through, so will any type of family, I am sure.

Our blended family is a relatively large one and so with it comes a spray park of dynamics; there are personalities coming at us in all directions. Andrew and I have seen counselors, read books, looked up websites, taken notes and made lists. Our date nights are filled with Spanish coffees (well, peppermint tea for me for the next 6 months) and discussions about how we will best parent our children together. There is no shortage of love in our family but we would be naive to think that love is all we need. We need plans, and then flexibility when said plans go to shit. We need to respect and forgive ourselves first so that we can then be able to respect and forgive each other. And above all, we need to communicate communicate communicate.

But it's good for us to realize that we can't control everything no matter how much we read and how many lists we make. And that sometimes we just need to let go. When I update people in my life about our family, I get asked a lot of questions and my reply is always honest: I make the rollercoaster motion with my hands in the air and that essentially sums it up. There's going to be a lot of tops and bottoms and hairpin curves and downright frightening moments. If we can just hold onto each other while we're being thrown around, then we can let go and throw our hands in the air when we're at the top.

One of my favourite memories is when we took our kids up the Abbotsford Grind: a tough hike up a local mountain. A couple of them tore up like it was nothing, and one or two kids straggled behind. But when we got to the top, we sat together and ate our sandwiches in peace while we looked out at the view below. We spent quite a bit of time at the top because it had been such hard work to get up there. I'm not sure who started this but all of our kids lined up along the edge and mooned us. We took a picture to capture the silly moment so that when we have more tough climbs we can remember that it's not always difficult, that they do pass and we do get to have fun at the top.

And we know that when we get shot upside the head with the hose water, we can just shake it off and show them the moon.

Hey, How's it Going?

I went through this phase in University where I put a huge emphasis on authenticity to the point where I sacrificed manners and social skills in the name of "being real." One of the things I hated was when people used the question "how's it going?" as a greeting rather than an honest inquiry. And so I rebelled against it and whenever someone would ask me that, I'd stop and just start totally going into my life story to see their reaction. They'd get all squirmy and I'd get all smug, as if I taught them some sort of lesson in authenticity.

However, I've since matured, partly because I found myself without a whole lot of friends but mostly because it didn't feel good to not care. Don't get me wrong--I value sincerity. I recognize the goodness of being real, of acknowledging and giving validity to our feelings and moods as they ebb and flow through our days. But sometimes, just sometimes, we need to get over ourselves and give a fuck about someone else.

Being human means to be absorbed with Self. Exercising the muscle of Other is exactly that: an exercise. It doesn't come naturally. It's work. It makes us sweat and it often smarts. And sometimes the very last thing on earth that I ever want to do is care about whatever person is in my face in that moment and it takes every ounce of my energy to lift that weight and care. But each time I do, (and I often don't!) I feel better.

When I was younger, I'd whine to my mom about not wanting to go to church that day and my mom would always tell me that this is the best time to go--when I don't feel like it. That I will be doubly rewarded (an extra cookie in Sunday School?) if I forced myself to go. I'm not sure if this ideology deemed true each time but there's something to be said about doing things that you don't feel like doing.

Statistically, a smile, even if it's forced, produces happy chemicals in the brain and our bodies can't help but feel a bit happier! Maybe if we forced ourselves to look up and smile, even when we don't feel like it, we'd find our emotional muscles to be stronger and more efficient.

I'm sure you're angry and resentful and have every good and valid reason to unleash your assholery on the cashier/son/daughter/ex/dog/annoyingpersontalkingtooloudontheircellinthestarbucksline, and God knows they have no idea how hard your life has been and they most certainly haven't ever had a struggle in their lives. But just keep doing what you're doing. Leave the bar of Other on the ground in the weight room and see what happens. If it's the same thing that happened to me, you'll look up in the gym mirror and see nobody around you and your heart will be small and cold and flabby. Or, you can let go of Self and pick up the Other bar and join the rest of the world in all our glorious messes.

Because where there are messes, there are people. And where there are people, there is Love.

Inked

There's this guy who used to regularly come into the physio clinic when I first started working there and then his ICBC claim time limit came up and he stopped going. I remember him being so... defeated. His head was slung low and his shoulders seemed to curl forward as if they'd swallow his body whole and he'd disappear completely.

I can't imagine what it might be like to live with pain day in and day out. I see a lot of people at my work in pain, and I don't wish it on anyone. It seems to be a relentless beating that doesn't have a trigger; each attack is a surprise, not leaving a clue as to when it will cease. But then I noticed that there are some people who come in who deal with pain even worse than this guy and yet they have this positive and hopeful outlook on life. They might limp, but their eyes are sparkly. They might have paralysis in their face but they smile with as much of it as they can.

I don't dare judge, as I can't imagine standing for a moment in their shoes let alone walk a mile in them. All I do is observe and wonder how I'd live it out if it were me. I can only hope that my eyes would sparkle and that my mouth would curl into a lopsided grin but I bet with all of my able body parts that I would have both good days and bad.

The guy who stopped coming came back in the other day and when I unhooked him from the IFC machine, I noticed he has a tattoo on his back that I hadn't seen before. It reads: "Carpe Diem." Seize the Day.

For now, the tattoo is ironic. And maybe it would have been better if he had inked the slogan on the tops of his feet, as that is where is gaze usually falls. But as I stood there and wiped the ultrasound gel off his back, I decided that it's up to me, and only me, to seize the day.

Drop Back In

No matter our social status, height-to-weight ratio, or the presence (or not) of a unibrow, each one of us take turns getting schooled in the lesson of humility.

Jake's friend was attempting to drop in on his skateboard at the skate park, and while he stood there staring down at the steep ramp in respectful fear, other skaters looked on in hopeful support. A few of them even came over and gave him some encouraging pointers. He stood there, rocked back and forth a bit and with the crowd of adolescents watching expectantly, he chickened out. He got off his board and tripped, landing face first over the edge of the ramp, his bum in the air and with his face pressed down into the grass on the other side.

Humility.

His eyes burned with embarrassment but we reassured him that we've all been there. Jake began listing his own personal stories of humiliation while his friend blinked back tears. Some self-regulation combined with a couple shoulder-smacks and a few friendly words of encouragement, and Jake's friend got right back on the board and dropped in on the ramp. Bam.

Becoming a mother is humbling. Sticking my finger in a diaper to check its status and pulling it out covered in poo can put a damper on how I view my mothering skills. Clipping my teenager's dragon toenails and having them rocket into my face can bring me down a couple notches. Lighting breast pump paraphernalia on fire, getting barfed on (ceasar salad, to boot), and losing my bathing suit bottoms at a grade two school pool party on the rope swing, are all examples of humility. In the moment? It's tragic. But if we can keep getting back up, we can look at the scene below us and laugh.

Jake's friend exemplified humility but even more so, he illustrated courage.

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts."

-Winston Churchill-

Be Together

The kids and I were picking out a movie to watch tonight and Jake informed me that statistically, funny movies are funnier when a bunch of people watch it together. More people, more laughs, good times all around. Then he pointed out that scary movies are much scarier with less people. Isolation breeds fear like Kate makes eight.

This is true for movies, and true for life. Humans were created for community. Laughing feels good. Being scared is inevitable and even though it can sometimes be exciting and stimulating, we still need to know that when the scary part is over we can collapse into the safety of our loves.

Andrew and I are both "people" people. On one of our first dates we went to this ocean side restaurant where we sat at this really sweet romantic table for two beside a huge water fountain. This cute older couple sat down at the table next to us and we could hear them wondering aloud what "sliders" were. I was just about to turn to help them out when Andrew himself started talking to them, explaining the menu and laughing with them about something or other. I remember sitting there staring at him thinking to myself, "HE is talking?!? That's MY job!!!" And I knew we were made for each other. We're like those two guys in the balcony from the Muppet Show. People usually just stare at us with their mouths open while we go off on our little comedy act. We think we're hilarious. Why? Because there's two of us. People laugh because it's contagious! We don't do it to be funny, we just do it because it's fun to be together.

Life doesn't always hand out cotton candy and free tickets to Disneyland. Sometimes it's raw broccoli and shark tanks. Linking up and muscling through the scary parts will eventually get us through it in one piece, and then when we get to the good stuff, we won't be alone to enjoy the rides.

Colour Me Dead

Andrew almost had to drive me to the ER the other night. We had gone for a walk in Fort Langley, talking and laughing together, having the greatest of times. People were staring at our nauseating display of adoration and affection as we glided along the path, propelled by love and Spanish coffees. Suddenly Andrew grabbed my hand and, shocked by the coldness of my skin, held my hand up to examine it. It was blue. He grabbed my other one and as we stared in horror we saw that both of my hands were blue! I'm talking like, BLUE blue.

"You look DEAD, Suzy!" I could see that Andrew was panicking, and he quickly turned us around to walk us back down the path. "We have to take you somewhere to get checked out. You may feel fine but it's only a matter of time before something happens."

I phoned my mom and, with a shaky voice asked her to please come over and stay with the kids so that Andrew could take me to the hospital. When I told her what happened over the phone, she thought I had told her that "I'm covered in glue."

I calmly put the kids to bed while we waited for my mom to get there. When she came in and saw my hands, she let out a huge sigh of relief and said "Are those new jeans that you're wearing? Because this happened to Lori and Tracey and I when we lived in California. The blue dye from the jeans can rub off onto your skin." Incredulously,  the three of us began rubbing our hands onto the leg of my jeans and sure enough, all of our hands turned blue.

So we sat around and had coffee and talked, which would have been really uncomfortable had I been covered in glue.

Jerry Springer Tag

 I recently reunited with my life-long friend, Christy. We grew up in the same church in Delta, BC (that's our "Wee College" grad photo) and then ended up at the same private school in grade ten. Christy and I have some pretty great memories of high school but for the most part, we were on different life paths; I spent my Friday nights throwing up Sambuca at Jon Eddy's house while Christy snuggled with her high school sweetheart, Ryan, on one of their couches watching Drew Barrymore movies.

Christy and I both got married young and had our first children pretty soon thereafter. We did our best to stay connected but between the naps and feedings and pregnancies and all the chaos that new parenthood entails, we weren't able to visit each other as much as we had hoped.

Getting bored? Me too.

Fast forward 13 years. Two weeks ago we found ourselves sitting across from each other at Earl's, inhaling spinach dip and red wine, and talking about divorce and sex and money and having days where we would sacrifice sex and money for just 10 minutes of peace and quiet and then having such lonely nights that we cry so hard we'd throw up.

We played "Jerry Springer Tag" where we went back and forth with our mind-boggling life stories, shocking the socks off of each other yet not really at all because having gone through all that we've lived through, we both know that anything can happen, and everyone has a story.

Everyone has a story.

That's the conclusion that Christy and I have come to, over and over again. I always thought that I had the craziest stories, until I met Andrew. And Christy. And Jane. And the hairdresser that I used to live next to in Abbotsford. And the patients who come into the physio clinic. And every other human being on earth with a beating heart.

Let's just peel off the face masks and back each other up in this crazy show that we call life. The sooner we admit that we are fallible, the quicker we can cut to a commercial break.

When Milk Seeps Into the Motherboard

Every morning I stumble downstairs, make coffee, and then bring it back up to my room and rest it on my nightstand. Then I flip open my MacBook Pro, catch up on emails, return messages, check the weather, and do some writing.

Until Katie spilled a ginormous glass of milk on my laptop. We lost the remote for the TV, and I wanted to go for a run without anyone fighting and so for the very first (and only) time, I let Katie play with my MacBook. She spilled her milk all over the bloody thing and then tried to mop it up and hide what she did. When I turned it on a few hours later, I saw a droplet of milk and then the thing fizzled out on my lap.

I brought it to Best Buy where they confirmed the death, and as I sunk to my knees, the sales guy grabbed my arm and hushed me, telling me that "it's only a laptop, that it's not a child, that your kids are healthy and alive, and the 'things' of this earth can be replaced." Then I told him that if that's true, then he'd probably not mind much at all if I tucked another MacBook under my arm and walked out. 

Life is full of lessons and I have no doubt there's a big fat one waiting for me somewhere in the curdled milk. Maybe I'm not meant to be a writer. Or a runner. Or maybe I shouldn't take shortcuts on parenting techniques. Or maybe we shouldn't be drinking milk. Or maybe, just maybe, sometimes mistakes seep into our motherboard and we just have to live with it. 

So here I am, punching away at the sticky keys on our desktop in the family room while Freddy pesters Katie behind me until she cries, and while Jake begs me to send them both to a boarding school in Sri Lanka. There are what looks to be boogers stuck to the edge of the desk, and there's dubstep assaulting me through the speakers.

I am a mother first. A writer and a runner, maybe those too. But always a mother. My MacBook mornings will come again when the time is right but for now, I won't cry over spilled milk. I'll just fill my cup up with wine instead.

Blend Into the Wicker

When I was a teenager, about 16 years old, my parents would call these family meetings where they'd sit me down in the family room, my dad on my left on the sofa and my mom on my right in her soft blue wing-armed chair, and they'd talk to me as I sat across from them on the loveseat. In between us stood an expensive glass-topped white wicker coffee table, and when the family meeting got uncomfortable, I'd sink my gaze into the twirling wooden twine of wicker that licked the edge of the blue-green glass and I would "blend into the wicker" in some feeble attempt of escape. I would enter myself into the white wood, bending and sliding along, filling my senses with anything but the discomfort of conflict.

I had my share of tumultuous teen years and I can imagine it was difficult for my parents to watch. They wanted to save me, I could tell, but all I really needed to do was just plow through it all and let the discomfort strengthen me and teach me.

There are moments still, where I find myself blending into the wicker. I love running along the dyke out by Andrew's place because it's where water meets mountain, where the leaves of each branch on every tree seem to curl their fingers into me and sweep me up and away from the mire. Last week I stood along the edge of the river and faced myself squarely into the mountain and, from the depth of my hurt, riding on the coattails of my ever-growing strength, I sang as hard as I could into the open air.

It's not always me-against-world, but sometimes, when it feels like I am alone, I let myself be cradled by the salve of peace and then I know in that moment, I will be okay.

Insert Winky Face

You have to admit that emoticons have changed the cellular world as we know it. The invention of cell phones disrupted our lives in that we became reachable to all sorts of assholery whether we were on the toilet or in a business meeting or trudging through the Grand Canyon. Then came texting, which took self-control to a whole new level of low, giving us the ability to act on our emotions right. that. very. second.

Not only is the The Text more malnourished of self-control than a 14 year-old boy at a grade 9 dance, but texting also gets misinterpreted. I've been told that I sound angry in my texts because I am so direct. I decided to combat the anger with some winky faces ;) to lighten the tone up a bit. But what I've been noticing is that people use the happy face :) and the winky face ;) to passive-aggressively get a point across. Like as if using a ;) after "oh wow, did you really wear that outfit to this function?" nullifies the offensive tone to the statement. It's like when we were kids and we'd follow up a slander with "no offense!" We'd say, "you totally suck at badminton, Jimmy! NO OFFENSE!" But meanwhile, Jimmy is offended as fuck. And then Sam gets a badminton racquet imprinted in the side of his face and he hops around trying to stop the bleeding, pleading with Jimmy, "but I said, 'no offense!!!'"

I'm not sure what the next invention might be and how exactly it will ruin our lives, but we can all collectively breathe a sigh of relief because at the end of the day, we can just call out in a sing-song voice, "no offense!" and insert a winky face ;) and all will be well.

Reach

One of my favourite places to be is on my balcony: sitting in my Ikea chair facing the moon, Macbook on my lap, stars in my eyes, heater blasting warm air on my bare legs.

When I was teenager living at home, after a fight with my parents, I'd hop into my dad's turquoise Mazda truck and speed off with half a pack of cigarettes and I would park somewhere and lean up against the outside of the truck and look up into the night sky, puffing my smoke in hopes that it would be the ticket in exchange for an answer of some sort. And of course, it never was. All I got was a step closer to cancer and bad teeth.

But there's something to be said about standing alone and looking into the night sky. It's seemingly endless. In a world without hope, all I see are dead-ends. But the night sky holds promise. It contains a void so large that it would take 800 gazillion years of smoke-blowing to even touch the surface.

We all try to reach it in some way, whether by running or money or success or some other pathetic measure of our own self-worth but if we're truly honest with ourselves, as much as we may feel like we "finally got there" at some point in our lives, we know that we never really have. As soon as we come face to face with the stark reality of our powerlessness, we realize that we are indeed, fuckitty fucked.

We can white-knuckle our way through a nutrition and fitness plan, or we can live out the ideal family of two children, a puppy, and an area rug made out of milk cartons and dandelion fur, but we will eventually come face-to-face with our own limited power, and that day, will blow. Because it hurts. It's humiliating. It's like qualifying for a spelling bee by accurately spelling the word "weird" and then showing up to the contest and having to correctly spell the word "algorithm."

I think the sooner we realize our limited capacity for power, the better. Because there's nothing worse than dragging that shit out. Am I saying that we need to give up before we even start? No! But I think that knowledge is power--that by being aware of our own kryptonite, we will be quicker in asking others for help.

If it takes a village to raise a child, why wouldn't it take the universe to grow the world?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Spare a Square

I ran past a guy without an arm today. He was walking arm in arm (the other one, obviously) with whom I assume is his girlfriend. The brain-static that followed went (embarrassingly) like this:

"I wonder how he lost his arm? How would losing an arm affect me? I guess I'd have a hard time grabbing things. I think it would affect my personality more than I realize. I'd have to be nicer because I'd need people to be nicer to me (I'd need more help than the average two-armed person) and they're not going to be nice to me if I'm mean, unless they're being sympathy-nice and that's gross. So then would I really be true to myself if I forced myself to be nicer just because I needed to be?"

And then I realized that losing an arm would be representative of any type of adversity any of us have ever faced, and that we all carry (sorry) our cripple in some form or another whether it be seen or hidden. And that we all need to be nicer to people because we need them to be nice to us for peace to exist and for love to prevail and for the sake of chocolate chip cookies and all things warm and filling.

Or, we could always be resentful, and use our cripple as an excuse to be mean and I suppose that's just a choice we make. Or, we could not be mean, but at the same time refuse help for the sake of our pride and just accomplish everything we need to accomplish plus some just to prove the point that we don't need anybody's help. But don't we? Complete isolation and prideful independence isn't really all that admirable, unless you're a tree.

Whether we're stuck in a bathroom stall with no toilet paper or trying to get our double-wide stroller through the Starbucks door, at one point or another, we will need a hand from our fellow humans. We can either humbly and kindly ask for help and therefore join in on the goodness, or we can stay stuck outside the glass walls in the cold while everyone sips their coffees inside where it's warm. We can either wipe with a spared square or we can drip dry, which always ends poorly. We have a choice: to link up our good arms and walk in community or we can, like my dad always says, "make like a tree and leave."

Heads Up

As I get older and grow in maturity and strength (HA!), I notice that I am able to control my thought patterns a bit more than I used to. Where I would once spiral into an anxiety-ridden mess, I now rein it in and keep my footing.

I had that medical procedure done last week and now I have to wait for the results. While I was running this morning I started to worry about what might be wrong with me and thirty seconds later I was taking mental notes of where my friends and family would sit at my funeral. What kind of food will they serve? There will be a chocolate fountain, for sure, and a giant bowl of ketchup chips beside the guest book. Everyone will sign their names in rainbow-coloured scented felt pens. As you can see, I lost my footing a bit this morning.

Remember that scene from Tommy Boy where Chris Farley is doing the lifesaver demo on the airplane? He puts the inflatable thingie around his neck and blows it up while David Spade informs everyone that "there's no point in learning how to use one of these because if the plane is going to crash into anything, it's going to be a mountain." And everyone gasps in horror.

That's what I was doing this morning--I was focusing on the wrong thing! If I'm going to die anytime soon, chances are it will be from being nailed by a truck while I'm running along the side of the road. But even so, why would I spend my energy worrying about death when I could spend that energy actually living?

I may lose my footing from time to time, for sure. And I really hope that there isn't an open mike at my funeral. But as long as I keep getting up and moving forward, keeping my focus on living and loving fully, then chances are, I won't hit a mountain.

Doing the Deed Alone

I love this quote: "Integrity is doing the right thing when nobody is watching."

My dad taught me the importance of doing good deeds and not telling a single soul that you did them. Do you know how impossible this is? Not only can I not brag about my sainthood but I can't even look up with the pleading "LOOK AT ME DOING AWESOME STUFF!" eyes while I'm picking up the garbage/helping the lady across the street. For the youngest child, attention-seeker, it's pure torture. Try it--you'll see what I mean.

Most of my close friends and family know this story: A few years back during a particular messed up time in my life, I was driving along River Road in Fort Langley and I pitched a full McDonalds cup of Diet Coke out the window of my van. Just like, littered the mutherfucker out all over the road, just like that. And as soon as the cup left my hands, something inside of me woke up, and it wasn't pretty.

I knew in that moment that my heart had gone cold, and throwing my litter out the window, although a smaller crime along the grand scale of life's fuckups, was a direct result of an unhealthy heart. That cup became a symbol, as it were, of my mess. My issues. My shit.

I was staring head-on into the darkest part of myself and I was filled with remorse, which thankfully, was soon replaced by a strong desire to change. It's easier to do the right thing when everyone is watching, but it's even easier to do the wrong thing when we know that nobody can see us.

Each cup that we litter brings our integrity down a notch and although it seems like a slow fade, you'll notice that one day you'll wake up and the symbol of the mess won't be something as small as a littered cup. It will be much bigger, and it will hurt much more.

Not out of paying penance for my crime but out of a true desire to become a better human being, I began to do the right things when nobody was watching and guess what? The peaceful feeling (go, Eagles!) at the end of the night is more satisfying than standing on a stage having a million people chant my name. Because I know it makes me a full, loving Suzy... not an empty, needy girl.

And that's something I can drink (Diet Coke) to.