Andrew talked about this a couple of weeks ago on his vlog, that no matter how many square feet of living space we have, our kids always seem to follow us around the house and cram into whatever room we're in.
We picked this home for the reasons that it had enough bedrooms to accommodate our blended family of eight as well as the advantage of having a rec room in the basement for where the kids could all hang out together (read: GIVE US FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD). Yeah, sure, they hang out downstairs in the rec room from time to time to play gruesome murder video games or to have the occasional standoff at air hockey, but for the most part they're well, wherever we are. And yes, that includes the toilet.
Andrew and I were cooing at Callum while he was splashing in the bathtub (Callum, not Andrew) and then Freddy sauntered in to ask me to look over his math worksheets. Shortly after that Katie waltzed in to get me to sign her planner for school and then Ethan followed them both in to see what the fuss was about. So at one time we had six people all crammed into our bathroom, happily, which was nice, as nobody was fighting at that particular moment so we can't really complain. But STILL.
I just think it's so ironic that people search high and low for that perfect home with an added rec room or space to accommodate a play area for the kids but then once we're settled, that play area becomes cold and drenched in the cobwebs of un-use.
I guess it just proves that humans are created for communion, for connection. That as we grow older, through years of experience and pain and hurt we start to put up emotional barriers and isolate ourselves further into independence. Being alone is not how we are wired but instead how we are misfired. It's not right. It's off. And so we constantly yearn for that connection but with our arms protectively outstretched in a manner of stay away, not too close, and then before too long we are alone in our mancave or alone in our living room and we wonder why our children, our own primal beings follow us into the bathroom where they can just breathe in the air we breathe out.
And we wonder why. But we know. Because at the core of who we are, we want that too.
Showing posts with label blended family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blended family. Show all posts
Friday, December 5, 2014
Friday, November 28, 2014
BFF: Heat Rises
We see a family counselor to help us with healthy family management and he told us that discipline without relationship can be destructive. That the relationship needs to be at the same level as the discipline level. The first level (babysitters, distant aunts, etc) is where kids get away with farts and saying "shut up" and eating whipping cream and chocolate chips for dinner. Instead of being banished to their rooms for such behaviour, they are allowed to stay up late watching movies with swear words. But in this level there is also not a whole lot of bonding, or relationship.
As the levels climb we find more long-term type relationships with more conflict, but more hugs (grandparents, close family and friends). Each decision these caregivers make regarding their relationship with the kids has an impact on their lives forever--not just the next hour and a half. So they invest more energy into helping them grow into healthy people, even if it means a little discipline here and there. This is where the kids are forced to eat their vegetables, where they're disciplined for talking back, and reprimanded for farting at the table. But it's also where the caregivers show up to soccer games in the wind and rain during the only free time they've had all week. It's where the kids know they're safe enough to cry and pour out their hearts.
The parents are found in the top levels. This is where we find the most love, and the most mess. Poopy diapers don't make us gag because in this level, love dulls the stink. It's in these parts where there is a divide between a stepparent and a biological parent but over time, this is also where the most growth happens. It's a delicate balance on a relational tightrope and one false move can cause a lot of pain. But as we wade through each mess together, if we handle it well, we become closer and closer.
Friday, November 21, 2014
BFF: Wobble
Having children spread out from the ages of fourteen to infant presents all sorts of challenges (and opportunities, depending on the mood du jour and whether or not we have any Coronas in the fridge). As you can imagine, it's a huge transition for our older kids to have a baby brother come along later in life after all the other changes they've been through: divorce, remarriage, and moving (houses, cities, schools). While they all love him to bits and fight over who gets to hold him and give him kisses, it hasn't always been easy. Never mind the fact that my body feels one hundred years old compared to how I felt when I had Jake at twenty-two.
Parenting a baby and a fourteen year-old and all the ages in between can be a juggling act at best (an all-out circus act most days, but without the beer tents and bikinis). However, despite the age gaps there are a lot of parallels. Callum is learning how to stand on his own, which is super cute. His chubber legs weeble and wobble and he ever so slowly loosens his grip on my fingers and lets go. When I hold onto him he almost swats at me, batting me away from his independence. Go away, mom. I've got this. But when he stumbles, I catch him. When he hurts, I hold him.
The older kids are the same way as their emotions jerk and sway through this huge world. They wear shirts with bikini babes printed on the front. They dye their hair green, practice the "F" word, and tell each other to shut up. Jake is literally sitting beside me right now begging for thirty British pounds to buy a membership to the Iron Maiden fan club. I seriously think they wake up each day for the sole purpose of halting our circulatory systems.
They ever so slowly loosen their grip on our fingers and let go. When I hold onto them, they almost swat at me, batting me away from their independence. Go away, mom. We've got this. But when they stumble, I catch them. When they hurt, I hold them.
Parenting a baby and a fourteen year-old and all the ages in between can be a juggling act at best (an all-out circus act most days, but without the beer tents and bikinis). However, despite the age gaps there are a lot of parallels. Callum is learning how to stand on his own, which is super cute. His chubber legs weeble and wobble and he ever so slowly loosens his grip on my fingers and lets go. When I hold onto him he almost swats at me, batting me away from his independence. Go away, mom. I've got this. But when he stumbles, I catch him. When he hurts, I hold him.
The older kids are the same way as their emotions jerk and sway through this huge world. They wear shirts with bikini babes printed on the front. They dye their hair green, practice the "F" word, and tell each other to shut up. Jake is literally sitting beside me right now begging for thirty British pounds to buy a membership to the Iron Maiden fan club. I seriously think they wake up each day for the sole purpose of halting our circulatory systems.
They ever so slowly loosen their grip on our fingers and let go. When I hold onto them, they almost swat at me, batting me away from their independence. Go away, mom. We've got this. But when they stumble, I catch them. When they hurt, I hold them.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Communion
Tonight's journal entry, bravely copied and pasted here for the world to see. I hope my writing helps you more than it hinders me. I hope my transparency inspires vulnerability and therefore love. That's my hope.
This is my safe zone, a place where I don't have to edit who I am and so tonight, with the candle's flames licking my eyes, glazed over from too little sleep and too much emotional drama, I put down my running shoes and instead, I write. Pearl Jam's "Garden" and a small cup of scotch keeps me warm, but my toes still tattle on the chill of adrenalin in my body.
Marriage is hard. Blended family life is harder. I am a strong woman, and even my own knees sway from time to time after a gust of whatthefuck passes through. I actually don't even know where to start except to say that if I learn anything from this season of my life, besides all the practical knowledge I'm stocking up on in regards to blended families, divorces, second marriages, stepkids, etc etc, it's that everyone has a story. Everyone has pain of some sort burbling below the surface. It's either old pain or new, scabbed over or fresh, but it's there.
And we have two choices: either go it alone, or go it with other(s). And although being alone certainly has its place in my life, I do know that I want love. I need connection. And that being closed off and pretending everything is perfect is not the way to get it.
This is. Being vulnerable and open and receptive. And no, I don't need a bunch of head-petting and casseroles, no. I just need to be heard. And then I want to hear you back, and then I want to run.
This is my safe zone, a place where I don't have to edit who I am and so tonight, with the candle's flames licking my eyes, glazed over from too little sleep and too much emotional drama, I put down my running shoes and instead, I write. Pearl Jam's "Garden" and a small cup of scotch keeps me warm, but my toes still tattle on the chill of adrenalin in my body.
Marriage is hard. Blended family life is harder. I am a strong woman, and even my own knees sway from time to time after a gust of whatthefuck passes through. I actually don't even know where to start except to say that if I learn anything from this season of my life, besides all the practical knowledge I'm stocking up on in regards to blended families, divorces, second marriages, stepkids, etc etc, it's that everyone has a story. Everyone has pain of some sort burbling below the surface. It's either old pain or new, scabbed over or fresh, but it's there.
And we have two choices: either go it alone, or go it with other(s). And although being alone certainly has its place in my life, I do know that I want love. I need connection. And that being closed off and pretending everything is perfect is not the way to get it.
This is. Being vulnerable and open and receptive. And no, I don't need a bunch of head-petting and casseroles, no. I just need to be heard. And then I want to hear you back, and then I want to run.
Friday, November 7, 2014
BFF: The Textbook
Just like everyone else, when I first became a parent I didn't have a clue what I was doing. We don't get manuals with children. It's like we're given a map to where we are going and then all of a sudden we find ourselves in New Mexico with bum rash and a missing finger. It's not much different when we become stepparents. I can't count how many times I've asked myself, "where's the textbook?"
There is none. I mean, there are books that we can read and people we can ask about the cold, hard facts of any kind of parenting but figuring out humans is much more complex than following a recipe. What works for one combination of people won't work for another. We typically need to feel around in the dark and just do whatever works to help us get around. And even that tactic can change from person to person, day to day, moment to moment.
So all I can really share is what works for me, which happens to apply to all of our kids, biological and step.
The first and most important? Love them. I love them when I don't feel like it, when they need me to. I love them against wind and through fire when it burns and bends my body until it breaks and heals and breaks again. I love them under water can't breathe give them all the oxygen love. I love them when they hate me, when they interrupt my sleep, when I give too much and have nothing left. I keep loving them.
And then I laugh. There are more awkward moments in a blended family school function than at a grade 9 dance. If we can't laugh at ourselves (not at each other... that's the next rule), then we won't survive.
Be kind. Any of my kids will tell you that I say this to them all the time: that we are hard enough on ourselves; we don't need anyone to help us. And that when we say something hurtful to someone, it says more about who we are than who they are. We are to never speak poorly of each other, especially our ex-spouses. Save it for counseling, or the running trails, or whatever. Saying shitty stuff about people just makes us shitty people.
And lastly, fart together. Compare them. Do them and lock the windows of the car and laugh. Let a hot one go and walk into the room while they're watching a movie then plunk down a bowl of treats so they're stuck there, and then leave. Farting brings people together because it crosses cultures, generations, stepparents or biological. And if I ever get to write the textbook, I will be including this chapter, with a CD.
There is none. I mean, there are books that we can read and people we can ask about the cold, hard facts of any kind of parenting but figuring out humans is much more complex than following a recipe. What works for one combination of people won't work for another. We typically need to feel around in the dark and just do whatever works to help us get around. And even that tactic can change from person to person, day to day, moment to moment.
So all I can really share is what works for me, which happens to apply to all of our kids, biological and step.
The first and most important? Love them. I love them when I don't feel like it, when they need me to. I love them against wind and through fire when it burns and bends my body until it breaks and heals and breaks again. I love them under water can't breathe give them all the oxygen love. I love them when they hate me, when they interrupt my sleep, when I give too much and have nothing left. I keep loving them.
And then I laugh. There are more awkward moments in a blended family school function than at a grade 9 dance. If we can't laugh at ourselves (not at each other... that's the next rule), then we won't survive.
Be kind. Any of my kids will tell you that I say this to them all the time: that we are hard enough on ourselves; we don't need anyone to help us. And that when we say something hurtful to someone, it says more about who we are than who they are. We are to never speak poorly of each other, especially our ex-spouses. Save it for counseling, or the running trails, or whatever. Saying shitty stuff about people just makes us shitty people.
And lastly, fart together. Compare them. Do them and lock the windows of the car and laugh. Let a hot one go and walk into the room while they're watching a movie then plunk down a bowl of treats so they're stuck there, and then leave. Farting brings people together because it crosses cultures, generations, stepparents or biological. And if I ever get to write the textbook, I will be including this chapter, with a CD.
Friday, October 31, 2014
BFF: Gonch
See, I have this post all set up for auto publishing for Blended Family Friday but it's boring as hell. All of my posts lately have been so serious and sentimental, and it's time that I just really tell it how it is.
You know what it's like over here? Here's a perfect example of a typical blended family. I got a text from Jason (ex-husband, father of Jake, Freddy and Katie) telling me that he found a pair of women's underwear stuck in Jake's shorts that he packed in his bag. And because I had Callum balancing on one hip and a pot of pasta boiling on the stove in the kitchen, I couldn't totally freak out and instead could only stare at the texts on my phone while my blood pressure rose to a deafening roar. It's those moments where I visualize the years of my life dropping off the edge of a cliff: there goes year 73, now 72, 71 just took a nosedive, and so on and so forth.
Because Jason knows all of this, he gleefully sends me a picture of the underwear and they look hauntingly familiar. They're mine. It's a Victoria's Secret aqua-blue lacy thong and I want to die right there at age 36 because a) my underwear is in the pocket of my 14 year-old son's shorts and b) my ex-husband just took a picture of it and it's at his house. Jason's grossed out, Jake is mortified, and I want to die. And then of course Andrew is like, why is Jason texting pictures of your blue lacy underwear? And why are they in Jake's shorts? And the ripe old age of 71 just isn't coming soon enough.
But then? But then. I exhale with relief because they're my underwear and not some random woman's blue lacy thong in my 14 year-old son's shorts. It's a simple laundry mix-up, and really the only thing that I need to worry about is that the pot of spaghetti on the stove not boil over.
And everything else in the whole wide world.
You know what it's like over here? Here's a perfect example of a typical blended family. I got a text from Jason (ex-husband, father of Jake, Freddy and Katie) telling me that he found a pair of women's underwear stuck in Jake's shorts that he packed in his bag. And because I had Callum balancing on one hip and a pot of pasta boiling on the stove in the kitchen, I couldn't totally freak out and instead could only stare at the texts on my phone while my blood pressure rose to a deafening roar. It's those moments where I visualize the years of my life dropping off the edge of a cliff: there goes year 73, now 72, 71 just took a nosedive, and so on and so forth.
Because Jason knows all of this, he gleefully sends me a picture of the underwear and they look hauntingly familiar. They're mine. It's a Victoria's Secret aqua-blue lacy thong and I want to die right there at age 36 because a) my underwear is in the pocket of my 14 year-old son's shorts and b) my ex-husband just took a picture of it and it's at his house. Jason's grossed out, Jake is mortified, and I want to die. And then of course Andrew is like, why is Jason texting pictures of your blue lacy underwear? And why are they in Jake's shorts? And the ripe old age of 71 just isn't coming soon enough.
But then? But then. I exhale with relief because they're my underwear and not some random woman's blue lacy thong in my 14 year-old son's shorts. It's a simple laundry mix-up, and really the only thing that I need to worry about is that the pot of spaghetti on the stove not boil over.
And everything else in the whole wide world.
Friday, October 24, 2014
BFF (Blended Family Friday)
When most people find out that we have a blended family of eight, the first question they ask us is if our kids all get along. At first we felt pressured to not only lie and say yes, (ha!) but then to somehow force everyone to be happy together. But then we were like, wait. What? Do blood siblings of regular typical families all get along? I know two brothers who fought each other to the near-death while they were growing up and now they're in their forties and closer than ever. Andrew will tell you that he drove his sister nearly mad, taunting and antagonizing her, but was their family life a flop? No. Not at all!
Fighting is normal and expected in every family, however, there needs to be a foundation of love and respect, and that takes time. It also takes trial and error, hurt feelings and sore shoulders, but at the end of the day, each sibling needs to have the other one's back, in some capacity or another.
The more people in the family means more issues and more work, sure. But more people in the family also means more opportunities for learning, and more rewards. There are growing pains, but we can either focus on the word "growing" or the word "pain." I recently read somewhere that divorce doesn't really end family life; it just reorganizes it.
Fridays will be the days that I focus on our blended family. I'll write about everything from our struggles to our favourite recipes that feed a bazillion people for cheap.
Enjoy the show!
Fighting is normal and expected in every family, however, there needs to be a foundation of love and respect, and that takes time. It also takes trial and error, hurt feelings and sore shoulders, but at the end of the day, each sibling needs to have the other one's back, in some capacity or another.
The more people in the family means more issues and more work, sure. But more people in the family also means more opportunities for learning, and more rewards. There are growing pains, but we can either focus on the word "growing" or the word "pain." I recently read somewhere that divorce doesn't really end family life; it just reorganizes it.
Fridays will be the days that I focus on our blended family. I'll write about everything from our struggles to our favourite recipes that feed a bazillion people for cheap.
Enjoy the show!
Monday, July 14, 2014
Magic Trick
On Victoria Day in May, our family of eight, along with Andrew's parents and friends went to the May Day parade in Fort Langley, an annual tradition for the Slane family. As usual, nothing went smoothly for us. Jeebuz turned up the rain dial to a '10' so that we all had to stand out in the torrential downpour for a solid two hours, with a baby. Soaked with cold rain and bad attitudes, we hung around and counted down the seconds until we could jump back into the heated van and fuck off out of there.
Although, Andrew said something that really resonated with me. He reminded me that I wouldn't feel this frustration a couple of days from then. Sticking it out in the chaos and rain and frustratingly bad attitudes would be difficult, yes, but it's short-lived and totally worth it in the big picture.
I know this phenomenon to be true in the running world. Running can sometimes hurt, a lot. But there's a mental muscle that builds endurance and it grows stronger because of the pain of it all. And proving this "big picture" mentality true time and time again helps me to translate it over into my other categories of life as well: family, teenagers, money issues, etc. That some days just absolutely suck. We get served legal papers, or someone gets lice. And in that moment it takes everything in us not to fake an injury and take a cab ride home but we learn that sticking it out, riding the wave, makes us stronger people, better parents, closer friends.
The only time that this phenomenon doesn't work is in Walmart lineups with no Coronas at home. Otherwise, it's golden.
Although, Andrew said something that really resonated with me. He reminded me that I wouldn't feel this frustration a couple of days from then. Sticking it out in the chaos and rain and frustratingly bad attitudes would be difficult, yes, but it's short-lived and totally worth it in the big picture.
I know this phenomenon to be true in the running world. Running can sometimes hurt, a lot. But there's a mental muscle that builds endurance and it grows stronger because of the pain of it all. And proving this "big picture" mentality true time and time again helps me to translate it over into my other categories of life as well: family, teenagers, money issues, etc. That some days just absolutely suck. We get served legal papers, or someone gets lice. And in that moment it takes everything in us not to fake an injury and take a cab ride home but we learn that sticking it out, riding the wave, makes us stronger people, better parents, closer friends.
The only time that this phenomenon doesn't work is in Walmart lineups with no Coronas at home. Otherwise, it's golden.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Baggage Claim
I recently read a blog about how people exposed their innermost issues by writing them with pen on their bodies. One girl wrote "daddy issues" across her knuckles. Another woman wrote "molested age 5" and "mother age 16" and "prisoner age 27" on various parts of her body. One guy wrote "fat" on his hand. Another man wrote "accept me" across his forehead.
First of all, my heart goes out to overweight people because they don't get any sort of buffer between when people first meet them and when they really get to know them and the issues they carry. The man who wrote "fat" across his hand? Well, we already knew that. Right? Because he's fat right there in front of us. But the girl who was raped, or the one who cuts her torso, or the man who had testicular cancer or whose dad beat him or whose mom abandoned him, we don't see those issues right away the way we see fat on a person.
Let me take a side road here for a second. When the kids were little, our family went to Mexico and Katie did this thing in the airport where she'd ride on either my or Jason's suitcase because she was too little to keep up with the rush of it all. Since our divorce, I have told the kids that we all have our own suitcases of issues where we carry our pain, our sadness, our anger, our stress. That Andrew, dad and I all carry our own suitcases and that never, under any circumstance are any of our children allowed to carry our suitcases. Ever. But that they, as our children, have their own suitcases and that we are to help them carry theirs. It's a metaphor that works for us, and I've used it many times to help illustrate my point. It's a tendency for kids to see a hurting parent and want to help them out or protect them from their pain, but it's NOT OKAY. All I have to say to them is "this is not your suitcase."
So back to the fat person. Their suitcase happens to be wide open, spilling out all over the place. The girl who was raped or the guy with the mama drama? They can keep their suitcase all secretive and looking tidy. Would that be frustrating for the fat guy? I bet. But I also bet that they feel relieved, knowing that they don't have to keep anything hidden, wondering when someone is going to find out their big insecurity because it's right there in the open.
Big suitcases or small, exposed or not, we all have them. And I choose to surround myself with people who accept that fact because if we don't, we'll get stuck where we are and never get the opportunity to travel to new places.
First of all, my heart goes out to overweight people because they don't get any sort of buffer between when people first meet them and when they really get to know them and the issues they carry. The man who wrote "fat" across his hand? Well, we already knew that. Right? Because he's fat right there in front of us. But the girl who was raped, or the one who cuts her torso, or the man who had testicular cancer or whose dad beat him or whose mom abandoned him, we don't see those issues right away the way we see fat on a person.
Let me take a side road here for a second. When the kids were little, our family went to Mexico and Katie did this thing in the airport where she'd ride on either my or Jason's suitcase because she was too little to keep up with the rush of it all. Since our divorce, I have told the kids that we all have our own suitcases of issues where we carry our pain, our sadness, our anger, our stress. That Andrew, dad and I all carry our own suitcases and that never, under any circumstance are any of our children allowed to carry our suitcases. Ever. But that they, as our children, have their own suitcases and that we are to help them carry theirs. It's a metaphor that works for us, and I've used it many times to help illustrate my point. It's a tendency for kids to see a hurting parent and want to help them out or protect them from their pain, but it's NOT OKAY. All I have to say to them is "this is not your suitcase."
So back to the fat person. Their suitcase happens to be wide open, spilling out all over the place. The girl who was raped or the guy with the mama drama? They can keep their suitcase all secretive and looking tidy. Would that be frustrating for the fat guy? I bet. But I also bet that they feel relieved, knowing that they don't have to keep anything hidden, wondering when someone is going to find out their big insecurity because it's right there in the open.
Big suitcases or small, exposed or not, we all have them. And I choose to surround myself with people who accept that fact because if we don't, we'll get stuck where we are and never get the opportunity to travel to new places.
Friday, May 9, 2014
The Three-Legged Race
I spent a lot of my childhood alone. Not in a bad way, no, not at all. It was just the way my sisters and I were spaced out and how they left home early that gave me a lot of time to myself. I often joke about how I'm the youngest child, and a bit of an only child as well and so a product of extreme self-absorption. In fact, most of my writing begins with the word "I." It's all about Suzy. I admit it. I'm self absorbed. I.
But life doesn't work that way. If all I did was talk about myself then I guarantee that most of my friends and family would fuck right off and I'd be forever alone eating whole boxes of Eggo waffles in front of the TV watching Days of Our Lives. But we're created for communion with each other, for community. God must have a sense of humour to give humanity a hefty dose of narcissism with a starving hunger for relationship. It's like we walk around with billboards on our necks proclaiming, "I need you, but piss off!"
We try to do it on our own all the time, don't we? Even as toddlers we'd look up with a scowl at whoever might be helping us and we'd shriek, "I DO MYSELF!" And then we'd cut our finger or tie our shoelaces into 18 different knots.
My conclusion? Don't be alone so much. True, there are a bunch of us who are wired to be alone a little more than the average person but don't play that card so often that you lose out on community. In a three-legged race, two people move forward a lot slower than they would separately but they cross the finish line together. We fumble, we fall, and if we're lucky we might even wind up on top of each other in a heap of sweat and rope. There are grass stains and rope burns and sweat marks, but we all have them. Together. And that's all that matters.
But life doesn't work that way. If all I did was talk about myself then I guarantee that most of my friends and family would fuck right off and I'd be forever alone eating whole boxes of Eggo waffles in front of the TV watching Days of Our Lives. But we're created for communion with each other, for community. God must have a sense of humour to give humanity a hefty dose of narcissism with a starving hunger for relationship. It's like we walk around with billboards on our necks proclaiming, "I need you, but piss off!"
We try to do it on our own all the time, don't we? Even as toddlers we'd look up with a scowl at whoever might be helping us and we'd shriek, "I DO MYSELF!" And then we'd cut our finger or tie our shoelaces into 18 different knots.
My conclusion? Don't be alone so much. True, there are a bunch of us who are wired to be alone a little more than the average person but don't play that card so often that you lose out on community. In a three-legged race, two people move forward a lot slower than they would separately but they cross the finish line together. We fumble, we fall, and if we're lucky we might even wind up on top of each other in a heap of sweat and rope. There are grass stains and rope burns and sweat marks, but we all have them. Together. And that's all that matters.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Baby Steps
On March 3rd, we had our baby, our little nursing champion: Callum Andrew Slane. At just over three weeks early he managed to hang onto a solid 7lb and 12oz of pure adorableness. Thankfully, he knows that his neurotic mama needed to get out for a run at the earliest possible convenience and so he decided to make his grand entrance into the world before his due date (he's getting an extra inheritance for this decision).
I went out for a run two days ago and when I got back home, right before I collapsed into a puddle on the front steps, I pumped my fist in the air and shouted Chevy Chase's line in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation: "HALLELUIAH!.....HOLY SHIT!"
Then I ran again yesterday. And then I'm meeting Lora for a run today and celebratory beers in the trail parking lot.
I am wife and mother, daughter and sister, friend and lover. And I am runner. Because I'm out of time, I wanted to share with you guys what my fellow Canadian runner brother Steve wrote today, because it hit home with me so much and I know that so many runners out there will also recognize their own hearts in his voice. Until next time, here's Steve:
Runnersworld dot com’s Daily Kick In the Butt:
“We run to undo the damage we’ve done to body and spirit. We run to find some part of ourselves yet undiscovered.” ~ John “The Penguin” Bingham~
A few years ago, I was dying. Not in the conventional sense of dying from some disease…just dying from the inside out. There was still life in the body but that isn’t the same thing as really living, is it? Listless, confused, and depressed…and getting fat. Shit had to change. I have talked about it before but I never wanted to lose my edge. Of course, somehow over the years, I got softer. The edge turned into rounded edges.
The edge has changed. It no longer involves reckless behavior and intoxicant fueled concepts. Now it consists of finding that undiscovered part of myself. In an age where there seems to be very few frontiers, perhaps the last frontier is within. Now the edge is just a hunger for breaking through barriers…testing my will and becoming stronger inside and out. Running gives me the ability to tap into what lies beneath.
The edge is undoing the damage to body and spirit…and mind. Funny how changing your physicality can change you spiritually and intellectually as well. Never before have I felt so alive (at least not in a really long time.) As I grow as a runner, I have also grown as a human…more compassionate, empathetic, and understanding. Understanding of my own strengths and limitations and understanding of others’. No longer stuck in the rut that seems to claim so many lost souls, I have learned to live.
A simple choice but one that a lot of people don’t seem to figure out.
“Get busy living or get busy dying.” ~ Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption)
I went out for a run two days ago and when I got back home, right before I collapsed into a puddle on the front steps, I pumped my fist in the air and shouted Chevy Chase's line in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation: "HALLELUIAH!.....HOLY SHIT!"
Then I ran again yesterday. And then I'm meeting Lora for a run today and celebratory beers in the trail parking lot.
I am wife and mother, daughter and sister, friend and lover. And I am runner. Because I'm out of time, I wanted to share with you guys what my fellow Canadian runner brother Steve wrote today, because it hit home with me so much and I know that so many runners out there will also recognize their own hearts in his voice. Until next time, here's Steve:
Runnersworld dot com’s Daily Kick In the Butt:
“We run to undo the damage we’ve done to body and spirit. We run to find some part of ourselves yet undiscovered.” ~ John “The Penguin” Bingham~
A few years ago, I was dying. Not in the conventional sense of dying from some disease…just dying from the inside out. There was still life in the body but that isn’t the same thing as really living, is it? Listless, confused, and depressed…and getting fat. Shit had to change. I have talked about it before but I never wanted to lose my edge. Of course, somehow over the years, I got softer. The edge turned into rounded edges.
The edge has changed. It no longer involves reckless behavior and intoxicant fueled concepts. Now it consists of finding that undiscovered part of myself. In an age where there seems to be very few frontiers, perhaps the last frontier is within. Now the edge is just a hunger for breaking through barriers…testing my will and becoming stronger inside and out. Running gives me the ability to tap into what lies beneath.
The edge is undoing the damage to body and spirit…and mind. Funny how changing your physicality can change you spiritually and intellectually as well. Never before have I felt so alive (at least not in a really long time.) As I grow as a runner, I have also grown as a human…more compassionate, empathetic, and understanding. Understanding of my own strengths and limitations and understanding of others’. No longer stuck in the rut that seems to claim so many lost souls, I have learned to live.
A simple choice but one that a lot of people don’t seem to figure out.
“Get busy living or get busy dying.” ~ Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption)
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Expansion
There's no theme or life lesson whatsoever in this post. It's going to come out randomly and messily, the way Christmas sprays Lego diarrhea.
Lately I've been obsessed with pregnancy blogs. I love analyzing the different bumps, rejoicing over the bloggers who have gained more weight than I have, and quickly closing up the pages of the women who have gained only 7 lb by 29 weeks (LIARS!!!!!!). I take weekly photos of my baby bumps (I have two: one in the front that houses our little love bug, and one in the back--my ass that seems to think it needs to balance out my body so I don't tip forward).
Besides the initial scare in the beginning, this pregnancy has been smooth sailing. It's not like much has been going on, you know, to give me a bloody second to even remember that I'm pregnant. We got married, we sold our place, bought a place, we move in four weeks, spent a couple of weeks in and out of BC Children's, devoted our free time to Christmas concerts, grocery shopping in bulk, and phone calls with vice principals and teachers (one of the five may have thrown a snowball at the vice principal's office window while she was standing there watching), stopped by the maternity ward twice to get some IV fluids to shush some persistent braxton hicks, and a partridge in a pear tree.
And that was December.
All the cutesy pregnancy blogs detail how they're sewing their own baby clothes and oh look! Professional maternity photo session of the adorable soon-to-be family of four as they walk through a serene forest of falling leaves and distant rainbows! Meanwhile we cram all seven of us into an ultrasound room to watch our baby boy blow our $150 on pics by covering up his face with his hands for the entire 45 minute session while his siblings punch each other out in order to get the best view of the screen.
It's a good life.
So I guess if I were to write up a 29 week pregnancy update it would go something like this:
Week: 29
Cravings: a meal that doesn't involve uneaten food scraps
Weight gain: a lot
Baby: HUGE! And active. And boy. :-)
Lately I've been obsessed with pregnancy blogs. I love analyzing the different bumps, rejoicing over the bloggers who have gained more weight than I have, and quickly closing up the pages of the women who have gained only 7 lb by 29 weeks (LIARS!!!!!!). I take weekly photos of my baby bumps (I have two: one in the front that houses our little love bug, and one in the back--my ass that seems to think it needs to balance out my body so I don't tip forward).
Besides the initial scare in the beginning, this pregnancy has been smooth sailing. It's not like much has been going on, you know, to give me a bloody second to even remember that I'm pregnant. We got married, we sold our place, bought a place, we move in four weeks, spent a couple of weeks in and out of BC Children's, devoted our free time to Christmas concerts, grocery shopping in bulk, and phone calls with vice principals and teachers (one of the five may have thrown a snowball at the vice principal's office window while she was standing there watching), stopped by the maternity ward twice to get some IV fluids to shush some persistent braxton hicks, and a partridge in a pear tree.
And that was December.
All the cutesy pregnancy blogs detail how they're sewing their own baby clothes and oh look! Professional maternity photo session of the adorable soon-to-be family of four as they walk through a serene forest of falling leaves and distant rainbows! Meanwhile we cram all seven of us into an ultrasound room to watch our baby boy blow our $150 on pics by covering up his face with his hands for the entire 45 minute session while his siblings punch each other out in order to get the best view of the screen.
It's a good life.
So I guess if I were to write up a 29 week pregnancy update it would go something like this:
Week: 29
Cravings: a meal that doesn't involve uneaten food scraps
Weight gain: a lot
Baby: HUGE! And active. And boy. :-)
Sunday, December 1, 2013
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.
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.
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| Decorating the tree together... |
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| This was taken a split second before Katie took justice into her own hands, punching Jake for accidentally kicking her in the face... |
Saturday, November 23, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, September 27, 2013
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.
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
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, August 26, 2013
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.
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.
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