Woozy Wednesday: Puzzle Pieces

I was never into bars or clubs and 90% of my pub appearances have been at Andrew's side. I attribute it to my wardrobe; jeans and tee shirts with cats wearing sunglasses on the front just aren't conducive to the bar scene.

Also, I'm old. And also, I get overstimulated with all the people and music and drinks and conversation. There is so much chaos in my day-to-day life that in my free time nothing sounds more blissful to me than sitting in a corner, drooling and starting at a white wall.

I love being alone. I grew up in a big house, my two sisters 8 and 10 years older than me and so a lot of the time I was left to my own devices.

Quite like an only child, I learned how to entertain myself. I would read books for hours on end until I couldn't physically keep my eyes open. I started running when I was 13, not in a track club or running group but by myself. I played solitaire card games on our camping trips. I'm not complaining because I loved it!

Long-distance running does it for me. It gives me that solitude that my soul craves, that respite from the people, the music, the drinks and conversation. But I have to say that I am learning something about myself, that while it's okay to be alone for a time, it doesn't need to be as much as possible. Rather than escaping to Costco by myself, I turn the van around and pick Andrew and Callum for company. Is it more work? Yep. But it's worth it because I'm better when they're with me, when I'm with them.

I guess that's what happens when you find your partner for life. They get called "the other half" for that reason right there, that we feel severed without them, the open-ended part of our beings left shivering and exposed. I hate it. I was SO FINE without that man. It's frustrating. Ha.

Anyway, so on Friday night Lora and I went for a run and then to the pub for some dinner and drinks and I sat there across from her and felt that pull, that shivery and exposed feeling and finally at some point my eyes filled up with tears and I told her, "I just want to go home. I need Andrew." And that was the end of our night.

I'm not saying it's not okay and healthy and right to be on my own with girlfriends from time to time. No! Not at all! But for me, just for me personally, I don't like being at a pub without my husband. There is just something about that scene that beckons me to be completed with locked eyes, fingers intertwined and stolen little knowing glances with my man. He drives me crazy sometimes, but he's my missing puzzle piece. And I don't want to walk into the bar or pub scene without him.

Held Back

Freddy got diagnosed with a blood disorder when he was just over one year old. He got a cold, which turned into a cough which turned into pneumonia and his little body was working too hard making red blood cells to even remotely fight the pneumonia. It's a rare hereditary blood disorder, and I'm so thankful that it hasn't affected his life too much. Once in a while when his body can't keep up with the rapid rate of red blood cell destruction, we bring him to the hospital for blood work and if need be, transfusions.

There's this image in my mind. No, it's in not just in my mind, it's in the gap between my skin and memory, my senses and instincts. That space that juts out into our lives whether we want it to or not like a sharp rock between here and there, a space where we can either stand upon or lose ourselves on. And it's of Freddy's tiny toddler body, bound in a hospital bed sheet in a way that kept him still enough to give blood for tests. He was too young to understand that we bound him to help him. He fought hard against us, against the binding force, his iron will flexing and pushing, the angst inside his body practically bursting through his skin and all I could do was stand there and helplessly watch him fight.

I've seen this scene manifest in different ways with each child. It's not a hospital sheet, in an emergency room. It's on a couch. It's in the backseat of the van. It's in a restaurant, it's at home. It's here and there and everywhere in between but to me, it looks the same, that my child's angst is practically bursting through their skin and all I can do is stand there and helplessly watch them fight.

I want to unzip the gap, gather my babies in my arms and duck us all down beneath the great divide between here and there, stand upon that rock, and know peace. And know peace. To close up the unknown and lie still in the safety of love where there is no pain, there is no fight, there is no angst.

But then we wouldn't move forward.

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.

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.

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!

Crackerjacks

When I was a little girl my mom and dad would take me to the Vancouver Canadiens baseball games and there, during particularly tense moments I'd hunch over, my tailbone digging into the plastic chair and I'd focus on my thumbnail, of all things. I'd lose myself inside of it, envisioning the pitcher whipping one right down the chute and then the batter whacking it out of the park. Weird, eh? Ya.

I have a strong will. I've always figured that if I wanted something bad enough that I would just get it. If I could only draw up every last drop of internal energy and squeeeeeeze it out as magic potion into whatever situation that needed it then I would be able to save it all, steering the wheel of the ship away from its demise. From time to time it would work as I envisioned it inside of my thumbnail; the good guys would hit a home run and win the game. But most of the time I have to face reality: I'm not God. And that sucks.

I'd like to say that if I was God, I'd run a perfectly painless world. But we all know that beauty comes out of ashes, flowers grow where dirt once was, and grace grows in the cracks. Right? A lot of the treasures in our lives exist because of the mistakes we first made. Our present situations, although at times uncomfortable, can be redeemed with Love. So maybe, just maybe, I could stop looking down at my own strong will and instead look up and just enjoy the game. Plus, I'm sure the people sitting closest to me would appreciate it if I stopped focusing on my thumbnail and passed the popcorn already.

Chicken Wings

A few ladies in my general circle happen to be in their dirty thirties--a decade, for some reason or another, filled with pheromones, vibrators and crotchless underwear.

Teenage girls act and dress as if they have sex after every meal but in reality, hopefully, they're all just talk for the sake of male approval. Bachelorette years are filled with bad decisions and sleepless nights. Married life, especially when there are wee ones in the picture, is punctuated by scheduled sex: "I'll feed the baby, you clean the vomit off the floor in Billy's room, and I'll meet you in bed, naked and in the starfish position, at 10:16."

But the kids grow up a bit. They tell us they hate us, and they redecorate with permanent marker but they fucking sleep through the night and that's enough to turn us mommies into sexy sexbeasts. Everything tastes delicious. Our too-tight jeans no longer make our butts feel fat, but exciting.

But anyway. Dirty thirties. And those of us who are in the midst of it or have lived through it can agree with me when I say that we not only need all the sex but we actually get panicky about it. I can imagine it's how a teenage boy might feel. When we pass by our partner in the kitchen and give their butt a swat it's like we haven't eaten in a week and we just stumbled upon a T-bone steak. And what do we do? We panic. And because we are human and life is life, The Sex doesn't always happen. Which makes us girls in our dirty thirties get all pathetic and needy and extremely annoying and frustrating to be around. Our underwear cuts into our skin, the channel is stupid, and the curtains are ugly.

When we sit around and talk about our budding problematic sexuality we have, on occasion, come to the conclusion that the only way around the panic is to be the master of our domain earlier on in the day before the date night because then anything that happens thereafter is a bonus. This way there's no pressure, no ugly curtains, no annoying neediness.

Tommy Boy convinced the waitress to reopen the kitchen so that he could order some chicken wings. He got her to do it because he was relaxed about it as he had a pizza in the trunk of his car if she decided to say no. Tommy want wingy. Same thing.

But then. I mean, it's fine and all, I'm certainly not judging. But I feel a little hesitant about it because whenever I'm stuck at a fork in the road I like to ask myself why. Why do we need to be the masters of our domain before date night? Is it really to take the edge off? Will we die if we wait? What are we afraid of? And if we do decide to go ahead and do it, are we doing it from a heart and mind of love, or of fear? Tommy Boy could have certainly done without the extra meal.

The opposite of love is not hate; it's fear.

Waiting for hunger pains makes food taste just so much better. It's healthier, too. So why wouldn't that concept ring true across the board? It does. It's the great paradox. In a world where all our needs and desires are at our fingertips with the push of a button (did you see what I did there?), our hearts call us to wait. Have patience. Utilize self control. And when it does happen, it's so worth it. And if it doesn't? There's always chicken wings.

Penises Are Like People

Okay, just a sec. I need to take a swig of wine before I start writing this one. Nnggkaahh. There. So a few years ago during my self work phase (letting go of control, insecurities, showing myself grace, gaining confidence in who I am, blah blah blah) I gave myself the assignment of walking around a nude beach. But actually naked, with no bathing suit on. I had assumed that I was going to be the only one there with National Geographicesque boobies but upon arrival I quickly realized that I was not the only one. Indeed, there were a whole tribe of us.

My friends and I fluffed out our blankets, and right after I whipped my bathing suit off, I laid down, buried my face in my towel and squeezed my bum cheeks together. It took some time and a couple of Coronas but I was finally ready to self-regulate and saunter down to the water. The walk to the edge felt like a trip to the electric chair but sinking into the ocean with the velvety water against my skin made it all worth it. I was free.

Shoot, okay, I got side-tracked. This post wasn't supposed to be about that, it was supposed to be about this. So my friends and I opened up a discussion about bodies and how different we all are, thank goodness. Because wouldn't it just be so boring if we all looked like supermodels? Mmmhmm. Right. But anyway, we got to talking about penises.

Nnggkaahh. More wine.

And they informed me that there are typically two kinds of penises: The Growers, and The Show-ers.

Apparently Growers are the ones that start out regular-sized when they're all flaccid but then when erect, they show up to the game in full gear, ready to go. The Show-ers are the ones that when flaccid are already swinging the bat and when erect, the bat just gets hard. Same size, just hard.

Makes sense.

Some people are all show. There's a local guy here that drives a big ol' jacked up truck with giant tires with a custom license plate that says "HUGE." Penis size? I'm sure it's not huge. There are churchy people that puff their chests out and judge The Sinners and tell them (us? Nnggkaahh...) to go to church, to read the Bible, to fast and pray. Meanwhile they're, what, who knows? Probably stealing lipstick from Safeway and taking the first licks off their kids' ice cream cones. The Show-ers look all righteous and shiny and fantastical. But when the pressure builds, well, they just get harder to deal with.

Some people actually grow. They start out humble and unassuming, living their lives in the dark messy corners where life matters most. Jesus was like that. He was born in a barn, grew up to be a carpenter by trade, wore sandals and walked giant distances to reach the town rejects so he could love them quietly, without pretense. There are all sorts of growers around us. They're often tattooed, their eyes shadowed with a mark of some sort. But when they laugh, it's from their guts. When they love, it's from their hearts. When the pressure builds, they show up to play ball. And when they're up to bat, they always hit a home run.

Nnggkaahh...

And there of course are some penises that are huge and just get huger. And some that are shrinky-dink and don't grow much at all, either. Home runs are hit all over the world with all different sizes of penises and the size, ability, etc etc DOES NOT MATTER. Which is what this post is about, that love is what matters. That's my point. Did I blow it?

Push

A mother is bent sideways, balancing life on one hip, edges rounded by the delicious fruit of love. A mother carries the weight of her heart: her children. And when love gets too heavy, she lowers her heart deep down into the cells of each emotional and physical and spiritual muscle ever flexed within her and she draws upon a strength conceived in the exact second that she became Mother. And from that strength, with the grunts and groans of childbirth, pained and exhausted, she heaves life back into her children. Their frail limbs once quivering with the weight of their worlds, silently, from behind like a breeze, her love lifts them up and guides them forward.

I became a mother at the age of twenty-two. The shift from a life focused on Suzy toward a life focused on my child served to carve out parts of me that I didn't know existed. An operation of sorts carried on without anesthetic or any hopes of morphine, recovery, or regained mobility. Running marathons helped me to see the rigors of motherhood in the big picture--that the hard work pays off, the painful moments eventually pass, and a little throw-up never hurt anyone. But it's such a thankless job, isn't it? Our efforts are a well-kept secret from the rest of humanity like a private club in which the initiation would buckle the strongest of knees.

But what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger.

We don't do it for recognition, no. And we certainly don't do it for the fame and fortune. We do it for love. When our children, teetering on spindly legs, venture out into the big world and find their strength waning, they'll be able to look back home and feel the warm wind of our love holding them up and pushing them forward.

Cooped Up

I've had a writer's block lately because honestly, I feel a bit post-partumy and I'm afraid of publishing my thoughts and feelings in case they are incriminating. But then, when I was hanging out at Christy's, eating her Kraft Dinner and leaking breast milk on her couch, she reminded me of how she loves to read my writing because it's real. Some people buy new furniture and keep the plastic wrap on their lampshades and I say fuck that! Rip it off and shine those lights all over the damn house because whatever we've poured our hearts and minds and souls into are contained within those four walls and that stuff needs to be lit up.

But then. But then I was having coffee and muffins with my aunt and uncle and they helped me realize that maybe I don't need to write about everything that is happening right now, that maybe I can write about it later. Like, later later. When I'm not IN it. Because have you ever bought one of those rotisserie chickens that they make in the store? It always smells like fart. Right? It stinks up the cashier area, it reeks up the minivan, and turns the fridge into a burp. But later on, once you cut up the chicken and incorporate it into a dish of some sort, it becomes quite un-fart-like, if you aren't a complete donkey in the kitchen.

My days can be unglamorous at best. Today? Today smelled like fart. Do I need to write about it? Probably not. But will I be able to help and encourage someone else one day when I can look back and remember what I went through? Hopefully, yes. Because that's what this life is all about: eating Kraft Dinner and leaking breast milk and drinking coffee with the people we love, because love has a way of turning stinky chicken into a satisfying meal.

Birth

Dry bones, desert heat, beating sun. I am a sensual woman. I need to feel life, not just live it. Often at the expense of being burned, but felt nonetheless.

I thrive in the pain of the desert: my burning skin, my parched mouth, my aching muscles from seemingly endless endurance. As if by shining a light into the deepest parts of myself, for long enough, at a hot enough temperature, I might stumble upon a virgin well of water, not yet tainted by life, abundant enough to quench even the driest of veins.

Like a flash flood, an oasis, a cactus flower. Had I not ventured out there, had I not stuck it out, I would have missed it. And the tragedy of missing it, I believe, is more disabling than the burn itself.

I miss running. Not just my routine five milers through the neighborhood but those long runs that force my body to rely on all its parts. I feel my legs during a five mile run, but during a twenty miler I feel my lips, my ears, my fingertips, my baby toe, my breasts, the inside fleshy bit of my right arm that rubs along my shirt. And I know that I am alive, because I feel it all. I feel it all.

Childbirth is like that. Peel back the layers of earth and water and at the core is the heat of the fire, propelling waves that make the eyes roll backward and the toes curl inward. A burning, an intensity so overwhelming that it transcends the physical body, calling in the strength of the human spirit, the human will, to ride each wave.

The purest form of an oasis in the desert is the love that shows up in the delivery room. Among the cries, the blood, the burning and pain, there is Love: a virgin well of water, not yet tainted by life, abundant enough to quench even the driest of veins.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.