The spring harvest of my forty-fourth year

Last night the soccer season started for Deaglan again and as I watched him run for the ball, a blur of long lean limbs, dark hair and determination, I knew somewhere deep inside that there was nowhere else I’d rather be. It’s been one of the nicer aspects of meandering my way through my forties. I’m content to be where I am; my twenties and much of my thirties were not so peaceful. But now that I’m here, the harder times of those younger days are all a blur too. 

I watched the boys on the field and couldn’t believe they were all between 7 and 8. They appeared still small to me, their sweet baby faces breaking out in shy grins when they’d tame the ball and kick it to the intended destination, peering back over their shoulders to see their parents' delight.

It’s been a good spring so far, our first in this house. At least once a day Deaglan shakes his head and says: Mom can you believe there are pink and white trees out my window? Who ever heard of pink and white trees? I agree; it’s like harvest around here. We moved in during the high heat of last summer, when much of the lush green had withered, then tired and surrendered. But from this side, the early days of a highly anticipated spring, well it is such a treat, each of us exalting every flowery bloom and magically germinating branch.  

We’re taking it all in stride though; getting to each thing when we can. There’s a lot to do.

Open the pool.

Dust off the lawn furniture.

Plan a nearly five-year old’s birthday party.

Keep up with homework even though we’ve just about had it with reading logs and spelling tests.

Buy new flip-flops.

Track down the sunscreen.

Read a book in the quiet afternoon sun  - cold glass of Chardonnay nearby. 

I don't know for sure, but I may have a severe case of spring fever.

My friend Shannon gifted me this hibiscus plant over three years ago. Just when I think I've killed it with my awkward gardening ways, it rewards me with a bloom so beautiful I rethink everything.

This magnolia is one of my favourite things about our new front yard.

The pink and white trees out Deaglan's window.

Mother's Day paper flowers from my sweet guys.

I told my FB friends that we went fishing on Mother's Day (what else are you gonna do when you're surrounded by boys?). This was the result: each caught me a trout and Shaune barbecued them on a cedar plank and served with roasted peppers, onions and asparagus.

And this is the harvest of all those early years of parenting: watching one kid read to the other. Sigh.

 And speaking of spring blooms. This guy here will be five in a few short weeks. Five!!

When did this happen?

My university roommate once told me that for a while, her younger brother was calling their mother “Old Yeller”. She, her sisters and Mom could not figure out how he knew of the movie or the main character’s name. Finally they asked him, “Tyler, why do you call Mom Old Yeller?”

“Because she’s old and she yells at me.”

He was five.

I haven’t been called anything so offensive, and frankly downright ageist, yet, but regularly hear that I’m really, really mean, or unfair, and often when no words carry the weight of the fury they’re feeling, simply, “I hate you Mom.”

Also, I’m not sure if my kids understand age. Naveen still thinks it’s all cyclical for some reason. He’s always starting conversations with, “Mom, when I’m weally, weally big and you ah a little boy…” or “Someday when you ah in my tummy and I’m the Mommy…” Deaglan on the other hand, could use a few lessons on regression; that kid can count too high for my liking. Sometimes he’ll ask me how old I am and if I’m feeling particularly girlish and extremely non-premenstrual, I throw caution to the wind and ask him to guess. It goes without saying I’ve finished the better part of a glass of wine at these times.

Lately I’ve thought about my age and mortality more than ever before. I’m trying to come to terms with the idea that I’m “middle-aged”. I mean when did this happen? And while I’m on the subject, where does the kid at the bank get off calling me Mrs. McNamara? Do they not teach simple psychology at bank telling school? Mrs. McNamara = I’m now irritated and defensive. And also? I hate your stupid tie. On the other hand, Kim, in a flirty tone that implies you think we’re close in age = unsolicited calls to your manager raving about your customer service skills.

Have a nice day my ass.

It’s not like I’m on a crusade. I don’t buy anti-aging creams or lotions. I don’t fantasize about Botox. And it’s not for the reasons you might think; it’s not because I don’t believe they work. I’m just too cheap to spend the money and too afraid of the unknown side effects.

A cheap coward.

Also, a part of me hopes to be able to just get on with it. Get old but still have the energy I’ll need to live my life. Get old but deal with it in some semblance of grace. Except when it comes to my hair. I will not deal with grey hair with grace. I will fight those greys right up until the end.

Fight them, do you hear me?


Speaking of aging, Shaune had a birthday at the end of January. He had the nerve to ask me how old I'd be this year. I didn't dignify him with a response. Seriously. How rude. Just wait till next year when he turns 40. He won't be feeling so smug.

I had a bit of time to write a second post today.

Shaune took Deaglan to a birthday party. It left me and Naveen together at home. Here's what I made him for lunch. He'll only eat "snack plates". You can put just about any combination of  his favourite things on it, just make sure you address it properly. Snack plate. Not lunch.

October and me

The problem with not posting in over a month is that it’s hard to know where to begin.

Should I tell you first about the insomnia or the change of heart I've had about cooking? An update on the kids or gushing about Anne Lamott’s new book?  You see the problem? I’d usually write a separate post on each one of these things.  

Maybe I’ll back it up to September.

That’s when life sped up and forced me to prioritize. Shaune started his brand new permanent job. Deaglan became a first grader and Naveen went back to the preschooler room after a summer with Daddy. I felt the overwhelming urge to hold things together, hold all of their hands through it.  

Sadly, writing was triaged right out. Even sadder, I began waking up every night at precisely 1:30 am and lying awake until the morning.

I knew Shaune needed the freedom to embrace the new job so I released him of home work when I could. After all, he’d given me a luxuriously easy summer.

So, I took over all the cooking, dealt with the kids myself every evening; fed them, cleaned up, read to them, worked with Deaglan to improve his reading, bathed them and tucked them safely into their beds. While I did this, Shaune worked hard to create a foundation for this program he'd likely teach till the day he retired.

At the exact same time, work got good and busy. And then Deaglan's hockey started. I broke a toe which meant I had to get creative with my workouts – workouts that had become crucial to my sanity. Shaune’s partner teacher went on sick leave which meant he had to bring the rotating door of substitute teachers (usually starting teachers with absolutely no experience in commercial kitchens) up to speed almost every day.

The insomnia worsened and hot flashes and night sweats joined the party. And at least once a day I couldn't remember something important, it was on the tip of my tongue, near the front of my mind but I just couldn't find the words or remember what it was I was thinking about.

But every day around 4pm I took a break and googled healthy dinner ideas.  I often stopped in at the Metro on my way home to grab the things I needed for that night’s meal.  I liked the control I suddenly felt over what we ate. Shaune loved the break and he raved about the meals I was making.  

And then one Saturday morning a few weeks ago, I was scrolling through the digital TV guide in search of a cartoon both kids could agree on when I caught a glimpse of Suzanne Somers on CityLine.  She was listing symptoms to something - I’d missed the beginning – and almost every single symptom she listed sounded acutely familiar. A few hours later I had her new book I’m too young for this in my possession.

As I work through her book, I've begun adding other authors' viewpoints on the topic. Turns out I'm not too young for this. It has become evident that I am in the throes of perimenopause.

So that's it friends. That's what October was all about for us. I've missed this place and don't plan to be away for so long again. Next time I'll post more pictures and go on and on about the kids. And when the time is right I'll give you the lo down of what I'm doing to get myself on track with sleeping and all of that.

The boys got their hair cut and I tried to capture the before and after. These are grainy photos from my phone.

 



 I think I agree with my father-in-law that Naveen is meant to have long hair.