The promise of each new spring

We’re moving to a new house next week and every time I ask the kids how they’re feeling about it, Deaglan says the same thing: I can’t wait because Dad says we’re getting those diving rockets Shannon has at her house! 

And Naveen answers me with a question to make sure we’re talking about the same thing. You mean that house with the pool that we saw last year ago?  

Yes.

It was the end of May but I remember how time felt as a kid.

Truth is, I’ve been walking around in a daze, reliving our time here; watching the past seven years in flashes on the projector of my mind. In the spare room, I only see the nursery it used to be. The sound of lullabies tinkling in the background as I nurse my babies to sleep night after night. 

I walk by walls and finger the grooves left by baby gates, freshly painted over, but the scars still there. I see each of the boys crawling and eventually walking up and down the well-worn stair case; stare a little longer at the framed pictures along the rail,  when they were just babies.

Downstairs I sit bemused on the recliner, gaze out the front window, as neighbors walk by with their dogs, pass the tree I’ve come to love. The one I eyed up suspiciously that first summer but who has become my loyal and constant companion in watching these boys grow. 

I thank it, not for the first time, for allowing our babies to swing from its branches, for being the touch point for all their games, for patiently indulging them summer after summer as they struggle to scale its trunk. I thank it for its breezy shade in the hot summer months and for the way it stands proudly through the cold winter, bare for all to see, clinging to the promise of each new spring.

I hope the new owners will treasure you old friend.

In the evenings, we kick the ball around or I just sit back to watch the kids play in the backyard. My mind takes me back to other moments we’ve had here. I watch myself walk down the aisle, in a pretty white dress, past the handful of family and friends, a baby on my hip and six white roses in my hand; I make my way toward my sweet love to say I do.

It felt so right to do it here! 

This place that made us a family, settled us into our best selves.

And when I ask Shaune how he’s feeling about it - he’s the more sentimental one of us – he hesitates. I have to remind him it’s time to move on. We really did make the right decision.

It wasn’t the plan to stay here forever. 

 

 

 

The long road to Spring

We’re more than halfway through a new month of a brand new year and you’ll be comforted to know that nothing much has changed around here. Mornings are still harried as I race against the clock to get myself and two boys out the door looking our parts: me – business casual, them – ready for running, jumping and whatever they do that has worn out the knees on just about every pair of pants they own, all the while remembering everything it entails: a packed lunch and backpack, dry mittens, hats, zippers and snowpants, homework and signed notes, and often, a toy or well-loved stuffy to bring the familiarity of home to where they spend their days.

Many mornings go as smooth as these things can, meaning I’ve used minimal bribery for cooperation, I’ve not had to yell (too much) to be heard, and our goodbyes are said without tears or resentment.

But many mornings have been the exact opposite of this.

Our nights fare about the same: pick-ups spent gathering wet mittens and hats, slapdash dinners from whatever we remembered to put on the grocery list, homework and note-signing, bath-times and bedtimes, and a generous glass of wine to tie it all together.

Always a glass of wine.

Since I posted last, I’ve read halfway through two books, built three Lego vehicles, straightened out four junk drawers, donated five bags of clothes, and ice skated for the first time in almost 26 years. I also started drinking more water, and watching The Guardian on Netflix.

Two words: Simon.Baker.

It’s that long, hard part of winter and I’m doing my best to make the best of it. By practicing radical self-care (as Anne Lamott calls it), I’m hoping to cheat the system. I’m cleaning and purging, organizing and hydrating, reading and sticking to my routines. I'm also staying far, far away from sugar and cuddling the kids as much as I can.

And if I can remember to do it, I’m thinking good, wholesome, positive thoughts. Sometimes it's the only way to neutralize the winter blues.

One morning last week, I woke Naveen up, and held his sleepy little body on my hip.  With his arms around my neck he asked me if it was the weekend yet. It was only Tuesday. I kissed his head and tried to think of a way to answer that without making it sound like Saturday was eons away. 

It sure felt like it to me.

Santa left Jenga under the tree for Deaglan. We played the intended way a few times but he found more fun ways to use the wooden pieces.

Please ignore the empty raisin box. And the empty playdough container. And the unswept bit of floor.

That's a tiny Lego Mutant Ninja Turtle on top of that tower.
 Leonardo, to be accurate.

There's been lots of time spent in our favourite pajamas.

Lots of time spent watching our favourite shows. With Raphael.

 

Are you impressed with my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle know-how? Naveen always is...he asks me at least five times a day who my favourite Turtle is. I always say  the same thing. Hands down Michaelangelo, Dude!

 

And I got to wander a thrift store for a few hours to start this gallery wall.

 

What about you, what are you doing on these long cold winter days? 

 

Simple, human and oh so far from perfect

I’ve spent a lot of time this past year wishing we had a bigger house in a different neighbourhood. 

The truth is, we’re quickly outgrowing our three-bedroom semi-detached with its shared front yard and driveway. I think six years ago Shaune and I made an inadvertently good decision. At the time it was in our price range but we couldn’t have known then how much two children, childcare (Close to $15,000 this year!) and everything else that comes with family life would someday cost us .

Over the years, we’ve grown attached to our little street, made some very good friends with our neighbours and to my delight have connected with some of the parents of Deaglan’s school friends because they live on our street or the one only a block over. 

It satisfies a deep yearning I’ve always had, to plant myself firmly in a home, feel connected to it and the people close by.

And yet in the back of my mind I know this rootedness is only practice for the next house we move to. The one I keep calling our “forever” home; the one I imagine will be in another part of town, flanked by like-minded neighbours with kids the same ages as ours, comparable salaries and jobs, maybe a pool in the backyard, and definitely a double car garage for Shaune.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of grand things. 

It never occurred to me to imagine a large wedding or granite countertops. I didn’t know I was supposed to want crown moulding or an ensuite. And I watch myself even now, on some level, keeping a distance from a crowd that might make me think these things are important.

A few days ago Deaglan told me that one of his friends, his best friend actually, during play at school, constantly threatens to call the police when things aren’t going right or his way. I dug around a bit with gentle questions and it turns out Reid* threatens to call the “cops” if he feels he’s been wronged or mistreated somehow. He does this all the time according to my boy. I added this information to something else Deaglan told me about Reid a few weeks ago which is that once in a while Reid goes to his Daddy’s house on the weekends without his Mommy.

My heart hurt for Reid. I couldn’t help but play out the scenes of his parents fighting, sometimes violently, before they decided to separate.

Last night our neighbour across the street walked over with her two oldest children. She wanted to let me know that her husband had been arrested again. She wanted us to know in case we were wondering why we hadn’t seen Marcus* around lately. 

Their oldest child is also in Deaglan’s class, a tiny raven-haired beauty with the inkiest black eyes you've ever seen. I adore all three kids but this girl, well there’s something about her that makes me ache for a daughter.  We’d socialized with the family a few times and almost always call the two oldest girls over to play in our backyard on sunny days.

The mother, my neighbour from across the street, told me that she’d lied to the kids (ages five, four and two), told them that Daddy had gone back to Jamaica* to visit his sick father and might have to stay there for a while. She didn’t think the oldest girl, Deaglan’s classmate, believed it.

All last night my heart hurt for those kids and especially for that little girl. I couldn’t get her hauntingly beautiful but sad eyes out of my mind.

And while I lay there, something else crept in. It wasn’t as noble. It snuck in the way it always does; when I wasn't paying attention. It filled me with shame. I was reminded that I am still, afterall, simple, and human and oh so far, far from perfect.

It was a whisper of a voice urging me to move my family to a better neighbourhood; one without jail sentences and late-night domestic calls.

All day that family across the street, the one with the dad who is sitting in a jail cell, all day they were on my mind. I wondered what was better for my boys: to live in a neighbourhood where backyard barbecues and two-parent families is the norm or one where we are forced to witness the realities of real life.

The truth is, I don’t know.

*Not their real names. Not the real place.

This place

I hosted a small baby shower for my friend last Saturday afternoon. According to Pinterest, it was technically a “sprinkle” since this will be her second baby. The week leading up to it, I’d divided up cleaning jobs for each evening after work. One night I cleaned out the front foyer closet, put away the bulky winter coats and the overflowing baskets of mittens and hats. Another night I tidied and scrubbed shiny the fridge while Shaune steam cleaned the carpets. A third night I tried to catch up on loads and loads of laundry that never seemed to end.

And all the while I noticed the little imperfections of this house. I noticed the old worn builder-grade wood doors and trim, the archways that were in dire want of paint, the tired tatty carpets. I was acutely aware of the small living space, bins crammed full of toys on one wall, the couches frayed and smudged from small fingers using them as napkins, the cushions covered in patterned blankets, my attempt to save at least a part of them.

I cringed that we didn’t have central air, prayed that the weather would be unseasonably cool that day, not forcing us to install the eyesore of a window unit.

For the hundredth time since we moved here, I wished we’d been more patient in our choosing of this house. Up until then, Shaune and I had always rented, gone from apartment to apartment, renovated spaces in old houses, sometimes with balconies or with a bit of a deck when we were luckier.

We knew we were ready to break free from the shackles of landlord living, but we didn’t do our homework. We were in a rush to escape, have no one to answer to. We were thrilled with anything we saw because all we could think of was how we wouldn’t be sharing it with a crack-dealing neighbour, or be constantly intruded upon by a drunken lunatic landlord who had a penchant for setting off fireworks mid-afternoon for no apparent reason except that he enjoyed the loud bang which never failed to upset our aging blind diabetic dog for hours afterward.

But just as easily I reprimanded myself for feeling so ungrateful.

After all this is the place that welcomed my babies home from the hospital, the one I’ve been watching them grow from tiny cherubic infants to chattering wild sun-kissed boys. This house has allowed me to stay unruffled when they’ve used my couches to wipe their sticky fingers, practice their writing skills on walls I knew could be covered later with a coat of paint.  

This house has crept into the deepest places of my being. It has helped shape me into a mother and wife.

This is the house I married my best friend in, transforming its tiny backyard into both church and reception hall. This house with its plain features, and non-descript floor plan. I’ve developed my writing here, dreamt of a day when the boys were older and I could eke out regular time to write uninterrupted.

This house has been my first real home.

I can’t remember how long we stayed in each place in Bangladesh but I know that since arriving here in Canada when I was seven, I’ve never lived in one home longer than a few years. It’s the place Deaglan refers to when we are on a trip and he yearns to go home. The place he understands to hold comfort and all of his treasured things. It’s the place where he had Shaune and me all to himself and also where he learned to be someone’s big brother.  

It’s the place I will miss when we move one day.

This is Deaglan four years ago in a backpack helping Daddy water the flowers.

Here he is yesterday doing the same.

Naveen snuggled on my chest just minutes after he was born.

Yesterday enjoying the kiddie pool and sunshine.

Birthday gifts

Whenever his feelings of love for me are too enormous for his pre-schooler sized lexis to express, Deaglan says something like,

“Mommy, when I’m a big man, I’m going to buy you a fridge!” Then he waits for my reaction but before I can respond he sweetens the deal with “I mean a brand NEW fridge!”

Of course I say the typical things you’d expect, “I’d love a brand new fridge honey! But I’d be just as happy if you made me a beautiful picture or cuddled with me.”  (I know what you’re thinking. You'd want your grown son to draw you a picture or cuddle with you?  Okey-dokey.)

For a while I tried to figure out why he picked the fridge. Ours is only about four years old and works just fine. I can’t remember ever complaining about it or yearning out loud for a fancier model. Why not a new car or bigger house? And there’s also this: I beg my boys for affection almost every minute I’m with them. I tell them at least a dozen times a day that my favourite times are when I’m around them and that I just can’t get enough of their hugs and kisses.

And Deaglan is always sweet and generous, promising me “armpit” or lots of kisses when we’re together again. Naveen however is a different story. He doles his love out like it’s the day after the apocalypse and he’s holding the last loaf of bread. He’s stingy and downright arbitrary – you can never guess when he might give you one of his mushy-lipped smooches or flat out refuse you. Recently though we’ve discovered a loophole. If he thinks you’ve hurt yourself, he’ll run over with great concern and kiss the place you claim you’ve hurt. I probably should be ashamed to tell you this but I pretend to be hurt all the time.

On my lips.

 

My point is though; I don’t know where Deaglan got the idea that he had to buy something to show how much he loves me. But then again I’ve never been any good at math. I mean if the giddiness with which I’m looking forward to my new Ikea dressers arriving just in time for my birthday tomorrow is any indication of how not-materialistic I am – I can’t imagine why my son might think things make me happy.

I’ll tell you what will make me happy. Not having our bedroom look like the showroom at Goodwill. Not that there’s anything wrong with used furniture, I’ve been quite proud and forthcoming about my curbside finds. But I’ve been dreaming about these two charmers for some time now, swooning at the thought of having enough room for all of our clothes. And so when Shaune asked me a few weeks ago what I wanted for my birthday, I’m sure he expected me to say the usual  - I have everything I need, but I responded with only one word - "Hemnes!" 

And a few mornings ago, after disciplining Deaglan a few times about smashing Naveen's toy vacuum into the fridge, it dawned on me why he picked that particular appliance to gift me in the future with. He's made just about every dent on it's stainless steel surface. 

Sweet, practical and repentant. Some lucky woman is going to thank me one day!

De-Christmasafied

Am I the only one breathing a sigh of relief that it's over? That there's nary a hint of Christmas in our home? Not a sno-globe or candy cane in sight? Yesterday Shaune and I scrubbed it away, swore if we never heard another jingle bell it would be too soon.

Although there's a lot to do like build an addition on our house to accomodate the stockpile of new toys the kids received from their overly generous relatives, I've decided to sit down, watch the snow finally fall. There's been a lot of visiting and I don't know about you, but I take mine with plenty of breaks in between.

And while I don't like to focus on the material gifts received during the season, I can't help but tell you about the ones that touched me most. Like the toy vacuum cleaner Santa left for Naveen. Only during phases of sleep has he been without it. He walks around all day, holding it lovingly, chanting its name va-koooom.

There's also this drawing from Shaune's sister Katie of our little Naveen. Such a beautiful likeness of our Hoover-lover. She used one of the pictures in this set as her model.

Here's my winter mantle. The plate in the frame belonged to Matthew, just one of his everyday dinner plates. There wasn't much to take, very few memento-like things in the pile of his things in my parents' basement.

I've enjoyed looking at it, thinking about him.

And I'm itching to rearrange furniture, change up the curtains, get a new look. It happens every year around this time, when the rooms look suddenly emptier, cleaner. I see the possibilities again. I bought this beautiful vintage oval mirror (below) for $5 at a garage sale last summer.

And here's the drawing of Deaglan on the other side of the window. Sorry about the blurred photo. Katie did this one three years ago. That lady knows the way to my heart.

See the brass lamp below? I found two of them on the side of the road last year. Yup, garbage-picking. Only, Shaune didn't roll his eyes this time. He kind of liked them. Hello??? What's not to like - they were free! I'm just dying to spray paint them. Maybe the same blue as the dinner plate. What do you think?

My lame DIY Christmas projects



This season is blurring by don't you think? I haven't done my Christmas cards, or tiptoed into the neighbours yard with the scissors yet. We decorated  the house but lord help me if anyone decides to drop by. I'd have to come up with an elaborate story about how our house was ransacked by wild thieves while we were out.

Naveen's gone ahead and turned into a toddler without my consent. I'm chasing him around like a desperate fool, begging for  kisses, or even a chance to nibble his neck. But he's got no time for me, busy getting into the cat's affairs, or grating on Deaglan's last nerve,  and falling head over heels for his Dad. At daycare he only associates with other 18 month olds, he's so over infants!

And because he's everywhere, I've done most of my decorating out of reach. As you'll notice there's a bulb-y theme. I've gone to town with bulbs and hot glue.

 See the tiny tree up there? While Deaglan was finger-painting a couple of days ago, I asked him if I could guide his hands on my canvas to make a Christmas tree. The bulbs were Naveen's little fingers.

 Do you mind squinting when you look at this red bulb wreath? Or at least not judge me because there are tiny ribbons of hot glue criss-crossing over the surface? Do you know the strategy it takes to use the glue gun while Ole Reachy-Fingers is around?

 And here's my Christmas mantle. I collected all that milk glass garage sale-ing.

 I saw this old window at the Grand Bend Flea Market back in May. Shaune rolled his eyes when I paid two dollars for it.

I'll bet he's counting his lucky stars he has a wife who has such vision! Actually, I got the idea from Pinterest, my heart flip-flopped when I saw this. I'm still not sure where the best place to showcase my version is. I've noticed some of my neighbours walk right on by without a glance. Can you imagine?

Ten: Part one

Ten more things about me

1. The remains of Judge, our dog, sit on a shelf in our closet – he was cremated almost four years ago.

2. I grind my teeth and should be wearing my night guard. And also, but possibly not related, I experience several moments of sheer terror every few days about the fact that I’m telling the internet my business on this blog...in case you were wondering. I get over it rather quickly though.

3. The song Bobbyjean by Bruce Springsteen makes me want to cry and I don’t even know why. I was in grade ten the first time I heard it.

4. When I get a compliment on something I’m wearing – I blurt out the price. Because I only shop clearance. And I’m usually pretty impressed with my bargain-hunting skills.

5. I’m most productive in the morning, in the springtime and when I have a deadline.

6. I can’t stand avoiding an issue. If something is upsetting, if I’ve hurt someone, if they’ve wronged me, I need to talk about it so it’s not bubbling inside me.

7. Our sponsored child’s name is Sabina and she lives in Bangladesh. I wish I could sponsor ten more kids.

8. I love kijiji, garage sales and flea markets. I feel certain that my days of buying new are almost over. Incidentally, I begged Shaune to stop at the side of the road last week and pick up a coffee table someone was throwing out. It’s now the footboard for our bed. My plan is to sand and paint it. I’m not sure how Shaune feels about it; he’s hit his shin on it every night since.

9. I read to my boys every single night. Even when I don’t want to. And I take a page from Dora and ask Deaglan what his favourite part of the day was. I’m pretty proud of this.

10. I say small prayers all throughout the day. It helps me stay conscious and present. And not related but just because I wanted to fit it in, I’ve been really grossed out by red meat lately. But likely related, I’ve been scheming of ways to stay healthier so I can be nimble and spry when my boys give me grandchildren. I’m an older mom you know.

Please come back for Ten:Part two on Sunday.

 

Resistance

Remember that part in Meet the Fockers where Robert DeNiro says they've been using the Ferber method to teach Baby Jack to self-soothe and then Dustin Hoffman says We used the Focker method. We hugged and kissed that little prince like there was no tomorrow. We Fockerized him...? I loved that and have been thinking about it alot lately.

I was thinking how when you're a new parent you get really caught up in the right way to raise that baby. At least I did anyway. I was all according this book, I should wait until X number of months before I start feeding him solids. And then when things didn't go according to what was documented, I was like okay, what's wrong with my baby? What did I do wrong? 

But then when you have a second baby, those books get dusty and you rely on a combination of what worked last time and what you have the energy and resources to do.

Well I'm sort of feeling that new mother anxiety again but with my three year old. I know that he needs to stop using his soother and start pooping on the damned toilet before I head back to work in three months but a big part of me wants to let him be, let him enjoy this last bit of time at home without forcing him to let go of the last remnants of babyhood all at once.

I encourage him to go at his own pace. There's a lot he probably should do on his own but when he resists, I don't fight him. For instance, he only recently started showing interest in dressing himself. Before he took the initiative, I never pushed him much.

Maybe he's not the only person resisting. It could be me too. I'm in no hurry to see him become independent from me. He has the rest of his life to do stuff for himself.

Can you tell I'm ready for Spring to show it's face over in my neck of the woods? I couldn't bring myself to throw those branches away so I took out my gluegun and hung some sea shells from them. They were just sitting around doing nothing anyway.

I'm joining Shell over at Things I Can't Say.