Me Too

"When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy,"  Matthew 2:10.

When I make Christmas decorations with my children, I feel the same way.

*This post is part of a series.  I've set aside one afternoon  (or morning) a week to do fun activities with my children.  In an effort to work out why it both draws and repels me, I choose these activities from Pinterest.  This one comes from here, and I've pinned it here.*

Happy Birthday!

I turned thirty-four on Sunday.  I woke to breakfast in bed.  Mary is only twelve, but she makes the creamiest scrambled eggs.  I lingered over them before I plunged into my day.  Then there were songs, and chocolate, and special gifts, and hugs, and phone calls, and laughter, and prayers of gratitude "for Mama's thirty-four years on the planet," and cake with sprinkles, and pistachio ice cream, and a long hot bath.  It was a wonderful day.

I only thought about aging twice.  Once when Beth let me know that I'm so old that she can't imagine ever being my age, and once when the ladies at church told me that I'm much too young to understand menopause.  I suppose I'm a grown up, but am I young one or an old one?

As always, Raffi knows just what to say.

Finding Home

When we moved to Timmins, just over two years ago, we lived in a hotel for about two months.  There was just not a lot of available housing in any price range. So we ate a lot of microwaveable processed food, and got acquainted with Family Channel. On October thirty-first, we dressed up in our teeny room, and went out to greet our new town.  The weather was so poor, that we didn't make it a block.  Yesterday, it snowed, and I thought to myself with a smile, tomorrow must be Halloween. 

Birthday Time

Birthdays make me think about time, more than anything else.  But yesterday was so densely packed with celebration, that it was bedtime before I gave any thought at all to that moment, twelve years ago, when I met Mary.  She was soft and small and scwunched.  And now, she's nearly as tall as I am.  She wants to paint her bedroom green, loves strong female characters, talks with her hands, savours the ironic, is empathetic, and loyal, and tough.  I suppose it's easy, to spend too much time baking cakes and wrapping gifts and not enough memorising her--picking her brain, and studying her face.

Wankful Wor Wofurky

On Monday, I marked Thanksgiving with potatoes, squash, and, for the first time, Tofurkey.  I will not say that it was the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.  It was salty.  And squeaky.  But it was filling, gave me a good excuse to eat cranberry sauce, and, most importantly, complemented my traditional post-holiday breakfast hash--mushrooms, onions, leftovers sautéed in butter.

Thinking About Community on Canada Day

Everything is closed today, so I ran errands yesterday.  In one shop, the person at the register didn't say anything at first.  It took me awhile to put all my purchases on the belt, so I just went with it.  Then the phone rang beside her.  She answered it and spoke softly.  Her voice was deep and I noticed the scarf at her neck on a hot, hot day seemed to cover an Adam's apple.  Now, I love living here.  The bush is beautiful and the people are wonderful.  I've been heartily welcomed.  But it's a small town that works hard and plays hard.  The queer community is quiet.  I think, if I felt compelled to explore my sexuality or my gender here, anywhere, but particularly here, I would feel afraid.  I wanted to reach out.  I smiled and asked her about the busyness of the store and whether it looked like rain for Canada Day.  She was tentative, but warmed as we continued to chat.  She rang in my odds and ends and I noticed her jaunty ponytail and her careful lipstick and her hands.  She had the most beautiful hands.  I thought about what it would take to have nails that perfect.  She must soak and scrub and file and moisturise.  I hope that's a happy part of her day, a day that includes risk, rejection, microaggression, danger, and scrutiny.  I hope she has great support.  I hope she's safe. 

Confessing

Yesterday was my husband's birthday.  He didn't want me to give him a present.  I made him a rhubarb cobbler.  I told him the things about him that I love.  I didn't give him a present.  I squirmed all day.  But, I didn't give him a present.  Now I feel both guilty for not giving him a present and selfish for wanting to give him a present against his will.  

A Post in Which Celebration and I Work Out Our Feelings

Yesterday was our fourteenth wedding anniversary.  We went for sushi and after the kids were down, we read a parenting book and ate some lemon ice cream (I ate lemon ice cream).  If you'd told me fourteen years ago how we'd mark the day, I think I'd have been disappointed.  Celebration is one of those loaded words that pull at me.  I want to set special moments apart and fill them with connection and memory but so often weigh them down with expectation and pressure.  I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself because yesterday, I just let it all go.  I took his hand as we walked into the restaurant.  We figured out the menu together (sushi novices).  I laughed when the server brought him some beginner chopsticks.  He gamely finished my cucumber roll.  On the way home we stopped for groceries (lemon ice cream).  Later, he rubbed my feet as I read aloud.  That was it.  It was a light happy day spent loving each other.  Today will be another one like it...

So.

Probably not finished with the whole expectation and pressure thing.

Confessing

So, I may have mentioned, once or twice, that we went on a little trip last month.  By little trip, I mean we jammed seven people into a minivan, drove twenty hours to a homeschooling conference in Virginia Beach, and drove back.  It was a great trip.  The children enjoyed the beach.  I enjoyed the workshops.  Jared enjoyed the United States Capitol, the state legislatures of Virginia and Pennsylvania (he has a thing for legislatures), and all forty hours of driving.  That's right, I let him do all the driving without offering to help once.  Now you know what kind of wife I am, and have been for fourteen years today.

Door Number Two, Please!

Every year, Mother's Day reminds me of the difference between my ideal mother and me.  I can choose to examine this difference with shame and chocolate, or with loving, gentle acceptance and vision (and chocolate).  Sometimes, I choose the former.  I say harsh things to my tender self, "You are bad at this," "You have a vague, elusive, fundamental flaw that you will never overcome," "Hide!"  This negative script is toxic, but I think, common.  It is, isn't it?  Once in awhile you feel this too, right?  Please don't shame me about my shame.  Unfortunately, well-intentioned contradiction does not help, "You are an amazing mother," "Your children will be fine," "There are no monsters under the bed."  This upbeat chirping has zero credibility.  I do have amazing moments, but I'm not amazing all (or even most) of the time.  My children might be fine, but they might not--that information is not currently available.  And nobody knows for sure that there are no monsters under my bed.  For me, knee-jerk positivity is not reassuring, it's dismissive.  I don't think real acceptance lies in ignoring my weaknesses, difficulties and fears, but rather in recognising my ability to overcome them.  "Wow! I am good at working hard," "My desire to be a fine mother is a sign of my noble character," "I have grown so much."


Hannah's thoughts on the matter

Happier Easter!

I'm going to be watching the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing Handel's Messiah live tonight at seven thirty mountain daylight time.  It will be available on youtube all weekend. 

Free concerts, baroque composers, and I get along really well.

Happy Easter!

We love Easter at our house.  It's a special time for our faith and for our family.  One thing we do every year is dye eggs.  A lot of eggs.  Maybe six dozen.  We mix up our cup of water and tablespoon of vinegar and twenty drops of food colouring and away we go.  This year we enriched our eggs with some ideas from Pinterest.  We feel pretty pleased with the results.

I'm thinking a particularly eggy potato salad would go really well with Easter dinner...and lunch...and breakfast.



*This post is part of a series.  I've set aside Thursday afternoons to do fun activities with my children.  In an effort to work out why it both draws and repels me, I choose these activities from Pinterest.*

Happy, Happy Birthday, Jonah Dear!

Jonah Nonah turned eight this week.  There are a lot of things I appreciate about Jonah.  He is funny.  He spontaneously helps people without being asked.  He is creative.  He is clever.  He thinks kitties and babies are adorable.  He likes to snuggle.  He wants to make good choices.  He has strong self discipline.  He asked for a store bought cake this year. 

Last year, I spent hours and hours making a six layer Optimus Prime pound cake with marshmallow fondant.  It was a frustrating process, but in the end, we had a delicious cake that looked a bit like a transformer...until we ate it two minutes after the big reveal.

This year, I took his hand as we walked through sliding glass doors directly to the bakery department.  He pointed out a cake and asked the baker to write 'Happy Birthday Jonah' on top in blue frosting.  We walked to the frozen foods section for ice cream, stopping for Kinder Surprises on the way.  We were in and out of that store in under fifteen minutes.

Last year's cake was magic.  This year's cake was what he wanted.

Next Year, I'll Wear Green

"I feel really disappointed that I'm the only one wearing green today!"  Beth pouted at breakfast."

"That's just for Irish people," was Mary's clipped response.

I wonder what my great-great grandmother Margaret Dunahee would think of this exchange...and Beth's lime velvet jeans and shamrock satin kimono.

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows...

My husband is away this week.  He was originally due back last night but now I'm to expect him on Tuesday.  When he mentioned the delay, I suppose I felt ambivalence. Of course, I was disappointed because I miss him.  But, now I can stay up late reading and no one will gently nudge me to go to sleep.

Pinterest?

So, I just spent twenty minutes surfing--twenty minutes in with which I might have helped my seven-year-old prepare for gymnastics, you know, "have you washed your face," "are you wearing socks," "is that tomato on your trousers?"--and I'm trying to decide whether Pinterest is against my religion.  It's so pretty...and shiny...and sun-dappled.  I love it.  And I hate it. 

There is a pressure I feel as a mother to create original works of art out of every childhood moment and make the whole thing look effortless with not enough sleep.  I don't want to feel cruddy about myself when I choose sleep over heart shaped cookies with royal icing (happy Valentine's Eve).  I'd rather cheer for every great idea well executed and perfectly photographed.  Is this a competition, or something?  Which is the bigger sell out--when I avidly pin? or when I make snide comments about cupcakes?

I just don't know, but there's something delicious in sending my son into the world half-dressed so I can find the perfect sock puppet.