Mothers' Day

This will officially be my last post.

On this blog, anyway. And that may not come as a surprise considering how rarely I write (It’s not for lack of desire to or ideas, I assure you!)

The past 14 months (to the day) have been a whirlwind to say the least. “Life” is, always, but nothing can ever fully or properly prepare you for becoming a parent. I was bad at prioritizing my passions pre-baby. Now, quite frankly, I’m useless.

Luckily I don’t see resolutions as being short-lived January-only opportunities. They’re ongoing, evolving, and forever changing (as we do). I’m hoping that starting a new blog will inspire me to write more, but I guess we’ll have to wait and see! 

In the meantime, I’ve had an idea floating in my head since Mothers’ Day 2015, and it seems like the perfect sign off for The Last Place I Left Her.

As I’ve mentioned - since my Mom’s passing - I’ve learned to love, admire, appreciate (and forgive) all she did as a mother more than I ever did when she was living. And I always thought I loved (and forgave) her plenty. Now that I’m a mother myself that respect has multiplied exponentially. This is one tough gig! If only I could love, accept and forgive myself the way I was able to with her. 

You’d think Mothers’ Day would be easier and more exciting now that I’m celebrating from a mother’s perspective, as opposed to as a motherless child.

Nope.

It was harder. Heavier. More conflicting. Strangling, even.

Social media gives us this fast lane highway to connect with the people we love (like, associate with, or even dislike). We see into people’s lives with a microscope they polish and hand us. For the most part, we share the good stuff and deny (or sugar coat) the rest. I know I’m guilty of this. I have consciously made that choice because of my ‘gratitude attitude’ and constant effort to look on the bright side. Still, our social media outlets often become platforms for bragging. I know I’m guilty of this, too, without ever intentionally doing it to hurt anyone.

Relishing in our joys, abundance and blessings can seem very ‘Nana Nana Boo Boo’, I know. It’s too bad we can’t just be happy for one another without twinges of envy or without being completely consumed by jealousy. In all honesty, I often think it’s too bad social media even exists. But that’s likely another blog post in itself.

I digress (as I always do)…

Mothers’ Day was hard. And I think it’s safe to say I’m not the only one who felt that way. It’s hard for so many unique and different reasons. In my moments of ‘woe is me’ I did my best to force myself out of my own shoes and imagine what it must be like for others. My mantra that often drags me out of the deep and dark places I sometimes tumble into is ‘It could always be worse’. And usually, that’s very true.

This year was hard for me because there were a lot of really awesome mother-child relationships flauntingly on display. I’ve never felt my Mom’s absence as much as I’ve felt it since having our son, but, it’s more than that. My Facebook feed and Instagram were flooded with beautiful photos and attached sentiments of stunning Mothers with their children. The accompanying words were some of the nicest I’ve ever read.

This woman is my best friend.

This woman sacrifices everything for our family.

This woman has loved me more than I can describe.

This is the strongest woman I know.

I couldn’t survive without this woman.

I go to this woman for everything.

This woman is the backbone of our family.

This woman is beautiful inside, and out.

This woman is one of the best people I know.

This woman is one of the kindest people I know.

This woman would do anything for anybody, and would never expect anything in return.

My honest reaction?

Must be nice [cue eye-roll]

I get real on this blog, with the good and the bad, and the truth is it often got bad in my childhood home. What I would have given to be held, complimented, supported and loved unconditionally. My Mom and I were close for our own reasons, and I truly loved and admired her in sickness and in health (physically and mentally). But it wasn’t always easy. It rarely was, actually. It didn’t come naturally, because a lot of what she did and said was unforgivable as a parent. The forgiving, loving and trying to understand was a choice I made (and continue to make) for my sake as much as it's for hers. And all of those lovey dovey Mama Bear photos and reflections filled me with a jealousy I found hard to shake.

I was able to look at my beautiful, healthy baby and think, “Hopefully he feels this way about me someday. Hopefully I’m that kind of Mom”. And all I can do from here on out is my very best. We’re human, in the end. Yes, even (and maybe especially) Mothers.

I could beat the topic to death, and will revisit it often in my new blog (stay tuned), but being a Mom is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It isn’t 'convenient'. It leaves you marinating in worry, guilt, fear, and exhaustion. Even with a stand up husband and hands-on Dad by my side, I still struggle.

Tell me again how my Mom functioned at all on her own?

But even admitting all of that, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done and will ever do, too. As much as it has stripped me bare and pushed me to my limits, it has also filled me up. I’m more complete now than I’ve ever been. It grabbed me by my shoulders and shook me hard and said, “This is what you’re meant to do”. In a world where I was wandering aimlessly in the dark wondering what that purpose would ever be.

Well I’ve found it. 

It’s in the feeling in my heart when I collect our boy from his crib when he wakes. Or when I hear my son saying his best rendition of Mom. It's watching him sleep, feeling him breathe, or feeling his heartbeat under my loving touch. It's the smell of his hair and the way it tickles my nose when he brings a book and climbs into my lap. It's when he collapses into my loving arms; out of excitement, for comfort, because of pain, or exhaustion. My arms are his safe place. We are a team. I would walk barefoot to the ends of the earth and back for his safety, his well-being and his joy. I can’t believe I ever questioned whether I’d ever do this. 

Having a child is a gamble, but it’s also an investment. What I give will come back tenfold. Maybe not always or ever in dollar signs, but where it truly counts.

On our drive home from the hospital, a mere 2 days after having our son, it suddenly hit me; someday, if he decides to get married, I will get to dance with him. Me. I’m that girl. I’m his Mom.

I don’t take this lightly, obviously. I even uttered this realization out loud that day and my husband – as usual – brought sense to me. Something along the lines of, “Whoa, can we at least get him home for the first time?”

Right.

We attended a most beautiful wedding in September. One of 2 we attended in the summer sans baby. We attended 4 in total, but those 2 nights sans babe are to date our only ‘date nights’ since having him, and you can’t really even call them that.

That time apart from our dude wasn’t easy for all kinds of reasons. You dream and hope for a break and time for ‘you’ (and time for you and your man), and then the moment you’re leaving them behind your heart aches. You miss them before you’re even gone! What a sick and twisted web we weave!

At this particular wedding (the last of the 4 we attended) I was especially emotional. Listen, I’m an emotional person to begin with. I’m insanely sensitive and cry at the drop of a hat; weddings have never been an exception to that. But this past summer, all 4 had an especially strong effect on me. I watched grown men getting married. I watched them walk their mothers to their seats. I saw the pride in their mothers’ eyes. I saw the joy and the love but I also saw the heartache. The realization that the little boy they grew, birthed, raised, and have worried about every moment of every day since knowing he existed is now ‘somebody else’s’? What an emotional tug of war!

At this wedding in September, where we watched the youngest son of 3 boys marry the love of his life, it hit me harder than usual. Come to think of it, the first of the 4 weddings we attended was the middle son’s - of the same family - so I’d had the privilege and honour of watching the same loving couple “give away” 2 of their boys in one summer. That is a very big deal. Thankfully all 3 of their boys have picked the kind of women you wouldn't lose sleep over as a parent. That's somethin'

I’ve realized - since having a child - that my biggest wish and hope is that my children choose partners that are kind, trustworthy and who have good intentions. I may not be able to pick who my children fall in love with (how scary is that?!) but I hope that they pick life partners my husband and I will have full faith in. 

September’s wedding was an anomaly for other reasons. The bride and groom both come from families where their Mom and Dad are still happily in love. The bride and groom are also exceptionally close to their siblings (and their siblings’ partners). There was no fear of tension, no chance of altercation, no history of navigating a broken family or a past laced with tension and instability. I was in awe of the beauty of the day, the couple, and how everything came together. And I was also riddled with jealousy.

Thankfully when I feel jealous I don’t get angry. It doesn’t send me down a hateful spiral. I would never wish ill on a person I’m envious of. I can see why the jealousy exists and I keep it at arm’s length. My love of the couple and appreciation for their gifts won, wholeheartedly, but I cried – a lot. 

It was inspiring as a mother to see how well these ‘children’ have turned out. It was evident how helpful a loving home can be in the growth and development of these tiny humans we bring to the world.

After a couple of drinks I had to reach out to the groom’s mother, who I know fairly well. I got real with her. I wanted her secrets. How can I be sure my kids grow up and love me the way her boys love her? How can I be sure my kids have good and giving hearts? How can I raise my children so that they choose life partners I love as if they're my own?

This woman makes it look easy.

So I asked her if she ever found it hard. I asked if she ever struggled. I asked if she ever wanted to pull her hair out and throw in the towel. Did she ever lose her cool?

You’d have to see her and know her to fully imagine her response, but it was candid, comforting, and raw. Without going into details (partly because they’re blurry and I don’t want to get them wrong) it wasn’t - and isn’t - always easy for her any more than it is for me. The biggest lesson? What I've taken from what she had to say? Do my best. Don’t break your children’s spirits or hearts. If you do lose your cool, own it and apologize. Show them that it happens and then show them how to fix it. Be gentler on myself. Love myself. Forgive myself.

Treat myself the way my mother should have; with unconditional love, support, understanding and forgiveness.

I’m working on it.

Part of my ‘working on it’ is seeing a therapist when I feel like the anchor on my ankles isn’t kickable, and the tide is coming in. When I told her (right before Mothers’ Day) that I wanted to write about how hard it all is, she was intrigued. I told her my reasons why I struggle and then our conversation went in all kinds of other directions that gave me so much perspective. She said, “Imagine what Mothers’ Day is like for women who have lost a child? Or, for ones that haven’t been able to conceive and want nothing more in this life than to be mothers? What about the mothers without husbands like yours?”

Oh right. Yes. All of that.

I follow an Instagram account of a woman whose first born child only lived a few days. She has since found out why his health was compromised, and now has a healthy baby girl (thankgoodness - her strength and stamina makes me weep). Witnessing how she wrestles with her reality puts mine into perspective. 

I once wrote on one of her pictures and reflections how much I am learning from her.

I told her that sometimes my rubber boots get stuck in the muck of motherhood. The years may be short, but sometimes the days are so, so interminably long. Sometimes I feel so trapped. Sometimes I feel like I’m caught and I can’t budge, and all of the demands of this all-important and all-encompassing job make me feel claustrophobic. I’ve admittedly had (very short lived) moments where I’ve even said, “What was I thinking? I’m so not cut out for this”

And then I see a post about a baby who didn’t make it. A reflection from a mother who has had to burry a child far too young. Or I spend time with a friend who is fighting a heart-breaking battle with fertility.

Suddenly someone has my hands and I’m being pulled from the mire that’s consuming me. I come straight out of those mucky boots and I leave them behind. Barefoot and grounded. Reminded of my blessings. Reminded that I’m not the only one having good days, and bad. High points, and lows. Moments of elation mixed with complete and utter trepidation.

My latest conclusion is that my perfectionism is the problem. There truly is no such thing as a perfect mother. The main thing I have to remember is that doing my best, with good intention, is more than many can say. The sheer fact that I’m so concerned about being ‘good enough’ is likely proof that I am.

I loved and forgave my mother despite her short-comings, and wouldn’t have actually had it any other way. At the end of the day our good moments just have to outweigh our bad. The joy we bring must shine brighter than the moments where we’ve dimmed the lights. The love we show must wrap its arms around our children despite moments of frustration, disappointment, and consequences. At the end of the day our children are as human as we are, and we have to cut ourselves some slack. 

Doing our best is more than enough.

My Mom was more than enough.

I am enough.

P.S. Mothers’ Day should be every day, no? Just sayin’…

Nature vs. Nurture (Or to Hell with both)

Whether we want to admit it or not, we are the product of our parents (and therefore, their gene pools), as well as the nurturing in our raising (or lack thereof). We can deny it and fight this reality all we want, but deep down, apples don’t fall far from trees. And, even when the apple gets picked up and moved elsewhere, there’s still an unspoken influence that comes with it.

That doesn’t mean we’re doomed to be just like our parents. Quite the contrary. Let us not forget that our parents are imperfect like all other beings who walk the Earth, us included. Perfection is impossible (thank goodness). Our parents, no matter how wonderful and/or flawed, have gifts and qualities that we should embrace and be proud of. If we happen to inherit traits from them that we aren’t so thrilled about, we can learn to navigate them, censor them, or channel them to be positive or useful. Those are choices we make, that don’t happen overnight. It isn’t easy, it isn’t a one-time thing; It’s a lifelong choice of commitment, should we recognize - and accept - the challenge.

I spent so much of my childhood trying to be a peaceful participant. Often that was within the walls of my own childhood home (where just my Mom and I lived for 24 years). It doesn’t seem like a complicated dynamic to participate in, but my Mom was one of the most complicated people I’ve ever known (in mostly good ways) which meant it sometimes felt like I was living with more than one person. I was her child, but also her ‘spouse’, roommate, friend, confidante, etc. I grew up long before I should have had to, but never knew this was strange compared to taken for granted norms.

I also tried to be the peaceful participant in my parents’ divorce. Like most children in broken families, I felt it was my fault that their partnership had faltered. The weight and burden that brings is suffocating, and as far back as I can remember, I tried to be the ‘perfect child’ in order to earn their love and forgiveness. Some children rebel out of anger and frustration. I, on the other hand, conformed out of guilt and fear. I wanted desperately for both of them to accept me, cherish me and be proud of me. There even came a time where I would have taken all of the above from just one of them, if only one would express that. For too long a stretch I doubted that either of them felt any of these things, and yet I persevered. Straight A’s, no trouble, big smile. I love and forgive them both, but now know – looking back - how incredibly wrong and heartbreakingly sad that was. At this stage of my life, I look back on it all as if it is playing out on a television screen, and I am but a bystander. That little person is someone I want to reach out to hug and reassure, but it’s as if ‘she’ isn’t me.

A friend recently posted this YouTube video, and it resonated to my core. It’s heart-wrenching and raw, but so relatable, for those who have experienced divorce as a child.

I also tried to be a peaceful participant within the walls of my Dad’s long-time second family. I was the resented step-child, and my Dad was seemingly unaware of how I was treated. In turn, I put up with a lot of emotional abuse. I left one home where I dodged bullets, and entered another where I tiptoed around landmines. Because of this, I still get weepy when my female friends treat their stepchildren like their own. I heal when my best friend helps her step-son apply for his OSAP, or when I get a text that she’s emotional because she’s moving him to his college home. He’s too grown up. Where did the years go? Where’s the little boy she’s proudly helped to raise?

Another close friend is going through an awful heartbreak, and I genuinely believe a huge part of her sorrow, confusion and despair is that her ex’s son is no longer a staple in her life. Who says a child must grow inside your own body to deserve love, affection and a safe place? Not me. Not ever.

You can imagine how it affected me - that my own two parents didn’t make me feel these things - and to top that, my Dad’s partner didn’t fill in any gaps, either. I grew in an environment of doubt, insecurity, desperation and fear. I don’t say that lightly, as I know it’s a heavy thing to hear. I’m also not asking for pity, because it’s no longer hurting me. I don’t resent it, either (and don’t think I ever even did) but I do embrace how that environment has affected me as a grown woman. I can’t change it, so why harbour hatred towards it? I do own it, and thus understand who I am now because of it. And you know something? I could be worse. Things could always be worse. And quite honestly, I’m proud of how I turned out.

I have a lot of others to thank for this. Many I’ve mentioned or written about in the past, so I won’t harp on that now. But when friends, my husband, or my sweet Gramma ask how I turned out the way I did I rhyme off all the reasons I assume; part of it is beating odds, some of it is proving my disbelievers wrong, a huge portion of it is the love and support I got from other families and mentors in my life.

But the biggest ticket of all? Choices. I chose to not be hateful. I let it soften me, instead of hardening me. I let it make me sensitive, instead of cold. I put my heart out in the open, strapped onto my sleeve, instead of locking it up and away. It made me raw and open instead of closed and sealed. I chose to be this way, and yes I’m imperfect, but I know what could have happened alternatively. I’ve taught it. I’ve met it. And put simply, I’m glad I escaped it.

I may have made these choices long ago - long before I even knew what I was doing - but it’s never too late. I so often hear people making excuses for others; “you know what her Mom is like”, “he didn’t have grandparents”, “they didn’t have money”, “her Dad was an alcoholic”, “his Mom was abusive”, etc., etc.

I could make my own list of reasons I should be different, but instead I guess I’ve climbed those hurdles like stairs to higher ground, as opposed to stairs into a darker, deeper place. I refuse to belittle others, act selfishly, or abuse people (or substances) because my life was ‘so unfair’. Or because that’s all I knew. Or because that’s easier. I am a product of my gene pools, my raising, and my choices. I clung to the good, and when it wasn’t there, I made the good myself.

As an adult, I can now see pretty clearly the traits I’ve inherited from both of my parents. The good, and what you would call ‘the bad’. I can also see how my raising has affected and shaped me (for the good, and the bad, as well). I can also pinpoint where I’ve made choices to pick up that apple and move it (yes, for the good and bad). In the end, I’m proud (most of the time) of who I am, where I am, and what I’ve become.

To start, there’s the ‘nature’ part of the debate. The part of me that’s in my genes; my wiring - my chemistry.

I am my mother’s daughter;

-          I tell overly long and drawn out stories, where I should be more succinct.

-          I sometimes lose my cool when under pressure (the difference being that mine comes out as anxiety or emotion as opposed to anger and blame)

-          I like being different from the status quo, challenging expected and accepted norms, and befriending ‘odd’ and ‘unique’ individuals, because they spice up my life (and I am one, too).

-          I am insanely loyal as a friend, and tend to give all of myself to those I love. The only thing I ask for in return is respect and appreciation, no tabs taken. When I’m taken for granted or mistreated, it (sorry for my lack of better language) eventually pisses me off. In my ripe old age, I lose my patience with this more quickly. Don’t be surprised if you don’t see me or hear from me as much. My Mom stormed off with zest and vigour, leaving fires and dust in her path. I tend to bow out quietly through a back door. My new way of explaining this phenomenon? Don’t burn ‘our bridge’ and then expect me to swim across to you. Signal wiping hands clean motion, here.

-          I am silly and outgoing when in the company of children, and/or people I feel I can be my true self with.

-          I love to write.

-          I love to dance.

-          I love live music.

-          I love to garden.

-          I love being outdoors (and everything ‘nature’)

-          I love being near water.

-          I love to cook, experiment with new recipes, and to dine out in new places.

-          I love musicals and plays.

-          I love hotel stays.

-          I relish my ‘me’ time, and appreciate my time spent alone.

-          I’m passive aggressive when I’m offended or don’t know how to approach a difficult situation (not because I want to be, but because I don’t know how to cope with confrontation). Reminder: I am an only child, to a single parent, who never played competitive sports, and grew up in a very, very small town.

If you knew her, and know me, you may be able to add to this list. To the good, and the bad, which I embrace. She was an incredible woman who I am grateful to have called ‘Mom’. As Jill Churchill once said, “there is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one”. This comforts me now, knowing that very soon I’m going to be a mother, too. My Mom was exceptional, as I’ve mentioned. Despite our difficulties, those are the memories I relish and hold most dear.

I am also my father’s daughter. I have never lived with my Dad for any length of time to have been truly ‘socialized’ by him. When reflecting on my Mom’s influence, there are grey areas and blurred lines where I wonder whether it’s genes or her influence. Alternatively, with my similarities to my Dad, I know it’s more likely because of our genes. In the past 15 years, as I’ve been able to get to know him better, our likenesses are blaring. I used to think I became who I am in opposition to who my Mom could be, and now I know that is only partially true. And, my similarities to my Dad may have been some of the main reasons my Mom had such a hard time accepting and loving me, as I was a constant reminder of him. I guess we’ll never know! And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t even fully realize it.

My “I’m just like my Dad” list goes a bit like this;

-          I’m OCD. I like things to be a certain way, in a certain place, with a certain degree of cleanliness. I can be hard to live with because of this, but please know, it’s not a choice I make. It’s in my bones. I wish I could let go of this control, but it isn’t a switch. It’s better than living with a slob though, right? I always thought it was just me creating order in an otherwise chaotic life. That is only part of the big picture.

-          I keep lists and notes for myself. Sticky notes can be found in every room of our home.

-          I have a dirty sense of humour (please note – I am not ashamed of this – but my language and crude and uncensored revelations may catch you off guard)

-          I make friends easily, and am content to carry on random and friendly conversations with strangers.

-          It’s hard for me to pick one vocation, and feel I’m ‘good at’ and ‘enjoy’ too many things to commit to just one.

-          I may not have a lot, but I also don’t need a lot.

-          I may not have a lot, but I’ll help you out and be there for you the best way I possibly can.

-          I’d rather be content and have an even pace in my life than be strung out, overworked, and rich.

-          I lose my cool when under pressure, and can get frustrated easily. I won’t take it out on you, but it may seem like I’m mad at you when I’m actually not.

-          I have an open and tender heart, no matter how tough I may seem.

-          I bounce back from and overcome struggles with an optimistic and grateful attitude.

Again, if you know him, and you know me, you may be able to add to the good and bad of this list. At this stage of my life (at the age of 30) I’ve never been so grateful to have my Dad in my life. He lives all of 15 minutes away (the closest he’s ever lived) and we spend more quality time together now than we ever have. Not having my Mom or a ‘full’ sibling I see regularly, plus with expecting my first child in under 2 months, it couldn’t come at a better time.

I embrace how I’m like him, I appreciate our similarities (not everyone ‘gets it’ like he does, cares, or tries), and I savour our times together. He gets agitated faster than most people I know, but never with ill intention, and yet he calms me better, just by being there, than anyone else can.

If I held our many years of a fragmented connection against him, think of what we’d be missing. If I held a grudge for how his partner of 10 years treated me, and in turn, manipulated him, who would win? At the end of the day, he’s my Dad, and I love him.

Looking deeper, my parents are the way they are because of this same chain reaction and chemistry of genes and raising. Too many people look at and judge others for their face value, without asking prodding questions (openly, or through silent reflection). I have been blessed to build and cherish relationships with all 4 of my grandparents throughout my life, which has given me a more whole and rich understanding of my parents. Only my maternal grandmother is still living, but all of them have shaped and influenced me directly and indirectly, in good ways, and bad. I can’t change that, or deny that, so why not embrace it, reflect on it, question it, and see it fully so as to better understand myself.

To support my point, there are some ‘simple’, taken for granted things that I know had a huge effect on my parents and who they turned out to be;

My Mom was raised by a father who grew up in a very poor and very abusive situation. One where you worked your tail off, lived in fear, weren’t allowed to ‘enjoy’ or have fun, and punishment and shame were expected and practiced regularly. Her mother grew in an environment where there was love and respect, but not affection. My grandmother’s mother lost her mother at a young age, which forced her to raise her own brothers and look after her Dad. Her nurturer was gone, and she did what she had to. My Gramma will still get emotional when speaking about her parents and how wonderful they were, and yet they rarely if ever hugged her or told her they loved her. This all helps me understand my own mother, and how she expressed her love in the best way she knew how, so much better.

On my maternal grandfather’s side there is a history of alcohol abuse and mental health issues. The 2 often go hand in hand, even in modern day. The former is a choice, but is often an escape from the latter. Thankfully, so far, both have skipped me. I have no interest in drinking to escape anything. I drink socially, to celebrate, and because I genuinely love the taste of beer, wine, and some spirits. I’ve never gotten drunk alone, or been hurtful to anyone when not sober. This is where, thankfully, I’m more like my Dad.

Another huge event that shaped my Gramma, and thus her role as a mother, was her third child only lived about a week. My Mom told me of how beautiful she remembers Julie Ann to be. She was a perfect porcelain doll baby sister. My Mom was only 4 or 5, and only met her once. Julie was taken from my Gramma and sent to Sick Kids Hospital, back in the 50s. She didn’t make it, and my Gramma never saw her baby again. They buried a newborn sized coffin, without ever seeing its contents, and my Mom and her older brother were sent to stay with their grandparents for some time to let the dust settle at home. When my Mom got home, she never could understand where her perfect baby sister disappeared to. You didn’t talk about it, you didn’t fuss over it, you moved on. My Gramma credits her mother for pulling her out of her misery, and I am always amazed at how she did this; my Great Gramma Laura came over with floor wax and the two of them waxed the hardwood floors. That’s what snapped my Gramma out of her grief, and life went on as normal. I know I could never have recovered so quickly or stoically. But, knowing these truths helps me understand my Gramma, and my Mom, so much more.

My Mom was also a January 10^th baby. She was one of the oldest in her class, and was smart as a whip (without even trying). This, I might add, is a trait I didn’t get from her. She even skipped grade 3, due to her level of intelligence, and often challenged authority members and the expected norms with a quick wit and daring attitude. She was admired, and feared, because she was a trailblazer who lived outside of the box.

My Dad, on the other hand, was a December 14^th baby. As a teacher, I know this means he was one of the youngest in his class, and a boy, which makes learning more difficult (especially early on). To top that, from what I hear, he was quite a Mama’s boy and was very shy at a young age. He was also very close with his aunts and uncles, of which he had plenty, and preferred spending time doing hands-on work on their farms. He had a lot of friends, but spent much of his weekends and summers helping his family members with chores, learning how to shoot a rifle, or fishing in the creek at the back end of his grandparents’ farm. An academic environment was not a place he thrived, because it didn’t lend itself to his preferential learning style. He also challenged authority with his trouble-maker humour and avoidance strategies. He tells so many stories of the crazy things he pulled as a child and teenager. Some are so seemingly far-fetched they are hard to believe. But, as I’ve been told, there’s no reason to not believe him, as they’re actually all true. He’s lucky to even be alive, and should really consider writing a book documenting his many adventures.

Something he has remarked about, which I never used to consider, is that he was raised as one of four boys. He admits that the presence of a sister would have really altered the family dynamic, and his choices and behaviours.

To this day, I don’t know how my Grandma did it. You can imagine her joy when her first grandchild was born, and it was a girl. Her love, affection and adoration was part of the foundation that has kept me whole.

As you can tell, I’ve taken a lot into consideration. I don’t know if others have done so to the extent that I have, but if you haven’t, I encourage it. Ask questions while you can. Don’t judge or assume based on face-value. Look deeply at your roots; they go deeper than you think. Our lives are tangled webs we’re born into. We learn to navigate them the best way we know how, and weave our own influences into the pattern as well. We are as much a product of our parents’ genes and our raising as we are our choices, and we should constantly reflect on whether we’re proud of who we are and what we’ve become.

I’ve had to become a peaceful participant in that area of my life, too. I struggled - and still do sometimes - with the contrast between my social successes versus my professional ones. I’m typically quite proud of who I am as a daughter, wife, friend, grand-daughter, niece, aunt, etc., as I do most things that involve ‘people’ with good intention. But, my success career and money-wise doesn’t always measure up. Again, the choices I’ve made in this area have been influenced by my circumstances, which I continue to grapple with and navigate, but I’m harder on myself than I’ve ever been on any other living thing. I guess in the big picture I’d rather be a kind person than a rich one, but rational me and emotional me don’t always see eye to eye.

On the bright side, I’m young. I’m still so young, and have so much future to look forward to. In just over a month I will hold my very own child in my arms, and after some ‘light reflection’, I’ve realized that my impact on this impressionable, innocent, and deserving child is significant, to say the least. I am part of a process that began long before my birth, and the chain links will continue to be added as time ticks on. I need to be aware of how my genes, my actions, and my choices affect this person. There were too many times when I would say to my Mom - in her more desperate moments - that I hadn’t chosen to be born. I must remember this; we choose to have babies, they don’t choose us. We must be parents worth loving and respecting, despite the odds and influences.

My choices to date have been (mostly) good ones. One of the best I ever made was to date my husband. Another was my agreeing to marry him. And the latest? Finally taking the leap and becoming a Mom.

It used to terrify me. I don’t say this lightly, either. It overwhelmed me beyond explanation, and didn’t ignite a desire in me worth pursuing for a long time.

I used to see it as a burden. I feared the drastic change. I avoided the responsibility. I questioned my reasons. I doubted my abilities.

And then something changed.

I can’t put my finger on it, define it, or explain it. But, I’m glad. I’ve never felt so whole in my life. I’ve never felt so important, or blessed. I’ve never felt so proud, or excited.

I now see being a mother as an honour, not a chore, and I recognize that I am a small part of a very big puzzle. Part nature, part nurture, and part choice.

What a gift to know that our baby was hoped for, tried for, and sought after. I didn’t have that luxury, as the child to my parents, but you can bet I’m healing from this angle, in this newfound role.

Our baby is wanted and cherished by both of its parents.

Our child will never question that. Ever. I’ll see to it. I’m making that choice.

Our Story of Love

As usual, I've been prioritizing poorly. I literally spend my days walking around with a constant list of blog ideas playing through my brain, and yet I don't make the time to get it out. It can't be good for my health!

I have started another, on a topic close to my heart, and just haven't gotten around to finishing it. We've had a lot going on, which will be explained better in later posts, but I finally got some inspiration; this time with a deadline.

My Gramma had bought a magazine. In it she found an article that interested her, that she thought I would enjoy. I did. Right after that article there was an advertisement for a writing contest. It asked if you had a good love story. I nodded. It said to write it in 2500-3000 words. I did.

I actually do love the love story I share with my husband. It's had its fair share of ups and downs, admittedly, but the paths that brought us together, apart, and then back together again sound like they're from a movie when I tell them. I've had friends ask to hear the story again, which always reminds me that I'm not the only one. 

I've been told I should contact Nicholas Sparks to share the story with him. That he could write a story based on it, that would someday be a movie. I should add that I love Nicholas Sparks love stories, and every movie they've made to represent the original books. I never knew whether our love story would actually make it onto paper, though.

The deadline was September 1st. I met it - just.

And, although it's about my husband and I, the thread that holds it together is my Mom. This blog is about her, and our relationship; while she was living, and since her passing. I feel closer to her now than I've ever felt before, and my husband was one of her favourite people. She knew he was the best thing to ever happen to me.

So, I wrote our story. With a time limit, and a word limit, but I wrote it. When I submitted it I thanked the reader in advance for taking the time to read it. I also said that above all else, win or lose, it will be great to share with our children some day.

And now I can cross my "Husband" blog off of my list of "Blogs to Write".

Maybe this is just what I need to get back to this thing I love so much, that I set so little time aside for.

So here we go... my entry... 

Our Story of Love

I grew up as an only child, raised by a single parent, from the age of 2 on. Because of this, I never fully understood what a loving, marital relationship was. I was constantly reminded of how difficult and unnecessary men are, and I was taught that women can – and should – thrive on their own. I learned indirectly that men were more work than they were worth, and that there were, “worse things than being alone”.

Still, love and marriage intrigued me. Despite the hostility towards marriage and men that I was continually inundated with, I was hopeful. I guess you could say I am a romantic, and I was just waiting for my sign. Luckily enough, it came when I was only 12 years old.

I attended my best friend’s 13^th birthday party. It was a co-ed dance, and because we went to different schools, I was the odd one out. I was outside of my comfort zone, and shyly approached the celebrations.

That’s where I saw him for the first time.

He was obviously good-looking. He wore clothes that were in style, and had a blonde mushroom cut; “the” haircut of the time. He wore sunglasses all night, despite the dimly lit community hall, and held his lips in a confident pout. When I first saw him, it was as if someone pulled a rug out from underneath me, and I felt like I was falling down really fast. I hadn't even caught a glimpse of his huge baby blues, and yet I was smitten. It was clear he loved to dance (a favourite pastime of mine), and didn't care who else was, or who was looking.

This boy before me was a stark contrast to any boys I’d ever known. He was attractive and stylish, but looking back, it was his confidence, his dance skills, and the fact that he didn't care who was on the dance floor with him that attracted me to him so. I was literally mesmerized. So much so that when he finally asked me what my name was, I don’t know how I found the courage to flirt with him. I lied, and told him my name was Biff. It was a conversation starter, anyway, although I don’t remember the few words that followed.

I then made it my mission to track him, via my best friend. On their grade 8 graduation trip I sent her with my 35mm camera to sneak photos of him. I even invited him to a garage band concert local parents in our area hosted, and was surprised when he came. I was genuinely surprised he gave me the time of day. We had practically the same wardrobe, and almost the same haircut, and I was just a younger girl from the other side of the tracks. We just as quickly lost touch, because we went to separate high schools, and I never thought our paths would cross again.

Back in our day there was an online messenger program called ICQ. Anyone who remembers it will remember the tell-tale, sing-song ‘uh oh’ you would hear when someone added you to their list or sent you a message. When I was 17, and he was 18, he found me there. I still remember my wild - and yet silent - happy dance, when I realized he was re-connecting with me. I was single, the memory of him was vivid, and I truly felt it was a dream.

After some back and forth small talk, he invited me to watch a movie at his house. I obliged. And after watching not one, but two movies, we had our first kiss. That began an 8 month whirlwind courtship, which I don’t think ever really sunk in.

Certain things happened in that 8 months that I will never forget: it was the first year as far back as I could remember that my Mom opted for a full-sized Christmas tree. Up to that point we had always used the same 3 foot ‘Charlie Brown-esque’ tree every year. To make it look taller, we would place it atop an old stool, and drape a table cloth around its base. The tips of its vintage branches were sprayed with a thick coating of fake snow, and we didn't even take the decorations of each year; we simply covered it with a garbage bag and stored it in the basement. Quite a romantic tradition.

This Christmas was different, though. We had a big tree, and we felt festive. My Mom had never been so welcoming and open to a friend or boyfriend in all my life. She truly trusted and liked him. And to top it off, he gave me a beautiful white gold ring as a gift that year. It had my birthstone in the center (which was also my mom’s birthstone) with a diamond on either side. He even surprised me one day by showing up at my high school, with a rose in hand. He bravely wandered the halls until he found me (which I might add he did, somehow, as I greedily devoured fries and gravy). I’m sure I was quite a sight.

The boy who had wowed me 5 years earlier was now ‘mine’, and yet I held him so high on a pedestal that he was always just out of reach - always teetering - as if ready to fall away from me.

He was too good to be true; good looking, popular, kind, smart, funny, and mostly? He got along with my Mom. That was a feat for many, especially the ‘boys’ who had come into my life up to that point. I was living the dream.

I still have photos from my 18^th birthday that year. A huge group of family and friends gathered at a restaurant, with me at the head of the table. He was to my left. My uncle captured a photo of me grinning in front of my birthday cake. My smile so huge my eyes are actually closed. In the corner, you can see him watching, smiling on. Admiring me, clearly, from the sidelines. It’s funny to see that now, because it’s a raw and honest moment that I didn't believe in back then.

That was January 31^st. By Valentine’s day that same year I had convinced myself that our relationship could never work. I had always been good at going for the wrong guy up to that point, and now that I had a good one, I didn't believe I could keep him happy. We were both very busy with our schooling and extra-curriculars. We rarely saw each other, and struggled with the fact that we had completely different high schools and groups of friends. Post-secondary education loomed in the distance for both of us, which promised to only pull us further apart. I ended things before they got messy. I started the ‘mutual break-up conversation’ before anyone could get hurt.

The thing I didn't realize was that he cared for me more than realized. Someone did get hurt - he did. I never would have imagined that, given my overall feelings about love, commitment, and who I was in comparison to what he represented. I felt I was doing him a favour; I was setting him free, so he could pursue bigger and better things.

We tried to remain friends at first, but that didn't work out. It rarely does. My Mom was quite hurt by the news. So much so that she claimed, jokingly, that if he wasn't going to be my boyfriend, he’d have to be hers.

7 years went by without any real contact. My Mom wore the ring he’d given me, he and I lived in separate provinces, and we both ended up in long-term relationships.

No matter how much I tried or convinced myself, anyone I met or dated (including my boyfriend of 4 years) never fully compared to him. Don’t get me wrong, that particular ex is an incredible person who I loved very much, who deserves nothing but happiness, but in the end? We just didn't ‘fit’.

I was busy collecting more proof that true love and long-term commitment and happiness weren't possible. I ended up single again, and actually believed I’d just stay that way.

One time my Mom came to visit me in University. We invited a friend of mine to join us for lunch. Her relationship with her high school sweetheart had just ended, as he’d met someone else. They’d lived together, and she’d worn a promise ring. That was the emptiest part of her new puzzle; her bare finger. My Mom, still wearing the ring from so long ago, took it off and gave it to her as a replacement. She stated it was from a good guy, with good intentions, and could bring her comfort and luck. She accepted the gift.

Soon university was over, and I was moving back home to my little 500 person town, to live with my still single Mom. Anyone who has made this transition knows it isn't easy, but I was able to commute from there to my faculty of education. I saved money, which I traded for sanity, and rarely got out to socialize. So many people from my town had moved out and on to bigger and better things. I, on the other hand, had put my car in reverse. I was moving forward in my future endeavors, but felt a bit ‘stuck’.

One night my childhood best friend’s younger sister invited me to a pub. She was meeting friends, and knew I was bored and lonely. I drove, and tagged along.

You won’t believe who walked into that same pub that night. It was as if I was 12 again, seeing him for the very first time. He had also recently moved home, and wandered out that night looking to see who might still be around. He certainly wasn't banking on seeing me, I’m sure. Once again, the earth fell out from under me. I can only imagine the look on my face, as I struggled to catch my breath.

We both abandoned the pub and opted to sit in his car. We listened to quiet music, with the windows rolled down. We caught up as much as we could, and even reminisced about our short time together. I claimed the break-up was mutual, he hinted otherwise, and we laughed about our young, awkward and innocent romance, which was cut short before it could ripen to much of anything.

From that point on we were reconnected as friends. I lived 20 minutes away, and neither of us had many friends left in the area. We talked almost daily. Me on my drive home from teachers’ college, he enduring his long commute home from the city. Even though we were ‘just friends’ he always seemed to write back when I texted, and answered when I called. Beyond that, I could tell he was smiling when he said hello. We quickly became 2 peas in a pod, filling a void for the other.

Sometimes we’d go to dinner. Other times to the movies. We were each other’s ‘drunk dial’ when we were out celebrating with our other friends. We even went to each other’s family dinners at holiday times, and exchanged thoughtful gifts at Christmas. My friends told me he was perfect for me, his best friend and sister ultimately told me we were perfect for each other, and yet I was happy to keep things as they were.

You see, he was still on a pedestal and I was still ‘not good enough’. As long as there was no intimacy to our connection, I didn't worry about letting him down. I feared being hurt, so I kept him at arm’s length.

After nearly 2 years he moved to the city to shorten his commute. Suddenly we didn't talk as much, or see each other as easily. I missed him fiercely, and didn't know how to grapple with those feelings. I feared he would get snatched up by someone more worthy, and I’d lose him as a friend forever. I started to have a change of heart.

That year, he and his roommates hosted a New Year’s Eve party. He invited me as a guest. Not being from the city, I asked him where I could stay. He offered his bed, and said he’d sleep on the floor. I agreed to attend.

Throughout that night he was barely attentive. I immediately felt the distance that had grown between us, and had regrets about not pursuing him more seriously when I had the chance. He was so close, and yet felt so far. Looking back, I now know that he was just doing what he was supposed to; he was entertaining his guests. He was doing what he loves; he was DJing the party.

At about 11:55pm he left the music to play on its own and started lingering near me. I felt that same falling down fast feeling I’d felt before, as the clock neared midnight. The countdown loudly rang in around us. He stepped close, and looked me in the eyes and said, “Can I kiss you now?”

I nodded.

That, I am proud to say, will go down in history as our last first kiss. We've been together since, and it’s now been over 5 years. We have faced a lot of ups and downs together in the meantime, and I am happy to say I now have nothing but faith in love, commitment, and marriage. I understand that it takes work, won’t always be easy, and has to be built on a foundation of friendship and respect for it to properly work. I've always loved a great love story, but ours, admittedly, is my favourite.

In a nutshell, my friend who had been wearing the original ring he’d given me returned it to him without my knowledge. She somehow connected the dots, and knew he was the same guy from so many years before. The first time he told me he loved me he returned that original ring. I thought I might never get it back.

Only a year into our relationship my Mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer. One time he came to pick me up for a date, and unlike others in the past who merely honked their horns from the driveway, he came inside to say hello. My Mom had been in the basement doing laundry, and could only muster the energy to kneel on the top stair in order to greet him. He took off his shoes, walked over to her, and stooped to his knees in front of her in order to give her a hug. Ask anyone - he gives the best hugs. I knew I’d love him forever from that moment on.

A few months later my Mom’s health suddenly plummeted. She ended up in the hospital, and we were told she wouldn't ever come home. This is when I would expect a man to run. I (being the only child, to a single parent) was nothing but struggles and baggage. I was already broken. I already needed patience and work. Things were about to get harder, and fast.

He did the opposite, though, and proposed.

It gave me something positive to focus on, and my Mom the peace of mind that someone would take care of me in her absence.

Then he took it a step further and suggested we get married at the hospital, if she permitted. Up to that point she would only see me, and him in small doses. Both of her parents and brothers were still living at the time, and in more recent years, she and my Dad had even found peace and become friends. The people who loved and respected her most were desperate to say their goodbyes, and out of pride, fear and embarrassment, she wasn't letting them.

She surprised us both by agreeing to the ceremony.

In 10 short days we pulled together the most perfect, rooftop, garden patio wedding. The staff of the hospital (particularly the palliative care ward) were more than happy to support us in something so positive. So often their days are understandingly grim. The nurses put my Mom in one of her most beautiful dresses. I did her makeup, finishing with her signature red lips. I wore a proper white wedding dress, had my hair done, and carried a bouquet of freesia; my Mom’s favourite flower.

I offered to push in her hospital bed, so that she could ‘walk me down the aisle’, but she opted to watch my Dad bring me in instead. Both sides of our immediate family were in attendance, the hospital Chaplin led our beautiful Blessing Ceremony, and we danced our first dance to my Mom’s favourite love song; Gordon Lightfoot’s “Beautiful”.

Being an emotional and sensitive person, I’m surprised to admit that I didn't shed a tear that day. Amid obvious sadness and struggle, I knew how blessed I was to be sharing that moment with the woman who had courageously raised me, single-handedly. This was my proof that all clouds have silver linings.

After the ceremony, the nurses wheeled my Mom’s bed back to her room. Before going out on the town for dinner as a large group, my new husband and I went and tucked my Mom in and said our goodnight's. I never would have guessed that would be the last time I would see my Mom awake.

The next morning she was in an unconscious state, and by 8am the next day, she slipped peacefully away. It was beautiful, and yet obviously terrifying. The woman who had watched my first breath, had just taken her last in my presence. That could have crippled me, admittedly, but he was by my side. It will always be the most bittersweet weekend of my life.

Just over a year later, we had what we call our “Big Day”. We renewed our vows with more people in attendance. We ate, laughed, and danced the night way - much like the first night we met - 15 years earlier.

We just celebrated our 3 year anniversary since our “Big Day”, and we also just passed the 4 year anniversary for our “Blessing Ceremony”. To top that, we’re expecting our first child, due in December of this year.

Life is unpredictable, yes, but one thing’s for sure; my Mom taught me a lot about love, even when I didn't realize it. She taught me about sacrifice and commitment. She taught me to trust my instincts, and to never, ever settle.

She proved that women don’t need men, yes. But - if the right one comes along - you should never, ever, let him go.