Epilogue

My late grandmother loved to tell a story. She would settle into the couch with a cup of tea and talk for hours, if you had the time to sit and listen, relaying stories of old friends and war-time rations, girls named Flossie and boys on motorcycles.

Despite her propensity for sharing, were my grandmother still with us today, I think she would be mystified by social media. It's not just because social media relies on technology she never touched in her lifetime. It's because we are out here sharing stories and details that literally anyone can read.

I have been giving this a lot of thought lately and it makes me increasingly uncomfortable to post up here. I started this blog when my children were only 6, 4 and brand new. I wanted to record this time in my life and see what other mothers had to say about this wild ride we're on together. But the boy who was six back then is turning ten very soon. Funny how when kids are very small, it's so difficult to discern the separation between their life and your life. I can see the line more clearly now, even though it is constantly shifting. I feel like his stories, their stories, are no longer mine to share in such a public forum.

So I took down most of my archived posts. I'm saving them for my kids to read one day but they don't need to be up here. I will still be writing over at a new blog featuring moms located all across Canada. Maybe I will see you over there.

I want to extend a big thanks to family and friends, real and virtual, for being on this ride with me and holding my hand on the big hills. If you want to keep in touch, my email is over in the sidebar.

Cosmos

Over the past month or two, E's drawings have begun to take on distinctive human qualities. At first they were just big round heads, smaller eye circles contained within their shaky walls. Then the heads grew legs so endless that a supermodel would be envious. Next she added two arms sticking out each side of the head. This weekend we got to hair. Oh, and rocket ships. Yeah, I don't get that one either.

Her ongoing favourite subject is our family. Yesterday she drew her Nth interpretation of we five on a whiteboard and then called me to come and appreciate the results. As I enthusiastically ooh-ed and ah-ed over her efforts, I had a revelation. See the large red figure in the middle of the picture above? That's me. And when she draws our family, I am always front and center. I am the largest figure, every single time.

Now, I don't think she is making a fat joke; a subtle reference to the Great Shrinking Pants Debacle of Winter '09. In my experience, little kids always think their mamas are beautiful. And so we should be.

No, I think her art is more a graphic representation of the fact that I'm currently the center of her universe. I'm her constant companion and her best fwiend. She bursts into my room in the morning so I can accompany her downstairs. She likes to fall asleep with me in bed beside her, holding her wee hand until her breathing assumes a steady cadence. She is a tiny planet orbiting around me in a determined ellipse.

I am her sun.

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On the weekend the two older kids were upstairs giggling conspiratorially together. When I popped my head in the room to find out what was so funny, I was dismissed like some annoying coworker who always hovers on the periphery of office conversations: You don't always need to know what we're talking about, Mom, they told me.

Um, okay?

I mean it is okay, right? It's completely appropriate, if not expected, this steady march towards independence. Though these two children once orbited around me as enthusiastically as their youngest sister, the master plan is that something, many things, will eventually knock them out of orbit.

As teenagers they will likely buzz alongside a cluster of other heavenly bodies, being influenced by the extreme gravity of the opposite sex and the Jonas Brothers, or whatever the flavour-of-the-week is at that time. Despite this anticipated shift, studies tell us that teenagers still quote their parents as one of the most important influences in their lives. It's just sometimes hard to separate that truth from the eye rolling and door slamming.

Ah, but during these years of increasing separation they are preparing for bigger things. They are preparing for the day that they will form their own little solar system. The day when they are the brilliant sun being closely orbited by a planet, or planets, of their own making.

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E. was pretending to be a kitten for most of the day today. At dinner tonight, after consuming the obligatory three bites of her meal, she shimmied down from her chair and meowed her way over to me. She crawled up on my lap, clasped my cheeks between her imperious hands, touched her nose right to my own. She licked my cheek, as cats are wont to do. She coughed in my face. She put her head on my shoulder. She kissed my lips.

I am her sun. And it is a distinct privilege to have her in my orbit.

Archaeology

Old homes are unpredictable. Sometimes that means that things break down. The plaster cracks, the windows need replaced and old gnarled tree roots wend their way into bothersome places. It means that we are pretty much running a hotel for mice; that strange smells emanate from the attic in the heat of July; that a cold wind is certain to flirt with the back of our necks when we sit on the couch in the living room.

Despite all of this, and more, we stay. Perhaps that is partly because of geography, because we are situated close to amenities, highways and the school that the kids love so much, they look at me mournfully any time the subject of moving houses comes up. And perhaps we stay because we just don't feel up to the task of packing five people's belongings into boxes. I do have a great aversion to the work associated with moving.

The truth is, we also stay because there is some pretty cool stuff. Like the nine foot ceilings. And the transom windows above all the bedroom doors. And the substantial original fir trim that has never been touched by a paintbrush. True, we have been renovating off and on for the past 12 years, but we don't touch the classic features. And we try to stay true to the history of the house, to not make changes that are completely out of character. Because this old house has character in spades.

Some nights, as I lie in the dark in my bed listening to the creak of its old bones, the weary sighs, I wish I could get up and offer it some scotch or a snifter of brandy in exchange for some stories. I would cuddle under my fleecy throw and revel in tales of babies welcomed, celebrations, the years of bountiful harvest, the times of struggle and loss.

Every so often we do get a glimpse of the past. On Christmas Eve the son of our neighbours rang our doorbell. These neighbours are in their 80's, married for 50 years and still going strong. My husband has been clearing their snow for the past few winters. Their son came over to thank him and, seeing that we had obviously renovated the back entrance, got to wondering about how the house has changed since he was a youngster living across the road.

"There used to be two old sisters who lived here," he said. "They had transom windows above the doors upstairs. Are those windows still there?"

We assured him that they were, even offering to give him a tour of the house. He politely declined, seeing that we were in the midst of dinner and not wanting to impose. We chatted a bit longer and he left. I hope we can chat again some time and learn more about what it was like to live around here 40 years ago.

Until then, we continue to make our own history, changing the house to keep pace with the life that we are living here. We started a new renovation last week in the basement, pulling up emerald carpeting, tearing down paneling, punching down stubborn concrete walls. Yesterday the workers brought me an old empty glass bottle of hair tonic they uncovered as they tore the plaster from the walls. Perhaps it was left there in error, but I like to think that someone placed it there on purpose knowing that, down the road, some future home owner would discover it and try to imagine a time where dandruff was treated with Canadian-made tonic in a sturdy glass bottle.

The workers are preparing to insulate the walls now and cover them with drywall. Last night we were sitting around trying to think of what item we could place in the walls for some future home owner to discover. We're having a tough time coming up with just the right item that is a authentic snapshot of life in 2009. Perhaps a section of today's newspaper? A beloved book? Polly Pocket shrapnel? A vase hand-painted by one of our children? We are having trouble coming to a consensus.

So I ask you, dear readers, what would your hidden shrine be? What would you place in my walls?

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Some Before Pictures:

The view down the stairs. This is where they found the hair tonic bottle.

The makeshift office. Scary and cold.

The shower in the bathroom. Where does one buy tile like this?

The spare bedroom. Carpet on carpet action.

Colours

This morning, you professed to be on board with tobogganing in the park, but then you lay on the floor in your pyjamas poomin’ various targets with your stick. When I finally wrangled you into some clothes, you chastised me for the snugness of your turtleneck. Then you ran and hid your face in the blankets when I said it was time to brush your teeth. After more than an hour of these and other departure delaying antics, a slate grey cloud of annoyance hovered over my head as we walked to the park.

When we got to the park, I was pleased to see that the hill I was thinking of was just your size. You sat on the toboggan, trying to get yourself going down the hill by wiggling your bum around. I gave the toboggan a little push with my foot and you chastised me again for my unsolicited help, steamy bile-green frustration rising up off of you.

Eventually you acquiesced. After a few successful Mommy-powered runs, your toboggan had carved a sleek path in the snow, making it easier for you to do it all by yourself. And so you did, each run down the hill taking you a little bit further, propelling your confidence higher and higher. Finally, towards the end of one particularly successful run, you lifted your hands off the grips, tentatively at first, then thrusting them full above your head in victory.

When the toboggan stopped, you looked back toward me, making sure that someone had witnessed your triumph. There was only a small window of your face visible between the fleecy borders of your hat and scarf, yet I could clearly see the delight dancing in your eyes; your cheeks and nose dusted with a particular shade of frosty pink that I can only conclude is the colour of joy.

O Blogosphere!

I wrote you a little Christmas song. You're welcome.

O Blogosphere!

(To the tune of O Christmas Tree! Or O Tannenbaum, for you traditionalists)

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Thy posts are multiplying.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Thy posts are multiplying.
The posts you write, to me they speak.
But I haven’t cleaned my house in weeks!
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Thy posts are multiplying.

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Much pleasure thou can’st give me.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Much pleasure thou can’st give me.
My Reader’s full, it’s getting bad,
Yet here’s another blog to add.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Much pleasure thou can’st give me.

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Why are thou so enchanting?
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Why are thou so enchanting?
I need to get my shopping done,
I’ll leave after I read this one.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Why are thou so enchanting?

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
I’ll always be fond of you.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
I’ll always be fond of you.
Don’t take my absence as a jab,
I got checked in to blog rehab.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
I’ll always beeeee...fond of you.

Take These Broken Wings and Learn to Fly

We are playing playdough when she suddenly scampers down from her chair at the kitchen table.

Just a minute! she warns me in serious tones, her tiny index finger crooked to the left and hovering right in front of her face. I'm going to get da lay-dee-bug.

She crouches down on the floor and gingerly puts her finger out so her bug can crawl on. Then she walks slowly over to where I am sitting and extends her finger out towards me, its hitchhiker invisible to the naked eye.

You wanna hold my lay-dee-bug, mom? she asks, bright blue eyes hopeful and serious. I touch my finger to hers and bring her pet right up to my face.

She's so cute! I exclaim, pretending to count the bug's tiny spots before carefully transferring it back to her.

She gingerly sets the ladybug back on the floor and returns to make green spaghetti and meatballs with me. Within three minutes, the ladybug is forgotten. I never did see that bug with my eyes, but I could feel it brought to fleeting life by my baby's boundless imagination.

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I have been focusing too much on the ragged underbelly of two. On the tiny fists pounding the floor; the eyes locking with mine in defiance before sweeping all of the just-tidied books off the shelf; the implacable demands coming from the back seat of the car with such rapid fire that I'm almost certain I can feel blood dripping out of my ears, staining the shoulders of my sweater.

Two can be trying.

But Two is inherently sweet. Two throws her arms around your neck and kisses you in public for no reason. Two has found her imagination and can play circles around her older siblings. Two can take any group of inanimate objects and make them into a family. Two doesn't pull her hand away when you rub it obsessively with your thumb because the skin feels addictively soft, like talcum powder. Two laughs with her whole body. Two beckons you down to ground level to see things you wouldn't have noticed on your own.

Two is simply trying to figure out this life.

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I'm making dinner at the island in the kitchen when she spirits past me, her arms flapping up and down with abandon.

Come fly with me! she beckons. Come fly with this mama and her baby bird!

Even though we need to eat early because it's piano night, even though my hands are covered with flour, I take off from my perch and flap my arms, keeping pace behind her. I get a sideways glance from the skeptical 9-year-old at the computer, but I don't stop. What else can I do? A bird's gotta fly.

The Path You Don't Know

The nurse was done checking you over, busy rebundling you into one of those giant, hospital-issue pink and blue blankets. I sat on the edge of the bed, my post-partum body almost folding in on itself with sheer exhaustion. I had nursed you every hour, on the hour, all night long.

The thing is, I ventured cautiously. She will only sleep in the hospital bed with me. Every time I put her in the bassinet she wakes up and cries. I haven't slept for two nights and I'm worried that I will knock her out of this narrow bed in my sleep.


The nurse had finished wrapping you up. Only your grapefruit-sized head and wee hands were visible out the top. Newborns are generally either tired or fussy, she said to me as she raised you up to her eye level. You got a fussy one! she declared in a baby voice, gently turning you from side to side, giving you the appearance of a miniature cheerleader.


Go fussy! you seemed to be saying. Hooray for fussy.

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I tried to lead you down a different path, the path that your brother forged, the path that was familiar and comfortable to me. It was smooth and straight, awash in a mellow light, paved with soothers, contentedness and babies that sleep through the night at 12 weeks of age. Ah, but you would have none of that; you wanted to choose your own path. You tugged fiercely on my hand, while I looked wistfully over my shoulder as the path I knew, the one I expected, disappeared.


The path that you chose was challenging to me. It was rough and hilly, with brambles that would catch my clothes and stick in my hair. You often wanted to be carried. You were hungry and thirsty and the snacks that I brought along for our journey seemed somehow inadequate.


But we persevered, we two. Sometimes I had to sit on a rock and rest, you impatiently tapping your foot beside me, eager to get going again. Sometimes you would rest with me, crawling into my lap until you felt ready to carry on. Eventually I adapted to the new path, finding that I needed to rest less often. I noticed that you progressed to holding my hand instead of insisting that I carry you. And we continue to redefine the path, together.


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Yesterday, my beautiful girl, you turned 7. We spent the afternoon together, just you and me. You squeezed my hands tightly as you got your ears pierced. You chattered away beside me as we got our toenails painted. We casually strolled our path, enjoying each other's company. Then your friends came over and you promptly let go of my hand, running ahead of me, your long, strong legs more than capable of taking you where you want to go; your skin kissed demerara-brown by the sun. As I watched you go, I thought to myself, Hooray for fussy! Hooray for you.