Memory One
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Trip of Life
People think dogs and cats when they think of pets and for most humans our four-legged companions either 'bark' or 'meow'. At our house the same can be said with our two dogs and two cats but living in the country with some extra space has allowed us to take pet ownership one step further.
We have goats.....up until early this morning we had four. Mama Goat, our old-aged African Pygmy and herd queen, died in her sleep. It wasn't a shock nor was it a surprise. She was up there for a goat....we figure she was about twelve years old and according to our vet that's quite impressive for her kind....and this past fall when the weather began to change I noticed the age of her more clearly.
I would catch her from our living room window as she sauntered from her stall to the hay trough and often her step would falter, her forelegs buckling ever so slightly, her backlegs just barely keeping her from a fall. She had stopped disciplining the young twin billys, Cheech and Chong, and would give over her space at the greens bucket without her usual fight to Willie, the resident whether (think mule....there's a reason we call him 'Willie-no-willie...get it?) without her usual head-butting discipline.
I could see his confusion at this. We brought him home three summers ago and it was Mama Goat he had quickly recognized as the herd queen, at that time Mama Goat reigned supreme over the spacious and lush space we have fenced off for our goats between the north end of our house and the train tracks. Lucy, her daughter, was still with us then....still two seasons away from that Thanksgiving weekend when a black bear would take her from us forever. I remember the violence of her death, the twisted fence with her silver tipped black fur mixed with the bear's thick black fur still clinging, the look of disbelief on the rest of the herd as they skittered around the pen. A neighbour and farmer more experienced than us had patted me on the shoulder and said "This is what owning animals is about...you lose them...and then you carry on" .
Mama Goat's death was quieter, less dramatic, like her I suppose. A cold snap hit the Island two weeks ago along with an early dumping of wet, cold coastal snow. Feeding the goats that last morning before the temperature would dip to minus 10 Mama Goat collapsed at my feet, just dropped like a stone without a sound. I helped her up and she continued to eat out of the bucket, munching away on potato peels and celery ends, and as I gave her a quick once-over I knew. Her eyes were not quite as glossy and clear as they used to be, her beatiful coat looking ever so ragged and rough.....enough of a change to let me know her end was near.
Two mornings later I went out to feed them and only three came running to greet me at the gate. My steps in the snow and muck toward the stall seemed in slow motion and squished with foreboding. Mama Goat lay nestled in her stall, her legs curled under her like a cat, her head up but shaking slightly. She tried hard to get up but even with my help she just couldn't do it.
I hand fed her grain and water, packed her in tight with fresh hay and an old wool blanket my mother in law once kept in her car, the tartan faded and holey now and covered in cat hair...but it smelled of us and I thought that might give Mama Goat some comfort.
The vet came, gave her an anti-inflammatory shot, checked her vitals which were suprisingly good, noted her accelerated arthritis and slight weight loss and gave us his words of wisdom.
"If she doesn't get up by Monday then call me," he said kindly as he stroked her massive head. "We can do bloodwork if you like...but you might just have to ready to make a decision."
Mama Goat never got up again. We tried everything, a heat lamp, raised her up onto a pallet lined with even more hay, continued to give her water and grain to keep her nourished and comfortable. Last night I checked on her once more before turning in. She 'maaaaed' at me...low and tired-like and raised her head to me for what would be the last time. She took some water, a few fatigued slurps from the bowl I placed under her mouth, then looked up at me before laying her head down in the hay.
This much I know as a goat-owner......once their head goes down and their necks curl in, once they begin breathing with an open-mouth, once they no longer gobble up grain from your palm....it's all over.
I patted her on the head, stroked her beautifully-curled horns, scratched her lovely ears and spoke of Lucy and of summer days she had loved so much, of the black bears that would no longer torment her, the rain she sought cover from before a drop even landed on her gorgeous coat. I told her she was a good old girl, she gave our family joy, and that if she was tired then she should just go.
Which is what she did some time during the night. I stepped into the goat shed this morning and the stillness of the air, the look on my other goats' faces told me what another two steps and a look into the stall would confirm.
Mama Goat was gone. Curled into herself, almost under the blanket and the hay I had surrounded her with. Back to the earth, back to beginning of the circle.....
My dogs sat back from me on their haunches, the big dog's face looking at me as though questioning.
"She's gone Sadie..." I said to the dog that fought so hard to keep them all safe. Sadie looked after the herd...or trip as I've read a group of goats referred as....the best she could. She had the bear that took Lucy up a cedar tree at three o'clock in the morning for about three hours, barking incessantly at the nerve of the brute to come into HER territory and take one of her own.
And that's really all that pets become, whether clawed, feathered, furred or cloven-hoofed....they become one of our own. My goats are my pets right alongside my dogs and my cats and although they have never curled up alongside my feet in front of the woodstove, or snuggled in tight behind my legs on the sofa, I have always kept them as safe, fed and warm as I possibly can. In return they teach me and mine about the circle of life, the wonder of the seasons and the amazing dynamic of how a herd operates.
Willie is in charge now...it's obvious to me looking out the window at the three remaining goats. He looks confused, bewildered yet the instincts bred into his kind radiate from his place in line. He's next...he's the heir although Mama Goat never bore him. The twin billys will follow his lead until the circle comes round again.
Rest easy Mama Goat.....thanks for the memories.
We have goats.....up until early this morning we had four. Mama Goat, our old-aged African Pygmy and herd queen, died in her sleep. It wasn't a shock nor was it a surprise. She was up there for a goat....we figure she was about twelve years old and according to our vet that's quite impressive for her kind....and this past fall when the weather began to change I noticed the age of her more clearly.
I would catch her from our living room window as she sauntered from her stall to the hay trough and often her step would falter, her forelegs buckling ever so slightly, her backlegs just barely keeping her from a fall. She had stopped disciplining the young twin billys, Cheech and Chong, and would give over her space at the greens bucket without her usual fight to Willie, the resident whether (think mule....there's a reason we call him 'Willie-no-willie...get it?) without her usual head-butting discipline.
I could see his confusion at this. We brought him home three summers ago and it was Mama Goat he had quickly recognized as the herd queen, at that time Mama Goat reigned supreme over the spacious and lush space we have fenced off for our goats between the north end of our house and the train tracks. Lucy, her daughter, was still with us then....still two seasons away from that Thanksgiving weekend when a black bear would take her from us forever. I remember the violence of her death, the twisted fence with her silver tipped black fur mixed with the bear's thick black fur still clinging, the look of disbelief on the rest of the herd as they skittered around the pen. A neighbour and farmer more experienced than us had patted me on the shoulder and said "This is what owning animals is about...you lose them...and then you carry on" .
Mama Goat's death was quieter, less dramatic, like her I suppose. A cold snap hit the Island two weeks ago along with an early dumping of wet, cold coastal snow. Feeding the goats that last morning before the temperature would dip to minus 10 Mama Goat collapsed at my feet, just dropped like a stone without a sound. I helped her up and she continued to eat out of the bucket, munching away on potato peels and celery ends, and as I gave her a quick once-over I knew. Her eyes were not quite as glossy and clear as they used to be, her beatiful coat looking ever so ragged and rough.....enough of a change to let me know her end was near.
Two mornings later I went out to feed them and only three came running to greet me at the gate. My steps in the snow and muck toward the stall seemed in slow motion and squished with foreboding. Mama Goat lay nestled in her stall, her legs curled under her like a cat, her head up but shaking slightly. She tried hard to get up but even with my help she just couldn't do it.
I hand fed her grain and water, packed her in tight with fresh hay and an old wool blanket my mother in law once kept in her car, the tartan faded and holey now and covered in cat hair...but it smelled of us and I thought that might give Mama Goat some comfort.
The vet came, gave her an anti-inflammatory shot, checked her vitals which were suprisingly good, noted her accelerated arthritis and slight weight loss and gave us his words of wisdom.
"If she doesn't get up by Monday then call me," he said kindly as he stroked her massive head. "We can do bloodwork if you like...but you might just have to ready to make a decision."
Mama Goat never got up again. We tried everything, a heat lamp, raised her up onto a pallet lined with even more hay, continued to give her water and grain to keep her nourished and comfortable. Last night I checked on her once more before turning in. She 'maaaaed' at me...low and tired-like and raised her head to me for what would be the last time. She took some water, a few fatigued slurps from the bowl I placed under her mouth, then looked up at me before laying her head down in the hay.
This much I know as a goat-owner......once their head goes down and their necks curl in, once they begin breathing with an open-mouth, once they no longer gobble up grain from your palm....it's all over.
I patted her on the head, stroked her beautifully-curled horns, scratched her lovely ears and spoke of Lucy and of summer days she had loved so much, of the black bears that would no longer torment her, the rain she sought cover from before a drop even landed on her gorgeous coat. I told her she was a good old girl, she gave our family joy, and that if she was tired then she should just go.
Which is what she did some time during the night. I stepped into the goat shed this morning and the stillness of the air, the look on my other goats' faces told me what another two steps and a look into the stall would confirm.
Mama Goat was gone. Curled into herself, almost under the blanket and the hay I had surrounded her with. Back to the earth, back to beginning of the circle.....
My dogs sat back from me on their haunches, the big dog's face looking at me as though questioning.
"She's gone Sadie..." I said to the dog that fought so hard to keep them all safe. Sadie looked after the herd...or trip as I've read a group of goats referred as....the best she could. She had the bear that took Lucy up a cedar tree at three o'clock in the morning for about three hours, barking incessantly at the nerve of the brute to come into HER territory and take one of her own.
And that's really all that pets become, whether clawed, feathered, furred or cloven-hoofed....they become one of our own. My goats are my pets right alongside my dogs and my cats and although they have never curled up alongside my feet in front of the woodstove, or snuggled in tight behind my legs on the sofa, I have always kept them as safe, fed and warm as I possibly can. In return they teach me and mine about the circle of life, the wonder of the seasons and the amazing dynamic of how a herd operates.
Willie is in charge now...it's obvious to me looking out the window at the three remaining goats. He looks confused, bewildered yet the instincts bred into his kind radiate from his place in line. He's next...he's the heir although Mama Goat never bore him. The twin billys will follow his lead until the circle comes round again.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
....and a river runs through it....
My favourite kind of Vancouver Island day greeted me this morning as I slipped out of the bed before everyone else to be the first into the shower. The dew on the grass was thick and chilly and made me double-check to make sure I wasn't looking at frost. But no.....the sun coming through the trees and the smell of the air as I let the puppy out the back door to greet our big dog just waking up from her front porch bed reminded me that we're still in September.
September smells are crisp, cinnamon-coloured leaves falling from the maple tree out back; woodstove-smoke curling up through the cedar and pine trees in the early morning and early evening hours; soup simmering on the stove; soccer gear drying in the mud room, the smell of wet straw wafting out of the goat pen.
September is new school supplies and clean white socks fresh out of the package. It is the promise of a new year, a new chance, a new beginning. The feel of autumn pulls me in more so than any other season on the calendar. I always thought I was more a summer child, being born in July and all, but it is Fall in all its glorious colours and possibilities that I love most. Trees and flowers are dying away, the apple trees are picked and jellied, the harvest is here, pumpkins are ripe, scarecrows are wearing fresh corn husks, herbs are drying, pantry shelves are filled with canned peaches and crabapple jelly.
There is death in this season but in that death there is the reminder that the wheel keeps turning, the circle remains unbroken. The leaves on the ground will nourish the soil over winter and keep the spring bulbs warm under the depths. The apple trees will rest and look proudly on over the cold, wet winter as I spread apple lime jelly on my toast as I wait for my tea to brew.
The September sun is the earth's last showing of warmth before the darkness of winter rolls in and makes the days shorter and the nights longer. The sun is showing off one last time this month before the frost shows up close to Halloween.
The September sun speaks to me somehow, soothing my fear of darkness and chill, with a soft message on the autumn wind of "this too......shall pass".
September smells are crisp, cinnamon-coloured leaves falling from the maple tree out back; woodstove-smoke curling up through the cedar and pine trees in the early morning and early evening hours; soup simmering on the stove; soccer gear drying in the mud room, the smell of wet straw wafting out of the goat pen.
September is new school supplies and clean white socks fresh out of the package. It is the promise of a new year, a new chance, a new beginning. The feel of autumn pulls me in more so than any other season on the calendar. I always thought I was more a summer child, being born in July and all, but it is Fall in all its glorious colours and possibilities that I love most. Trees and flowers are dying away, the apple trees are picked and jellied, the harvest is here, pumpkins are ripe, scarecrows are wearing fresh corn husks, herbs are drying, pantry shelves are filled with canned peaches and crabapple jelly.
There is death in this season but in that death there is the reminder that the wheel keeps turning, the circle remains unbroken. The leaves on the ground will nourish the soil over winter and keep the spring bulbs warm under the depths. The apple trees will rest and look proudly on over the cold, wet winter as I spread apple lime jelly on my toast as I wait for my tea to brew.
The September sun is the earth's last showing of warmth before the darkness of winter rolls in and makes the days shorter and the nights longer. The sun is showing off one last time this month before the frost shows up close to Halloween.
The September sun speaks to me somehow, soothing my fear of darkness and chill, with a soft message on the autumn wind of "this too......shall pass".
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Baby it's cool outside....
High school in 2010 smells and looks the same as it did in 1984, although in the eighties the aroma was more about Love's Baby Soft for girls than Axe Body Spray for guys, and from where I stand the same rules apply. Cool is cool no matter which generation defines it.
I still have moments where I think I might be cool. My friends think I'm cool but then....I happen to think I have cool friends so it would stand to reason they think the same of me. I know my sixteen year old doesn't think I'm so cool, but then I'm pretty sure that's how it should be, because for my son to think I'm cool would probably mean I'm buying him alcohol and letting him stay out as late as he wants wherever he wants.
But I do have moments where for a spit-second I notice him looking at me and realizing that I just might have been sixteen once. But then his I-phone will blink a text at him and the moment passes....but I know I had that moment. I'm sure of it.
Sitting in the quiet of the multi-purpose room tonight --I had snuck in before the principal, staff and other parents arrived for the official greeting--I found a peaceful and solitary spot to sit and nurse my five month old daughter and felt anything but cool. She had been fussing in my arms as I stood in the hallway chatting with my son's soccer coach and I had excused myself to find a quiet corner.
I had just sat her up from my left side, her chubby cheeks pink and glowing, her eyes glassy and warmed, when the room started to fill and I quickly tucked everything back where it should be.
One mother, her son graduating this year, rushed over from her seat on the other side of the room to sit beside me and breathe in my baby's face and smell.
"I'm just drawn to her," she gushes to me. "She's just so beautiful."
Yes..she is...but then all babies are especially, I think, to anyone who has carried one, birthed one, raised one, and is now dwarfed by one. My oldest baby is 6'2, my youngest can fit in the crook of my arm, my middle boy still holding my hand to cross the street. My oldest gave me a hug tonight before heading up the stairs to bed, his colourful descriptions of his new Halo videogame scrambling around my brain, and my head fit perfectly under his chin. His arms went around and over my shoulders and I was struck, as I often am these days, that this young man is my child.
It used to make me sad, melancholy, achy for that little boy he used to be. But I find myself shifting gears as he begins Grade 11, wishing him nothing but safety and joy, happy for him for the good times that lay ahead these last two years of high school.
"I have no idea what I want to do," he worries out loud to me just yesterday. "All I know is I don't want to just wait around for something exciting to happen to me."
"Good for you," I hear myself answering because...really...I'm glad he feels that way. I'm relieved he's not perfectly clear on what he wants to 'be'. The world is a huge place, a wondrous place, and I wish for him, for all three of my children, nothing more than happiness and peace wherever and whatever he decides to do. It's the best advice I can give him really.....find something you love to do and do it well.....and though it may sound like a cheesy Hallmark card guess what?
This week marks my little lad's first days of Preschool and I hear him talking to his big brother.
"I have a big-boy backpack like you Doh"," he says from his booster seat in the car. 'Doh' is the name my four year old uses for his big brother. He uses his real name too but 'Doh' is the name he came up with when he was just learning to talk so 'Doh' has stuck.
'You DO?" my big lad gushes to his little brother. "Just like mine?"
"Yup," my wee lad nods. "Just like you."
My big son's response is all I could hope for.
"Cool," he says.
Sure is............until next time....
Thursday, September 9, 2010
As the Crow Flies.....
It makes for a beautiful scene out of any of the windows of our house.....my favourite being the one I'm viewing now from the corner of my eye just a blink up and over my computer screen. My middle child, my little four year old son, has known no other view from the porch other than this one and my baby daughter will be in the same boat. My oldest, who at sixteen spent the first eight years of his life in basement suites and questionable apartments with his mother while she struggled to make those long ends meet, knows how lucky he is to be able to crank up his stereo pretty much as loud as he wants and bother nobody but the birds perched on the wisteria branches just outside his teenager-shack window at the time.
My kids are livin' in the country and I like that just fine. Both boys can identify, and imitate, a variety of birds that frequent this neck of the woods. Ravens, cousin to the smaller crow seen in schoolyards waiting for the inevitable leftovers under swingsets and slides, are common amongst the cedar and pine trees. Their cackles, croaks and deep throated caws resonate the morning sky even as I write this. Barred owls turn bedtime stories on their pages when they get going in the darkness. At a recent fall fair the local wildlife recovery centre had a booth and resting on the arm of a volunteer was a tethered male barred owl who cocked his head and peered down with his liquidy black eyes as my wee lad looked up at him and spoke his language.
"Hoo...hoo..hooooo......hoo..hoo..are...youuuuuuu..." his little voice cooed as the volunteer beamed.
"Wonderful!" he gushed and I could have sworn the owl nodded in agreement. "That was just perfect."
My big lad can imitate a bald eagle's high pitched whistle so perfectly I 've seen the feathered giants turn their heads to him in mid soar as they pass over our property on their way to the Little Qualicum River when salmon run.
And I have stepped outside on dewy mornings such as these before the rest of the house wakes up, my steaming mug of tea warming my hands, and managed a bit of back and forth with the ravens that show up around our back property on the lookout for whatever is left behind from whatever the owls were hunting the night before.
The ravens are a big deal on this coast. First Nation totem poles and artwork are adorned with its image and legends are devoted to this big black bird with a bit of a sinister reputation. Referred to as an 'unkindness of ravens' when in a group it's easy to see why the first peoples along this coast felt compelled to carve out its likeness and tell tales of its magic.
My kids are lucky enough to live amongst the magic that is the raven, the bald eagle, the owls, and all the other natural wonders lurking in the forest around them. The chirping squirrels that leap from branch to branch and drive our dog right round the bend, the laughing woodpecker that jabs away at our maple tree in the back yard, the gentle footsteps of the Island deer as they tentatively venture out of the forest and onto our back property to graze......my kids share their childhood with them all.
It's not all a Snow White/Bambi extravaganza.....we've seen the carnage that is nature at its cruel and finest.
The Thanksgiving weekend when one of our goats was taken from her pen and dragged off by a big black bear who was tired of waiting around for the salmon when they were late coming up river that one year. Or the night the dog was going nuts in the bush on the other side of my husband's shop. Throwing on a fleece and my holey-soles I shone the flashlight amongst the trees to see what the fuss was about and saw the glow of eyes just a few yards away from my then pregnant belly. The dog had treed what we mothers of young children fear most on rural Vancouver Island. The bushes shook as my husband managed to call the dog away and the cougar ran off into the night.
The circle of life lives here on this property. Life and death has been explained to my wee lad and understood well by my sixteen year old and I am grateful for that although saddened that our poor old goat Lucy had to pay the price for the lesson.
Nature at work explains things a whole lot better than I ever could. She starts the conversation for me and gets the natural ball rolling in a way no gentlly written library book on death and dying every could.
"That rabbit is dead isn't it Mama?" my wee lad says matter of factly as we come across what's left of an owl's handiwork on the driveway as we take the garbage can to the road.
"Looks like it," I say as I adjust the baby in my front carrier to allow me to drag the can more comfortably.
"The owls need to eat don't they Mama?" he asks plainly.
"Yes...that's right honey," I answer as I pull the dog away before she rolls in the carcass as she so loves to do. No need to clean it up....the ravens will take care of the housekeeping and by lunchtime there won't be a trace to worry about.
I look at my little boy who takes a look at the remains in innocent wonder before moving on to grab at the branches of the pine trees on the edge of the driveway.
"Yup," he says pretty much to himself. "That owl was hungry."
So...our paradise has it's darkness too and I suppose the natural order of things is it. I don't expect my kids to feel all warm and fuzzy about death when it touches a family directly but I am thankful that nature has exposed them to the order of things. Life goes on around them and death is a part of that life.
The owls don't survive without the rabbits and the ravens won't survive without what the owl leaves behind and my kids understand that. Sometimes it makes them sad but they understand that animals need to hunt to survive. They also know how to be safe around the bush and to never venture out into it alone.
So I raise my tea mug to nature on this fine morning and as I sign off here I hear my family getting up out of their beds, the pitter patter of my wee lad's feet on the hardwood, my big lad's stomping around upstairs as he enters his morning shower, my husband's groan and stretch as he head to the coffee maker. Outside the crow flies....the raven croaks.....the eagle soars.....and life goes on and on.
Until next time.....enjoy the day.....
Sunday, September 5, 2010
End of Days....end of summer
Everyone is sleeping in my house...except for me. I have just crept quietly away from the crib that holds my baby daughter cozy and warm beneath her lilac fleece blanket, my husband breathes evenly from our bed, my wee lad is tucked into his bottom bunk upstairs and my big lad, along with his buddy spending the night this last weekend before school starts, is safe and snoozing in his shack a few steps from the main house. Today was a good day....a fun day....a favourite kind of day. I took the two little kids and myself to the Fall Fair. I managed to enter some exhibits, some baking, some pics, some jelly and have some ribbons to show for running around my kitchen stirring and sifting in between rocking and soothing.
My wee lad brought home some ribbons of his own. I set him up at the table with some string and a bowl of assorted pasta and fruit loop cereal and he made a necklace. Most of the cereal ended up in his tummy but his end result was good enough for a blue ribbon.....his first. The time it took him to put his necklace together allowed me to ice the chocolate cake I had made for the Special Contest exhibit. A special class devoted to the best Chocolate Layer Cake, a prize that has eluded me in previous years, but not this year. Big blue ribbon for mama bear......good for us!
It was a great day...a stellar Vancouver Island day. Temperature in the twenties but a cool and comfortable September breeze on the air, enough to keep the bugs somewhat at bay, although this time of year there's no stopping the wasps. The end is near for them....they know it....and they're pissed about it.
There were rides at the fair both mechanical and four-footed and my wee lad's head hit the pillow tonite exhausted from both, his little eyes shining with fun, his memory bank overflowing with bouncy castles and Daisy the cow.
I've always loved fall fairs and try to participate in them, not only for a chance at ribbons which are always cool, but for the feeling I get heading to the fairgrounds with offerings from my kitchen, my garden, my children's hands and imaginations,from my heart and home.
Fall fairs are about community and when I am wandering through Domestic Science buildings admiring green beans and pumpkins, barns filled with dairy cows and sheep, community halls offering homemade pie and fresh whipping cream.....I feel connected to my community.
The buzz of conversation has nothing to do with the world at large and everything to do with the world at, and under, one's feet.
I hear two ladies admiring huge jars of pickled beets and discussing he best way to preserve their colour and flavour, notice children hovering proudly beside their blue-ribbon cookies made from scratch, and compliment the grower of the best looking cabbage I've ever seen. I admire, I notice and I compliment and my wee lad does the same, like his brother before him when he used to enter his Lego creations in the Junior Arts category, and my heart is big, my stress level is low, and it's all......good. We are exhausted tonight from a day spent at the country fair and although to many it may seem quaint and antiquated, and rightly so I suppose, I feel like I've shared something real with my family. Something a million miles away from a text message, a video game, a movie or a battery-operated game.
It's all been real today....real people, real food, real fun.....and really good Chocolate Cake!
And now I'm real tired......goodnite all.....
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Back to School
 |
| Summer of Sixteen |
I wonder what memories my son's sixteenth summer will take with him into adulthood. I've been privvy to a few of the highlights although I'm sure I don't know, and don't want to know, everything that went down these past two months. He's made it through unscathed which makes me happy and is really all a mother can hope for I suppose. Grade 11....wow....how did THAT happen?
In the blink of an eye...he has gone from the preschooler his little brother is to the young man I see towering above me. In the midst of caring for a toddler and a baby along will come my big lad, checking in from a day at the river with his buddies, racing in for a quick shower before he heads off to work, rushing through the kitchen grabbing a bite to eat before heading out to the shack we have for him just a few steps from the main house to play his guitar, coming up beside me to rest a hand on my shoulder to ask so sweetly "Hey Mom...think you could drive me to Dustin's?..pleeezze?".
For all the tough days I have with my younger kids there is my big lad, a walking reminder of how fast it all goes, how quickly childhood is whisked away from us as parents, how much we will miss it all when it is gone. His adolescence has a way of bringing me back down to earth when I have a tough day with a little boy and a little baby girl. Diapers and dilly dallying may drive me nuts some days but in the big picture that is raising kids it's really nothing.....and everything. Happy first day back to school everyone.....enjoy...and take pictures!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Sun comes up........
The head of our bed faces East so when I opened my eyes this morning I could just make out the sun coming up through the trees. I change my baby girl's soggy night time diaper and snuggle down close beside her again and offer her the breast, the left one this time if memory serves from her last feeding sometime around three, and as she settles in for a feed I close my eyes and doze.
My husband slides out of bed on the other side of our bed, waaaay on the other side of the king sized bed we bought just before our daughter was born in March, good thing too since our four year old son ends up between us sometime during the night. I hear the coffee machine being filled and prepared and my sleepy eyes open in time to see my husband grab the big yellow bath towel from the hook just inside our bedroom door before he enters his morning shower.
The clock says we're still in the hour of seven, early seven, but I know that as soon as seven hits the clock for any type of 'me' time has begun its tick. My husband is ready to go mere minutes after he exits his shower, a knack that most men possess I suppose, and I am wide awake now as he comes to my side of the bed to kiss me, his daughter and his son, good-bye for the day.
I feel his hand on my head and hear his voice break the morning silence. "Don't worry.....today will be a good day." I nod and give him a smile to save him from worry and he is gone, his truck started, his Sirius radio blasting full from his ride home the night before, and the sound of the engine slowly fades as he winds his way down our long driveway to his work, to adult conversation and important decision making, to a world that will keep him away from mine for at least twelve hours.
The sun is at the tip of the trees now and shines brightly into the window of our room, despite the shadow of the rhododendron trying to squash its rays, and my voice joins the silence of the morning, speaking to no one as my children sleep beside me.
" A good day.......yeah...that would be nice."
Yesterday sucked. There's really no other way to put it. But then so many of my days have sucked since the birth of my beautiful daughter and to see those two thoughts in a sentence makes me feel shame and sadness. She is gorgeous and healthy just like her four year old brother who snuggles beside her and all I can think about is how much I dread their eyes opening and my day truly beginning.
My sadness is palpable....real....and roosting in the corners of every room in my house. I can taste my loneliness, I have made friends with the isolation that is my motherhood and I cannot even fathom how I thought I could pull this off. My oldest son is sixteen years old and I was on my own with him for eight years, struggling to make ends meet, to stretch out a dollar and a loaf of bread, waiting tables to clothe him and make sure he played soccer and went to theatre camp. I was sure I knew what tough times were going it alone with him. Twelve years after giving birth to him I had my second son with my husband of three years and then three years later we welcomed our daughter. On paper, and in conversation with others, it is all so perfect and I should feel blessed. And I am.....there are so many moments when I am. But then there is the reality of motherhood in my fourth decade when the mommy friends I made with my first son are all busy with their own lives now that their children are no longer breastfeeding, toddling and tantruming (is that even a word??). There is the loneliness I feel every day tearing at my chest, reminding me the price paid for being estranged from my family, no aunties or uncles to take my four year old for the weekend to give me time to rest with a newborn, no grandparents to come by and rock a baby so I can shower, no close friends who have the time to stop by and clean my bathroom or empty my dishwasher or just....listen to my words, my heart, and what is brewing up scarily inside of myself.
There are pamphlets in the package the health unit hands out to every new mother in this community. 'Postpartum Depression Support....Because life with a new baby is not always what you expect." the purple letters spell out underneath a picture of a mother and her newborn baby.
No....this isn't what I expected. To feel so alone....so scared...so out of control....so beside myself with ignorance as to what to do when my four year old flails himself on the kitchen floor because he wants to eat the leftover waffle he sees in the garbage can. I didn't expect to need help with all of this. My husband's parents are both gone...long before their grandchildren were born. My brothers live far away, one up north and one way down south, and my sister resides only twenty minutes away, her phone number permanently blocked from my line, a police file bulging with complaints down at the RCMP detachments, a drawer filled with recordings of the cruel and foul words she has left on our answering machine these past three years a reminder of how her hatred and bitterness towards my failure to fail at life. It has taken me years to say it, until now to write it.....my sister hates that I raised my first son on my own, that he has turned out to be a good kid, a nice boy, a good student. I was supposed to fail, to fuck up, to hit rock bottom and never meet a nice guy and settle down which is what eventually happened. I guess I wasn't supposed to be happy which I guess makes her life more bearable. Too bad....having a sister would have been helpful these past few months when it comes raising my babies....not her mind you...but a nice, loving and caring sister. The kind of sister I hear about at playdates and baby groups. My husband tries his best, does all he can. He works so hard for this family and for that I am grateful but his long hours, especially in the summer when he is the busiest, take their toll on me. Some night it is eight o'clock before we see him come through the door. He is torn in two himself about this because he knows I need him but he is the boss, he is in charge, and this is their busiest time, and there is little he can do but listen to me and hold me and tell me that today will be a better day and to hang on until January where he will have a month off and we will all go on a holiday together like we deserve. So I hang on and I lie and smile to my friends when they call and ask how things are going and I laugh and joke and gush in my e-mails to colleagues and new moms I have met and some of my happiness is true and heartfelt. But there is a darkness that is hidden and the three paged Postpartum Depression Support pamphlet screams at me and so many times I try to make a call but I can't for fear of sounding unfit and unable to cope, of having a stranger at the end of the line make the call that I should be medicated and checking in with a mental health professional on a regular basis. That I am a bad mother.....after all these years of mothering.....I suck at this. I love my husband and l love my kids more than life itself....but some days, some moments, it doesn't feel like enough. My house needs a good scrubbing...both the structure I live in and the cobwebs that are clogging my head. I started a blog to keep myself writing....I am a writer after all....and I am thankful there is only one follower....me. But I need to get this down like the letter therapists suggest you write but never mail. It needs to come out of me I suppose and I need......to have a good day. Wish me luck........
My husband slides out of bed on the other side of our bed, waaaay on the other side of the king sized bed we bought just before our daughter was born in March, good thing too since our four year old son ends up between us sometime during the night. I hear the coffee machine being filled and prepared and my sleepy eyes open in time to see my husband grab the big yellow bath towel from the hook just inside our bedroom door before he enters his morning shower.
The clock says we're still in the hour of seven, early seven, but I know that as soon as seven hits the clock for any type of 'me' time has begun its tick. My husband is ready to go mere minutes after he exits his shower, a knack that most men possess I suppose, and I am wide awake now as he comes to my side of the bed to kiss me, his daughter and his son, good-bye for the day.
I feel his hand on my head and hear his voice break the morning silence. "Don't worry.....today will be a good day." I nod and give him a smile to save him from worry and he is gone, his truck started, his Sirius radio blasting full from his ride home the night before, and the sound of the engine slowly fades as he winds his way down our long driveway to his work, to adult conversation and important decision making, to a world that will keep him away from mine for at least twelve hours.
The sun is at the tip of the trees now and shines brightly into the window of our room, despite the shadow of the rhododendron trying to squash its rays, and my voice joins the silence of the morning, speaking to no one as my children sleep beside me.
" A good day.......yeah...that would be nice."
Yesterday sucked. There's really no other way to put it. But then so many of my days have sucked since the birth of my beautiful daughter and to see those two thoughts in a sentence makes me feel shame and sadness. She is gorgeous and healthy just like her four year old brother who snuggles beside her and all I can think about is how much I dread their eyes opening and my day truly beginning.
My sadness is palpable....real....and roosting in the corners of every room in my house. I can taste my loneliness, I have made friends with the isolation that is my motherhood and I cannot even fathom how I thought I could pull this off. My oldest son is sixteen years old and I was on my own with him for eight years, struggling to make ends meet, to stretch out a dollar and a loaf of bread, waiting tables to clothe him and make sure he played soccer and went to theatre camp. I was sure I knew what tough times were going it alone with him. Twelve years after giving birth to him I had my second son with my husband of three years and then three years later we welcomed our daughter. On paper, and in conversation with others, it is all so perfect and I should feel blessed. And I am.....there are so many moments when I am. But then there is the reality of motherhood in my fourth decade when the mommy friends I made with my first son are all busy with their own lives now that their children are no longer breastfeeding, toddling and tantruming (is that even a word??). There is the loneliness I feel every day tearing at my chest, reminding me the price paid for being estranged from my family, no aunties or uncles to take my four year old for the weekend to give me time to rest with a newborn, no grandparents to come by and rock a baby so I can shower, no close friends who have the time to stop by and clean my bathroom or empty my dishwasher or just....listen to my words, my heart, and what is brewing up scarily inside of myself.
There are pamphlets in the package the health unit hands out to every new mother in this community. 'Postpartum Depression Support....Because life with a new baby is not always what you expect." the purple letters spell out underneath a picture of a mother and her newborn baby.
No....this isn't what I expected. To feel so alone....so scared...so out of control....so beside myself with ignorance as to what to do when my four year old flails himself on the kitchen floor because he wants to eat the leftover waffle he sees in the garbage can. I didn't expect to need help with all of this. My husband's parents are both gone...long before their grandchildren were born. My brothers live far away, one up north and one way down south, and my sister resides only twenty minutes away, her phone number permanently blocked from my line, a police file bulging with complaints down at the RCMP detachments, a drawer filled with recordings of the cruel and foul words she has left on our answering machine these past three years a reminder of how her hatred and bitterness towards my failure to fail at life. It has taken me years to say it, until now to write it.....my sister hates that I raised my first son on my own, that he has turned out to be a good kid, a nice boy, a good student. I was supposed to fail, to fuck up, to hit rock bottom and never meet a nice guy and settle down which is what eventually happened. I guess I wasn't supposed to be happy which I guess makes her life more bearable. Too bad....having a sister would have been helpful these past few months when it comes raising my babies....not her mind you...but a nice, loving and caring sister. The kind of sister I hear about at playdates and baby groups. My husband tries his best, does all he can. He works so hard for this family and for that I am grateful but his long hours, especially in the summer when he is the busiest, take their toll on me. Some night it is eight o'clock before we see him come through the door. He is torn in two himself about this because he knows I need him but he is the boss, he is in charge, and this is their busiest time, and there is little he can do but listen to me and hold me and tell me that today will be a better day and to hang on until January where he will have a month off and we will all go on a holiday together like we deserve. So I hang on and I lie and smile to my friends when they call and ask how things are going and I laugh and joke and gush in my e-mails to colleagues and new moms I have met and some of my happiness is true and heartfelt. But there is a darkness that is hidden and the three paged Postpartum Depression Support pamphlet screams at me and so many times I try to make a call but I can't for fear of sounding unfit and unable to cope, of having a stranger at the end of the line make the call that I should be medicated and checking in with a mental health professional on a regular basis. That I am a bad mother.....after all these years of mothering.....I suck at this. I love my husband and l love my kids more than life itself....but some days, some moments, it doesn't feel like enough. My house needs a good scrubbing...both the structure I live in and the cobwebs that are clogging my head. I started a blog to keep myself writing....I am a writer after all....and I am thankful there is only one follower....me. But I need to get this down like the letter therapists suggest you write but never mail. It needs to come out of me I suppose and I need......to have a good day. Wish me luck........
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Why I don't like to watch the news....
The world in general can be a scary place especially if you watch the news. With small kids in the house I get kinda extra weirded out by watching too many headlines. With a almost five month old baby girl at my boob 24/7 I'm already on full-on Mama Bear mode thanks very much. Any strange characters lurking alongside playgrounds and schoolyards show up loud and scary on my beacon at the moment. Stories of how the cops pretty much knew what Robert Pickton was up at his pig farm but didn't do anything about it are enough to make me pack everyone up and head for the hills. Last night I was up waaaaay too late trying to get through the huge pile of paper on my desk....household bills and junk mail and the like....and so I had CBC news on the tv as background fodder. My ears and eyes were dragged away from trying to decipher our HBC credit card statement (which is retarded by the way) when the talking head on the screen reported a two year old boy left in his car seat in the sweltering Texas heat for two hours. Apparently his parents parked the car in the driveway, unloaded the car of their other autistic child that required their attention along with a whole wack of stuff that was needed in preparation for the family reunion that was happening in the house......and forgot about the sleeping toddler in the car seat. We all know this is a tragedy and I wouldn't dream of passing judgement.....those poor freaking parents will be re-living this nightmare over and over for the rest of their days I'm guessing....but what rocked me to the core was the interview with a 'child rearing specialist' the reporter interviewed after the initial story. Sitting in her office with oodles of framed degrees on the wall behind her, her all-knowing and textbook voice remaining even and unfeeling throughout, she suggested to parents that a great way to never forget a child in the back seat is to 'always place something of vital importance...like a wallet or a cellphone....on the floor directly behind the driver's seat which will force you to go into the back of the car before going inside". In the texting words of my sixteen year old son....WTF?????......are we really that stupid as humans? Are we....really? The most important thing in my backseat are my kids. I've left ice cream to melt and peaches to rot by mistake in the back of my Mazda but never have I forgotten my kids...sleeping or otherwise. My heart breaks for those parents who are now without their little boy but my heart breaks more for humanity when it is suggested that we need our wallets and our cell phones to jump start our brains into remembering our most precious cargo needs unloaded from the car. On that note I must run as my littlest precious cargo has now woken up from her car seat that I placed on the kitchen floor, directly under the ceiling fan because it's so stinking hot in here, so she could finish the nap she dozed off into halfway from the the farmer's market to home. Take care all and don't forget what's important........
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Here we go with Thursday
First off....I really hate my eyebrows. I've been tweezing them since Grade 7 and had them waxed...once...when I was about thirty...by a friend who was going through esthetician school. MISTAKE. With over-tweezing and that horrifying wax job when I tried to grow them out a bit for my wedding seven years ago all that came in were patchy, uneven excuses for a brow line. Now I am a prisoner to my eyebrow pencil and if you saw me without them drawn it you would probably say out loud what my four year old does when he sees me first thing in the morning. "You look like a different person Mama!"
Which wouldn't be so bad if I thought he meant a supermodel or Julia Roberts or something.
Anyways....I'm out of the shower and getting my little lad ready for soccer school. Pack a million snacks, change of clothes for him and his baby sister, and for me too in case there's a spit-up incident, and after that I'm going to try and go clothes shopping. I know...I know...laugh out loud! As long as I get one pair of pants that fits me properly and a shirt that I can nurse comfortably in without looking like a nursing shirt I'll be happy. Ah my son's first soccer camp/school.....the mom club on the sidelines...this is my second go round at this little game. I'm sure I'll have something to share when I get back although checking in before midnight tonite might prove a laughable thought. Wish me luck.....with sixteen years of motherhood under my muffin top I know that most days are ruled by it. Peace out......
Which wouldn't be so bad if I thought he meant a supermodel or Julia Roberts or something.
Anyways....I'm out of the shower and getting my little lad ready for soccer school. Pack a million snacks, change of clothes for him and his baby sister, and for me too in case there's a spit-up incident, and after that I'm going to try and go clothes shopping. I know...I know...laugh out loud! As long as I get one pair of pants that fits me properly and a shirt that I can nurse comfortably in without looking like a nursing shirt I'll be happy. Ah my son's first soccer camp/school.....the mom club on the sidelines...this is my second go round at this little game. I'm sure I'll have something to share when I get back although checking in before midnight tonite might prove a laughable thought. Wish me luck.....with sixteen years of motherhood under my muffin top I know that most days are ruled by it. Peace out......
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
So hey there...hello...from Vancouver Island
So this is my first attempt at my own blog so seeing as I think of blogs as one big conversation thrown out into world I better introduce myself and give you an idea of where I'm coming from. I'm 43...a wife...a mother...a writer....and depending on how the day starts the order of those three things can shift. Today..right now...I'm a writer but seeing as I can hear my 4-month old daughter begin to fuss in my husband's arm upstairs I will be switching hats pretty quick. 'So now you know I have a baby daughter. I also have a four-year old son, a sixteen year old son and a nineteen year old stepson and from here on in I'm going to be trying my best to share with anyone who's interested just how it's all going. I'm a freelance writer and I figure the best way for me to keep writing on a regular basis is through some type of journalling and since I suck at actually hauling out pen and paper, and my handwriting stinks, I figured I'd go for it and fire up a blog and let 'er rip. So stay tuned...if there's anyone out there who stumbles on this....and we shall see what tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day after that will bring to this blog. My blog's name is From the Hip Mama....and it comes from pretty much how I've been doing things including being a wife....a mother...and a writer....in and out of that order. Talk to y'all soon.......peace out....
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