These are a few of the things that I HATE

1. To get food out of the way, I'll list the most hated things: onions, peppers, spicey, tikka masala, brussel sprouts, brown rice, scotch, green tea, apples
2. coffee
3. dogs
4. drool
5. dog drool
6. socks with no matches (I HATE loosing socks!)
7. wet bathroom carpets
8. People who drive UNDER the speed limit
9. People who consistently drive anywhere between 70-110 k/h on the highway
10. people who drive over my foot in the grocery store and don't even seem to notice that their cart just went thump-thump and I went "OW! EXCUSE ME!"
11. People who allow their more-than-old-enough-to-know-better children to make rediculous noises in outside voices. Like "WEE-OOO-WEE-OOO-WEE-OOO" for minutes on end in walmart. ugh.
12. when my oldest daughter completely ignores everything I have to say and keeps saying "Hugh?"
13. hair leftover in the bathtub after baths/showers
14. The fact that my S button on my puter doesn't work well
15. being asked the same damn question over and over, just using different words. I wish I could explain to my daughter that it doesn't matter how many ways you ask me if you can have chocolate right after cereal, the answer is no. I am not opposed to the wording of your question...I am opposed to the question iteself.
16. Mariah Carey...
17. How society as a whole has become incredibly lazy, reticent, unskilled, and stagnat, where everything is disposable and everyone is replaceable.
19. People who don't pick up their dogs poop
20. When Marlee is screaming, and Faith decides that chanting LA-LALA-LA-LAAAAA in a voice louder than her crying sisters, and Mark asks me a question from another room.
21. When my mom comes over and cleans my house for me, not because I don't appreciate the help but because I'm ashamed that I need it.

And because I'm avoiding negative pointless cynicism for the time being, I'm going the end this before I fall off the bandwagon, land on my feet running and wake up in hell on christmas morning.

These are a few of my favorite things...

The Christmas season means something different to everyone. For most of us, it is a time for gathering with friends and family. It is a time for wine, and turkey, and party dresses. For laughter, and peace. For hot chocolate, cheesy music, sweaters, and the smell of pine. A time for anxiety as well, anxiety over the cleanliness of your house, potential weight gain, behavior of children, enforced time spent with inlaws, weather, travel, money, being seriously outdone in giftgiving and looking like the grinch...among other things. With all of the toy commercials that come out during the season to appeal to the youngest generation, the deals in the auto and tool industry to appeal to the men, and everything else sucking in women, Christmas has tuned into a delicate dance of money spent on others vs. their potential spending limit. (This is only my opinion, a cynical one maybe, which you are welcome of course to share...but you don't have to.) Maybe during the holiday season, it's important to remember all of the things that are yours, that cannot be taken from you, that you will not loose even if you've lost everything, that make you happy......
So this is my list...and discovering just how much these different things mean to me makes the holiday season so much sweeter because I see so clearly how many gifts I already have.



1. Marlee, when she's being nice
2. Faith, always (she's ALWAYS nice)
3. Mark on most days
4. moms homemade cookies
5. mom's homemade spagetti sauce
6. new socks (If all I got for xmas was new socks, I'm cool)
7. Photo editing
8. When Marlee yells at someone else
9. Sleep
10. People who have OCD
11. Yelling at bad drivers from the safety of my car, with the windows rolled up. It makes me feel better, but prevents road rage which I think is a win win for everyone.
12. music
13. books
14. babies in walmart that scream louder than mine...but only because then no one is staring at me anymore.
15. My sisters unflatering insult, reserved for special occasions "pond whore". which sounds so much filthier than just plain old dirty whore.
16. The new camera package I just won, that retails for more than 2500...
17. Did I mention my husband yet? *please note, the order in which items appear does not necessarily reflect their order of importance*
18. The fictional characters of James and Claire Fraser, Laird and Lady of Broch Tuark.
19. Moments in time that are so perfect and peaceful, they are burned forever in your mind.
20. Sleepy warm midnight snuggles with Marlee...
21. The unconditional acceptance of my family
22. French Canadian Cuisine
23. Good tuperware.
24. When you hear that song on the radio that is your life song in that moment in time.
25. Funny beer commercials during the superbowl
26. When something happens that makes you laugh from the toes up.
27. When you do something so awsome, you make your kids eyes sparkle. Like using a clothes pin and towel to transform into supermom, who sends secret messages to the tiny fighters in her body to help kick germ butts!
28. How little things leave my husband feeling weepy-ish, and me dry eyed.
29. Hearing my daughter tell her marky that if he shaved off his beard he could be prince charming.
30. Having the ability to drop by and see my parents any day.
31. Knowing that because I am strong enough, my husband is strong enough, and as a family we are strong enough, I can say today with total and complete confidence that we will make it through it all. We will always be

More than anything else, my kids make me happy.

More than anything else, my kids make me happy. This is what happened today.

I play this stupid cooking game on the computer. I know it's stupid. Brainless. Redunkulous even. But I'm sadly addicted to the game, and I'm checking it every time I get five quiet minutes. I don't get very many quiet minutes, between a two month old who doesn't really nap and a five year old who's been yanked from school until she got her H1N1 vaccine. (say what you will, h1n1 is effing scary. I don't care if it's been blown out of proportion. I don't care if the chances of one of my children dying of h1n1 is smaller than the chances of one of them dying while getting hit by a car. way smaller. I know that canada hasn't studied the vaccine. I know other countries have. I know. I ALSO know that the chances of my child catching h1n1 at school and bringing it home to my 2 month old are higher than not, and I KNOW that if anything were to happen, I would never forgive myself. So before any one jumps down my throat about the stupid vaccine, just back up and don't ok?)

So anyways, this is why my kids make me happy. I play this stupid cooking game. I check it often, 30 seconds at a time, maybe ten times a day. I have a borned perfectly healthy five year old, and a demanding 2 month old who rarely naps. Between crying and questions, bed time and meal times, laundry and dishes, demands of child 1 and demands of child 2, I have 0 minutes of truely free time. I rarely have the time to just sit down and play with Faith anymore. It makes me sad...because she's a pretty cool kid. So the other day, while Mark wasn't working, Faith came up to me and asked me to play kitchen with her in her room. What I wanted to do was say no, and sit down somewhere nobody else was and listen to quiet. But instead, a little voice told me that if I won't play kitchen with her but I will play it bymyself on the computer, lines will be drawn and dots connected in her head in ways I don't want. So up to her room I went.

This is approximately the best conversation ever.

Faith: here's a menu customer! (on it is a picture of spagetti, chicken noodle soup and cake, every five year olds stand by list)

Me: I'll have spagetti and poo balls please

Faith: M-O-M!

Me: Ok, just regular plain old spagetti then

Faith: Just pretend I have more ingredients than shapes and princesses ok? (to any imaginary disney characters hovering in her closet, that must seem diabolical)

Me: Ok, I'll pretend you have more than shapes and princesses.

Faith: Wait! I have string!!!!

Me: Oh good! Yummy. Could I have some tea too?

Faith: Fine...sigh. (seriously not getting a tip) Here's your tea and salt.

Me: mmmmmmmm.

Faith: If you're finished your spagetti I have something else I'm cooking.

Me: All done! What did you cook?

Faith: a salami. a spicy one.

Me: How did you cook me a spicy salami?

Faith: I used my recipe book (goes and gets story book from shelf)

Me: is that like gramma's recipe book?

Faith: no mom, it's a story book. I'm pretending. (she saves her "god-mom-you're-such-a-fucking-idiot" tone of voice and her "I'm-surrounded-by-idiots" tone of face for this line.

Me: Oh! Pardon me, I didn't notice. Are you pretending it's like grammas recipe book then?

Faith: yes yes yes yes yes. Here's you're salami

Me: it's too spicey. Could I have the not spicey kind?

Faith: Fine, but you'll have to wait for three hours while I cook ANOTHER one and I have to wash all of your dishes. You're not my only cutomer you know!


Then she proceeded to ignore me while she served her barbies.


This is the other reason my kids make me happy.

I was gone all day, taking Faith for her shot, going to walmart etc etc and Marlee was home with her Dad. I left at ten this morning, and got back maybe at three. I barely saw her, and she barely saw me. I didn't think she'd really notice. Apparently she did.
She smiled so big at me, and ran through all her tricks. Then she started making her imminent starvation noises so I fed her. Around a mouthfull of boob, she continued to stare at me and chat at me. She babbled her first real sound. Not just noise. A real sound. She said A-GHEE. Before she said A-GHEE she was a very floppy baby, with almost no personality. She was just a new born. But now, now she belongs to the world. Her first big milestone...passed already. Over. Just like that.

Maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal to most people. Maybe that seems possitively boring, right next to watching paint dry. Maybe to you, that isn't the description of a day you would rank with your best. I understand. But for me...I would rather have this kind of day any day.

I got to go on a trip with my big girl, and she took me to her world. Where you're never sure if you're pretending right or not. Then my baby talked to me about her day. I didn't understand it...but she talked.

My kids don't just make me happy. They give me peace, the give me serenity. They tether me to the earth, they make it spin. They make every moment worth breathing in. They really are the best kids, and this really is the best life.

What did I do to get so lucky?

To my daughters, 5 years and 2 months

Everything has changed. Absolutely everything.

The whole trasformation started on August 24. Well, no, it started about 40 weeks before that but the big change started on August 24. It was hot that day, and I was 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant, on the bottom end of a failed membrane sweep that made me feel like I had been used for a puppet, and miserable. Despite the impossibility, I felt that I would be pregnant forever. The baby wasn't coming out. Ever.

Mark and I left our oldest daughter with my mother for the afternoon and went to another midwife appointment. Mark had just come off a couple night shifts and was going to sleep after the midwife appointment. We had a second membrane sweep which is never comfortable, but apparently the baby was still sitting quite high and my cervix seemed like it was hiding out near my bellybutton trying out for a new job. On the possitive side, I think the mw managed to give my tonsils a scratch.

We left the mw office before lunch under the advice not to stray too far. We were commanded to go for a walk, so we headed up to Perth, a lovely scenic town offering nifty shopping. Off we went. I was crampy, hot, swollen and irritable. Mark was exhausted but in good spirits. He walked and I waddled around town, then we stopped at this cute little restoraunt and had soup and a sandwitch. Their pie looked excellent, but I was still pissed off at the unfairness that I would be pregnant for all of eternity and so did not partake. I regret that decision. It was probaby good pie.

Mark looked like a zombie, so I said we should just go home so he could sleep. In reality, I didn't care if he was tired. The car had a/c. I would have murdered a homeless person for a/c. So we climbed in. Once my internal body temperature had climbed back down from the melting point, I became concious of regular tightenings. I didn't look at the clock, I wasn't having a baby anyways. We had to pass through the town with our mw in it on the way home, so I suggested we just pop in and let her know that I was contracting regularly...I was just too stuborn to find out HOW regularly. She suggested we rent a hotel so mark could sleep. We decided to go home, we couldn't afford a hotel. On the way home, Mark gave me his watch and told me to keep count. I was contracting every five-ish minutes, but they weren't painful. I figured it was just my body's terrible sense of humor playing a nasty trick.

Under orders, I telephoned the mw and told her. Mark forced me. He was a man on the edge, perfectly balanced on the fence that is the silent and still line between panic and action. She told us to go home, take two tylenol and get in the bath. She would see a couple more ladies and call me back. Mark practically man handled me into the bath tub with this blank look on his face that said louder than words that he was perfectly willing to force me to do what ever the mw said. So I got in the tub. My five year old fed me dip and chips. Spinach dip. It was yummy. So then the mw called back and asked if I was still contracting regularly. I was then told it was time to go.

From the look on Marks face I knew these things

1. no more dip

2. if I didn't get dressed immediately, I would experience the hour long drive to hospital naked.

So naturally, I hauled my fat ass out of the tub and got dressed with as much dignity as I could manage. I still didn't believe it was time, and was possitive that the mw would end up at the hospital just to tell us to go back home.

By the time we got the the hospital it was maybe 2 or three. She checked me and the whole time I felt embarassed because I didn't believe I was in labor. She told us it was early labor, but my first daughter was born quickly and she wasn't about to send us home. So we went walking. We went to meet my mother who was coming to join us after dropping off my oldest daughter with my father. Then we went back and I got hooked up to my iv which I needed for my first course of antibiotics. More walking. We went outside so the smokers could enjoy a bit.

When we went back in there was another largly pregnant woman sitting in a chair panting and looking a little wild in the eyes, which quickly turned a bit spiteful when she saw me walking around laughing and talking with my family. Guess she was in pain, and the fact that I obviously wasn't bothered her. Sorry.

We walked to the gift shop, and the timmy's. Went back to the room. I was at four or five cms but still in early labor. Apparently my cervix/belly button was quite thick. I honestly didn't even feel most of the contractions and was still waiting for someone to realize that I was so NOT having a baby and send me home. She offered to break my water, once I reached five, and then we could all go home at a reasonalbe hour. OK then, whatever works. So I got my water broken and asked if I could get in the tub. It looked like a wonderful experience...a nice big deep tub with jets. HELLS YA! So in I got.

Labor progressed quickly. The pains came on with the strength of a sledge hammer. W-O-W. I breathed through them and privately got very worried about managing to make it through without meds. But I shut up and kept breathing. I was determined to have the baby quietly and calmly. RIGHT. Eventually I started clutching Marks hand and had to fight back tears a few times. I couldn't believe the pain. He was on his knees on the tile floor beside me, pouring warm water on all the parts of me that wouldn't fit in the tub. He draped a face cloth over the parts he knew I wouldn't want everyone to see. He stayed there for as long as I was in the tub. I think I got out around nine. Once I got the the point that I was really struggling, the mw came in and told me to make low noises. It would help. I thought it was bullshit...and also thought that she sounded like a wounded buffalo. I had no desire to compromise my dignity any further and ignored her. Her student came in...we found out later that Mark scared her. She needed to monitor the baby's heartbeat regularly but I hated it during contractions...so mark kept telling her when to back off. She was young.

When I was researching natural birth I was lead to believe that labouring and birthing in water is a natural pain killer or something. Bullshit. SOOOO bullshit. It doesn't help. The mw student told Mark if he pinched a certain part on my hand it would stimulate my brain to make more endorphines or something. Also bullshit. They gave me a TENS, which sends small shocks to your muscles, and is supposed to help with pain. More bullshit. There is no natural way of making natural labour easy. I'm not even sure if it can be made easier...it's brutal. And painful. More painful than I could ever describe.

Eventually, I finally caved and asked for the gas. I could handle the gas. So they brought me gas. I huffed on it during contractions, leaving a nasty taste in my mouth. During one particularly bad one, I huffed a little more than I had been and noted a pleasant dizzy drifting sensation...so I kept huffing on it even when I wasn't contracting for a bit. Just for shits and giggles.

That was the last bit of fun I had that night.

At some point I decided or the mw decided it was time to get out. I don't remember. I got out under my own steam and waddled to the bed. She checked me. I was a six but completely thinned. The mw said I would have a baby in an hour. I didn't believe her. I was a four when I got there, and I was only a six...hours and hours and hours later. Painful drug free hours. I cried for a bit, and then I asked for drugs. Just a little bit. She said that because she knew I was delivering so soon, I couldn't have anything BUT an epidural. I didn't want that. So I cried a bit more.

Then there was a new pain. My hips...they hurt so badly all of a sudden. They hurt...and it just kept getting worse and worse. The mw kept trying to make me move, but I was afraid. It seemed that every time I moved, something started hurting...so I decided to make like a statue. For a skinny woman, the mw was quite tough. I was man handled (again) and with no co operation on my part, onto my hands and knees on the bed. Wow. I thought I was fresh out of dignity before. Now I'm REALLY out. They found the last shred of it and destroyed it. I felt like a dog. No one should have to be in that much pain, on all fours like a dog while naked, in front of five people.

I forgot about it. My hips. I thought they would fly apart, break into tiny pieces, dislocate. I started screaming. Screaming for drugs. Screaming screaming screaming. Someone kept telling me to push, she was almost here. I screamed. Someone told me she was so tiny, she needed me to help her. I screamed and screamed. I screamed "I CAN'T" but they didn't understand. I really couldn't. I couldn't make my body do anything. It hurt too much, all over. I wanted someone to kill me. I wanted someone to go out and beat a junkie to death for whatever he had on him and give it to me. I screamed and screamed. I screamed when people touched me. I screamed when they didn't.

I was terrified. Something felt wrong. All I could think of was that she had a very large ear or something. Something wasn't right. I was so scared of what that meant. I was scared I was breaking. I was ashamed at my lack of composure. I was sorry for the anesthesiologist who was probably being paged for everyone within hearing distance of my room.

Finally I reached down, and felt 2/3 of my daughters head, and knew it was time. I don't know how long she was like that...half born. Hours, minutes. I finally gathered my courage, and she was born in the next push...there wasn 't even time for anyone to catch her. She was born, exactle 1 hour and 3 minutes after the mw said I was six cms. She was born head AND fist first. I think that's why it felt wrong. That's why my hips hurt. That's why I thought she had an ear the size of a second head. It was her hand and arm, preventing her for sliding and moulding to me smoothly.

We were told through our pregnancy that she had a 2 vessle cord, and the chances of low birth weight, kidney problems and skeletal problems were higher. My daughter was born, and she wasn't tiny. She was 7lbs 13 oz, with a full head of hair, and a loud voice. She was alert. Watching me. I felt like death. Bone weary, hurt. But I was floating...with her I was floating. She was beatiful. She was new. Not her sister. She didn't look like her, she didn't look like me. She didn't fit in the sleeper I got for her. It looked like a sack on her. The hat didn't fit either.

Looking at her, and exhausted as I was, i wasn't really forming coherant thoughts. Just words buzzed by, moving to fast to be expanded on. Beautiful. Small. Loud. Ouch. Hungry. Cold. Tired. BEATIFUL. I was falling in love.

I had a quick shower. I got dressed. We left two hours after my daughter was born. We named her Marlee (my husband and I combined our names Mark and Lee) Josephine (my father is Joseph) Malynn (pronounced MAYLYNN, a combination of my mother and mother-in-laws names). We got in the car, and drove home. At the half way point, I needed to pee in a bad way, and he needed food and a coffee. I went in and walked, slowly and carefully to the bathroom. I tried very hard not to pass out. Between blood loss, birth and lack of sleep, I think I could have easily done so. I must have looked awful.

We got home around 1 am. We were both too tired to get the seat out of the car, so we just carried the baby in without it. Mark sat on the couch and held her and silent tears made shiny tracks on his cheeks. I ate my second sticky bun and two tea biscuits and jam. I ran out of breath and got all shaky walking to the kitchen. I went to the bathroom and tried to clean myself up a little bit. It was a lost cause. We held the baby for a while, both too tired to go to bed, too emotionally tired, too physically tired. Both burned out. Both too content.

Eventually we made it upstairs. We tried to put Marlee in a moses basket. She didn't like it. She

didn't like to be anywhere besides with me or her dad. So that's what we did. Were too tired to fight, even with a new born.

Those first two days passed so fast. I barely remember them. The midwives came to the house a few times to check her. All good. She was fine. The heel prick was terrible, she cried and cried. She wouldn't take a soother, she couldn't find her thumb. I became her pacifier. Within a week, Mark had been temporarily relocated to the spare bed, Marlee too up his place beside me. It was the only place she would sleep.

Within two weeks, we had come to the conclusion that 1) Newborns are not fun and 2) Marlee was particularly unhappy. NO colic, just yelling, not sleeping, screaming. Messy. I think I teetered on the balance of a normal sleep deprived newly delivered mother and post partum. My family rallied, taking my 4 year old out often. I didn't always nap, sometimes I just sat and stared into space and dreamed of a time that a baby didn't yell at me.

Marlee was insatiable. Always hungry. I could literally spend my whole day with her on and off the boob for hours at a time. It was brutal. OMG the chapping. BRUTAL. Toe curling pain. In time that passed, and days turned into weeks, and before I knew it, Marlee was smiling at me. Not very often, she mostly still yelled. But she did smile. I was recharged, I could handle a few more days. A few more days turned into two months. Now, only just, Marlee finally sleeps in her own crib. Mark has taken his spot back in the bed. She chatters, she puts herself to sleep. She does take a bottle, because quite simply I haven't the time to nurse her for four hours at a time. She would just happily live on my boob... She flirts and sings and talks to them. It's quite cute.

Her nightly freakshow seems to have passed, she's actually quite enjoyable. I am ashamed to say I am surprised.

And the changes will continue daily for her. From smiles to laughs, rolling over to sitting up, standing, walking and talking. I know every day will be new with her for a while. I just hope she won't grow up too fast.

And the changes in life continue. My baby isn't THE baby anymore. She's the big sister. A whole new identity. Not only is she insistant on making an imprint on her baby sister, but she's sort of given us two choices, the easy way or the hard way. She's very gentle, but smothering. Marlee takes it in her kind of stride, meaning she puts up with it for very short periods of time before shrieking her head off. Accordingly, Faith goes at her in short but frequent bursts in her dislike for the noise. They have an understanding I guess.

Faith also asserts her desire to be treated as a person who has assended the ranks so to speak. She's got the smug face of one who knows, that some day, not very far away...Faith will finally be the boss of someone. I have no doubt she's already making cookie snatching plans. Poor Marlee. She's gonna have to be heartless to resist her...and I've recently decided that she maybe does have a heart after all.

Mark and I have changed too. Our relationship is closer than it once was, and also a little less connected for the time being. I trust him now more than I did before, more than I ever thought I would or could. He is my best friend, my confidant, he is who I lean on when I have nothing left. I depend on him daily, and he has never failed me. Our relationship is strong enough to endure this sconnection, and it will pass when we sleep more than three hours at a time, when our whole day is not spent meeting constant needs for our children.

And so, even though I feel as though I am caught in a tornado and my world is just flying around in front of me, breaking up in the force of the winds, I am happy. I am happier than I have ever been. I have everything I have ever wanted in life, and there is nothing I would trade it for. There is nothing I would change.

Life is good.

di

For and Against

I am for naps.
I am against ass hats that can't drive and continually find themselves behind the wheel of a car.
I am against finicky change machines
I am for slushies
I am against alarm clocks
I am for being on time
I am against cash cow companies
I am for fuel efficient cars
I am against pricing environment conscious products higher than the average family can afford.
I am for living off the grid
I am against family court
I am for reading to children
I am against spanking
I am for spanking
I am against slot machines
I am for buffets of any kind
I am against cell phones
I am for comfortable clothes
I am against unnecessary c-sections
I am for pot
I am against dieting
I am for continuing education
I am against life stagnancy
I am for parenting on demand
I am against parenting on schedule
I am for over indulging on chinese
I am against people who block entire aisles in grocery stores
Despite thorough annoyance, I am for grocery stores making you pay for plastic bags
I am against stores not having recycled paper bags for free
I am for go carts
I am against mcdonalds
I am for paintballing
I am against guns
I am for H1N1 vaccine, though I am normally against the flu shot
I am against fighting
I am for stimulating discussions and disagreements
I am against mowing the lawn
I am for giving my husband cold water to drink while HE mows the lawn
I am against the asshat who doesn't use his blinker
I am for occasionally being THAT asshat myself
I am against my daughters teacher
I am for healthy snacks for children
I am against viagra commercials
I am for dr. phil
I am against clowns

My baby turned five...

Today my baby turned five. A great accomplishment. By todays standard, it is a great accomplishment. My daughter has made it to age five without ever once having a major meltdown in a public place. She is not that child screaming and hitting her mother with a brick of cheese. She is not the child that cries and makes like a wet noodle. I have not had to football carry her out of any place. We have made it to five years, without one swear word leaving her mouth. We have made it to five years without spanking. My daughter has managed at age five, to use the toilette consistently, and she even wipes! She has almost learned to tie her shoes. She prints quite well for a lefty. She is not a bully, though I will admit she leads with great enthusiasm. She shares most of the time. Bedtime is not an issue. She can tell time, sort of (meaning, she knows at which times she may NOT get up, but frequently claims confusion well enought to mostly pull it off). She makes her own breakfast and pours her own milk. She holds hands across streets, but asks to do it alone sometimes. She is willing to try new foods, but almost always claims she hates it. She asks before she pets a strange dog. She uses her manners, most of the time. She is gentle, and kind. She helps her grandmother. She is mischevious enough to lie, but too honest not to tell on herself. She has more good days than bad. She REALLY marches to the beat of her own drum, and though usually tries hard to conform, she occasionally bursts out in nonstop chatter. She is sensitive, and caring (she makes little homes for bugs, names them and sleeps with the containers. We currently are in mourning for a nasty catterpillar named sparkle diamond and become proud frieds of a hairy one named diamond spikey). She expresses joy at some of the oddest times, which really lights up my life. Like today, on her fifth birthday, she looked out the window to see snow. Not the nice kind of snow. She big wet blobs. Not snow-snow. The kind of snow that is a warning. Like the notice you get before they reposess your car. "The snow-snow is gonna kick your ass". Then you get that feeling. You can feel hopeless dragging at you...you feel the pull to go inside and eat a lot of cake and then hybernate. Then Faith says "mommy it's snowing on my birthday!" and you say it with such joy. Like winning the lottery or something. I think she's the only kid that can make the crappiest stuff not crappy.

I can't help but reflect on the years past. I look around my home filled with you. Bits of your stuff draped over something, toys here and there, games crammed in the shelf, shoes on opposite sides of the closet. Bits of your supper on your tray, and juice box container stashed somewhere. A sticky spot on the floor. Fingerprints on the TV, tiny barbie pieces here and there, the plastic casing to your juicebox straw fluttering around my feet, hard to see in the dim light. Your art is on the fridge, your dishes on the counter. You are an explosion, like a little shooting star through my life. Everywhere you go, you explode in directions all round you, leaving bits of clutter and memories behind you. You've shot through my life with a light so bright, and a force so strong that my world swung of it's axis.

Everything is right with you in my life. I have no idea who I was and what I did for fun before you were born. You've impoved everything I am, just by breathing. I will never forget the way it felt to hold you when you were all new and floppy. When your breath felt like angel wings on my cheek. I will never forget what it felt like to watch you smile at me, how I hurt for you when you were cutting teeth, how I used to sneek into your room and climb in bed beside you when you were two...and I would have the best sleep. I will never forget how happy you were to get an xray, how you smiled, even though you had a broken bone. There are a million moments that I will never forget. You are pretty much everything to me.

I hope turning five is everything you dreamed it would be. I can't wait for another million things I'll never forget.

I love you my baby. For always, forever.

I am...(writing exercise)

If you want to do this one yourself, copy these words down and finish it off yourself. Mine are below.

I am the one who
I admit I am
I have chosen
I may never
When I check inside
I believe in
I pay attention to
I want to be remembered for
I have never been
I am still learning
I am


I am the one who never stands out in a crowd and is easily forgotten. I am the one who blends into the wallpaper. I am the one who is non confrontational and non assertive. I am the one who is frequently misunderstood and misjudged. I am the one who is constantly overlooked...except for the few people who take the time too look deeper. To them, I mean the world.

I admit I am accomplished at building walls and barriers to keep the world away. I've learned that it's less painful to walk the world alone than it is to trust people. Sometimes I'm afraid I've gotten so good at it, I don't know how to take them back down.

I have chosen to take the path less traveled. It's probably more appropriate to say I have chosen to make my own path through mangroves and over mountains. My husband says I wrestle giants alone...my mother says I do everything the hard way. On the other hand, I value everything I've accomplished for myself because I know exactly the price I paid for it.

I may never forgive myself for my biggest mistakes with my daughter. In an effort to give her everything she deserves, I cost her a very great deal. Forgiving myself is a daily struggle, and some days I fail and some I succeed. I am gratified to see by her beautiful smile and laughter, by the way she makes everyone love her...that the good outweighs the bad. But I've never been able to go a day without being so sorry for the losses I have caused her. I have never been more sorry that it is her that pays for my mistakes.

When I check inside I am proud of what I see. Over the last two years, I have changed alot of the darkness to light. I have healed old wounds so there is nothing left but faint scars. I have let go of old pains. I have calmed the chaos.

I believe in myself. I have walked through fire to be where and who I am. I have carried burdens I never should have had to. I have faced down monsters with bare hands and no protection. I have given up everything, to gain freedom. I have made sacrifices. I have been alone in the darkness. I have lost people I love. I have faced down my fears. I have come out the other side of depression. My greatest accomplishment, is that I am a good mother.

I pay attention to my children and my family and what concerns them. I have learned that the people I love, and the people who truely love me, are the only things that really really matter. The people who have been and will continue to be there for me, who don't judge me, who accept me for all that I am and all that I'm not, who don't try to change me, who stand beside me, who catch me when I fall, who's love is so unconditional...these are the only things I can't live without.

I want to be remembered for my devotion to my children. If at the end of my life, whenever that is, the only thing people can say about me is that I was a good mother, then I find that I can live with that. I believe that my children are the only thing I'll really leave behind. They are another page in a story that goes back so far, names are forgotten. In them are the pieces of generations behind me, tales of love and hardship, sacrifice...Pieces of my mother and father, my husband, my grandparents. I want the love I feel for my children to resonate in the bones of their children, just as the love my grandmother had for me resonates in mine. I want to write in bold on the pages of my childrens lives. When my children leave my home, I want to know that they will be a possitive force as they move through the world.

I have never been very good at saying no. I am a yes woman. If you ask me for something, I will probably say yes, even if I don't have it to give, because I don't like to say no. Ever. Sometimes I am disapointed that people continue to ask me for favors when I am tapped dry, and I wish that they would just realize that I can't always do it.

I am still learning to accept myself as I am. Some days it's harder than others.

I am your regular average everyday girl.

New discoveries, and old discoveries made new

After bringing home a brand new smack out of the box baby (excuse the pun) I have realized that there is so much about being a parent that I totally forgot about. I have spent a lot of time this past week being really surprised.





Like, I've just relearned how nice it feels to be clean when you're a slimy grub. I forgot about how having a new born in the house means you can't just have a shower any time you feel like it. If I had remembered that, I probably wouldn't have taken my last hot bath for granted.





I've also learned that the term "tired" is really subjective. Tired before pregnancy, birth and new parenthood is really incomparable to tired now. Today, when I say I'm tired, what I mean is my legs are shaking and my back aches. It means that if just ONE thing goes wrong, I'll probably cry. It means that if I were to sleep for an hour, I would still wake up tired. Tired now means that I would trade in meals and soap for that hour. It means that it feels like there's sand in my eyes, and lead weights dragging my eyelids and feet down. I would just love to be the kind of tired I was 10 months ago. Oh yes, I certainly forgot about being tired.





I forgot about how small babies are. And it seems that in the eight hours I was away from home having a baby, I forgot how big my almost five year old was. She seems infinately taller, and heavier, and OLDER. After snuggling my newest, I crept into my oldests room while she was sleeping, to check on her. I was astounded at the amount of leg hanging out of the bed, and how big the foot was on the end of said leg. Then I saw her hands which seemed so big, compared to the tiny fingers that were so recently gripping my own pinky. After staring at the creasy red wrinkled face, with swollen eyes and fuzzy hair of my new born, I was struck by the lack of baby fat on my older daughters face. When did she stop looking like a little girl? When did she stop BEING a little girl? And how did I miss it?





I thought I forgot how good it feels to cuddle a new born baby girl...but I didn't. It feels about the same as it does to cuddle my five year old, surprisingly. It feels like you could sleep in total peace, with the knowledge that all is right with the world because what's most precious to you is safe in your arms. A snuggle with my newest has the same sweet innocent joy as a snuggle with the older...just one sits still for it indefinitely, where the other does it half the time just to amuse me.





I've learned that my body and mind are more capable than I ever imagined before. Natural childbirth is not for the faint of heart. There are memories that I will treasure to the day I die, and some that I seriously hope will fade with time. I've learned that my husband is stronger and more dependable than any man I've ever known. I will never forget the hours he spent kneeling on cold hard bathroom tiles in the hospital while I squeezed his hand like I meant to liquefy his bones. I will never forget how he fought for me when I couldn't make words. Through tears and screams, he stood by me, supported me and never left me. If the only memories I had of my birth experience were my first sight of Marlee, her first cry, and his constant presence, I would feel blessed like one who has seen and believed something holy.



I forgot how good it feels to take a really good pee. It seems that the inside of my bathroom has become overly familiar over the course of the pregnancy, and lumbering out of bed four times a night feeling like flood gates are going to open and wash the house away, only to make it to the bathroom and have a piss that MIGHT fill up a shot glass has been frustrating. I forgot how nice it feels not to have someone stepping on my bladder, and to be able to stand up and say with conviction "I have to pee". Pregnant people can never say that with conviction.



I have rediscovered my feet. And they really ARE feet. They don't look like flesh colored gumby extensions...or feet shaped balloons filled with jello, or playdough. I have visible bones in my feet. And they don't feel like they are on fire anymore. They don't hurt to walk on. I don't feel the need to stand on my basement floor for the relief the cold concrete gave, nor do I need to sit in a cool bath. I will never take my feet for granted again.



I have rediscovered food again. I can drink a glass of milk without feeling like I have fire in my throat, and I can eat pizza without wishing I could just die. Gaviscon is not my constant companion. Food does not disgust me. Eggs and meat do not repulse me anymore. Today I ate a sausage at supper time...and I didn't spend the whole meal trying to convince my stomach that what I'm eating is in fact potato chips, NOT MEAT. I had a glass of juice, and it hasn't come back to haunt me.



Pregnancy may be beautiful, and it may be a miracle. There may be much joy found in the knowledge that your little one is safe and secure, resting under your heart. But it feels damn good when it's over.

I just don't understand.

Given that I can no longer go for a walk, garden, take a bath without feeling like I am just sitting in a puddle, or get off the couch without having a huge hissy fit because the back of my lay-z-boy chair got stuck on the chair rail and I couldn't get out....I have had a lot of time to ponder. I have questions, and I wonder...

So the first major blank I came to is this: Who the *^#O cares about John Gosslin? Why does having six babies make you that important?. Ok wait, having one baby is a miracle, having six is a death sentence but a pretty amazing one. But he didn't even HAVE them. He provided swimmers. Who cares who he dates? Why are women swarming him? He's a thirtysomething dude, who still wears band shirts, left his wife and 8 children and immediately sailed off with someone new...and if the tabloids are correct...she's the daughter of the dude that gave his wife a tummy tuck. Who t f cares about him or his girlfriends (who seem to be two psychopaths fighting over a middleaged weirdo)...
It's not like I'm resurecting the whole "team jennifer/angelina" bullshit. I don't have a pink tshirt with "team kate" on it, and I am not hiding behind bushes waiting to jump the first man wearing a "team john" shirt, yell sexist pig and then hit him with something. I genuinely don't care about either one of them. She yelled incessantly, he whined constantly...they picked on eachother daily...at least half of their children were crying at any given moment. I just wonder...why do they matter so much.

My second wonder- cell phones. What is the deal with cell phones. I phones. Blackberry's. God knows what else. Mark and I both agree that having cell phones is probably a good idea. So we decide to get them. Do you have any freaking idea how hard it is to just get a phone? So off I go shopping. They ask me-do I want this one, it has a full querty keyboard (what is querty? and if it doesn't have a querty keyboard, what does it have?) and I say no, I don't want to send emails from my phone...or whatever. Do I want a walkie talkie? ok, that was like 1980...or something. I don't want old shit on my phone. I don't want morse code either...if that's an option. Do I want an mp3 player? no...I don't want a radio...or a tv...or anything else. I want a phone. Just a phone. With numbers...and a speaker so that I can hear a voice talking to me, and a mic that I can talk into. I would like my phone to ring...just ring. Not play the theme song to fraggle rock, or whinney the pooh...or anything else. Just ring. you know? ring ring...a PHONE. DO I want to text? no. Do they have just a phone? no. apparently there is no such thing as JUST a phone. sigh. what happened to us?

I feel like some really old geezer wheezing at the kids "when I was your age...we walked to school! Bare feet! In the snow! Uphill! Both ways! AND WE DIDN'T have a go-go-gadget phone!
But seriously. What DID happen? When did we stop using a phone to call eachother? When did we start needing a machine to do EVERYTHING for us? We can't read maps, we need GPS. We can't make a call...we need to text message. We can't hand our kids a quarter and tell them to call us when they need to be picked up...NOOOOOOOO, we need to hand them a phone, that isn't a phone...and then wonder why they're sending pictures of themselves naked to who knows who, who knows where....
our phones must be able to browse, receive email, and make a sandwitch. We must all turn into zombies and walk around public places with our heads down and our thumbs poised over our phones bashing into eachother. We must be connected. All the TIME. To everyone, everywhere. We must make it easy for everyone to reach us, and then we must pass that on to our teenaged sons and daughters, and make it easy for them to be reached...all the time. Three 16 year old girls do NOT need to walk down the street beside eachother, texting. Seriously people, we are going to evolve without voice boxes and very very strong thumbs.
I will admit, cell phones to give a measure of safety. I am all for providing my daughter with a phone, so that she can call 911 and say "some weird dude is following me, can I get some help?" She doesn't need all you can text/email/browse/or eat. Neither do I...chances are...neither do YOU. Our kids will probably need social skills though. I know some of you guys could use some too...
What are they going to do...grow up and get jobs and forget how to talk. How to communicate effectively. How to say anything without popping an lol or a rofl...or anything else at the end? WIll they grow up to be doctors and lawyers...and waitresses, and garbagemen...and be silent. And when pedophiles, and dealers...and really bad dudes reach out and touch our daughters and sons because technology makes it easy, then what? I just don't understand.
People call me old...at 27...or 28 or however old I am. I'm not old. I just don't say baaaaaaa. Sometime around the age of 19 or 20 I stopped trying to be cool...and get cool stuff. I don't want something because you have it. I don't want it because it's new. I don't want it because everyone else has it. I don't care if it's top of the line, or how much it costs, or all the shit it can do that I don't need.

that's that for now...I actually have a lot more to say...but my kid is hungry.

Some of Faiths funniest quotes

Trying Desperately hard to get her grandmothers attention, bouncing up and down like a demendted child holding a naked barbie bent at a 90 degree angle
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: So I went to Walmart today to get some really-
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: sheets. They were on a really great sale and the pockets actually fit my-
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: nevermind
Faith:underwear! underwear! (We try to ignore interuptions, in an effort to teach manners and timing...obviously not successful in this area)
Mom sounding resigned: She's not wearing any underwear...
Faith: Yes she is! See how they're bumpy? That's her underwear...
Mom: No, that's how bums are!
Faith: Gramma! Feel that! Does that feel like butt?
Mom: Feel your bum...they're all bumpy..
Faith sounding paranoid: MOM! is my bum bumpy?
--age 5

Faith to Mark: You would be as handsome as prince charming if you shaved off your mustache...but you're pretty hairy. You could be the beast...
Age 5

Mom, did you know stars are born out of a BLEBULOUS? (nebulous)

Age 4, after watching discovery kids.



While pretending there is a volcano in the bathroom "look out mom! it eruffted!"

age 4, another discover kids show



While upstairs in her room I hear all of her soothers hit the floor (they were kept in a box on a shelf in her closet during the day) and I call up the stairs "what was that noise?" I hear a muffled Faith say "um...I had an accident" and I say "what kind of accident?" (I have a pretty good idea already but I'll play this out) faith says "um...a sucky accident." and I say "is there one in your mouth" and she says "ya, that was the accident"
aged 2

Mark and Faith are in the car, driving to school in winter. Faith is pretending she is batgirl. The car spins out and bumps into a snowbank. Faith says "uh, Marky...maybe batman should drive"
aged 3

When asked what she would like to name the baby in my tummy, Faith responded: " if it's a boy- April...if it's a girl- Diamond. Aged 4

I've come to the conclusion

I have come to a strange and startling conclusion. Or maybe even an epiphany...but probably not quite that good. Anyways...lately it seems as though my brain is split into two brains. OK, I seriously MENTIONED that this was not as good as an epiphany...anyways. Like I was saying, where once there was only one brain, now it SEEMS as though there are two.

Brain number one is completely logical but with no emotion, I can only assume that brain number two is everything BUT logic. So this is how that works....

I'm going about my regular day today and having this weird conversation in my head. It went sort of like this.

Brain #2: I'm thirty eight weeks pregnant! (That would be in happy tones of thought)
Brain #1: WTF? When did THAT happen (shocked/calculating tone of thought...kind of like doing period math when you're late...only WAY more frantic)
Brain #2: Remembers how excited I was about having Faith and bringing her home
Brain #1: Ya, that was before you REALLY knew what it was like to be a mother. FOREVER.
Brain #2: Total blank (literally, ZERO function at this point) and then a small voice (It can't be brain #3 can it?) saying "oh shit, that's a bad sign".


And things sort of went downhill from there.

Honestly, it's not that I'm NOT happy to be having my second child. It just seemed like such a great idea...but a large portion of my brain seems to have shut off between the day I decided baby number two would be a good idea, and today...where baby number two is going to be along any time. That part of my brain seems to have woken up with a vengeance...bleary, cranky and seriously pissed at the loss of time...like a drunk just come out of the worlds worst bender that's lost track of months...and months. That part of my brain (it's quite pessimistic) keeps asking me questions like "you realize that now you are going to have TWO small people in the house? They'll be there, making NOISE forever..." and "you know it'll be another FIVE years before you are able to consistently say you slept well last night"? and "you have just spent approximately ONE year with the ability to go out WITHOUT worrying about your kid, and you're signing up for another FOUR years?

Suddenly I've just remembered all of this things that made life really really really sucky. Yes kids are wonderful, they make you laugh every day...etc etc. I am thrilled, can't wait to meet her. (I did tell you specifically that there were TWO brains right?) Well suffice it to say that Brain #2 is completely appaled at Brain #1. And I'm not QUITE sure, but I think brain #1 might be ashamed of itself too...but that's hard to say.

All the same...part of me eagerly anticipates the arrival of our newest daughter...and the fact that I will not be pregnant any more. The other part of me is screaming "labour? what do you mean labour?!? This can't be happening again!"

Is any of this normal?

Some shit that made me giggle when I read it

This is a compilation of some really funny shit overheard by random people in New York City. Makes me think a visit would be SO fun.



a middle-aged, not badly-dressed man in jeans and a polo emerges from an alleyway wearing a sunhat with large fake flowers sprouting from it and says to my mom and me walking by, "So, I'm thinking of becoming a lesbian."



13-year-old girl on phone: That's right, I lost my virginity...looks like someone owes me a soda.



Guy #1: ...and he just kept chewing and chewing. Man, I felt so bad.

Guy #2: Dude, why did you give a Twizzler to a giraffe?



Teen girl #1: Wait, so you just let him do you in the butt? You let him sodomize you?

Teen girl #2: It wasn't bad. I couldn't shit for a few days, though. So I took some laxatives, then I shit myself in the mall yesterday.



NJ mom on cell with son #1: Anthony! Anthony, It's Mamma. Stop crying right now. It's okay, honey. It's going to stop hurting in two minutes. Jesus, with the sobbing already! Put your brother on.NJ mom on cell with son #2: I want you to stop doing that thing to your brother. If you make him cry again I'm going to make you cry. Do you hear me? Don't play stupid with me. I get enough of that from it your father. What? Put him on... Stop laughing... Put Daddy on the phone or so help me Jesus...NJ mom on phone with the father : Jerkoff, what the fuck is going on over there? I leave the house for five goddamm minutes and you are all flicking each other's balls again... Stop fucking laughing. You are going to make them retarded or gay or something!

Mother with little girl: Excuse me. My daughter wants to know if you're a pirate.
Woman wearing bandana: No. I'm just a lesbian.

Little girl, pointing to grab holds: Look, Dad, monkey bars!
Little boy: I wanna play on the pole! No, you can't too, this is my pole!
Dad: Bobby, everyone can play on the pole!
Little girl: Bobby, go back to your pole!
Little boy: Fine! Look, Dad, I'm a pole dancer!

Chick, screaming into cell: What a bitch! I swear, it's getting harder and harder to fuck your co-worker and get away without people finding out!

Male student #1: Your sister has the best tasting punani in New York.
Male student #2: I'll pay for lunch if you promise not to say that again.

http://www.overheardinnewyork.com

Just a few things I wanted to clear up...

This is just a little list of things that seriously peeve me.



1. Thank you for telling me you can't tell I'm pregnant from the back. I think it's probably because there isn't a baby in my ass...but I'm sure you meant it as a compliment.

2. For the record, I only come to your house on holidays and eat your precocious food while you look pittyingly at me because my daughter eats WHITE bread and PEANUT BUTTER, instead of whole grain wraps and organic Almond butter because your shitty food comes in the BEST tupperware.

3. Maybe it's just me, but I don't see a big flashing light in the middle of EVERY god damn aisle at walmart that says "congregate here, discuss everything under the sun".

4. The fact that I am having a baby does not give you the right to touch me. Fuck off.

5. When my husband tells you we're expecting and you say "a baby?" with an obvious question mark at the end, I just want to smack you. No, I fucking stole a watermelon and we're expecting a puppy any day now.

6. If you are a complete stranger, I probably don't care what labor/delivery/pain managment was like for you. See the blank look on my face...that's how you know I don't care.

7. I also don't care about the retarded names your sisters named their many children...just so you know, strange lady in the bakery.

8. The person that lives accross from me is completely capable of mowing his own lawn, yet a senior does it for him. He also has had a shopping cart parked in his lawn all summer, and never uses it. WTF?

9. You know who really annoys me? People who don't even know you but throw you a dose of stink eye...just for existing.

10. Texting. Seriously. It's a PHONE. With a speaker. So you can HEAR what the person you are TALKING to is saying. You know what you're supposed to use to send typed messages? A computer. Why, why why is everyone texting, on a god damn telephone. Yesterday I was at the mall, and I noticed that 9 people out of ten were just wandering around with their eyes trained down, thumbs hovering anxiously over their phone typing out a message that no doubt would take four seconds to dial a number and say "ya I'll be there in a sec..."

11. This particular phone conversation really really really pissed me off:

Answering machine: this is bell canada calling to inform you about.....(there was an issue with my phone bill apparently. Due to financial difficulties I had been unable to pay for a couple bills the month before but was 99% possitive I was all caught up UNTIL this phone message)...please call 1-800 something or other as soon as possible.

Lee: fuck. So I call the number...and due to a high call volume am put on hold, but because of repeated messages, am assured that my call is important. Whatever

Bell: Some nearly unintelligible person tries to help me, I explain my message. they say "your bill is in arrears by (one months bill only) and would you like to pay for that right now by credit card?

Lee: you called me and kept me on hold for 20 minutes to tell me my bill was due YESTERDAY and you want me to pay be credit?

Bell: I'm sorry mam, but you called us.

Lee: that's because you called me and told me to!

Bell: We encourage you to ignore messages like that in the future.

Lee: expletive expletive expletive and so on and so forth.


Are you fucking kidding me? That was the most rediculous phone call I've ever had in my entire life. Does ANYONE at bell talk to anyone else? I think it's just a bunch of people who barely speak english sitting around a huge table picking phone numbers out of a hat saying "how can we really fuck with HER today?"

12. While we're on the subject, telemarketers really annoy me. Do NOT call me early in the morning. Do NOT call me at meal time. Do NOT call me the day before, the day of, or the day after a holiday. I seriously doubt that I have won a holiday anywhere...so if that's what you're calling to offer, don't bother. To be completely honest with you, I'm smart enough to get in my car and drive to any store...so if you have something to sell, I think I can probably buy it by myself thanks. If you're a TELEPHONE company calling me on my TELEPHONE, then it looks like I've already got service...And for donation companies...I understand there is a need for financial contributions from the community...but when I HAVE donated to you, you called me every week for years, kind of takes the joy out of giving. If your english is unintelegable, I probably don't know what you're offering so my answer is always going to be NO. And you know who I lump in with telemarketers? Direct energy. Ok, maybe to you I look stupid...but I am not going to sign a five year contract promising to pay a flat rate on my gas when it's high so that you can totally fuck me over when it's low. And now there's a new one out, Green Energy or something. I am also not going to agree to spend a rediculously high amount on my hydro bill because "smart meters" are coming out. And your "if we keep using energy at this rate, your beautiful daughter will be using a gas mask" doesn't impress me. Your fear tactics blow...and they make me more likely to throw my really mean cat at you than to listen to you any further.

13. When people park in the disabled parking spots because the don't want to walk in the heat/cold/rain and I watch my mother limp in. If you are the person that does this and a silver cavalier has completely blocked you in, that's me, you lazy bitch.

ok, maybe I'll add more later. ciao all

chapter 4

Ta-thump
August 12, 1991
Amos is dressed in his best suit for what he hopes is the last time, he is 71 years old. Looking in the mirror he wishes his best suit were maybe just a little better, polyester pants, uncomfortably warm on a summer day, and printed shirts not being in the same favor they were when Ellen had picked the suit out for him. Amos lives on a pension though and a new suit just wasn’t in the budget, and besides his wife had picked this suit out specifically. He didn’t feel right replacing it. So Amos sat in his chair waiting patiently for his daughter, hoping he didn’t embarrass his grandson too greatly.
When Ella arrives, she steps out of her car and Amos is astonished at how beautiful she is and also at how much his chest hurts seeing her there. It could have been Ellen. Her hair is swept back off her face in a tight bun which would look severe on a person with even slightly forbidding features. Ella always looks kindly and gentle, even when she’s angry. She’s wearing a beautiful peach colored dress, with her mothers pearls at her neck and a pair of matching earrings that Amos had made for her to match the necklace. She wears a peach satin wrap around her shoulders, draped through the elbows and clutches a ridiculously small peach satin handbag in her hand. Through some magic of female aesthetics, her skin shimmers in the sun setting off her tan and giving her a youthful appearance, which was no doubt her intention. Her make up is obviously professionally applied, Amos knows she’s wearing it but he can’t see it. He notices her nails, long shiny and perfectly cut in a shade that matches her dress perfectly. He has a private quiet chuckle as he watches her navigate the stairs and front porch. His daughter has never worn high heels well and she walks with extreme caution and care while trying to give the appearance that she is doing nothing of the kind, as though she is drunk and trying very hard not to let anyone know.
Ella walks into the house wearing her mothers favorite perfume, Chanel 5, and pins a peach colored boutonniere to his lapel, kissing him on the cheek as she adjusts his tie and collar. She makes him take off his shoes so she can apply a fresh coat of polish, and puts his cufflinks on for him. She exchanges his regular watch for the one he wears when he dresses up and fondly combs his thin hair. She drags him off to the bathroom and drapes a large dish towel around his neck, pulling sandalwood shaving cream out of the cabinet. She applies aftershave to his face and neck, making his skin sting and his eyes water and then sprays cologne on the front of his shirt. She looks him over critically, as only a mother can and Amos heaves a sigh of relief when he passes muster. He doesn’t see the point in all this fuss, no one will be looking at him. Until he looks at Ella and realizes how important this day is for her, her son is getting married and directly after the honeymoon he will be moving to China with his new wife to pursue his career until he can be transferred back to Canada. Amos understands wanting to remember things perfectly and not wanting any regrets. He knows Ella is more than happy for her son, and that her heart is breaking because she doesn’t know how long he will be gone away. He understands her fear, and her need to make sure that everything goes smoothly. He understands that very well.
Later they sit side by side in the pew at the church, his daughter on his left and an empty space on his right. Out of respect, his grandson had left an empty space out of remembrance for his grandmother, which Amos was very grateful for considering Jeremy never met his grandmother. Amos reflects on the passage of time, the image of an hourglass tumbling through his mind. One year by itself, like a grain of sand is so small and inconsequential, passing with the promise of other grains of sand to come until suddenly you look behind you and realize there are far more grains of sand behind you than in front.
Banishing that morbid line of thought, Amos focuses on his nervous looking grandson. Amos remembers standing in the same place, what seems like a lifetime ago. He recognizes the look of stark terror in his grandsons eyes and wishes he could tell him not to worry, she’ll be here. They almost always are, god help them although Amos isn’t always sure he knows why.
Amos watches as his grandsons fiancé, Maeling, walk down the isle looking foreign and proud. She wore the fanciest dress Amos had ever seen, very different from what his wife wore. Where his wife wore a high necked dress made of lace and white satin, this woman wore a clinging dress that fit snugly around her tiny waist, her train dragging behind her by several feet. The whole thing was inlaid with seed pearls, plain in it’s own way and yet very elaborate, Ellens had been decorated with excessive amounts of embroidery and what Amos thought may have been doilies. Where Ellen had worn a veil that covered her dark hair, the front layer pulled over her face, this tiny woman wore her dark thick hair piled on top of her head in curls without a veil. In her arms she carried a large bouquet of white lilies and white roses, which she had come late last evening to clip from Amos garden. He thought Ellen would be pleased to know that a part of her effort and devotion had touched this special occasion, even so many years after her death. On his own wedding day, he had not been able to afford much more than silk flowers and ribbon to bind them with for Ellen, and yet she had looked just as radiant and proud as Maeling did at this very moment. Her dress combined with exotic features set her apart from every woman there. Jeremy met her in China, where they will return after their honeymoon for a few years until he can be transferred back to Canada where they can start a family. Amos doesn’t recognize all of the words in the ceremony, and their wedding is a blend of both customs and yet Amos finds it all familiar. A sad smile plays across his face as he thinks, watching thoughts and emotions playing across both Jeremy and Maelings face. Remembering the way his wife had looked at him standing in the very same position so many years ago and how he felt standing beside her, he supposes that language barriers and strange customs aside, love is the same in any language.
Later, at the wedding reception after dinner he slips his arm around his daughter, knowing she will understand that he is ready to go home. She smiles at him, looking as tired as he feels. He realizes again with a flash that his daughter is not a child anymore, she is not even a young woman. There must be days where she feels her own age. All the same, she smiles at him and tugs him out to the dance floor, the tune of “Brown Eyed Girl” blaring from the DJ’s speakers. This song has always been a favorite of hers, and she has only ever danced it with her father. Not really knowing why, Amos treasures those few minutes out on the dance floor, holding the woman he loves most.

untitled book- chapter 3

Ta-thump
June 19, 1993

It is the first really nice day of the summer season and Amos is 73 years old. Although he doesn’t work anymore, Amos still tries to get out in the community and stay active. He will be the first to admit that his joints hurt on a daily basis, and that there are days when it is a real struggle to accomplish the tasks he has set for himself. He still has his drivers license, and thankfully a car but he uses it rarely. He doesn’t feel the need to be out trolling around department stores without the purpose of buying something, but he will spend an entire day happily poking through flee markets and garden centers.
Today is not one of the days that Amos can happily do anything, and despite the warm sun Amos stares mournfully out his window at his wife’s quietly faltering flower garden. For all of the years since his green thumb of a wife died Amos has cared meticulously for her garden, tenderly replanting, weeding, watering, fertilizing and clipping her beautiful plants and flowers. Each year he goes to the garden center and re-supplies her gardening shed and begins planting the same flowers and fauna in the same colors that his wife left behind. Amos has spent countless hours on his knees crawling around the front yard and each year it has gotten harder and harder for him to keep that garden in the same condition his wife did. Over the years he has transferred his need to care for his wife, into a need to care for her garden in her absence and has finally come to the sad and heartbreaking conclusion that he can no longer do either. It is Wednesday today, and Amos is so downtrodden that he doesn’t even realize that Ella will be visiting him today.
When Ella arrives, she walks up the front walk noticing the wilting flowers, the weeds stubbornly poking through the flower bed, and her fathers gardening tools laid out but untouched. Amos is more than happy to see her but he is unable to feel his usual elation. Ella proves once again how adept and sensitive she is when she smiles and suggests they go out to the garden. Amos smiles gratefully at his daughter, pride shining through his sad eyes silently thanking her. Ella has spent so many years caring for him, he knows it is nearly impossible to hide his feelings from her. He follows slowly, she automatically slowing her steps to match his.
Ella drags a wooden garden chair over to the shade for Amos to sit on and supplies her father with a glass and a pitcher of lemonade she made in the house, placing it on the table beside him. They spend the rest of the day together in the front yard, Ella caring for her father by caring for the garden he can’t let go of. She pulls on his old gardening gloves, and the two of them talk companionably between bits of gardening advice and lore from her father. As Amos begins to let some of his melancholy mood go he eventually forgets his pains and happily joins Ella in the garden. She pulls the weeds out, tossing them in a growing pile and Amos waters the plants, slowly walking back and forth from the plants to the garden hose, filling up the watering can and back.
When they are almost done, Ella empties the rest of the lemonade into their two glasses and fills the pitcher with water. They make their small circuit around the garden gathering up their tools and putting them back in their garden shed. As they pass by the rose bushes, Ella stops to clip one or two from every bush. Roses were her mothers favorite flower and so there are many colors. On the largest red rosebush, Ella clips several flowers and she and Amos are pleased to find one white rose. It has bloomed there, standing out among the many red roses since Ellen had planted it, when it was no higher than mid shin. Now it towers above the other plants, stretching as high as the top of Amos head. With a look of fondness, both Amos and his daughter bend down to smell the rose remembering all the times Ellen told them not to pick it because it was good luck. Before she died, they tried every year to get her to clip it and every year she told them no, it was good luck to let it grow. The desire to clip it vanished, leaving them both wanting to leave it, as though a part of that well loved mother and wife were still there.
Before the afternoon is over, the entire garden is watered, weeded and loved, as is Amos. They sit companionably together with Ellas bare feet crossed in her fathers lap. Amos noticed that her toe nails are painted bright fire engine red and remembered the color for the rest of his life. Privately he thought his daughter was far too old with grandchildren of her own to wear such a bright color, besides which it belonged on a hooker.
He clearly remembers a day when he and his wife were sitting down to tea when Ella was three or four years old when they realized that they couldn’t hear her anymore. Quietly they crept upstairs, hoping to catch their daughter in the midst of her mischief; Ellen and Amos had learned from experience that dead silence during the daytime always meant that Ella was doing something she knew wasn’t allowed. They saw her through the doorway perched on a stool at her mothers vanity with Ellens favorite flower printed dress dangling at least a foot past her toes and a straw hat that kept drooping down past her eyes with her face powdered white and red lipstick smeared across her lips. Evidently she had also found her mothers mascara because she had used it to darken her eyebrows as her mother did giving her the appearance, from the eyes up that she was very angry. The two of them quietly chuckled at their daughter who looked like a tiny little drunken clown, sitting amidst an acrid haze of every perfume her mother owned. Today Ellas toes are exactly the same shade as that lipstick, and Amos decides that maybe that particular shade isn’t so inappropriate after all.
He doesn’t remember when, but at some point before supper time, Ella smiled Ellen’s beautiful smile at him and told him a parcel had been sent to him from China. Amos was surprised but had left excitement behind a long time ago, but Ella looked so excited to share this with him that he smiled knowing that if he had to jump up and down clapping to please her, he probably would.
Ella pulled from her shoulder bag a small box wrapped in brown paper. Amos opened it, noticing that it had come from his grandson. Inside the package he found a small folded piece of white cloth and although he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Slowly he picked it up and it fell open showing blue writing on it. His eyes filled with tears as he read the words, and he sat there quietly laughing and crying feeling closer to his wife than he had in a long time, the smell of her flowers and the sun on his face a balm to the soul. That little white bit of material sat on his dresser for all of the rest of his years and he always remembered exactly how he felt when he read the words. “Congratulations Greatgrandpa!” The story that started when a dirty barefoot mouthy little girl threw an apple at him from the branches of an old apple tree was finally ending, and it was the most beautiful ending that he could imagine.

untitled book- chapter 2

Ta-thump
December 24, 2006

It is Christmas Eve and Amos is 86 years old. He is surrounded by his family. His daughter Ella is there with her two children and their spouses, with their children in tow. Amos is very old, older than he ever thought he’d live to be. In truth, he is older than he wanted to be, but on this night he feels perfectly content. As he looks around at the dinner table, he sees three generations looking back at him, and he truly feels grateful. In each face, he can see some of himself and some of his wife. He wishes she could be here now, to see what their love had started.
Ella had come early with her husband with the turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and yams, the rolls and pickles. Her children Christopher and Catherine came with vegetables and salads, and their children Jacob and Jeremy came with desserts. Amos himself provided the wine, and later Scotch. He never says it out loud, but he is happy when every year at Christmas, his family spends an evening with him. It is the only time his house is filled with laughter and shared joy, the way it was when his daughter was small and Ellen was alive.
Once the supper is finished, his family decorates his tree for him. It is something they enjoy very much, because Amos has the most unusual tree. There are no lights and tinsel, no garland, no glass balls from department stores. Instead home made decorations are pulled out and discussed one at a time, stories are told and tears are shed. This has happened every year for as many years as he has had a family. The only difference is he has a tree that gets stored in his basement during the off season. His great grandson insists it’s called “going green” but it looks the same color as a real one to him. He doesn’t say this though because he has the distinct impression that there’s probably something he hasn’t picked up on. There usually is when it comes to communicating with his great grandchildren.
The first decoration pulled out of it’s box is Ella’s first walking shoe, laces still intact. Amos had saved up many pennies to pay for those, but they were worth it. Everyone listens as he quietly tells the story of how he gave them to her all wrapped up in a box, and how at two she refused to take them off even to sleep she loved them so much. When the story is finished, the shoe is lovingly placed on the tree.
Other decorations follow suit. A laminated picture of his wedding to Ellen, a story that doesn’t get told. The picture itself speaks louder than words. His great grandson’s first rattle, the one made of hard plastic that he cracked his cousin over the head with five years ago because he ate the last of the yams with marshmallows. Ella’s first spoon that she could use herself with the metal handle that Amos had bent himself to make it easier to hold. The family always laughs when Amos smiles and says “that was the year she discovered trajectory!”
The bracelet that his granddaughter Catherine wore home from the hospital is lovingly placed near the top of the tree, and her mother tells the story of her birth which is an unremarkable one as far as stories go, but the family does love to hear it. Amos’s first set of car keys gets placed on a particularly sturdy branch where they won’t fall and get lost. A bow that his wife made from Ella’s christening outfit and one from her own wedding dress are hung tenderly, the last by Amos himself.
There is a teaspoon from his daughters honeymoon, and one from his grandchildren’s as well. There are homemade decorations that the children came home from school with. A plastic cup from his great grandson’s first trip to wonderland when he was three. They had taken a photo and put it inside the cup. There are movie and concert ticket stubs from first dates, a corsage from a prom date that turned into a lifetime commitment. A positive pregnancy test result from his granddaughter who went to fertility doctors only to find out she could never conceive. A tiny booty, hand made with love and turned yellow with age. It is the memory of a child who never saw Christmas, but a child remembered every year. An old locket that Amos only vaguely remembers from his childhood, hanging from the neck of a woman who encompassed safety and home.
Post cards, mementos and tokens are slowly brought out of their boxes and each one deserving of it’s rightful spot on the tree. Each year someone brings a new decoration and the whole family, Amos included, will crowd around to hear the story that comes with it, eager for something new. Eager to share in the triumph or experience that comes with the newest addition to the family tree. This year, it is Jacob’s report card and he proudly tells the story of how he improved his grades in school. Jeremy brings in his ribbon from a Judo competition he was in last month, and everyone claps at the end.
The last decoration to be hung on the tree is in a small black velvet box. Nobody opens it, nobody even touches it. Amos knows it is his turn to tell a story and hang a decoration. With a tenderness rarely seen on his old face, Amos reaches down and gently picks up the box, cradling it in his twisted hand as he hobbles to the tree. He removes a gold band, a wedding band tied with string and hangs it on the tree. He says the same thing he always says, only “it’s what she wanted”. Now Amos can sit back down, and look at his tree with his family. It is covered in love, achievements and pride.
The rest of the memory is lost to Amos, he doesn’t experience the gift opening or the goodbye’s at the end of the night. Amos experiences only what meant the most to him. The last get together with everyone, the last decorating of the tree. The last time his house was filled with love and laughter. It was enough.

as yet untitled book- chapter 1

Amos Stevenson is 87 years old, his back is bowed, his knuckles crooked. It takes serious concentration and effort for him to open and close his arthritic fingers, and the cane that is supposed to save his knees and hips causes him a torment in his wrist that he has lived with for so many days he has ceased to think of them in terms of time, and rather than segment it into individual numbers has just jumbled it together and called it a really long time. What is left of his hair is all white, and his face is a mass of liver spots, lines and crags. He walks slowly and painfully, taking great care to watch where he puts his feet allowing his old heart and lungs to keep up with him. On his face, he usually wears a grimace, weather pain or impatience or something else, even he doesn’t bother analyzing it. His stature is stooped from osteoporosis so looking down is not difficult, it is looking up that he doesn’t usually manage to do. His hands and arms are lined with faint scars that hide in the wrinkles, a testament to his hard work in the factory jobs he always worked to support his small family. He is thin, as he always was, which is a blessing because supporting what weight he does carry is hard enough.
He is not the gentle, jolly old man that makes mothers smile and children want to climb into his lap to play and cuddle with. He is not the kind of old man that young people offer to help, nor is he the type that cashiers gently smile at and ask him how he is feeling. He does not engage in lawn bowling or bridge with other seniors, and probably wouldn’t if he was invited. Amos is not the kind of man that looks inviting, or even nice. In his old age, Amos has turned as close to invisible as it is possible to be before death. He slides through his town as if he is a ghost.
Every morning, except the bad ones, Amos takes several hours to wake up and ready himself allowing his joints time to loosen after a long night of sleep. He has no schedule to keep, and no appointments to make. He dresses in old clothes that have hung in his closet for years, the pants threadbare and the once white tshirts yellowed with age. He walks the short block to the neighborhood grocery store, passing the same neighbors every day. Some of them wave at him and he wonders if they even know his name, because he surely doesn’t know theirs. He picks up whatever necessities are needed for him to feed himself for the day. Ham, cheese and sometimes bread and a can of soup. His daughter will buy the rest for him when she comes to see him. He sees the same cashiers in lineups, they say the same hellos and goodbyes without really seeing the person they are being professionally polite to. Then he takes his one bag home with him where he spends the rest of the day alone.
Each night he slowly undresses before bed and then climbs in on the left always leaving the right side untouched as if he is waiting for someone to take their place beside him. There is no one anymore, but there is a picture of her on his nightstand which he looks at every night as he falls asleep with one hand stretched out on her side of the bed, as though he is waiting to take her hand. Whenever he thinks of her, he almost always remembers her looking like she does in this photograph.
She is looking behind her, laughing into the camera with the sun in front of her throwing out rays and her sun browned skin, making her look dipped in golden dust. Her hair is flying in the wind, and the ocean waves stretch out in front of her beyond the pier she’s running down. Her daughters little hand is clasped in her own, and the two of them wear identical looks of quiet delight on their summer warmed faces. Their daughter is dressed in a pink gingham dress with a white button down front, and a pair of patent leather shoes that she loves. His wife is wearing a yellow summer dress, with the hem falling just below the knees. Both of their lips are lightly stained from candy apples and cotton candy from the annual fair.
To the rest of the world, Amos is just an old man the same as every other old man, alone and bitter. As is often the case, the community he lives in sees only what is right in front of them. It doesn’t occur to them to wonder why Amos might look angry and bitter, and it doesn’t occur to them that the reason his clothes are faded is simply because his wife had bought them for him years ago and he can’t bring himself to get rid of them, and that they are yellowed is simply because his eyesight is as old as he is and like him, not as good as it used to be. The people around him don’t feel his knees and hips hurt with every step he takes, or the pain in his back that follows him wherever he goes as though all of the burdens he has carried through his life had finally caught up with him and settled into his bones like dust in the corners of an attic. They don’t see him alone in his house, holding hands in his sleep with his dead wife. Nobody sees the eyes that seem so angry light up every Wednesday with the knowledge that his daughter is coming from the city on her day off to talk with him, play cards with him and baby him. They don’t see the pride in his eyes or hear the joy in his voice while he listens and laughs at the stories she tells him of his two grandchildren. They didn’t see him playing trains with his grandson, nor did they see him dressing dolls in clothes for his granddaughter while unabashedly wearing a tiara or firemans hat when they were young children. They don’t see him sit down to tea at three sharp, pour out one cup of tea and set it at the table and then sit in the chair beside it. Nobody, not even his wife knew how much he detested tea even though he drank a cup with her every day while she lived, and had poured her one every day since her death. It never occurred to him to tell her, and if it had he probably wouldn’t have. It was worth drinking tea with her just to sit down beside her for the half hour it took to choke it down.
On the last day of Amos life, he awoke the same way he always did. Painfully and slowly. He didn’t know it was his last day, but if he did he would have been happy that it happened on a Wednesday. On Wednesdays Amos gets to see his daughter Ella. He will trace her face, so like her mothers in the unobtrusive way that only a father that loves his daughter more than life can do. Seeing her now in mid sixties, he is struck anew at how like her mother she looks. She has her high cheekbones and dark hair. The faint lines around her eyes and mouth only remind him of his wife more, they even aged in the same way; beautifully . He can remember clearly how she looked asleep in her bed with her thumb in her mouth, or the impish grin she gave him with jam on her face when he caught her eating it straight from the jar.
He will complain minimally, and will accept all of the help she has to offer because it means she is there with him. They will go through the same routines they always do. He will help her put away the groceries she brings him. She will wash and he will dry, they will fold and hang the laundry together. They will ask each other short questions with short answers, the comfortable silences between them saying more than what they can with words. They are comfortable with the silences that always come, and in the routines they share. She has been coming every Wednesday since she was in college when her mother died.
He will also sit down at three, and drink tea with his daughter who like her mother loves the taste and also like her mother is completely unaware that he doesn‘t, and like he always did with his Ellen he will sit there happy in the company around him and he will drink in and soak up every story and all the love she has to offer. She will do her best to put a smile on his face and so she plays cards with him or, when he is too tired for cards she will read to him. He has never told her which books to read, and she knows it doesn’t matter. He is listening to her voice, not her words.
He will fall asleep after his tea and she cleans his house, tidying the things he doesn’t think to bother with and he will sleep with the ease he did years ago when he was comforted with the knowledge that all of his family was at home and safe. When he wakes up, there is always the blanket his wife made pulled up to his chin. He never bothers to cover himself and is always pleased to find himself that way. Sometimes she will take him out for coffee, and sometimes it is doctors appointments or pharmacies that he has to visit. Either way, he is pleased to have her company and more than pleased to have a ride.
When she leaves he will stand at the front door and wave as she drives away. He will never see the tears of guilt that slide down her cheeks as she drives away from her father, and it will not occur to him that they are there. He never suspects that her leaving is as painful for his forlorn old heart to bear as it is for her to leave that old heart behind. He cannot see that the smile he forces makes him look that much more lonely.
After a supper that Ella always brings with her, Amos pads to the bathroom and showers. He turns the water as hot as he can stand it and waits for the aching to dull. He will go to the medicine cabinet and take his medication for his heart, his blood pressure, his angina and the godforsaken vitamins that his daughter brings for him. He is sure she counts them and he can’t bear to disappoint her, and so he swallows them along with all the rest figuring that at least they can’t hurt him. He will brush his teeth and smooth his hair down, combing it has been an act in futility for years. Then he will walk into his bedroom, the same bedroom he took his young wife to for the first time more than sixty years ago. The same bedroom she gave him his daughter in, the same bedroom he fell asleep in beside her for all of the happiest days of his life. He will walk in there with a pang of loneliness that he scarcely recognizes anymore, it is now as familiar to him as his wife. He pulls back the covers and settles himself, with his hand stretched out as he always does, waiting for a hand that doesn’t exist to hold. He does these things as he has done them every night without ever thinking that he will continue to do them for however many nights he has left. It is as natural as breathing now. It just happens that this is his last night, and that however many times he has woken up with the same habits as he does when he goes to bed, tomorrow will be very different. Tomorrow he will not wake up slowly and painfully. Unlike every other day, tomorrow he will not wake up. Unlike every other day, he will not be in pain, he will not be lonely. He will also be smiling.
As Amos falls asleep, he doesn’t notice that his heart is beating just a little slower than it did the night before, he only vaguely notices that he feels more relaxed than usual. Amos feels no pain as his heart begins to stop. He is one of the lucky ones that escape disease and heart attacks. Amos is dying in his sleep. From somewhere deep inside him, Amos can feel the gap in time between heartbeats and he can feel that the spaces are getting longer. His conscious and subconscious mind together slide into the spaces between heartbeats like sand between stones on the banks of a river. He doesn’t realize it, but his sense of time slows and he is able to relive his most influential memories and experiences between one ta-thump and the next. By the time he reaches the last dim memory, his heart will stop as though it was fated to do so. Amos mind will have traveled backwards through time, retracing the footprints of his life. If he could say thank you to someone he would, for giving him back his happiest moments and giving him the ability to see and feel his loved ones one last time.
This is Amos last experience, these are his memories. This is his story.