Mothering Nature

100 things to come....

2011-07-19T00:27:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have been away from this space for far too long. I am, as always, rushing around like a chicken after a beetle and can't seem to keep up. But life is relatively good. The kids are happy and curious. I don't have time to stew and we plug along.

I manage to find joy in silly little things and was inspired tonight when I googled "things for kids to do on a road trip" brought me from a list of car games....One click to a link on the page brought me out of curiousity to "how to survive in prison" and then on to "how to survive a high fall". Next was "The life of Viking Women" and then "100 things to be happy about".

I vaguely glanced at the list until I got to #74. "Glueing Things". Five minutes later and I am still giggling. Was this person running out of items for their list or did they truly enjoy the act of using a sticky substance to adhere to items together? Or were they running out of things for the list? I will never know but it reminded me of lists I have made in the past of things I like/dislike.

I suppose these lists were a form of identification for me as a teen. I was motivated to make these lists for the same reasons that I was motivated to do those quizzes in teen magazines. To find out who I was and to mark that identity in some way.

Now, in my mid-thirties, I feel that I have a real grasp of "who" I am most of the time, but I still like to remind myself and have moments with myself where I say, "Wow! That's true! I really dislike that texture....I suppose that is why I am not so fond of potatoes..." Agreeing with myself somehow gives me pleasure.

So for the next few days, as long as I don't forget or get swept up in the tide of all the things that must be done/fed/walked/worked, I am going to create my own list of "100 things to be happy about". I'll let you know if I discover if the writer of the first list was truly a lover of stickiness or merely a glue sniffer....

#1. Making lists.

strength

2011-06-23T20:55:00.000-07:00

I have read a variety of quotes with a similar message. I think anyone who has dealt with trauma, loss or tragedy has come face-to-face with this choice. I also think that, at times, we have all chosen each one of the three options. I just hope that as we all get further from the moment that provoked this epiphany, we manage to choose to let this event strengthen us. To grow instead of be wilted. To swim, not sink. There is no need for one life to be wasted for the sole reason that one life was lost.

community

2011-05-02T07:57:00.000-07:00

The life I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place my touch will be felt.
- Frederick Buechner

I have a dear friend who is in such dire straights at the moment that I feel humbled by my moaning over firewood and the like. Out of respect for her privacy, I won't go into the details of her issues at this time.

If you feel you are able to help her, please read her blog and see if there is anything you can do.

I can assure you that she is a wonderful and kind-heartened human-being who has shared and helped me and my children in the past.

fabric kanzashi flowers

2011-04-14T16:29:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine has a four year old daughter who has a white plumeria flower barrette that I secretly covet. I imagine what I'd where it with - a tan, a strapless sundress and my pair of orange leather flip-flops. I have searched for ideas to make my very own substitute for this much loved hair accessory.
During my hunt, I discovered Kanzashi flowers. Although the ones I have discovered a far from the traditional Kanzashi worn by Geishas, they are truly awesome!
After showing Liv some of the photos of them online, she and I decided to give our hands a try at this type of art.
Although there are a tonne of tutorials out there, we are adding yet another to the abundant craftiness.....

Materials:
8 squares of fabric (we used 10 cm X 10 cm pieces found in fat quarters)
A needle and thread
Button for the centre
Glue gun
Alligator clip
1. Fold one piece of fabric in half diagonally.
2. Fold it in half yet again.
3. And again.....
4. Bear with me, this part is a bit hard to explain in words....Fold the two sides of the fabric down as if you are folding a paper airplane....
Get it?? It should look like this on the other side.... 5. Push your needle through the side making sure to pierce all pieces of fabric so it will hold together once they are all strung on.
6. Repeat this seven more times and add them to the thread.
**Do NOT knot between each one as you want them to be able to slide along as you position them correctly at the end!!
7. Once they are all on, your thread gently making sure to not snap it and push through the first "petal" once again so that they arrange themselves in a circle.
8. Once secured, put all the points together.
9. Using very sharp scissors, cut the rough ends off.
It should look like this.
10. Rearrange the petals in a circle and ensure their proper spacing.
It should look similar to this.
11. Pick out the button/s you want to decorate the centre of the flower.
12. Using your glue gun, make sure you get glue on each petal nearest the centre. You want to make sure that they are all secured by the glue.
13. Squish the button on. Large buttons work best!
14. You can actually attach the flower to almost anything - a hairband, a hair elastic, a purse, a shirt, etc. But we decided to attach it to the alligator clip. This allows for versatility because once on the alligator clip, you can clip it to any of these things are remove it to attach elsewhere later on.
15. Using plenty of glue, again try to make sure you touch each petal to ensure that it doesn't fall apart later on.
16. Stick the alligator clip to it. **We stuck a piece of cardstock in between the alligator's "mouth" to make sure that any extra glue wouldn't stick it shut.
17. Once it has cooled and hardened, remove the cardstock and VOILA! A little piece of decorative hair heaven!
Although these look quite difficult, they are crazy easy. Liv and her friend really enjoyed making them and have been wearing them since. I would NOT hesitate to make them again. They took about 30 minutes to make with the girls. I am sure an adult who had made them before could bang on off in 15 minutes or so. SO fun!!!!!!!!!

2011-04-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from here...

Sometimes this whole 'widow' thing gets old. Like the chorus of an unhappy song that gets stuck in your head and keeps you awake. Over and over the words repeat singing those same lines again and again. You try to not pay attention. Try to forget the words. Try to listen to a new song. But your little brain has it so deeply embedded it can't be persuaded to "hear" something else. I get tired of being a widow. I get sick of talking about it. I get annoyed with writing about it. I am over thinking about it. But still it sticks. Stuck in the groove. Firmly planted on repeat. I'd love a new reality. To have something new to think about. A new conversation that didn't ultimately, and at times embarassingly, come around to the fact that my husband is dead. I want to be over it. I am sick of it. I don't want to think about it, breathe it, speak it or feel it. It's old.

2011-03-31T23:11:00.000-07:00

Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets.
Arthur Miller

three

2011-03-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

This morning will mark three years since I've held your warm hand. Heard your snores. Felt safe knowing I was yours.

My life doesn't stop today as it did three years ago....although I partially wish it would. There are appoinments to be attended, childcare to sort out and errands to run.

I'd like to lay in my bed and think of only you. To keen quietly and close my eyes to the empty side of our bed.

But I am terrified that by allowing myself to sink into the grief that still runs so deeply through my heart, I will fall back into that pit of loss. The dark and scary place where time does stop and all I feel is the loss of you.

So I fill my day. To the brim.

I will take the kids to the beach with our notes for you attached to helium balloons. I'll barely allow myself that hour to let the sadness sink in...I need to keep my heart up and my eyes sharp for my little ones.

When this tradition is fulfilled I will begin running again. Focusing on dinner and bathtime. Fingernail clipping and playing referee to intermittent sibling discord.

But after the night has brought quiet and our two children rest, I'll truly feel the loss of you. I'll remember that first night without you. The enormity of the loss. The confusion and unbelievability found in your death. I will cry out for you. I will hold the last dirty shirt of yours close and attempt to smell the long lost scent of you. I will wonder at the ability of others who naively went about their day unaware of this day's significance. And I will miss you as fiercely as I did that first day.

I love you, Jeffrey, with all my heart. I miss you still. And I don't think I can, or will, ever stop.

Happy birthday Baby Pumpkin

2011-03-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

Today is Jeff's birthday. He'd be 49.
We'll be planting a blueberry bush and having blueberry pie in his honour today....
I wish he were here to sing this song. One of his favourites....He LOVED to sing it at karaoke. Yes, he loved karaoke. I can still see his left leg slightly bent moving to the music as he sang so hard into the microphone.

enough is enough

2011-03-09T20:52:00.000-08:00

I admit it. I am depressed. Clinically, situationally, whatever anyone wants to diagnose me as. Depressed.

It sucks. Brutally, royally sucks....And for some reason, I am embarrassed. I don't know if I am humiliated by the weakness that this affliction shows or by the possibility that I am "unfixable" or broken.

After the birth of Briar, I was prescribed antidepressants and attended meetings with a therapist who dealt with post-partum depression. I had been feeling "normal" for quite sometime and had been working with the doctor as I was weaned off the meds.....Then Jeff "bought the farm" (SO sick of using "died", "passed", "left us", etc. I don't think he'd mind if I used more colourful euphemisms...especially if they make me giggle...). His abrupt departure meant the end to my declining medication. I have stayed at the dose I was then. A bloody high dose.

I have been at a point a few times since he "went belly up" where I thought I could resume the lowering of my meds. But since we've moved, that phenomenon has halted all together.

I don't know what has changed aside from working outside the home, Liv attending school, not having my sister or Marnie close by, and the much higher living expenses....Okay, I suppose a lot of shit has changed.

There are truly wonderful things about being here....the beach, the community, the cooler weather....

But I want my garden and my crafts. I want to hang with my kiddos. I want time to sit in the chicken yard and gaze at the "Girlz". I want to again focus on my photography and sewing dresses.

But that time has passed and I have to move on.

I keep focusing on the negative when I should just suck that shit up and move on. I DO NOT want to feel this way. Sad, pathetic, useless, needy.

So I am forcing myself to pull up these bloody itchy socks and face this "Depression Dude" with a sneer on my lips while flipping the bird in his ugly mug.

I have an appointment with my beloved therapist who has agreed to take me on again. I will not allow myself to wallow in the negative (for every bloody issue on my list, I am going to force myself to write something.....happy) and I am making myself go back to my one-good-thing exercise. I don't have the time to do this....But I need to make the time, because I think I am going insane.

I am realizing that it's a damn good thing that I keep this blog. It has chronicled this insidious spiral downward while I was unaware of its' happening. But last night, I sat here and read my posts from the last few months.....and, dude, it was a depressing read.

So wish me luck, I am going to push off from the bottom and attempt to head back up to the surface.

Thank you for all your support, my blogosphere buddies. You rock.

guilt

2011-03-03T14:32:00.001-08:00

As the three year anniversary of Jeff's death begins to weigh heavily upon my shoulders, I have been feeling down. All the "small" issues in my life (cracked windshield, accessible childcare, household maintenance, etc.) have become like slivers in my socks. It is impossible to move without their omnipresent reminders and the need to deal with them. At times, I feel as if I could be buried by a thousand little things.
But when I trip, I have you, my community, that reaches back to me and offers to cushion my fall. It feels so very wonderful to know that you are there. Thinking of us. Offering to help.
But it also makes me worry and feel extreme guilt for my pathetic and sad thoughts. It makes me wonder if I am just a sissy. It makes me think, "Come on, Jackie. Pull up your socks! It can't be that bad and, really, you have it better than many others out there in your shoes. Yes, you are having trouble affording the deductible to replace your windshield - but you HAVE a car!"
It's times like these that I am humbled by my life. Humbled by the kindness of stranger/friends. And I am torn. Do I accept help? Or do I take my own advice and "pull up my socks"?
All I know is that I am tired. I am sick of worrying. I am overwhelmed by always feeling overwhelmed. And now, I want to know, is it just me? Or is it an overwhelming situation? Am I not alone in feeling distraught, lonely and exhausted? Is the appropriate reaction to soldier on with my eyes to the ground? Or is it okay to hold my head up and cry out?....Even three years after being widowed?....and is it normal to feel guilt for the thought of considering to accept help?

blackness

2011-02-23T10:00:00.000-08:00

Photo from here....

I'm struggling. Mentally, emotionally, financially. So I sit and don't write...Actually, I sit and play tetris hoping to forget all the other obligations that continue to flow into our home and spill onto my already overflowing "to-do" whiteboard.

I hate writing about it. I loathe talking about it. But it bubbles forth from my mouth amid tears of frustration and sadness when someone offers the seemingly innocuous platitude, "How are you?". So I try to stay away from others in an effort to not infect them with my black mood. I wear my "happy mask" at work. I attempt to tire myself to the point of unconciousness at night or else I lay and marinate myself in the pathetic thoughts that fill my head.

When I do sleep, I repeatedly dream of Jeff dying in a variety of ways. Always, though, he dies. And always, I fail to save him though I try frantically.

It's been almost three years. I thought I'd be well-immersed into a new life by now. A new page. A fresh start...But I think I am possibly worse off than I was a year into this bloody journey.

I remember receiving an email from a widow who was farther down the path than I was. I was at about ten months post-Jeff. She was at three years. She told me that she was doing worse at three years than she had been that first year. I had sworn that this would not happen to me. I was horrified at the thought. The idea that my grief would not subside in a linear and concrete fashion was absurd.

But now...Now I find myself stuck in this place. Alone. Broke. Overwhelmed.

I was at ten months as well. But somehow, the fresh tragedy and trauma of it had my naive little mind searching for all the hope it could muster. I sussed out any amount of beauty through photography, silence and my children.

Now, life is so busy I can barely focus. "Real life" has fallen into the void that was made and filled it with gusto. I have more to do, accomplish and defeat than I have ever before. I am doing three people's amount of work - raising children, keeping a home filled with a dog, cat and chickens, work to pay for all the necessities....and not managing to make those ends meet. In fact, the ends are often so far apart that I begin to wonder if they are from the same cord.

To supply wood for our woodstove, I have worked out a deal with guy who sells wood - I will go after work on the weekends and chop wood for him. The kids will have to come as I can't afford childcare. All areas of my life seem to be inundated with all these extra obligations in order to creatively patch together some form of relatively rudimentary existence.

I miss Jeff and all he represents so fucking terribly that I am sure I am exhausting my "talk-about-it-whenever-you-need-to card" with my friends. I know that I should be at the point where I am no longer comparing my life "before" to my life "after". But when I am down....It is so hard to forget the fact that life was once so different.

I need to work on smiling. Remembering to see the silver linings. I attempt to drill it into my head and even write crap about how it's not so bad....But it's just hot air. It is bad. It sucks. And I am fucking sick of it. I want to lay down and give up.

**I just want to clear something up as I worry that I didn't explain how thankful I am/was that the firewood guy had accepted my offer of chopping wood in exchange for "free" firewood. He has a family to provide for as well and I don't want it ever to seem that I feel that because I am a widow with two little ones I am exempt from having to pay my way though life. It was so very kind that he accepted my offer. As it turns out, my father paid for a cord of firewood for me saving me the time and effort of having to spend the weekend chopping. I felt truly supported by my small community when I asked if "firewood guy" would let me work for wood.

safety freak

2011-01-28T05:00:00.000-08:00

Photo from here

My minivan has a back-up beeper installed and I never fail to safety goggles when required.
I realize that teenagers at the bus stop snicker as I stride by sporting my safety vest covered in all its' reflective glory and a red light flashing out a constant reminder of the whereabouts of my hindend.
And in the past, I would have worried that this safety gear would identify me as a complete dork. A safety freak. Now I see it as protecting my kids.
By wearing this protective paraphernalia, I am hopefully preventing the possibility of creating two little orphans.
I am terrified of leaving them alone in the world. Without Daddy....and then without Mommy.
I have stopped short of wearing bubble wrap beneath my clothing. But I do get my flu shot and wear a helmet when riding my bike. For my kids. I'll do it because they do still need me.

who you were

2011-01-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

Some of the fishing companies that Jeff had worked for would provide jackets for the crew with their name embroidered on the shoulder. Once when asked what Jeff wanted marked on his sleeve (he had a plethora of nicknames that could of been used in his name's stead), he had remarked, "Just Jeff". When his coat arrived with "Just Jeff" scribed upon the arm, he had thought it was ruined. I had thought it described him perfectly.
Recently, I have noticed that the person who Jeff was and who Jeff is now imagined to be has shifted. I feel that I alone (aside from his mother and sister) can remember him with his real faults and with his true strengths. To others, he has become an icon.
I've heard him described as a 'Viking'. I've heard another express that he thought Jeff would have loved playing a Wii. When telling a dear friend how Liv had a MASSIVE temper tantrum and that I had (in the heat of the battle) told her that her father would have not stood for her hitting and kicking me, the friend said, "Oh yes, he would have. He was a sucker when it came to her."
I understand that the phenomenon that occurs when someone has died - they become someone in many people's eyes that they actually weren't while they breathed. But it angers me. I find myself correcting other's opinions, recollections and estimations of Jeff's personality. At times, the listener wants to stubbornly hold onto their new 'version' of Jeff. They argue with me, "I know Jeff would have given Briar a toy gun!"
But they're wrong.
He was huge, tall and strong. He could be crushingly terrifying - but he wasn't a warrior....at least not once he was old enough to have some sense. Jeff hated video games and thought they were a waste of time. Although Liv had Jeff in her pocket, he believed that children must treat their mothers with respect and kindness and at times, he was annoyingly intolerant of her childish ways. Jeff did hunt. He had guns. But he swore that they were not toys and that he would teach both of our children the proper use of these tools.
I am amazed and resentful that some people believe that they knew him like I did. I despise the image that they have created. I want to remember him as he was - Just Jeff.

2011-01-19T19:38:00.000-08:00

I' m here. I'm having difficulty feeling "up" and creative. I feel beyond overwhelmed. I feel sad....and somewhat lost.
Liv is struggling in school. Academically she excels....Emotionally she is filled with anxiety and fear. It pains my heart. I want to help her but don't know how. She refuses any support I try to offer in the way of therapists, doctors, etc. I try myself but I am no expert in the way of childhood grief. She is angry....and it spills through our home like a oil slick.
Briar is doing well. He is loving playing L'il Duffers hockey. He's developed an avid interest in dinosaurs. He finds the sadness and stress in the house unbearable.
Life is too busy to comprehend. I am exhausted and sad.
I feel....embarassed that my path through grief has not continued in a steady and linear fashion. I feel like my musings are boring, repetative and redundant. Hence the reason I have rarely posted in the past few months......Sorry. I miss you. I miss your comments and being connected to those out there "in the darkness when I scream - someone can hear".

amazing mamas

2010-12-14T19:58:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my kiddos and I attended the Bethlehem Walk at our local Baptist church. While I am FAR from religious, it was so historically interesting and allowed me to have a conversation with my kids about the origins of the Christmas tradition.
The kids loved 'everything' about it, although I think Liv enjoyed the small, fresh loaves of bread the best judging by her pleas to go back for more. Briar really enjoyed collecting stamps on his Bethlehem map throughout the 'marketplace'....and then hoped to look at them while laying in bed (I didn't tell him that I had thrown his muddy coat in the wash upon walking through the door not realizing that the 'map' was in his pocket. I am SO hoping he forgets before I have to explain him that the hard piece of whitish lint at the bottom of his pocket was once his beloved map.)
As we walked through the ancient town, we had been instructed to keep an eye out for a baby named Jesus. Halfway through we came upon a young couple in wonderful costumes amid the hay bales depicting a barn-like scene. "Joseph" was very believable in his performance as he greeted us with "Shalom" and brief small talk about the tax man. His poor wife, however, was struggling.
"Mary" was a very young mama who was trying to breastfeed her hot, tired and altogether annoyed little one. As an audience stared on, she attempted to calm her baby with her breast without giving these onlookers something they hadn't anticipated - a flash. She seemed to be trying to look "Mary-like" - calm, serene and with a instinctive mothering knowledge that could subdue her baby with just a soothing word and mama's milk. As a mom, I could see through her thin facade to the panic and frustration she was feeling and as I led my children to the next vendor I thought of all the things I wish I had known before having my babies.....

Wear slip on shoes - you will always find your hands full of baby paraphernalia, car seats and bags when you suddenly realize that you should be equipped footwear as well.
Make sure to cross your legs when you cough, sneeze or laugh really hard - I don't know that any explanation is needed here. Oh! And say 'goodbye' to your days of jumping on a trampoline.
Do you remember those catty girls in junior high who gossiped about everyone no matter how perfect and fabulous they were? Get ready for round two. Mom's can be harsh to and about each other. Find a group who is as self-deprecated as you are and don't take the others opinions too hard. You're doing a great job - the best you can. And really, they worry about their inadequacies as a mom as much as, if not more than, you do.
You are amazing. You created a life within your body. Yes, the skin on your stomach resembles the face of a Shar-pei - but for very good reason. You made a tiny HUMAN BEING within it!
You wouldn't know if your baby was ugly. It's better this way. Who would want to snuggle a trash can lid? You will stare into those shiny little eyes and know that this is the most amazingly awe-inspiring little one ever to have graced this Earth with its' tiny feet and mustard coloured poop.
When people have issue with your breastfeeding in public, stare at them and speak loudly at the person with you, "I can't believe they are eating in public! How disgusting!!" I believe breastfeeding is normal, natural and healthy. It seems that the over-sexualization of the breast in our society has done terrible things for our children's eating habits. Would you eating your lunch in a dirty, public bathroom stall? Blech.
Everyone may have an opinion on what you do and how you do it. YOU are the expert on your children. Trust your gut as you're the one who loves them the most and have their survival and mental well-being first and foremost....and you'll presumably be the one paying the therapy bills when they hit their teens.
Also, though you may be feel judged while others look on as your sweet, wee one pitches a holy fit atop the wood chips on the playground thus embedding thousands of tiny slivers beneath their soft skin to ensure a long and drawn out reminder of this damned humiliating venture to the local park; they most likely are just reminiscing over the fact that the only way to soothe their child's impending tantrum at the grocery store recently was to allow their kiddo to plunge a damp, chubby finger into their parent's nostril as they strolled down the aisles in the shopping cart....while all the other parents stared and thought about their most recent brush with 'CIH' (Child Inflicted Humiliation) .
Play with them whenever you can. Even singing "Super Planet Janet" for the fifty millionth time while you secure their lifejacket before swimming at your summer cabin will go a long way to defining you as a great and attentive parent.

what it is

2010-12-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

Photo from golfest

Talking about being a widow is not something I always do....or want to do.
Sometimes I need to talk about it. Express why I am attending a social engagement alone. Assure others that I'm not a 'cast off' - that my husband left me because he was physically unable to stay....not because he found me in bed with my tennis instructor. Now and then, I have to purge the sadness by letting even grocery store clerks know that my husband died. At these times, I am quite skilled at wedging it into any conversation under any scenario.
Other times, the whole story of his loss seems a nuisance. I dance around the topic of the whole event until it is entirely necessary to mention the fact that he dropped dead for fear of having strange, unexplained holes in my stories and sounding like a lunatic.
I found myself in the latter situation tonight. I held off talking about it for as long as I could....and finally just stated, "My husband died in 2008".
I did not want to hear the "Oh! I'm SO sorry! I had no idea!" As I answered, "Yeah, well, it is what it is." And I realized just how over-used but very astute this saying is.
I felt slightly....resentful. Not for being a widow. I just didn't want to be different. I wanted to be one of the moms talking at the table about runny noses, bullies and fuel economy. I didn't want to feel marked by loss. I didn't want to be pitied. I didn't want to explain again what life is like alone. Because often, now, it just is.
I don't really know different anymore....because this is now my reality. And it is what it is.

the wishlist

2010-12-03T05:00:00.000-08:00

My children are aware that Christmas is in 23 days. Already they are making their preparations for the big day. Snow flakes already adore most of the windows in our house, our advent calendar is hanging above the fireplace and letters to Santa are ready to post. After ruminating long and hard over what she would write, my eight year old daughter, Liv, stood up from the kitchen table with a letter for Santa clutched in her skinny, little hands. Hope and excitement lit her face.
"Do you think Santa can bring whatever you ask for if you only ask for one thing?", she whispered.
"It depends what it is, I suppose", I answered nervously imagining pink polka-dotted unicorns and hot-air balloon rides to the moon being requested. I was surprised when she handed over her note.
Her words make me vacillate between laughter and tears....
I don't know what I'd do without these little people who make life so much harder and some much more bearable in one motion.

P.S. Briar asked for a remote control monster truck taller than his head. Not as emotionally charged, but certainly enough to strike fear in a mother's heart. How the HECK is Santa going to pull off Christmas????

Daddy O - Frances England

2010-11-22T22:04:00.000-08:00

I know this song is supposed to be a happy and upbeat song.....but it makes me sob for my kiddos and all they`ve lost.

how I can tell I'm getting old

2010-11-22T16:01:00.001-08:00

I loathe seeing snow on the forecast.
I don't carry tweezers in my purse purely for sliver removal anymore....Now it's to attack the strange beard hairs that are suddenly sprouting from my chin.
I had to explain the 'rules' of Pacman to the babysitter while she played my vintage handheld game.
I feel more comfortable when I wear higher cut jeans....and I'm just fine with that.
I have finally realized that Lola in the Kink's song is a transvestite. Yes, that last line says "Lola is a man" but somehow this fact eluded me for all these years.
I don't have a Twitter account. But the local elementary does.

advancing Advent

2010-11-19T22:21:00.000-08:00

Photo from Queen's School of Medicine....Don't know what the calendar has to do with med school, though....

We are beginning to gear up for December 1 and the beginning of our Advent calendar.
Although I despise the upselling in stores, the piped in carols in early November and the general consumerism involved in the Christmas holidays, I love the excitement of the kids, the coziness and craftiness of the season.
I resent the feeling that the standard seasons - Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter, have been replaced by Spring, Summer, Fall and Christmas.
This year, however, I am going to attempt to embrace and cherish the memories and yuletime feelings. I don't imagine that my kids have any appreciation for my grumblings over business-side of Christmas. I am sure they prefer to snuggle in front of the fire with hot chocolate whilst making popsicle stick snowflakes for family.
So wish me luck in my hunt for Christmas Spirit. I am a tried and true Grinch in need of a different perspective. But if my kids will benefit from it, I am willing to try....Just don't stand me in front of a Christmas light display while playing Jingle Bells over the loud speaker for a few weeks, please.....

2010-11-07T21:01:00.000-08:00

I keep returning here to write something. To let you all know that things are okay and that life goes on and we are happy. They are, it does and often we are.
But I am feeling the weight lately of a realization. One I should have had two years and eight months ago.
This is FOREVER.
Not solely being without Jeff.
But taking the garbage out by myself. Half-heartedly laughing at a movie alone. Waking up with two frightened children and their nightmares. Making turkey dinner for three.
All of it. Alone. All of it on me. All of it, my responsibility.
The monotony of continuing on is exhausting. The strength needed to smile and be optimistic waning.
I am at a point where I feel like my 'get out of jail free/talk about Jeff as much as I want' card is expiring and I should allow a conversation to pass without dropping his name. But I am not ready. He is still my lover/friend/husband.
I want to write about it all. I want to talk about it. I know that so many will tell me that it is MY timetable and to do what I need to do....But I also wonder about other's patience and my sanity for remaining in the world of 'what was'.
I am so painfully lonely....and writing about it seems so terribly lame and pathetic. I have never felt this lonely. Socially, I am quite satisfied. I have great friends. A ridiculously busy life. No 'free' time.
But 'intimately', I am starving. I want to whisper in the dark to someone who will whisper back. I need to know that there is someone, who happens to have a physical body, that has genuine interest in the intricacies of my mind and my little family. To feel that when I am drowning under an ocean of mundane yet necessary tasks, that someone will help....just because. I want to be touched. I want to not be alone. I want to have the luxury of allowing fear and vulnerability in.
I want to be loved again.
....And I feel so pathetic for writing about this loneliness yet again.

(Thanks, Jen....)

pretty

2010-10-23T07:40:00.001-07:00

brand name

2010-10-22T05:00:00.000-07:00

photo from learning how to live

Doctor

Obsequious

Tattle-tale

Cashier

Humanitarian

Uncle

Artist

Labels are words that used to describe ourselves and others - a way to quickly and efficiently identify traits and tendencies.

When I think about the labels used to describe or identify me, the one that gives me most to think about is 'widow'.

Initially, I despised this branding. I hated the term and what it meant - that my husband was dead. I didn't see myself as the typical widow in black gracefully and wisely fading into the background. I wasn't sure if my personal portrayal of this word was proper or made me a 'good widow'. Somehow this term seemed to mean to me that I had failed.

Over time this feeling has changed. Now I wear this name tag with a little bit of pride and a lot of awe. I have made it this far. Two and a half years ago I would never have believed it. I did not think I would genuinely laugh again. I would not have imagined that I would enjoy life and all its' mysteries. It astounds me.

At the risk of sounding pompous, I am kind of proud of myself. I am stronger that I ever thought possible. I'm not a warrior, but a widow. And I have chosen to get out of bed each morning despite believing that the last morning that mattered had already happened. The loss of my husband has taught me that there are few things in life to be feared and that taking a leap of faith is far less terrifying as I once thought.

Now that I carried the 'medal' of widowhood, I wonder how long do I get to wear it? In five years, does the noun 'widow' get taken from me and get replaced with 'widowed'. Will it cease to be a label and instead become a verb? If I ever enter a relationship again, do I stop being a widow and become one of the ones on Facebook with the status of "Married"? I feel that I would be both....Would "It's complicated" be offbase?

I now wear my label as a mark of my late husband. An etching of "Jeff was here" in my perverbial bark. Although I may be ready for another label or two, I would like to keep my hard-earned 'widow badge', thank you very much.

2010-10-05T23:14:00.000-07:00

For awhile, I have been thinking that I'd love a chiming wall clock. As a child, we always had a beautiful Dutch clock in our house that ticked away the time. This ticking sound reminds me especially of spending 'sick days' at my "Oma's" house vaguely listening to her clock as I dozed in an ill stupor reassured by the constant clucking of the clock and the itchy pale green blanket she'd provide.
The day after mentioning my desire for a clock to my father, I was at my beloved Sally Ann gazing at a cute little wooden side table attempting to think of a location in our house that it would suit. Initially, I failed to notice the old cardboard box atop the table as I mused that someone must have passed away for all this beautiful wooden furniture to show up in the shop all at once.
When I gently flipped open the lid of the box, I found a treasure inside. An amazing Canadian-made wooden chiming wall clock. Thrilled with my find, Briar and I paid for our score and took it home to install it on our wall immediately. It now ticks away the seconds, minutes and hours within our home...It makes me wonder about the previous owner and if they found comfort in the heartbeat that the clock provided.

wishing it were

2010-10-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo by Tom Grey

My daughter, Liv, has always loved stories. Stories of mythical creatures and the lessons these myths hold seem to entice her imagination into applying these learning experiences upon her life.

Awhile back, for movie night, the kids and I watched ""The Secret of Roane Inish". After learning of the legend of the Selkies, Liv was truly enraptured and enthralled.

"The seas around Orkney and Shetland harbour the shy Selkies or Seal-Faeries (known as the Roane in Ireland). A female Selkie is able to discard her seal skin and come ashore as a beautiful maiden. If a human can capture His skin, the selkie can be forced to become a fine, if wistful, wife. However, should she ever find her skin she immediately returns to the sea, leaving the husband to pine and die. The males raise storms and upturn boats to avenge the indicriminate slaughter of the seals." -- Brian Froud and Alan Lee, "Faeries"

Liv has decided that her father was a Selkie. That the pull for the sea was too much for him and he had to return to his home....Leaving us behind - me, his wife and his 'Darkies', the offspring of the Selkie and a human. But she feels that he is happy in the sea and that one day we will see him there amid the waves.

While the thought that the pull of the ocean was stronger than his love for us fills me with sadness, this explanation of his 'departure' from us fits so very well that it carries some ....comfort, even for me. That he is back in the ocean that he so dearly loved. That there is a 'reason' for him to leave us. A need stronger than we were able to fight against.

As I watch my kids learn to accept the loss of their daddy, I find healing in their ideas and theories. To them, I am the giver of comfort. The one who offers a stable shoulder and an empathetic word. And I wonder if they will ever understand that not only does their presence make life more than bearable, but it brings me peace and understanding of our loss.

I know that he died. He is not literally in the sea. I know that he didn't leave us because he was a seal. But the sparkle and wonder in this theory adds a magic that is not present in the 'real' story of his loss.

And I love to imagine him in the place he loved best ~ the sea.

2010-09-28T21:27:00.001-07:00

There are two ways to live your life;
One is that nothing is a miracle.
The other is to live as though everything is.

~ Albert Einstein

senseless socks

2010-09-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from here...

One of the biggest lessons I've learned on this journey of widowhood is that grief is not logical. It makes no sense. It's arrogant and naive to believe that we think we know how we would react in any stressful or painful situation. Segments of our lives, portions of our morals and many of our ideals become frayed and scattered.

When we begin to remake our lives, things, us, are decidely different.

I've had people tell me that they would never be able to part with their husband's things should he die before they did. I've had others report to me that they have thought that I am clinging to the past by keeping some of Jeff's belongings. I don't know which camp is right....I just know that there are some things that I had never given a thought to and that now have such meaning....or maybe not 'meaning', just value to me emotionally that I am unable to part with them just yet.

There are items in this home that I will never be able to use, I can't remember a specific moment that signifies importance or that are truly undesirable to anyone besides myself. Logic does not, at all, enter my thoughts in the hoarding of these objects.

The specific thing I am talking of....Jeff's mismatched socks. Can't do it. I don't know if I will EVER get around to discarding them.

They lay tangled in a basket on the shelf above our washing machine with the kids and mine. The only distinguishing factor between the socks is that his are decidely larger....and dirtier. They no longer smell like him. I have never found their mate crammed behind the washing machine or at the bottom of the hamper. So they sit in the missing sock receptacle...and wait.

Everytime I reach into the basket to attempt to match the socks thrown in there at the end of a laundry folding session, I find his single socks. I don't know if it is the symbolism of being left behind, if it is the thought that these are the last of his personal effects that are tied in with our daily lives or if it is just that I can't bring myself to throw out something that holds proof that he walked with us. It's simply not logical.

But the lack of pragmatic thinking does not make me discard them. I still smile inwardly and occasionally shed a tear when I attempt to match his single socks. Because grief, it really makes no sense.

jackie genius

2010-09-23T09:46:00.000-07:00

We've been having some difficulty with remembering to close the chicken yard door after ourselves. We used to allow our 'girls' to roam free in the whole yard often. This relaxed attitude has fallen by the wayside with the arrival of Caleb and his adoration of the flavour of chicken feces....and then his desire to wipe his pink drippy tongue over our faces, hands or bare toes.
I had been loathe to attach a bungy or some sort of spring for fear of squishing little fingers...or faces in the door with such an abrupt closure.
After much thinking....and then viewing a very similar system in a magazine (this isn't the genius part), I came up with this little beauty.
The magazine version had some sort of glass ball attached to a beautifully topped fence post.
Ours is much more....utilitarian but, still, brilliant.
We've used a branch found in the woods behind the house, some twine, a mason jar and two eye screws.
Briar and I ~~dangerously~~ used the reciprocating saw to create a pointed end on one end of the branch and a flat side on the other.
I pounded it into the ground using a sledge hammer about a 60 cm (2') away from the hinge of the gate.
We attached an eye screw near the top of the post and another near the middle of the top bar of the gate.
Liv punched a hole in the sealing disk of the mason jar with a nail.
Folded in half we fed a small amount of the twine through the hole in the lid and the sealing ring. In the loop under the disk, we fed a bent nail to anchor the twine in the lid.
Briar filled the jar with soil making sure to remove as many 'critters' as he could find so as not to subject them to a harsh and untimely death inside the jar ~~of doom~~. The jar was screwed into the lid. (The jar was the genius part....although anything heavy would work...but I still think it was mildly brilliant....)
We tied one side of the twine into the eye screw on the gate about 60 cm down and after holding it at various lengths at the post decided on the best length for the twine to be most efficient and useful.
Ta-da! Genius at work!!! Smooth, slow closing......

2010-09-11T22:04:00.000-07:00

Worry is a misuse of imagination. ~ Unknown

P.S. Just in case anyone out there in the blogosphere is wondering, I am still writing for Widow's Voice. I've just chosen for the time being to leave the majority of the widow 'stuff' over there and write about the rest of our lives here. I swore I would never do that....but at times, I just feel that maybe to some people, my 'widow' musings may sound....I don't know, longstanding. I just think that maybe, at times, Widow's Voice is a more appropriate forum for some of my thoughts than here. Unfortunate for me?Yes. Permanent? Probably not. Just bear with me as I get over some of my self-consciousness after the last little hiccup.

And, if you want you are free to read them whenever you so chose.

the first day

2010-09-07T21:34:00.000-07:00

Liv started school today....."real" school. Grade three at the school that I attended as a young whipper-snapper.

Last night, she excitedly chose her outfit for the day. We planned how the morning would go and what time we'd get to the school.

She woke at 6 am and wanted to get up. I coaxed her back to sleep for a few minutes before she was chattering away and again attempting to vault from the bed. I was thrilled. She was excited. She was enthusiastic and positive......And then I asked her to let the chickens out.

Generally, it was downhill from there. She didn't want to do it. I want to stick to the rhythm that had worked for us and feel that we are all contibuting members of our family and as such have roles to fulfill to keep the house running smoothly and harmoniously.

Harmonious, my ass.

Needless to say, by the end of the first hour of climbing from the cozy nest of the bed that the three of us had spent our night together in various states of sleepy entanglement, I was pissed off and ready to start frothing at the mouth like some rabies infested mad-dog. She was screaming at me that she shouldn't have to "do it all" as she is "just a kid" and it is my job to "do this kind of stuff". Briar was hollering plaintively as the puppy had hold of his shirt and was hindering his journey up the hallway to his breakfast. After I chased the puppy away from Briar's backside, he managed to sneak off to a corner in the living room to shit on my computer's electrical cord.

Liv had taken to hiding in a corner in her bedroom muttering mostly quietly to herself while occasionally loudly spewing a variety of age old adages, such as: "I hate you!" "I don't want to go to school!" "You love Briar more!" "I wish I had a different mom!"

I storm through the house throwing needed items into my purse while giving a verbal dialogue of my thoughts using a variety of non-G-rated wordage (Is that a word? Wordage.) and taking a nervous child's behaviour far too personally. Anyhow......

If you had witnessed this scene, you probably would think that....well, I don't know what you'd think. I just know that you would most likely think this home was a chaotic, crazy place and would try to get out a fast as humanly possible....

Then, after a few minutes of travel, at school, imagine a calm, serene mother and child. The little girl is nervously clutching her mama's hand and trying to remain inconspicuous by hiding behind one of her mother's abundant thighs. The little girl is big eyed and sweet. Quiet and shy but pleasant to talk to. The mother probably seems gentle and confident. Not the rabid creature she was only minutes before.

After getting the sweet, subdued little girl to her class, speaking to the teacher, and lingering in the hall outside the class long after all the other mothers have gone, the angry/gentle mama drives away without her little girl.....crying. Wishing her daughter's first day had been different than this. Wishing her husband had been there to share the joy....and the chaos. Wishing that she didn't feel so awful leaving her little one for others to educate and explore with. Feeling a hypocrite for sending her to public school but knowing that she must do it if she is going to keep food on the table and clothes on her little one's backs.

three four tens and a five

2010-08-27T22:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my birthday.
35.
Thirty. Five.

So young.....yet SO bloody old! Half way to seventy and I haven't gotten much figured out. Is this the secret of adulthood? Act like a grown-up and everyone else thinks that everyone else IS a grown-up? Except, of course, themselves?

The kids were much more excited about my birthday than I was....I asked for one gift. "Please NO arguing today. Just today. ONE day. Puh-leeeeease?!" Next year I'll ask for something more attainable.....like a pony.

Thirty-five seems so old on me. On others, it seems to be just a number. Like watching a friend try on an outfit that looks 'good' on them but you would never be caught dead in. "You look great!", you claim....but if you imagine the pink star sequins adorning your less than abundant cleavage, you cringe and flush with horror.

I think I'll take a tip from Jeff, he used to joke that we should tell everyone that we were ten years older than our true age. None of this 'eternal 29' crap! I look pretty good for 45!!!!!

So fourty five it is! Happy 45th to me!

are you there grief? it's me, Jackie

2010-08-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

Now and then, I sit down before the computer on the night before my post is due for Widow's Voice and stare blankly at the screen. Mentally, I examine my current thoughts, my day's mullings, recent happenings. I gleen for any unprobed areas of the loss of Jeff.....and find none.

It's not often that this happens. But occasionally, there is quiet. An acceptance. A compliance with what is.

Jeff has yet to return from his voyage to "Heaven". The kids and I still miss him. His clothes still inhabit his drawers.

But at times, the ache is subdued and the crying is quieted.

It is these times that I fluctuate between joy at the thought of recovery, pleasure from the lightness acceptance brings, sadness that this may mean that I am moving away from 'him' and guilt that the pain is not so pungent and painful.

But I know I'll fret for awhile, worry about what to write, go to sleep and wake up thinking of something I wish he could have heard Briar say, remembering how he loved to eat hot dogs wrapped in pilsbury croissant dough and cheese (SO greasy and revolting the thought actually still turns my stomach) and wondering if it's true that daughters are more likely to be promiscuous without their father in attendance.....And the next week, there will be no loss for words.....

my four cents

2010-08-15T14:40:00.000-07:00

Who knew that my last post (and maybe a few others) would have touched a nerve for some? I do feel that all of us have the right to our various views and opinions.....Hell, the world would be a remarkably boring place if we all believed in and supported the same ideas! I do, however, want to clarify some issues here...just for my own comfort.

Not that it matters much, but the 'anchor tattoo man' in the last post did NOT have an anchor tattoo. He was throwing out a bunch of cheesy and extremely obscene pick-up lines, aside from the comment that I chose to post, that did not sit well with me.....and I can expect would not good over well with any self-respecting woman. I suppose I was in error for not either including this information or for writing about the encounter in the post.

Yes, I have posted before about issues that now annoy me (that would not have bothered me 'pre-widowhood'). I suppose I must not articulate myself well if I am suggesting that I have a problem with people making queries or comments about my husband. Although it does ocassionally sadden me with the already frequent reminder of losing Jeff, I merely find it interesting to witness just how society assumes all of us have the same family dynamic. I am not excluding myself from this observation, either. In fact, just today while asking a patient's father for the name of a child's mother for in the chart, I thought for a moment, "That came out so easily. What if the mother doesn't live with the child? What if the mother is deceased? What if the mother is estranged?....How could I have worded that differently?"

Sometimes I do laugh, I suppose at the expense of another's discomfort, for being honest about my status as 'widow'. If someone inquires about or mentions my husband, is it more polite to lie and imply that he is still alive? Or should I sugarcoat it and use terms such as "passed away" or "no longer with us"? I find it humourous solely for the purpose of the observation of reaction. An anthropology study of sorts.

Why should I feel embarassed or apologetic for another person's discomfort of death? That is their belief system. However, I no longer shy away from the subject as I once did. It doesn't mean I'm correct in my dealings with death; it just means that I have stopped fearing it. Death will happen to all of us....not if but when. People just don't like to talk about it. It wasn't so long ago that our culture would whisper various ailments or details of a loved one's death during discussion for fear of 'catching' it or bringing bad juju to their family. I feel that the use of watered down statements about death and dying are an offshoot of this superstition.

As for the differences between divorce and widowhood, I feel that I am free to have this opinion as one who has been widowed. Nope, I've never been divorced. I do not know all the pain and discomfort this very unfortunate circumstance must hold firsthand. I can imagine it is truly awful, as I believe I stated in that post. I do still feel that both tragedies are unique unto themselves.

On one hand I think that we (as in me too) are all too sensitive to perceived injustices and need to just get on with our lives and just fucking live it. But as this is my blog and a place that I muse and mull over my life and its' happenings, I write about issues that have hurt/affected me/given me pause for thought. I do not claim to be right. I just claim to be sorting through my life as I learn. As all of us, I am a work in progress.

I am certainly not proposing that I have it worse or better than anyone else. Although my husband had, I have not lost a child. I do not have cancer. Although bitterly divorced, my parents are still alive. I manage to keep food on the table. I get to dip my toes in the ocean whenever I so please. As such, I do not write about living landlocked, grossly poor, ill and grieving a child without any parental assistance. I write about being a widowed mom to two little ones while trying to do what is best for us as a small family and the thoughts that I have as I travel along this adventure. Yup, I write about widowhood a lot. You know why? Because hoping my husband somehow has an eye on us from afar and missing his laughter takes up a good portion of my thoughts. I suppose that if you were wearing similar shoes, you would have similar thoughts. I can only assume from your comment veiled behind hidden or anonymous profiles that you do not. I may be wrong. As I said before, I do not claim to be 'right' either. I also have never claimed that my pain is 'any more real' than anyone elses.

I am sorry that my thoughts seem to have raised some issues for you. I am going to encourage you, if you feel my thoughts are 'ignorant' or 'rude', please do not read my blog any longer. I do not want to upset you. But I do want to continue to write as I feel that it helps me to process MY pain (and I am not going to apologize for finding the loss of my husband painful). I am also going to remind you to read the disclaimer on the right-hand side of this page.

P.S. I don't think you really do 'get' the widow humour......

funny "ha ha" or funny "horrific"

2010-08-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from Reader's Digest - laugh yourself to good health

Being a widow is a lot of things. Scary. Sad. Lonely. Guilt-ridden. But an unexpected side effect of the loss of my spouse is the humour and hilarity.
Maybe I was funny person before. Maybe it has been in me all along. But after spending time again this year at Camp Widow, my cheeks hurt from laughing....and I didn't spend the time giggling at myself. Either death finds funny people or funny people just curse those around us.....or maybe, when life has you scraping the barrel, you begin to not take it as seriously. You realize that you can't jinx yourself with a belly laugh and no one has ever ceased breathing for joking about the ceasing of breathing.
I now find it more comfortable to be able to face the sadness and fear down and speak it out loud....and then laugh in its' face. Unfortunately, lay people sometimes seem to be either very uncomfortable with this M.O. or they seem to think that I am flippant or nonchalant about losing my beloved Jeff. I can assure you I'm not.
But a sign-in sheet at work for the staff party where it inquires whether each staff member will be bringing their spouse fills me with a desire to answer in the allotted box, "No. The seat belt won't properly hold the urn."
A man who approaches me at the bar surrounded with other widows who have attended the widowhood conference states to me that it is such a coincidence that he has the same tattoo on his forearm as I do. "Oh?!", I say, "So your husband died too and you got an anchor to signify both his job as a fisherman and his role as an 'anchor' in your life????? Wow!!!!! That IS a coincidence!" Shocked, he tells me that I am mean and rude. I just thought it was plain funny.
A woman at Camp Widow sported a shirt that said, "My husband died and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." This shirt has brought me many moments of mirth for the last week as I recalled it.
I love that we can find humour at such a deathly grave situation. We are not (as) afraid anymore. We now know that you will not be struck dead for a good chuckle.

adding to the pack

2010-08-12T09:42:00.000-07:00

I have tried to resist. I have tried to talk some sense into myself. I have tried to convince myself that we are better off financially and obdigation-wise. I have tried to divert my attention.....But somehow all I have wanted to do since Freckles' death is get another dog.
I realize that the last two years of his life, he was a major head-case that needed not just some deep emotion empathy and redirection, but hard-core antidepressants. His seperation anxiety after the death of Jeff, followed so very quickly by my beloved dog, Eli, was more than his big heart could bear. And although, at times, euthansia seemed the only solution for his window frame destruction/light switch removal/door knob denting/etc., I miss having him around.
I had contacted a woman about purchasing a puppy from her at the beginning of next year. We had chosen a golden retriever whose mother was imported from Germany. It all was so perfect and full of coincidences. The breeder is a younger widow with two children living on a farm. We had decorated a jar with pictures of puppies and started to save for the purchase of the puppy and its' initial vet bills. I was being responsible and logical about the process of adding another member to our family.
But, really, my heart is far from logical. I think probably even moreso since the death of Jeff. When something feels right, I do it. I do it with gusto and just hope that even if my actions yield horrific results, I have learned something in the process thus making the experience valuable.
As I perused the adds on our local used site, I was struck by an add containing a sweet and forlorn-looking german shepherd cross puppy. After speaking to the woman who had him, I felt completely compelled to see him. I told myself, "We don't have to get him. I can just go see him, pet him and be on my way if it doesn't feel right." But, alas, as soon as I set eyes on him, had him in my lap and felt his kisses I was struck.....with puppy love. As I watched how comfortable he was with Briar's loving and at times, overly playful misinstrations, I fell farther. When I watched Liv's face filled with contentment as she stroked the puppy's fur as it calmly laid in her lap, I was head-over-heels.
So two days ago, we headed out to pick up our little guy. He's going to be a big guy as he is german shepherd, husky, leonberger cross.
We've named him Caleb.
So far, he's been fabulous. No chewed up shoes. One accident on the rug. Lots and lots of snuggles and cuddles.
And even if he does do something.....puppy-like, I will remind myself that although Eli was the best dog in the history of mankind, he once ate a pound of butter as a puppy....and barfed it on the floor. And really, he is too small as of yet to detroys curtains, door knobs and other household structures as Freckles did....And he's not fast enough yet to kill a chicken. ;)
I am smitten.

those in the know

2010-08-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

Today I begin my journey to the Soaring Spirit's Loss Foundation's Camp Widow. I feel as if I am running to the arms of dear friends.....although some of these people I have never met.

I will spend my time with a couple of hundred people who know what widowhood is. Really know. Not an abstract idea that is hard to fully wrap your mind around until the day it settles its' weight around your shoulders. But those who have felt the fear of knowing that when our lives are lost, our children become orphans. Known the loneliness of suddenly losing all the support and comfort of our partner. Become familiar with the uncertainty of not knowing who you are without your 'other half'. Discovered the joy of finding out that you are still whole - even missing half your heart. And, hopefully, the excitement that can one day happen when experiencing the rebirth after your past life has ended.

I am ecstatic to be with this communtiy once again. To know I am not the only one. To know I don't have to explain. To know, that at least here, I am not alone.

the town treasure chest

2010-07-31T22:31:00.000-07:00

In our small little town there is a wonderful little Salvation Army. The kids and I love to go and scout through the shelves for treasures. I have a rule though - we are not to enter the shop UNLESS there is something we are needing or looking for. We rarely come out with the thing we went initially in for, but we come out with some amazing things and fabulous deals.

While wandering our beloved little shop last week, I came across this little gem. $2.99 the sticker said. I admit that at first I had no idea what it was....but the little silver tube off the side gave me a hint. A stovetop espresso/cappuccino maker!!!!!! It is the most amazing thing.

And while I have only taken up the habit of coffee drinking in the last eight months or so of my 34 years, I am delighted and excited to be able to make myself gourmet coffee on the woodstove! (If you know me, you know how much I LOVE low-tech).

So I've decided that each time I find some fabulous score at the local Sally Ann, I'm going to tell you about it.....And that alone gives me a reason to return to the halls of heavenly second-handing! ;)

are you lonesome tonight...

2010-07-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from Desicolours

I'm not dating. I have gone on a few....dates. But it never felt right. But neither does this loneliness.

I don't want to go through the hassle of meeting, dating, getting to know the other person's "issues", introducing this person to family and friends, getting giddy when they come around, having our first argument, finding out that they have an oddly close relationship with their mother...who hates me, and having to dump their mama's boy ass after going through all that.

I want to jump straight to the comfy fart-in-bed stage. The leave-the-door-open-when-you-pee level. I want to not worry that they find my poultry obsession a little alarming or that my kid's habit of climbing into bed with me every night is not overly annoying. I want to be with someone who finds my kids cute even when snot is running down their chin.

But, alas, the only one who can fit this bill is a husband. My husband.

I worry that no one will ever love my kids as much as their daddy did. And that even if some man was willing, I may not let them through 'the gate' as I seem to fear that anyone with any interest in us must either have pedophilic tendencies or a death wish.

I'm scared that no one could ever love me again despite my habit of repeating deliciously interesting words under my breath until they cease have meaning. "colposcopy. colposcopy. colpscopy...." Or that the horrifyingly large amount of matter on my thighs that resembles marbles under blue-white coloured cloth would repulse some poor man. Or that they wouldn't know that laughing when I'm raging and screaming at some perceived injustice, although seemingly counterproductive, is just what I need to see life's bullshit as it is - bullshit.

I want to jump to husband and wife. I want to miss all the ups and downs of possibilities.

I want comfort. I want warmth. I want Jeff.

the perfect father

2010-07-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

Lately, Liv and I have been struggling. We have been ~~fighting~~ arguing about everything from whether she should brush her extremely knot-filled hair before departing for the day to whether older sisters are 'allowed' to speak to their younger brothers in a hatred filled voice to whether it is her job to clean up her mess. She claims that my requests for daily self-care (teeth brushing, semi-clean clothes wearing, etc.) are demands upon her body which I have no right whatsoever to impose....and that this is exactly why nature has so much trouble supplying humans with their 'needs' because society has created an unreal ideal of human hygiene (If you are confused, don't worry - I don't totally get the rationale either).
I am holding my breath wondering what Liv is going to find issue with far too often for my liking. I am emotionally exhausted and communication/NVC/positive parenting deficient.

Recently, Liv has started to not just fly off the handle with anger over the injustice of expectations upon her body, the needs of others in the household or my desire to have a calm and communicative homelife....but at the idealized image she holds of her father and my perceived shortcomings.
She regales me with reasons that I am less of a favourable parent to her father. I don't play with her enough. I yell more than he did. I don't love her as much as her daddy did.
The ironic and most painful part of this is that although Jeff was a kind, funny and loving father, he was not always hands-on. He would wrestle with Liv. Or snuggle on the couch watching a movie. He'd occasionally make something with her in the garage. He loved to listen to her read or hear her tales of daily life on the phone weekly while he was fishing.
But I was the one who cuddled her to sleep and got up with her in the middle of the night. I wasn't holed up in the garage drinking beer and watching WWF. I was mixing the homemade playdough and kissing away 'owies'. I knew what size of shoes she wore and how far up she liked her coat zipped.
He was a fabulous daddy. But the image she has of him is just not accurate. And I am being compared to a 'saint'.
One evening of overly expressed dislike of my inadequencies as a parent I (remarkably) calmly told Liv of her father. I explained that he was a fabulous guy and my very best friend whom I loved with all my heart and wished with every part of my being that he would be back with us. BUT that he was a real person. He made mistakes and lost his temper and sometimes stunk like B.O. He didn't like how I loaded the dishwasher and ate pickles straight out of the jar. It doesn't mean he was 'bad' or 'mean' or 'unkind'....just that he was like the rest of us. 'Real'.
With horror on her little angry face, she told me that I was never to talk 'mean' about her daddy ever again. That he was 'perfect'.
And really, he was. He was perfectly him....But I hope that one day, and not TOO far away, she can see that I am perfectly me....and I am trying the best I can to do the job that he and I used to do together.

I do not want to take Liv's love or admiration for her daddy. I don't want her to ever stop thinking that he was wonderful and hilarious. But why does it have to come at the cost of her love and devotion to me?

...and by the way

2010-07-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from Auburn University

I am seeing all sorts of old and familiar faces since we moved back to my hometown. It's been great getting reacquainted with now-grown children of my youth. We discuss how the town has changed. That the one stop light in town is no longer the one stop light in town. Gossip about the nastiest boy in our class has changed and where he is now.
I find it so very interesting to know who or what the townsfolk have become, who they've married and how many children they've had. Looking at the faces of their little ones makes me grin seeing the familiar face of their parents as children staring right back at me.
Somehow during the conversation I seem to blurt out, almost Tourette's like, "My husband died."
I feel like a dork when I say it. But I can feel it building inside me like a burp and suddenly spew it out at my long-lost aquaintance. The moment after resembles the pause that I could imagine occurring if I had indeed loudly belched in their face. My burped words seem to echo between us.
If I somehow manage to come away from our brief visit in the parking lot without this almost involuntary admission, I feel as if I have mislead the other person somehow. That they are missing some huge part of the puzzle. But if I include it, it's an echo invoker.
I still, after two years, do not know what is the appropriate way to include this humungous tidbit into a brief summary of my life.....and socially, I don't know if any one really wants to know?

living again

2010-07-07T19:29:00.000-07:00

I am loving our new life.

Although I am finding the cost of living here more than I expected, I am finding that this life in the town I grew up in to be so much more fulfilling and exciting.

Striking out and building a life that includes Jeff and the memories we have of him, but built around our needs now and our new future has been exhilarating.

I find myself wondering what is around the next corner....and not always with dread or fear. I have hope for joy returning to our lives and the little things that maintain our happiness now.

Having the forest and the ocean just steps from our doorstep is how I imagined my children growing up. Exploring, building, imagining, creating. It makes up in (small) part for the loss of my ability to stay home with them 24/7.

And on that front, I have to say, that (and I feel immense guilt saying this), that I am enjoying my time away. I come home with stories for the kids of what my day was life, what I did and how I perform a blood occult stool test (yes, this involves poop). I love having grown-up conversations, feeling in control of our income, feeling valuable and using my brain for something other than remembering the recipe for fabulous bubbles (10 parts water, 1 part Dawn or Joy dish soap and .25 part glycerin). I know that my job as a mommy is the most important thing I will do in my life.....but I also think that I need some time to just be "Jackie" and without having someone to spell me off when I need time to myself, I feel intense frustration at times. With this frustration comes guilt and feelings that I am not a good and selfless mother. I have to remind myself occasionally that Liv has had me home for seven years and Briar for four - This is entirely longer than the standard one year in Canada and the six weeks in the States.

Life is still a bit off-kilter as we settle into our new house. We are almost finished unpacking. Most of the pictures are up. The linen closet is organized. We are just fine-tuning now.

The fresh air is fabulous. I SO love the cool breezes and foggy mornings. Being in the village brings remembered faces and a sense of comfort in knowing where everything is and the names of all the streets. The kids are loving having friends close by and frolicking in the woods....Where they find strange and amazing things - abandoned cabins, huckleberries, cathedral-like beams of light streaming through the trees, gnome stumps, deer trails, little streams and "Barbie doll graveyards".

I have started working on the garden, built a compost and have started planning the garden for the start of the next growing season. I've built a larger chicken/duck yard and all our poultry buddies are pleased. The kids and I climbed through some of the bushes on the property trimming out the underbranches to enable us to put our toadstool stools under the leafy canopy for a pretend fairy home for the kids.

I am happy. The kids are happy. Life is good.

when Jeff died.....

2010-07-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

As a widow, how many times have you said, "when/since/because _____ died"? Even after two years, three months and six days, I regularly use this phrase. Does widowhood define me this much or is it that the loss of my husband has been so life-altered, self-forming, world-shifting to me that I can attribute most of the occurrences in my present life to the event?
I prefer to believe that my life, goals, priorities, etc have all been modified, improved and streamlined. I hope that I can now see more clearly what is 'important' rather than that the definition of 'widow' has become so entwined with my vision of 'self'.
Or am I just lying to myself and hiding behind the loss of my other half?

wordless wednesday

2010-06-30T07:30:00.000-07:00

Moe Schmoe

2010-06-29T21:55:00.001-07:00

Our cat, Moe, puts up with everything. Literally everything.
Briar, the perpetually love machine, carts him around upside-down as an impromptu backpack. Moe regularly endures being cuddled in a well-meaning but overly zealous fashion while the little people in our house attempt to fall asleep. He rarely complains when being dressed in baby clothes or as he zips down the driveway in a doll stroller. Once, I even had to interrupt a friend mid-conversation to inform her that she was standing on Moe's tail as she spoke.

We had planned to keep Moe indoors for two weeks after our move to ensure that he knew where 'home' was. We didn't want our special and sweet teddybear of a cat to go missing. After a week of Moe's pleading, however, we succumbed to his requests for some outside air. He stuck close to home but rolled around in the fresh grass as if he was expressing his extreme pleasure in the luxuriousness of its' lush green carpet. After that he came and went as if he had always lived here.
One morning last week, as the plumber and contractor came and went I noticed that Moe was looking a bit nervous with all the activity involved with all the new bodies in our house. He stuck close to the ground and ran in short bursts from corner to corner of the room with a wary look in his eye.
That was the last time I saw him. Heartbroken, the kids and I made ads pleading for Moe's safe return. Liv wrote her own posters and I went from door to door asking our new neighbours if they had glimpsed "Mohito Meow Mein".
Days passed and no Moe. I started to brace myself for the worse and worried as I made my rounds yet again to the ditches on our street that I would find his little body mingled with the mud and weeds found there.
Three days later as I sat on the toilet (Sorry for too-much-info there) in my nightly preparations for bed long after the kids had fallen asleep, I thought I heard a slight "mew". Listening more intently, I realized that it was coming from the wall beside me. Staring in disbelief at the drywall between the bathtub and toilet the contractor had repaired three days previously it dawned on me. Moe is in the wall!!!!!
I ran to the garage to arm myself with some tools all the while loudly reassuring poor, entombed Moe that it was going to be okay. I ripped that wall apart, pulled out a pile of insulation, and to my joy and amazement two little golden/green eyes stared back at me.
An extremely grateful Moe devoured his food and lapped up water for an amount of time I would have thought abnormal if the situation had not been so far from normal.
Although he was so dehydrated even his little puckered bum-hole was even dried out and flaky (again, too-much-info - Sorry), he has fully recovered after his under the bathtub burial and he doesn't even seem to hold any ill feelings toward the bathroom.

Our sweet little, Moe-lasses! We love him to bits and pieces!

apples and oranges

2010-06-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo by The Busy Brain

Although apples and oranges are both fruit, they taste, smell and feel different. They are both round. They are both sweet. But one is crispy and succulent and the other is juicy and zesty. Some similarities but you would never mistake one for the other.

When attempting to understand another person's circumstance we often seek out seemingly similar situations that have occurred in our lives or the lives of those close to us in an effort to empathise and comprehend the feelings of others. These attempts are most often an effort to offer solace and comraderie to the speaker of said issues.
As with most people, I have had this occur so very many times....and these kindly meant comparisons have increased in abundance exponentially since Jeff died.
I have had people liken the loss of my husband to the loss of their cat, the death of their grandfather when they were three and most often, a divorce in their family.
As a child of divorce and as a generally empathetic person, I can certainly see some very pronounced similarities. But I would never go so far as to say that I fully understand how a divorced person feels.....or that someone who has experienced the break-up of a family from divorce completely 'gets' the loss of a spouse to death.
I have to admit that at times, this comparison gets my hackles up. I feel angered at the thought that my loss is at all.....chosen.
I realize that often people do not want to get divorced. I can see that no one sets out when getting married with the idea that they will also get divorced....and that in someways, we should be more prepared for the death of our other half (because death always does eventually happen) than the separation of spouses.
But in Jeff and my situation -death, no one CHOSE to leave the other. It was, essentially out of our hands.
There was no lead up. No warning. Yes, Jeff wasn't feeling well for a couple of weeks before his death. But neither of us suspected that his lack of zest would result in the loss of his life.
Yes, like a divorced single parent, I do my parenting alone. But I do it alone everyday. There is no one else to consult (which at times I am sure is a real blessing) and no one else to send the kids to on a regular basis...or even an irregular basis. The kids have me to watch their extracurricular activities. Just me. There is no one else to cheer them on (or to glare at me from across the field). There is no one else who loves them as much as only a parent can (although I am aware that in some unfortunate situations, even an alive parent does not provide this unconditional love for the little ones either).
Fortunately, I never have to see the love of my life with some other woman's hand in his. I know he died loving me. I do think that having someone I love tell me that they no longer cared for me would tear my heart into tiny smithereens. When I see Jeff's expressions staring back at me from my little one's faces, it is a joyous moment - he still exists in them....and I am sure that at times this must be a difficult experience when you dislike or have been hurt by the other parent of your child intensely.
Although in divorce, you watch your marriage 'die', you do not watch as someone you love dies. Yes, metaphorically it is very similar. In 'real life', it is grossly different. Different pain, different sadnesses....different phobias.
As with many divorcees, I am lonely often. Bone-achingly lonely. I still wish that our lives had turned out differently. I worry for my children and wonder how this loss will affect their lives in the coming years.
But I have the luxury of loving my dead husband. And you have the luxury of hating your live one.

**I do so hope that this entry does not offend anyone or their feelings regarding death and divorce. I have been musing over it for quite sometime and just felt it pour out....**

the impending father's day

2010-06-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

It's actually 3:28 a.m. as I write this. Unpacking from our move and working at the clinic have kept me so busy that I haven't spent any amount of time ruminating about what thought of loss has most taken up my mind this week.
But as I've driven to work, opened boxes of photo albums and placed Jeff's dresser in the corner of the room, the thought of the impending "Father's Day" has popped into my head briefly and painfully.
I have come to fear this day for my kids. I worry that they'll begin to notice other 'normal' families out for Father's Day breakfast. That the flyers in the mail advertising copious amounts of tools for the other kid's dad will highlight their lack of an alive one. That the ties or other seemingly useless items that kids make to mark the day that they celebrate their dad will cast little shadows on my little one's hearts.
On Sunday, you'll find me at work. My kids will be babysat until I return to them. There will be no special brunch, fancy formal wear accessories or tool belts to give to Jeff to mark what a kind, funny or loving daddy he was.
So in the afternoon, the kids and I will practise our own father's day tradition. We'll head to the beach with helium balloons clutched in hand, tiny folded notes tied into the strings and send Jeff the father's day messages we wish we could hand over with a huge and mushy hug.
I hope he'll get them. I hope he will know that we remember what a fabulous daddy he was and will never forget his part in making our lives as special as they were...and are.
Thank you, my Jeffrey, for our little ones. Thank you for your giant love. We love you right back. Happy Father's Day, my love.

the new digs

2010-06-15T10:08:00.000-07:00

We're finally in the new house...every night. The shower is fixed. The beds are in their permanent positions and the playroom is festooned with all its' miniture household items.
I have been unpacking like a crazy person. I am determined to have the house functioning in an efficient manner before I go crazy. I dislike the temporary and chaotic feel a house has until all the garbage cans, towels and books have their spots. I like to know where the scissors live so that when I need them, they are where they should be. Finding them wedged between the wall and a cardboard box just doesn't do it for me.
Anyhow, the house is getting a more 'homey' feeling and I am feel less panicked.
I have started my new job and am really enjoying it. I am working in a doctor's office as an M.O.A. (medical office assistant). My favourite parts are smiling at the little ones who come in a bit fearful and hopefully making their visit a little less scary. I find that if I tell them about my kids, they seem to trust me more....and I LOVE doing urine tests. I never thought I would love doing something that had to do with someone else's bodily secretions....but it's really COOL!
I am enjoying learning and am finding that I sleep better knowing that I'll be able to buy groceries without having to do the financial juggling act I usually have to.
I don't like being away from the kids....but I love getting home and telling them about all the new things I've learned.
The chickens and ducks don't have a permanent housing arrangement yet as we still have to get a fence up in the backyard. So far it's only deer netting that is keeping them somewhat contained.
We've walked to the beach a few times and collected so many salmon berries that Liv has taken to making 'jam' for on her toast.
I haven't yet had a moment to complete my assignments for the organic master gardner course that I finished....but I am hoping to have them done in the next few weeks.
Liv is LOVING the backyard, the deer that meander through, the GIANT mushrooms to look at in the woods and looking into the stream.
Briar is enjoying riding his bike up and down the driveway, spraying the garden hose on anything and everything and cuddling with the chickens (as always).
I think we're going to like it here. I think we're home.

Consuming Kids: The Commercialization of Childhood (Trailer)

2010-06-11T09:58:00.000-07:00

getting my voice

2010-06-11T09:51:00.001-07:00

Photo by Howthedevilareyou.....

We’ve moved. Our stuff is in the new house…..but the house isn’t finished. The shower doesn’t work and two of the rooms remain incomplete. Although the garbage and previous tenants belongings have finally been removed, we haven’t been able to unpack our stuff and claim the house as ours. We have been staying with friends until it is safe and comfortable to stay here with the kids.

I’ve felt angry, frustrated and without ‘roots‘. Unsure what to do and how to express my disappointment, I remained quiet initially. This was Jeff’s department. He was the vocal advocate for our family.

One of the lessons that I’m trying to teach myself in the wake of Jeff’s death is the ability to voice my concerns and to act as the proponent for our family. It’s hard. I feel like a ‘bitch’ if I express my displeasure. I also agonize over the thought that they may not take me seriously. (Jeff used to say I was about as terrifying as a ‘hissing kitten’ when I got angry.) I worry that others are hurt or angered by the voicing of our family’s needs or expectations….but there is no one else to do it. No one else to turn to. If I expect to have my concerns heard, I need to say them out loud to someone who can make a difference.

So although I felt like vomiting at the thought of possibly causing discord, I spoke to the landlord. I expressed my worries and the concerns for my children’s safety amidst the broken glass that littered the property. I spoke about the need to have a working bath for the cleanliness of my kiddos. I told them that I hoped I would not be charged the full amount of our rent for this month…..and I didn’t cry. They didn’t cry. No one got angry or yelled. It was amazing! I stood up for us and I did it without Jeff. I know he’s looking down at me and smiling. “That’s my girl!!”

moving day

2010-06-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from arttherapyblog

In times of stress and unease, I occasionally look for quotes to use as a mantra to repeat when necessary.
So tomorrow as we move from the house that we shared with my beloved best friend/husband/father of our little ones, I will be repeating yet another appropriate phrase in the hopes of easing the fear, sadness and sense of loss that this change is bringing....along with its' intrigue, curiousity and excitement:

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." ~Anatole France

closer....closer...CLOSER!!!

2010-05-31T21:13:00.000-07:00

We're moving this coming Saturday. I had it all under control. This was a good thing to do. The timing was right. Life had nudged me and it was time for me to step out from my comfort zone and fly.....Right? That's what I'm supposed to do, right?
I have to admit that any and all confidence and conviction in this move and the change in lifestyle that I had has since vanished. Maybe it's cold feet....maybe it's sudden clarity.
WHY am I leaving my sister? Why am I moving into a place that costs more (although I realize this place was set to be sold in the near future)? Why am I sending my sweet Olivia to SCHOOL? Why am I working when I should be with my kids?
I have to stare straight ahead and the task at hand because if I meander at all, I begin to think of ALL the worst case scenarios and can't stop having a flip-flop feeling in my chest, crying yesterday's (often longer) mascara into Alice Cooper-like streaks down my face or freaking out at my kids about stupid, possibly psychotic, issues involving the whereabouts of my keys/a phone number/my brain.
I know we never know if what we do is the 'right' thing....but I NEED to know if this is the 'right thing'!!!!!!
I am attempting to keep a smile on by writing 'funny-only-to-me" notes on top of the boxes, "Liv's room - games, books, toy cash register,....and that really CREEPY doll". Or "Jeff's odd assortment of things that I never really understood". I mentally arrange all the rooms and our mountains of crap in the new house and attempt to convince myself that it's going to be super-fabulous!....But no amount of spit and polish can undent my thoughts and feelings of sadness and fear over leaving 'home'.
I know Jeff comes with us....but I want him to come WITH us....and I want him to tell me that I am doing the 'right thing'.

greenwashing

2010-05-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

the myth of the broken heart

2010-05-28T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo by Sandyx3

I don't follow a lot of celebrity news. In fact, the older I get the more I have no idea who these people are who grace the pages of the tabloids at the grocery check-out counter. Our society's idolatry of these 'super-humans' baffles me and highlights the blatant differences between 'us' and 'them'.
Recently however, the death of an actress whom I could name was marked on the cover of these magazines. Although I admit I had no idea who he was before this event, I recall feeling real empathy for Brittany Murphy's husband, Simon Mojack, when I glanced at these glossy covers on the way to pay for our goods. I wondered how it would feel to not only suffer the loss of a spouse but to read about it in all the line-ups you were forced to stand in for weeks after. I had concluded that it may be cathartic to know that others had noticed the absense of the one you held so dear as well. That life hadn't just 'continued as normal'. That the spot that my loved one had held didn't just close over unrecognized when they stopped living.
I felt a kin-ship with this man. He had lost the love of his life as well. Simon knew the emptiness that followed. It made him normal and mortal - not the stuff of celebrity but the stuff of the average human.
Then he went and did something that our society loves to talk of as much as we recite stats on these legendary creatures - He died of a 'broken heart'. I felt like simultaneously screaming and barfing at the checkout counter when I read these words. I felt betrayed by someone who knew what this road was like. And the stupid thing was, I knew it was bullshit that he died of a broken heart. He just conveniently died months after his spouse did and made a fabulous and heartrending story for the media to skew.
If dying of a broken heart was possible, each and every widow/er would have been wiped off the face of the planet the moment their spouse died. This man's death is not some measure of how much he loved her and evidence that my love for Jeff must have been lacking. It is an unfortunate event that happened too soon after he lost his wife. In all honesty, I am jealous. I begged whatever possible higher power there may be to kill me in the weeks and months following March 25th, 2008. I WANTED to die after Jeff did....and sometimes still do. But I have never gotten my wish. So like all other widows/ers out there, I know you can't die OF a broken heart....you just die WITH one...whenever that may be.

the bumpy road of life

2010-05-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

Although I can't go into detail as I have been advised to avoid writing it on my blog, last Friday the kids and I were involved in an incident that has caused me a lot of upset and stress. I hope to be able to unload the feelings and pain that have resulted one day on here but for now it is felt that I need to keep hush about it.
I'll just say that physically the three of us are okay. Please send us good vibes and hope for the best in the next while.
Thanks......xoxoxo

lucky ducky

2010-05-26T16:11:00.000-07:00

I had thought my favourite farm animal/bird/white noise was the chicken. I adore their soft clucking. I enjoy the versatilityof their eggs and the meals I can create with the central theme of 'egg'. I love to carry one under my arm and feel that I am not just talking to myself about the minutae that happens in my day. I think it's genius that not only do I get food from these creatures, but I get fabulous compost material from them as well. Watching their daily activities is calming and peaceful.

Although I still have such large affection for my chickens that it verges on 'odd', I have found a new obsessive love. Ducks.

The only time I have ever had ducks/ducklings in our home was the short span of time that our poor ducklings were hatched from their shells before 'Freckles the Duck-Killer' broke into the warm, seemingly safe haven that was their incubator and annihilated them all before they had even a chance to dry off after the tedious chore of hatching. "Welcome to the world, Duckies!! Chomp! Chomp!"

Ducks are certainly cuter when they're dry.

I have noticed that the chicks find any morsel of difference between them and peck at it. Although they aren't doing it maliciously, they have been known to kill each other just by obsessing over a piece of shell stuck to another chick's back....or possibly by 'gang-pecking' the man-made orthorpedic shoes on one of their nestmates. In fact, the reason that a brooder lamp is red is to discourage the chicks from noticing bits of blood or slime on their sibling's bodies after hatching.

But ducks? No, they are so much more community minded. As you add another newly hatched sibling to the brooder, the small flock welcomes them in, absorbs them into the fold and allows for differences and individuality in their goo-patterns. Immediately they are all part of the clan. With chickens, you often have to slowly introduce new flock-mates to ensure that no one is harmed. But I suspect that with ducks, it's all good.

I have never attempted putting a chick in a bathtub of warm water but I can bet it wouldn't end well. But add a duckling to the bath and you have reason to never regret disconnecting cable. Although a beak sort of hinders their ability to smile, you can tell they are giggling and grinning as they frolic in the tub. They dive under like mini feathered submarines. They duck their heads into the water and then throw their heads back with glee. They paddle around with their tiny webbed feet fluttering beneath the water.

Although we had planned to give away all our little ducklings once they were big enough to not have to be kept warm under the brooder lamp....I have to say that we are now keeping 2....maybe 4 of our new little buddies.
I LOVE me my duckies!!!!!!!

come again

2010-05-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from Water Winter Wonderland

I have gone out of my way to avoid the parking lot of our doctor's office for two years and two months. I'd park on the other side of the building and walk the long way to get to my appointment. As I approached the glass doors to the dreaded parking from the opposite entrance I'd avoid looking at one specific tree. This tree marked the spot where Jeff died in my arms. Under the branches of this tree, in our family car he took his last breaths.

I did not think I'd EVER be able to enter that parking lot again. So very time appointments were scheduled only to be attended late because of my pathway of avoidance.

A few days ago the kids and I were running so very late for a visit with our doctor to deal with a run of pinkeye through our house. I sped like I was competing in the Indy 500 only to be stuck in a line-up behind an accident. I had planned to park in our now usual parking area to maintain my avoidance of the scene of our loss but as I screeched around the corner, I was suddenly struck by just how silly this was. I was going to be even later for an appointment because I was afraid. Afraid of what? The worst had already happened in that lot. Was I afraid I would relive losing Jeff all over again? I already do this on a regular basis. Was I scared that I would have a panic attack, not be able to breathe, lose the plot right there in the parking lot? I didn't have this luxury. My kids were with me. I am bullet-proof when my kids need me to be strong for them.

So, in a split second decision I faced that lot down. I didn't park in the exact spot as I had that day in March 2008. But I parked nearby. I grabbed Liv's hand, picked Briar up and ran for the doors. To anyone watching I would have looked like any other mother late for an appointment. They wouldn't have known of the demon I had just conquered. My triumph was unnoticed by anyone but me. My visit to that lot was so very quiet and quick - so unlike the day Jeff died.

I visited the scene of the crime. I'm okay. We're okay. We'll live. I will never forget or enjoy the memory of that day but it can't hurt me more than it already has.

birthday ring

2010-05-17T17:58:00.000-07:00

One of the fabulous things that I love about Waldorf education is the emphasis on tradition and rythmn. One of the wonderful Waldorf traditions that we have adopted in our home is the 'birthday ring'.

Twelve days before a birthday (or other looked-forward-to event) the ring is pulled out and set up. Each day a small gnome is pulled from the bag and fitted into one of the slots on the ring.
On the final day, a small candle is placed in the last empty hole and lit. The kids love the build up of anticipation to their day....and it seems to make it all the more special.

I got ours off of Etsy (of course) from a seller called Mamaroots. There are various types of rings available when you start to look around. Some have all candles, some have small wooden figurines, some have both....

Today, ours looks like this as we wait for Briar's fourth birthday to arrive.....

falling into place

2010-05-15T21:37:00.000-07:00

Although life has become so stacked full of have tos/should dos/need tos associated with moving, I'm finding that the move and all things associated are falling into place and feel right.
I don't want to mislead you into thinking that life here is placid and calm; it's fucking crazy. But inwardly, I know this is the right decision (although if things blow up in my face, I may be found claiming that it felt wrong from the start....).
There is NEVER a 'free' nanosecond, let alone moment anymore. The second life slows briefly, Briar helps out by emptying the contents of a fire extinguisher in the basement, Liv decides that my refusal to by a fused plastic doll with shocked expression and a smear of some unidentified substance on its' synthetic clothing from the secondhand store is evidence that I don't love her as much as love "Briar or the Earth" (her words, not mine), and ducklings that were not expected to hatch out for four more days make a surprise appearance. (Again the humidity was off for the late part of the hatch causing one of the ducklings to need my now-skilled hands for extrication from his calcium-laden 'womb'...And again, we have a slightly mangled baby on our hands.
THIS time I know to let Nature straighten out toes herself though. NO orthopedic shoes for this little quacker....)
I have been hesitant to mention one of our enormous life changes before now. Liv will be attending public school in the Fall. I truly feel she is ready to face a few new challenges and to be with other kids more of the time. Many of the practises of ~~conveyor belt~~ conventional continue to cause me to hiss and spit but after meeting with the principal at the school she will be attending, I felt comforted with the thought that I can still remain a large part of her learning experience. I feel that not everything in life is perfect but is necessary for some of the lessons we need to learn (Don't I know THAT)....And I must admit that there are times that I need help. Liv is an eager and excited learner. She is so very bright and knows so many things I had never even grasped at her age....And I hate to admit it, because I feel like a failure as a mom and especially a homeschooling, organic eating, poultry shoe making mom....But it is sometimes hard being in the presence of a wonderfully spirited seven year old girl 24/7. I need a rest. This is SO NOT the main reason she will be attending school, but I think a break from eachother will do us good....I just wish it wasn't EVERYday for 6-7 hours. I will miss her terribly.
The house we are moving into is in the process of being renovated. New roof, new windows, doors, flooring, paint, etc. It's on a five acre parcel of land with two houses (one ours, the other the landlord's). The landlord's driveway goes straight down to the beach and we're welcome to go down anytime. They are happily accepting the arrival of our feathered friends and have even agreed to allow us to adopt a dog in the near future!!!!!
I've been offered a job but can't say much about it yet except to say that it will pay well and work with the kid's schedule awesomely.
I have so much more to write but so much more to read in preparation for my class tomorrow.....P.S. Did you know that dandelions are indicator plants and often signal a deficiency in calcium in your soil. BUT because dandelions themselves are SO full of calcium, it's nature's way of curing the problem. Cut 'em off, dig 'em up or mow 'em down, but leave their bodies to put the calcium back into the soil!!! It takes quite awhile to make a difference but is so much better for the enviroment than adding chemical fertilizers as an excess of one nutrient will cause a deficiency in another!!
P.P.S. Can anyone remember what the character's name was in Flashdance? The first picture is of a duckling that looks as if it's wearing legwarmers. I want to name it after the Flashdance girl....

2010-05-13T21:56:00.001-07:00

Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for." -Bob Marley

up to speed

2010-05-10T08:04:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd attempt to quickly update what is going on in our little house.
I'm going to school to become an Organic Master Gardner. The program is WONDERFUL and I am enjoying it immensely!!! The hours are crazy and random but my sister and Marnie have been watching the kids for me so I can attend class. I have learned so much in the last couple of weeks that my head is exploding! Unfortunately, I don't feel that I am able to give it as much of my focus as I would truly like to as I have SO much else on the go.
I have been packing. I am determined to make this one of the most organized and tidy move of all time. This is because the only people who will be available to assist me in the move on the big day (May 31st) are other mamas.
Changing phone numbers, applying for education bursaries and attending job interviews have taken up any quiet moment.
I am so excited for the new place, however. I am trying to not focus on how much I'll miss 'our' home; but to experience the thrill of a new chapter. I am excited to have time return to a slightly less chaotic pace, however.
....And you know, I worried I would feel that I would be 'leaving' Jeff behind if I left this house, but I realize now that he'll come with us. Many of our memories of him are in this little house, but his heart will always remain in ours. If he's 'out there', there is no way he'd not accompany on us on this new adventure. And I think he'd be proud of us and all we are doing.

give me one reason

2010-05-07T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo by Algo

Also posted on Widow's Voice

You know the term "It happened for a reason"? I hate it. I have used it myself. But I hate it.
It seems to say that everything, good or bad, was supposed to happen to make way for some 'better' purpose. It's sappy and it sucks. It's almost up there with the "He's in a better place".
With this rationale, maybe because Jeff died, a cherubic little one was born into the loving arms of its' parents. Maybe he died to stop the excessive amount of fossil fuels being consumed by his gargantuan beast of a truck. Maybe he had learned all he was meant to in this lifetime and had to go to 'Heaven' to process it.
I say "BAA HUMBUG"! I hate to sound....evil, but those parents can have some other kid because I'd rather have my big hairy guy back. I would have let Jeff drive my little gas-meiser. And I can tell you, there were still a few things I had left to tell Jeff so he certainly didn't know it all yet.
I don't think there was any bloody reason. I think it just happened because it was 'meant' to. Good or bad, there was no 'reason'. It was just the way it was/is/will be.
And I think I just have to suck it up, pull up my socks and forget trying to find 'reasons', meanings or any other message hidden in his death. He's gone and it's the way our lives parted. Nothing I can do about it.
So I'll be a big girl (at least for a few moments) and carrying this backpack....and if there is any reason, I'll realize that it was to make me and our two little ones strong, empathetic and remind us to not take life and love for granted.

Amazing!!!!!!!!

2010-05-03T20:00:00.000-07:00

before and after

2010-04-30T05:00:00.000-07:00

Also posted on Widow's Voice

My three year old nephew, Gabe, told my sister, "Uncle Jeff died, but he still has his imagination."
I love this idea. The belief that 'his imagination' or mind is still intact brings me huge relief and comfort.
What I find interesting is that I am completely willing to believe this to be true. I know that some of my willingness comes fromt he need to believe that Jeff is still with me and the other comes from the somehow inexplicable belief that our society or maybe species has that children and the dying have some inherent knowledge that is lost to the rest of us while in adulthood and good health.
Why is this? We only humour our little ones when they tells us that elephants also come decorated in green polkadots aside from the standard issue 'pachyderm grey'. We smile patronizingly when patient in hospice swears that they will go on a vacation to Disneyland before they pass.
But if a member of either of these two groups tells us something of life 'before' or 'after', we are apt to stare hopefully and relay these messages on to all who will listen. We claim that it is because they are closer to the 'before' and 'after'....But I worry that this is part of the fairytale we tell ourselves.
I do often think of the things that Jeff said to me the night before he died. I know he was feeling ill and he was the classic stereotype of a sick guy making him feel crabby and sad. But some of the things he said, although painful and sad, they also give me 'hope' of sorts, that he knew something I didn't....
So, I will cling to my hope that Jeff still retains his imagination and hang off the words of little ones and those whose bodies are beginning to fail to house their soul....Even if it is a silly belief, it brings me comfort to believe he is with us, holding me when I cry, encouraging me and smiling at his little ones.

almost wordless yesterday

2010-04-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

ch-ch-changes

2010-04-28T19:42:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, I wrote about the turbulent ride we've been on in the wake of the decisions the landlord has been faced with. She had repeatedly changed her mind about selling or not selling the house. In the end, she chose to keep the house for one more year and revisit the idea of selling next Spring.
I am a firm believer in the idea that 'things happen for a reason'. It may not be some higher mind that is dictating the reasons for occurrances in our lives, but that we are forced to learn something from every situation we encounter. During all this confusing and stressful upheaval, I have gnashed my teeth wondering, "What the HELL is this supposed to teach me?????" I could not understand for the life of me why and how such craziness could show me anything other than fifty ways to chew my fingersnails to smithereens.
But, unbeknownst to me, I was making decisons, sorting information and finding what felt 'right'. I was exploring options, stepping out of my box, returning to safety when she's decide not to sell and then be forced to check the world out around me when she changed her mind again. I hated it. It was terrifying and chaotic.
But I found that when the landlady finally came to a decision to not sell for a year, I felt almost....stifled and like a large clock counting down to next Spring when she would re-decide whether or not to sell was ticking loudly.
So, I've decided to take change into my own hands. Instead of being at the mercy of other's lives and decisions, I am stepping out of our box and taking life by the pervebial 'balls'. We're moving. Not just houses, but communities. We'll still be on the Island, but two hours away.
I feel good about it. Actually, I feel great. This next month is going to be insane. I have enrolled myself in an intensive Organic Master Gardner course. We'll be packing and moving. And everything will be changing.
The change terrifies me. But it's exhilarating too. This is me. This is me 'growing up' and making choices that are right for us. Making choices based on our needs and wants rather than those of others.
I will miss my friends and my sister horribly....But I will visit as often as I can...And really I'm a FABULOUS phone-talker.....
P.S. I CAN TAKE THE CHICKENS TO THE NEW PLACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!WAHOOOOOOO!

lucky me

2010-04-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

Also posted on Widow's Voice

"Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened." ~ Dr. Suess

After Jeff died, I had this quote printed in vinyl to stick above my bed to remind me just how 'lucky' I am.
I read it in the hard moments when the kids are in bed, the phone hasn't rung in two days and my poor-me's are flowing.
It reminds me that I'm lucky. We're lucky. Everyone of us who were touched by Jeff's existence is lucky.
He wasn't 'perfect'. He was FAR from a saint. But still, thoughts and memories of him make me smile. And his ability to laugh was second to none.
I got to share his life, his laughter, his love.....And I'm lucky for it.

chick-a chick-a boom boom

2010-04-19T06:32:00.000-07:00

Out of the dozen eggs we placed in our incubator, 11 hatched!!!!! I am pretty proud of ourselves, I have to say.
I attribute our major success this time through to will-power. Liv and I adore candling the eggs (candling is a term for holding an egg up to a bright light to see the contents - hopefully a squirming chick) and we do manage to find a plethora of excuses for 'checking on the eggs' most of the time. This hatch, we managed to contain ourselves enough to only check at one week and two weeks to ensure that we weren't keeping any infertile or rotten eggs within the 'sacred chamber' that is our incubator.
Unfortunately for five of the wee chicks, our hygrometer (an thermometer like thing that measures humidity) seems to have become inaccurate at the end of the hatch. The poor little ones were stuck, cheeping madly, within the tiny confines of their partially open eggs for two days. Although you are NOT supposed to ever 'help' a chick hatch (because they can bleed to death if their umbilicus to the yolk sac has not completely closed over), I felt compelled to do just that. I washed my hands twice, sterilized my hands and the tweezers with rubbing alcohol and went to work quickly chipping off the shell. I found it tense yet exhilarating having to work fast enough that the chick didn't get chilled. The feeling of their tiny, damp bodies pressing intermittenly against the shell in an attempt to break free reminded me of giving birth to my little ones. I felt very.....motherly to these little ones and rejoiced when they managed to squirm from their egg-shaped prison (by rejoice, I mean jump up and down in staccato and quietly, so not to wake the kids, made "Yeah! Yeah!" noises while pumping one arm as I have seen athletes do at sporting events...)
Anyhow, the extended stay within the shell caused three of the tiny birds to have crooked toes ranging in severity. They can walk but....well, it looks awful and uncomfortable. In an attempt to find an answer, I turned to the trusty, yet sometimes questionable, information that the internet provides. I came across a site where some ~~crazy~~ peacock-loving soul gave instruction on how to fashion tiny orthopedic shoes for poultry. Delighted to have found a solution for my poor special needs chickens, I quickly got to work gathering and preparing materials - pipe cleaners, medical tape, scissors, wire cutters. With a deep breath to bolster my confidence, I grabbed the first mal-footed chick and went to work attempting to attach these ridiculous pipecleaner 'shoes' to the poor tramautized little soul. Although a chick's mode of defense seems to be absolutely terrifying gyrations that mimic seizure, I managed to adhere one set to the 'lucky' chick who I had deemed worthy of this life altering prosthetic.
Speaking lovingly and comfortingly to the little guy, I slowly lowered him/her back into the brooder box and gently placed him/her with his/her fellow 'peeps'. Without missing a beat, the others lunged at him/her. Incessantly pecking at the 'shoes' they rolled the strangely footed one on his/her back and were having their way with his/her orthotics.
Panicing, I hastily removed him/her from the box and attempted to slip the footware from his/her feet as smoothly as possible....But medical tape is meant to STAY ON!!! I was terrified of ripping off the chick's toes, but worried that if I took too long the chick would get chilled, be completely freaked out (like me) and have a heartattack (something I hear can happen in poultry) and die in my hands so soon after feeling it be birthed from its' shell-encrusted 'womb'.
I managed to remove the tape, sans chicken toes, after a few chaotic moments filled with horrific swearing, silent crying and loud cheeping that seemed to resembl pleading, and have decided that crooked toes are LOVELY. This malformation allows diversity within my flock and thus also enables me to tell one fluffy black chick from another by the severity of its' crooked feet.
Oh, Mother Nature, you are so wise. I promise, I will try to remember! Leave well enough alone!!! You know what you're doing!!

the thoughts of little ones

2010-04-18T21:07:00.000-07:00

Our vet sent us a bouquet of beautiful and fragrant flowers with a sympathy card expressing her shared sadness for the death of Freckles.
The seemingly omnipresent and exquisite scent of the lillies has Liv wondering which part of the flower contains recepticles for the fragrance. Although we've done some research online, we have been unable to pinpoint the exact location of....well, the smelly part.

Liv has taken to doing her own scientific inquiry into the floral scent glands....
And has been coming up with her own hypothesis...
Which Briar has been testing by sniffing her face.

At this point, they have agreed that the smell from a flower does not reside in the pollen.

2010-04-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo from BitchNewYork

I have realized through my recent, brief and unsuccessful foray into the world of widowed dating that I am most definately not looking for Jeff. It is not that I am measuring how certain men stand up to the man that Jeff was. It's that I am looking at them through not only my eyes, but Jeff's as well.
Yesterday, as I stood in line at the bank, I furtively checked out a spiky haired, bad-ass in a leather jacket. "Yummy...", my inner voice whispered. "Yeah and check out his studded ass!!!", my 'inner Jeffrey' bellowed with mirth in reference to the bejeweled rivets decorating curliqued crucifixes on the man's back pockets.
Hmmmm....Now that Jeff pointed out these...uber-embellished buttocks, I couldn't help but also notice the overdone and excessive use of flaming skulls on his motorcycle helmet clutched in his hand.
I realize that Jeff's 'voice' is also my own, but it is with the remembered view of Jeff's world that causes me to see these guys as he would and choose my action accordingly.
I'd not looking for Jeff (he was one of a kind); I'm just hoping to find someone that Jeff wouldn't refer to in derogatory terms....such as 'Mr. Fancy Pants'.
And, yes, I know I shouldn't judge a man by the copious amount of rhinestones on his pockets....but, occasionally, Jeff and I do.

happenings.....

2010-04-13T13:39:00.000-07:00

I haven't really written what has been occurring in our little house since Freckles hasty departure. We're having a hard time without him. I have trouble sleeping because I seem to feel the need to be the one listening at night for intruders, fire, chicken-hungry raccoons, undetected ice-encrusted meteorites on a high speed course for our home, etc.

I would immediately head out and find ourselves another bundle of furry love if we only knew where we would be living and if another landlord would allow the presence of a four-legged, loving and slobbery security system.

This lack of knowing where we will be in three months has vexed me completely. I don't like instability. I abhor the unknown when it comes to living conditions and food supplies. Call me crazy.

So in a generally terrible mood caused by lack of sleep due to the non-dog status of our home and a houseful of energetic and seemingly rabid children, I did not mince my words when the landlord called to announce her plans to contact the realtor in the morning. After she inquired about my general mood and the happenings in our little home, I answered in an frustrated montone, "Well..... I'm not looking forward to moving. I can't decide whether to plant my garden or not as I don't know if I'll be here to reap the harvest. I'm attempting to put together a garage sale and can't find an affordable house to rent.....And the dog died."

I admit that it felt truly wonderful to just let go. Tell it how it is. To hell with polite empathy and consideration. In that moment, I just felt the need to pour it out. I'm not usually the person to do this. I attempt to find some small kernel of justification for the other party. I put my needs aside. I won't mention it if I feel upset....or if I do, it will be so watered down by my need to not upset you, you may not hear my tiny protestation hidden in my words. (In fact, I was once having a conversation with a very sweet older woman on the street. Unprovoked, her ~~insane and blood-thirsty~~ dog latched onto my leg with it's teeth peeling back my skin through my jeans. For the time that the ~~psychotic~~ dog stayed attached to the back of my knee, I struggled to continue talking without clenching my own teeth as I spoke. I stoically attempted to not limp away as I departed lest I alert her to the blood now trickling into my shoe.....Anyhow, long story short, I didn't want to upset or embarass her so I didn't tell her of the stress her ~~fucked-up~~ dog was causing me.)

My landlord apologized and again explained that there would soon be a sign on the front lawn and the realtor would be contacting me to take photos of the house. After I hung up, I threw myself into a fit. Wailing and crying, I took mental stock of all the very worst things that could happen next in the kids and my lives. I told myself that at eighty years old I'll be working in a rat-infested fastfood joint ensuring that each ice cream has the signature curl at the top. Liv will be strutting her stuff outside in some article of clothing that does not even contain the same amount of fabric that her "Little House" dress has in its' sleeve. Briar will be too busy to notice some creepy, comb-over tressed, middle-aged man in a station wagon approach her since he is staring into the depths of his golden testicle emblazoned monster truck's hood wondering why it isn't sucking up even more gasoline through the enormous engine and out the ludicrously huge tailpipes thus allowing the people five blocks away to be alerted that he is here to assuage all their mind-altering illicit medication needs. It was a dark night. A sleepless and horrible night. I went through a lot of kleenex....I didn't even attempt the handkerchiefs.

Anyhow....First thing in the morning, the phone rang. I was tempted to ignore it after realizing that the number was again the landlord's - the bearer of terrifying and sorrow-filled news (yes, a tad dramatic). But I did answer it....It seems that she too had an entirely sleepless night. She had been a single mother as well. She did not want to cause anymore unnecessary fear or financial hardship upon us, if possible. She told me that if she can find someone to replace the deck and do some minor repairs for less than had been quoted, she will keep the house....And allow me to rent for longer.

*To recap - She has told me that she would be selling the house, then that she wouldn't, then she would, now she might not......*

I am hopeful and annoyed and touched and frustrated. I so appreciate her thinking of me and the kids. I am so amazed and touched that she is struggling with her decision because she does not want to cause us any more upset. I could hug her and croon softly in her ear for this. I may even kiss her on the mouth!

But, Thor Almighty!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I feel like a gnat on a yo-yo string. I'm going insane....faster than I was before. I don't know whether I should pack, get a dog or advertise my free chickens.

ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

P.S. Briar now rides a two wheeler and sports a mohawk....

uses for a dog

2010-04-09T21:17:00.000-07:00

I come from a 'non-dog family'. It's not that anyone in my family dislikes dogs; it's more that they don't....know dogs. Dogs are seen as more work. Work to pay for their care. Work to clean up after. Work to pay attention to.

Growing up, I wanted a dog so unbearably I would have shovelled literal mountains of their 'lawn chocolates', gone into child labour at a toxic plastics factory to pay for their kibble or stolen someone's beloved canine from their fenced yard and claimed that it followed me home willingly just to spend a few hours pretending this dog was 'mine'.

When visiting my father's parents, who were dog-people, I'd walk their black, toy-poodle, Cindy, with my tiny chest puffed with smug pride. I'd rejoice when a passerby would stop to ask questions about this tiny pup. Pretending Cindy was mine made me feel loved. I could imagine, almost taste, what it would feel to be so very loved by an animal.

I gloried in tales about all things canine. I studied dog-care books, poured over novels with pet puppies hidden in their pages and put myself to sleep fantasizing about having one of my own one day.

When I became an adult, one of my first actions was to find a dog for me. I wanted one who needed me as much as I needed him. I found Eli. Not once did I ever regret having him in my life....not once. When someone would suggest that my life may be easier if I didn't have a hyper, energetic, furry dependent to care for as well as myself, I would teeter between annoyance at the misunderstanding that this dog was perceived as 'not my family' and smug humour knowing that they did not understand the love that this dog fulfilled in my heart.
div>

Years later after Liv had been born, Freckles arrived on our doorstep. Our attempts to find his true and original owners failed. We offered to foster him for the SPCA until his 'people' showed up....They never arrived. During this time, that silly blond worked his way into our home and our hearts. He was forever at our heels...or stopping in just the spot you intended to walk. He filled a hole we didn't even know was waiting for him....even if he chewed that hole while we were out.

Now, for the very first time in my adult life, I am without a canine companion. In the last few days since Freckles passing, I have noticed all the things that a dog is 'good for'. I've realized that although he occasionally often drove me nuts, Freckles was always on my mind. Dictating the time we were needed at home to let him out. Determing how many plastic bags lined my pockets to pick up his 'deposits'. Causing me to fall back to sleep reassured when I've heard a strange noise in the night.

Tonight as I picked up the wayward dinner dandruff off the floor for the first time in 17 years, I mentally made a resume of sorts for a household dog:

Career Objectives

To obtain 'employment' in a warm, safe, active and well-fed pack

Skills

Security - Not only can I alert you to any out-of-the-ordinary occurrances, I can protect you should the need arise. Just as you protect me from the elements and from starvation, I will protect you from any harm that I am capable of fending off.

In my presence, you will feel more comfortable and secure. You will know that in a room of judges, I will find you innocent no matter what you have done.

Sleep-Aid - My soft snoring throughout the night will assure you that all is well. When you rouse from your sleep to get a glass of water or check the locks, I will accompany you. You will know that if I am asleep, all is well.

Maid - Although some of us do have moments in our lives where we display our joy or discomfort with acts of destruction, most of us earn a portion of our keep by joining the clean-up crew. If a portion of your meal, be it a plateful or a measly crumb, drops to the floor, I will clean it up without any insistence from you. In my presence, you will never have to tidy up the baby's attempts at a career in food fighting. You do enough for us, I'll take care of it.
Heater - Whether the power goes out or you get stuck in a snowbank, I'll be there with my warm, wiggly body to keep you comfortable. I'll reassure you with my warm kisses that it'll be alright, because we are together. Nothing can hurt us, or freeze us, with me at your side.

Clown - I have a fabulous sense of humour. You may not be laughing as you turn to see me with my four paws splaying against the slippery wood on the dock with the last reachable line clenched between my teeth as the boat floats three metres from the pier....But you will later.

Counsellor - Over our time spent as a pack, you will unfortunately have to deal with some form of heart ache. I take it as my personal quest to be your confidante, counsellor and shoulder. I will tell no one of your humiliations, failures or heartbreaks. In fact, I will view each one of these episodes as triumphs. In my eyes, you can do no wrong....ever.

Expected Wages

In payment for my devotion, loyalty and love, I ask for only a few small things in return. Food, a bed, companionship and love. I am willing to share these with you - I am the sharing type.

The work that some complain of in the care of a dog is really in their own heads and of their own preference...I couldn't care less if you clean up my fur. It actually makes the floor softer. I don't mind if there is poop in the backyard - It IS outdoors afterall! I know that you will find that you may want to take care of these issues....I'll keep you company, I promise. It's the whole lack-of-opposable-thumb-thing that is hindering my abilities. Don't hold my disability against me, please.....

**This post contains photos of all the dogs in our lives....Although Eli and Freckles are gone to be with their 'daddy', the rest of our furry friends are alive and well to play with when we can. Thank you Cedar, Rufus, Diesel and Gangster for your licks and loving! We love you right back....

turning tables

2010-04-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo by Mike_Rowe1

Also posted on Widow's Voice

I'm sure that every widow/er has done it....Wondered if their spouse would have 'managed' had the tables been turned. Pondered over the differences that their loss would have created rather than their spouse's.
Jeff was known for his laughter...Would it have returned?
Would he still be sleeping with our little ones tucked up in our bed each night, two years after my death?
Would he have fulfilled his physical needs in the arms of another by now?
Would he worry about his abilities as a grieving parent or still feel his trademark confidence?
Would he need to learn to rebuild his definition of himself without the constant reflection I provided him? Or would he just still know?
Would he have gone back to work on the sea, leaving our kiddos in the care of someone else? Or would he devote every second of every day to them?
Would he still feel a palpable hole in his heart where I once resided, years after my passing?
Would he talk about me or shy from voicing the memories?
Would he be coping better than I am?
Would he succeed where I have failed....or fail where I have succeeded?

I will never know how he would have reacted....Just as I could have never know before losing him, how I would fare after his death. But at times, I do wonder.

goodbye, my friend

2010-04-08T02:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, Freckles went to be with his big brother and his 'Daddy'. We will, and do already, miss him.
Even in such illness and pain, he managed to thump his long and hairy tail a few times for each person who entered the vet clinic as we waited for his turn to be released from his body. He was a true lover of all.
His constant companionship has been such a comfort. Although I have found immense annoyance in his special way of displaying his sadness with the loss of Jeff and Eli, I am surprised to find that I also found solace and respect in his choice to do so. He did what I have been unable to do. He effectively protrayed his pain despite anyone's else's discomfort or raging anger with the execution of this portrayal. That takes balls... (which he no longer had, I might add). Although I don't feel that I have the luxury of falling to pieces with each and everyone of this home's occupants relying on me, he fell to pieces for both of us and announced our sadness and anxiety.
I find that in the loss of our sweet boy with not a single bone of mean in his body, I am afraid and cannot sleep. Since 18, I have always had a dog to hear the sounds outside after dark for me and announce something out of the ordinary needing inspection. And although Freckles would have assisted any burglar in his transportation of any valuable items from our house, I do not believe he would ever have allowed harm to come to his children.
It seems that the noises in the night that I had always just assumed were of the large and furry variety, and as such, provided me with some comfort of not being alone, were not the dog. The house feels empty and soulless. The kids and I haven't gone downstairs asside from letting the chickens in for the night. Liv used to insist that Freckles accompany her to the basement (or bathroom, or outside, etc...) to assuage her little fears of burglars and bogeymen. It seems that I will have to now escort her to every bathroom visit or romp in the backyard....Unfortunately, I won't be able to do it so unquestioningly or patiently.
Damn it, Freckles! First you destroy the house, then you wreck your body and now you leave a hole in our hearts...Damn it.
I do love you.....and I so hope you know it. You're a good boy, Freckles. You're a good boy.

guilt and sadness

2010-04-07T10:06:00.000-07:00

This guilt I'm feeling is enormous. The hours and days that I have spent being angry with Freckles for destroying the house. All he wanted was to be close. He has been afraid and lost without Eli and Jeff.
As always, he has laid beside Liv's bed while she slept offering calm reassurance to her that all is okay in her world. He has patiently allowed Briar to sit on his back while staring balefully ahead waiting for the little boy's dismount. Freckles has waited each night until the kids have fallen asleep and then lumbered out to lay by my feet while I work at sewing dresses or typing out some new observation only to return to Liv's beside when I retire for the night. His devotion to me and kids has been tireless and gentle.
In the last few weeks, he has stopped tormenting the chickens. I had thought he had gotten used to their pecking and clucking as he laid in the grass with his rubber chicken squeaking in his jaws. Apart from removing the contents of the garbage can and displaying them upon the kitchen floor last week, he has ceased his destruction of all doorways and windows within the house. I had assumed that his medication was working....or that he was getting used to the fact that Eli was not going to bound in the door ready for another play with his buddy. I am horrified that these developments that pleased me were possibly or probably the effects of him battling cancer.
Last week, while Liv was on a playdate and Briar was at preschool, he had accompanied me for a run. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to complete the circuit....We stopped beside a waterfall, sat on the rocks and I sobbed with his head in my lap. I was missing Jeff, Eli, my grandfather....I had no idea that I would soon be missing Freckles as well.
For all my sermons on remembering to notice the little things, loving the ones who love us back and looking forward, I missed the point. I noticed the obvious but was oblivious to the quiet, little things. I have taken our little poultry killer for granted. I have used terrible curse words as adjectives accompanying his name. I have occasionally thought of him as a burden rather than a gift.
All he wanted was my love. And I do. I did. I just forgot to pay attention to it.
I love you, Freckles. And I loved you even before you laid on the kitchen floor, puffing your breath with pain-filled gasps, and needing me to hold the water bowl for you as you attempted to get a few drops down your throat.
It is agony to watch this descent. We have to wait for the test results to be sure that this is what has so quickly and silently ravenged his soft, fluffy body. I am hoping they hurry. I need to help him be comfortable....I need to know what I can do to ease his pain. Our poor puppy.....
"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard." ~A.A. Milne (Winnie the Pooh)

flip-flop crazy f-n life

2010-04-06T17:57:00.000-07:00

I wrote that the landlord was selling the house. I had started to write a post in which the landlord called to say she had decided NOT to sell the house and how this both pleased me and pissed me off. I was overjoyed that the kids and I didn't have to move, but frustrated over the ridiculous amount of sleepless nights, crying jags and flow charts her inital declaration had caused.

But then, alas, another call....She IS selling the house. A fickle creature my landlord is appearing to be. Fuck.

Now after a impromtu trip to the vet, it appears that Freckles has lymphoma. He may have between 30-60 days to live....or less. I'll know more on Thursday evening.....

Fuck. If I believed in such stuff, I'd think that some asshole deity had a hit out on me and mine....Welcome to my snowglobe.

powerless life

2010-04-03T14:54:00.000-07:00

I'd like to purchase a hand-crank blender. Get rid of all my electrically power appliances. Use a rotary dial phone.
We've had a windstorm here. Large tree limbs and plant debris litter all the roads. It smells like Christmas outdoors due to the snapped pine boughs. The power has been intermittent and all the home appliances have been silenced.
Liv has been in heaven. She and Briar all perpetually begging to have candlelit dinners, olden days evenings and scheduled time to unplug every electric convenience. Each time the power has been restored, Liv has groaned and sighed despairingly, "Ahhhhhhhhhh....I was hoping it would stay off for ten days!!!!!"
I have to admit that although the laundry hamper has been suffering from the weight of its' overly abundant load, I have been enjoying the silence. The lack of 'need to's. The pondering that takes place while washing the floor on my hands and knees rather than with a steam mop. The reconnection with my home. The time spent being present in my house while not being entertained with electronic devices. The satisfaction and joy felt when helping the elderly neighbour repair his fence. The enjoyment felt when playing 'Hi-Ho Cherrio' on the kitchen floor with the kids or playing hide-and-seek in the backyard (with the time I would have been studying status updates on Facebook).
In all honesty, I had thought that we were pretty 'unevolved' in this sense. Although we have a computer and a dishwasher, we do not have a Wii, a breadmaker or even, cable tv.
I make our laundry soap. I scrub the soap scum from the bath using Bon Ami and elbow grease instead of the tempting and toxic sprays that foam and lift all organic material...even skin from your hands. I feed the chickens our leftovers and compost the rest.
But really, I'm just barely scratching the surface of self-sustainability.
I have found the frequent power-outages of late have caused me to work hard....with my body. I am reminded of the satisfaction of making something myself....instead of having a machine provide it for me. I have stilled my thoughts and quieted the worries without the sounds of the dryer, the fridge, the vacuum all humming in the background.
This all has me thinking about solar tank heaters, larger veggie gardens and more 'family time'. The need and happiness found within our communities. The ability to be found within ourselves to provide food for our families. The satisfaction in being able to 'do it ourselves'.

P.S. Check out this podcast with Cam Mather - pretty cool and informative!!!

lost and found

2010-04-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo by Nullalux

I often can't help but thinking that I have mourned each facet of the loss of my love at least once. Each sad thought, each emotion explored or mulled over for its' initial contemplation. I feel that often times, I am going over previously pondered thoughts and ruminating. Picking apart and reassembling.
When I find a grief spot that I had not touched out of avoidance or by simply not being at that 'stage' yet, I am surprised. New territory can be terrifying and lonely.
As I get farther down this widows timeline, there are far fewer of these new frontiers and I now know where to look and turn for support when they arrive. I am pleased that there are less new ones....but I find that rethinking previously explored territory is often deeper and more thorough.
Although there are books, other widows and theories to act as a rudimentary compass, there are no maps for this journey. We each have to decide our own path to the destination known as 'peace'.
I just really hope that my revisiting of old places does not signal that my trail is going in circles!

wordless Wednesday

2010-03-31T20:42:00.000-07:00

felted wool Easter eggs

2010-03-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

For the last few years, the kids and I have been making felted wool eggs and chicks to give for gifts at Easter time. As a gift to anyone who has wondered how to make these little sugar-free Eastery-goodness, I've decided to do a bit of a tutorial on them. (I say 'bit of a tutorial' as I am sure that after I have written it out, I will realize that there is some bit of information lacking....If not or if you have questions, please don't hestitate to leave a comment mentioning what I have left out. I'll try to fill in any blanks!)

****Although they are relatively easy to make, kids do need help and supervision as you will be dealing with HOT water for the wet felting of the eggs and sharp needles when we get to the creation of chicks/ducklings****

Materials

30 cm (12") Wool roving (in the desired colour for your egg shell)

Plastic egg (We use refillable 8cm tall plastic ones from the dollar store taped closed)

Hot water (large bowl or sink full)

Cold Water (large bowl or sink full)

Dish Soap

Rubber Gloves (These are to allow you to handle the hot water more easily without burning yourself)

Xacto knife or rotary cutter

Fill one sink/bowl with very hot water and one with cold water.

Put on rubber gloves.

Wrap the wool roving around the plastic egg.

Holding the wool wrapped egg firmly to prevent the wool from slipping off, generously squirt dish soap onto the wool/egg.

Gently dip the wool covered egg in the hot water to dampen it and bring it back out of the water.

Start squeezing the water/soap into the wool. Turn the egg as you go, but be careful to not 'slide' the wool around on the egg or allow it to fall off.

Dip the egg in the hot water occasionally to keep it hot enough to shrink while you squeeze.

The wool should start to tight-up and hold it's place on the egg. As it does, you can add some more soap to make it 'slippy'.

As long as the wool has begun to hold its' shape, you can start rubbing the egg gently (rather than squeezing) in small circular motions.

Alternate between the hot and cold water as you rub to add in the constriction of the wool.

When the wool is suitable hard and tight against the egg, rinse out as much soap as you can by dipping in fresh water.

When rinsed, squeeze out the excess water and let it dry. (You can also use a towel to blot out water to aid in the drying.)

After a few hours, use the Xacto knife or rotary cutter to carefully cut a zig-zag line in the side of the egg. Only cut this line 2/3 around the egg as the intact portion will act as a 'hinge'.
Yahoo!!!!! A wool egg!!!! I'll do the chick/duckling in another post.....

fantabulous phrases

2010-03-28T17:42:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, there are times that my children's words and questions could drive me to force my pale blue 'mommy-van' off the road and over some fabulously steep cliff. As I am forced to listen to the halting and wordy speech of my children, I occasionally fantasize about raising my arms above my head, grabbing fistfuls of my PTA-mom 'do and tearing it out while singing the theme song to the "Smurfs" at the top of my lungs in an opera singer's voice. When having to hear the full and extended play-by-play of some seemingly small encounter of my daughter's replete with a variety of sighs, huge pauses and extremely intricate detail, I dissect my day, make plans and could quite possibly invent a cure for the common wart.

Although most often, I adore the conversations we have and find them endlessly thought provoking and entertaining, there are times that it is too much. Too much noise. Too much thought. Too many questions.

I need to remind myself that all too soon my sweet, loquacious little ones who are so full of wonder and amazement with the world around them will be transformed into sullen and all-knowing teenagers who quite possibly despise my very existence. They'll angrily stare out the window of my horribly uncool 'van of mininess' and attempt to devise a believeable story with which to convince their uber-hip friends that they were hatched from an egg and were, in fact, no relation of mine. Brooding over their wrathful amazement that a creature of such extreme coolness such as themselves could have been created within the walls of my loser-ish uterus, they will cease to converse with me.

So, in an attempt to remind myself of the need to enjoy the voices of my spawn, I have created a list. A list of all my favourite and loved phrases and questions that my children utter on a regular basis. When my little ones are older and hyper aware of my shortcoming as a parent/woman/human, I will refer to this list and think with fondness of the tales they once told me, the questions they asked me (when I still knew a thing or two) and the love they expressed.

"You're the BEST mama ever." I am aware that this is a lie, but it still feels DAMN good to hear.....

"I love you, Mama/Olivia/Briar." It goes without saying that I have a fondness for hearing that my children hold me in high regard. But I adore hearing my kids express their love of one another....I am hoping that this love will continue throughout their lives and that I will never watch helplessly as Liv chases Briar down the street wielding a paring knife...

"Can I go outside and play?" Anytime my children express a desire to be out of doors, I feel the need to do a jaunty little jig. In my mind, kids belong outside - getting mucky, playing with sticks, throwing rocks (when I'm not looking), carting around poultry, riding bikes, doing cartwheels, creating forts and fairy houses, etc.

"Why do _____ ?" When questioned by my kiddos about some scientific phenomenon, math equation, reading rule, etc., I am filled with joy for their desire to learn and be inquisitive. As they grow, not only do they learn and mature, so do I. It is a symbiotic relationship. Things I would have never questioned or conceived are examined and dissected. Their joy in the thrill of life around is contagious and I adore watching as they are filled with this zest for knowledge and understanding.

"Did you know that ____?" Like the phrase above, I enjoy hearing what the kids have learned or experienced when they are without me. I feel joy in knowing that they trust me to listen passively and fully to their observations. To find interest in their experiences. To join in their curiousity.

"No cake/candy/pop for me, please." Ahhhhh. I feel success in hearing my children know their limits and ability to listen to their body's signals. I am often unable to do this myself (I am known for eating an entire bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips in an evening), so it is especially amazing to see my children decipher their own feelings of wellness and health.

"Can we have a family day today?" Yay!!!! For now, they still want to be in my presence!!!! I'll soak it up for now and hope for the best in the future....Maybe my coolness quotient will grow or they will be nerds themselves and will find all things 'dork' to be comforting and fabulous? A mother can dream, right????

I'll attempt to hold off on the self-induced alopecia, the operatic theme song singing and the cliff diving for now and enjoy all the longggggg and little things they have to tell me. For I may have many years to ruminate in silence in the future.....

P.S. Much of what I have written here is tongue-in-cheek....;)

here chick chick

2010-03-27T08:02:00.000-07:00

We've started another batch of incubated eggs. One dozen. From previous experience I've realized that a dozen eggs could potentially make twelve chicks, but it is DECIDEDLY unlikely.
In the past, our incubator has only produced a very small flock of birds that have lived beyond their first breaths and an even smaller percentage that have remained with us here on the "Chandler Chicken Farm". Many began to 'cock-a-doodle' rather than 'cluck'. (In fact, out of 13 chicks that we have either hatched out or bought as day-olds, 9 have been roosters!!!!! My math isn't great but that does not seem to be 50/50....) The poor little chicks/ducklings that have not made it after their daylong struggle to free themselves from the confines of their little eggs, have suffered between the overly eager jaws of ~~Fuckles~~ Freckles in a scene that is what I would imagine could be witnessed in a poultry horror movie.
This time, we're hoping to hatch out some Barred Plymouth Rock Bantams like our dearly departed Sarah.
My obsession with all things poultry and my absolute inability to maintain any amount of willpower make it close to impossible to stop myself from candling the eggs even now - five days after the eggs have been placed into the 'bator. The kids and I become obsessed with catching glimpses of our little chicks through the egg with a bright light, but each time the eggs are removed from the incubator, it lessens the likelihood of a great hatch.
So today, Liv and I found a fabulous site that gives us a look into what should be going on in our little eggs. Right now, our babies look like this:

Photo by Chicken Embryo Development

And even though only five days have gone by, the chicks have been hard at work growing a nervous system, a tongue, sex organs, etc. In only sixteen days, we will HOPEFULLY have a few little fluff balls to check out and marvel at the amazing work that Mother Nature is capable of doing! Follow along! We'll let you know if ~~Fuckles~~ another avian massacre....

Jeff, his Boy and his Bean

2010-03-26T08:39:00.000-07:00

deux ans

2010-03-26T05:00:00.000-07:00

Photo by My Own Worst Nightmare

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Deux ans. Two anniversaries of the day I lost my huge, hairy and hilarious husband.
I've learned so very much in these two short years. A lifetime of lessons. Lessons I didn't really want to know.
I now know that although I did not think in those first few hours, days and months, that I would survive, I did. I breathed each breath with a sob. I grudgingly ate each meal. Each movement was filled with melancholy and loss. So the first 11 months, I call 'survival'.
The first anniversary of Jeff's death was painful, exhausting and anticlimatic. I had hoped that once I had conquered this date that things would be easier. But although I had lost the hollow and vacant stare and I could remember to feed myself, I could not for the life of me figure out how I was going to live again. But I shuffled forward. The first year was about 'coping'.
Now, as I enter my second year alone, I realize that although life continues to be different and harder than it was before Jeff's body ceased to exist, it is easier than the first anniversary. The mourning is less new and raw. I am stronger, more capable and so able to laugh.
So although this new year may be only about 'hoping', it is a big step. A colossal step towards the time when I can start 'living' again.

this day

2010-03-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, this day was a Tuesday.

For the morning, I was married.

Well before noon, my kids had two parents.

But by 10:30 am, life as we knew it was shattered. Broken and irrepairable.

I will never know again life as it was before this day two years ago...And I will forever be scarred and lost without the love of my life.

I miss you, my Baby Pumpkin. I miss you. No words seem sufficient in describing the void that has been left since you've gone. So, I miss you and hope that somewhere out there, you know....and you miss me right back.

I love you the whole pie for eternity.....

tiny bubbles of bliss

2010-03-23T20:27:00.000-07:00

The warm sun shining on the kitchen floor. A radiant rainbow glowing on the wall. The first ladybug I've seen this Spring. The chickens industriously scratching in the garden alongside me. Glorious fresh air in the kids hair. Listening to them giggle as they play in the mud in barefeet.

There are times that these things mean nothing. Times that I could pass these moments without notice. Without a glance or a grin.

But today, I felt joy. Luxurious and silly bubbles of happiness as I pondered the rainbow in the hall, walked away and returned with my camera to document this moment of bliss.

This week is not one that I will enjoy for the rest of my life. First Jeff's birthday, then the day he died only nine days after. But, strangely, and almost guiltily, I felt happiness today. It surged through me and brought peace. I felt quiet. I felt full.

So this week, as the loss of my love is felt so strongly, I may have to pull out the pictures of these pockets of pleasure and be reminded that there is still joy, wonder and love....It's just not always where I expect it to be.

signs of Spring

2010-03-21T23:22:00.000-07:00

Since Liv attended preschool at the age of three with our beloved Marylou, she is always on the hunt for "Signs of Spring". She has given many a child grief for destroying or harming a perceived 'sign'. Consequently, I too am always on the look-out for things that are Spring-like to show my little Bean. I can't wait to show her this tomorrow morning!!

which way did he go?

2010-03-19T05:00:00.000-07:00

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Jeff's birthday was on the 16th. The kids and I performed our birthday tradition of making him a blueberry pie. As per Liv and Briar's directions, we lit a candle and stood on the back deck waiting for him (aka the wind) to blow it out. After a few minutes, the kids 'helped' him and blew it out themselves.
It broke my heart to watch them standing there expectantly cheering him on. "Come on, Daddy! You can do it! Blow it out!"
It's moments like this that I so wish that there was a manual to which I could refer. I don't know if I should just follow their lead with their beliefs surrounding death or if I should guide them to some more socially acceptable (and adult) way of dealing with their daddy's loss.
They find comfort in their beliefs. They seem to 'know' what happened to him....moreso than I do. It is with such conviction that Liv believes he is always with us. Always here to share our joy, our pain, our experiences. With staunch stubbornness, Briar declares that Jeff found some joke hilarious or some movement amazing. He tells us amazing tales of the adventures that Jeff has now been on, where his boat has sailed and who worked as crew aboard.
I have become accustomed to their stories of the life that Jeff is now leading without his physical body. I, too, find some amount of comfort in hearing that he is still 'out there'.
But to others less versed in "Death according to Two Small Children", I wonder if they find these declarations shocking or, even, blasphemous.
Until I find the answers to my own questions or until I know which way to guide them, I don't think I'm in the position to be able to 'tell' anyone where we go after our bodies cease to function. So, the three of us will just follow where this journey leads us....and in the end, we'll know who was 'right'....

s'more....

2010-03-17T20:41:00.001-07:00

I've added a few dresses to my shop! I have some more on the sewing table ready to be put together. I am LOVING the bright colours and patterns of some of the fabrics I've found hidden in my stash...I'm trying to prevent myself from buying anymore fabric until I've used up a sizeable portion of my fabric horde.
Next up, will be some short-sleeved Spring dresses....

life in the snowglobe

2010-03-16T14:08:00.001-07:00

Do you ever feel that you and your family are little statuettes frozen in some preposterously joyous pose in a liquid filled orb? You look gleeful and happy with snow resting at your feet....Then some ass comes along and shakes the bloody thing up for the thrill it gives them of seeing you obliterated by pseudo-snow....

Then, just as calm is restored and happiness begins to infuse itself into the world again, that inconsiderate ass-face does it again!

I am sure that many people feel this way. That life is not all sunshine and rainbows. Jujubes and jellybeans. It's chaotic and crazy and filled with fake white stuff.

But I think I live my life waiting for a lull. A calm to infuse itself into my everyday. A relaxation that marks the beginning of my 'life'.

But until the shaker of the snowglobe gets better cable tv or finds itself with a new hobby, I must inevitably come to terms with the fact that imitation blizzards are a part of everyone's life....even the households that look as if Spring and Summer follow their every move and that their snowglobe has been hidden in a box in the back of a closet.

*Thank you, Hayley, for the metaphor!!!! xox

scented squishiness!

2010-03-13T19:36:00.000-08:00

Over the years of our homeschooling adventure, we've bought our toys, educational items and craft supplies from a variety of sources. One of our absolute favourites has been Natural Pod. The kids and I LOVE this online store!

Recently, Bridgitte from Natural Pod gave us a complimentary set of their newest product - Mama K's Play Clay, to try out. This natural and even gluten-free dough is filled with the scent of AMAZING essential oils:

lavender - to soothe

bergamot - for tension

sweet orange - to uplift

geranium - to balance

lemongrass - to inspire

Liv favourite was the lavender. I adored the lemongrass (if truth be told, I would have loved to create two little nostril shaped balls to hold in my nose all day long....Odd, yes, but it smells divine!!....Although the green colour may have not been very attractive for nasal embellishment!) When asked which was Briar's favourite, he declared that each one in turn was his chosen....They are just all so good!

Anyhow, we spent a good portion of the afternoon creating....First, boats with toothpick masts, a variety of food shapes and then for the piece de resistance, we created a rainbow-hued family of slugs (of which the 'directions' Liv is hoping to post on her blog - Stay tuned!)

I loved how soft the dough stayed all afternoon. My hands felt smooth, moisturized and smell STELLAR after we had retired our new favourite molding material.

Thanks so much, Bridgitte and Natural Pod, for the afternoon of heavenly scented, gastropod shaped fun!!!!

the little things

2010-03-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

Also posted on Widow's Voice

It's the 'little things' can that drive you mad or madly in love.
The way his jaw clicks when he chews. Or the way he tucks your hair behind you ear as he assures you that it will be okay.
The way he feels compelled to tell you how to solve a problem when you're venting. Or the way he stares at you from across the room with a smile touching his lips and you know without words that he loves you.
It's those little things that hold you together - a pair. The little secrets. The little stories. The little comforts.
When your love is gone, dead but certainly not forgotten, those 'little things' sometimes remain.
Today, I found one of those little things....tucked into one of my books. One of the hidden messages that we'd hide for each other to be found at some unknown later date.
And it reminds me that it's the little things that can soothe a soul. Mend a heart. Dry a tear.
So today, I'll do some little thing. And maybe it'll make a difference...to someone some time.

you were mine

2010-03-03T15:32:00.000-08:00

You were mine.
I am yours.

Until this body,
marked by the love you laid upon it,
In every fold,
The softened belly,
Stretched skin,
Withers,
and in this frailty
Falls and follows you.

Only then,
no longer will I be...yours.
It will be past.
But with you,
In you,
Through you,
I’ll be.

I’ll wait.
A shadow.
Your shadow.
I’ll trail behind you.
A dark ribbon.

But you were mine.
And I am yours.

computer woes and wonders

2010-03-02T08:03:00.000-08:00

I strongly dislike (I'd say HATE but I am trying to get out of the habit...) Webkinz, Disney Fairies and all things computer that seem to zap child's wonderful imaginations all in the name of profit. I do think that Webkinz are marketing genius and that the makers must be millionaires. I think I would be less offended if they would just sell the bloody little code that goes along with the petroleum laden stuffie instead of attaching it to this dust collecting, mess inducing, piece of 'stuff'.

Anyhow, I prefer my children to hand THEIR dog some kibble than to feed some strangely awkard moving virtual dog that pants more than it should. I would rather that they create a little wee folk fairy out of pipe cleaners and wool felt than moving these disturbingly posed fairies through some cyber forest. I'd rather they create a wonderful and imaginative story of their own than follow along with some prescribed plot-line made by some balding adult in a suit driving a Beemer while trying to decide how best to hook little girls to their product.

But sometimes, my kids like to create and use their own imaginations and sense of wonder on this machine that I use far too often. Without this chunk of plastic, electronic devices and software, they would be unable to know all the wonders of space travel, worm reproduction and taste buds so quickly and easily...before the interest has waned. They would end up taking up space standing in the line at the bank far more often than they do. We wouldn't know of the most recent tour of the museum and the exhibit that is offered.

So although I will continue to despise the time Liv spends consorting with a middle-aged marketing man's version of what fairies look like, or moving the cyber replica of the stuffie that seems overly prone to hold onto the scent of last night's dinner, I will take the good with the bad and enjoy the adventures we embark upon while 'surfing' the net. I will giggle at the creations she 'draws' on Paint and read the stories she creates on Word with wonder. The good with the bad. The woes with the wonder.

the bomb

2010-02-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

Image from Heberger

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Occasionally, I will meet a stranger in a line-up or a clerk at the store who notices my oft-perceived masculine purchase of a hammer, a litre of oil or a case of beer. Sometimes, people standing closeby will make a comment about my husband and how lucky he is that I'm buying him this case of beer, picking up the oil or replacing this hammer.

When Jeff first died, these comments hurt. They broke me. They reminded me, as if I needed it, that he was gone. Dead. And I was alone.

I felt hurt and angered at these people. I wanted to scream at them that they were not only sexist but insensitive and nosy. So I'd just simply say, "My husband is dead."

They'd stare at me in shock and search my face for signs of jest. I'd stare back with tears streaming down my face wishing they could understand and hating them for not.

Now, I actually find some form of morbid humour in shaming these people into submission. I find it amusing to watch the horror, embarassment and guilt cross their face. I know I shouldn't enjoy it. But it is kind of....funny.

I don't wear my black veil and dark clothing. I think my eyes have mostly lost their hollow depths. To anyone looking at me, I look like one of them. The 'normal' ones. The intact ones. The married ones. There are no markers to alert someone of the bomb that I carry around. The thing that most people don't want to talk about. Death. Grief. Mourning.

Many people shy from these topics. Steer around these landmines. Avoid discussion of this eventuality.

So when it enters a conversation so abruptly and without forewarning, it's sudden unexpected elephant in the room and no one knows how to remove it.

I find that use of this giant pachydrem to chase away masogynist and preconceived notions is endlessly entertaining.

"What did you do to upset your dog so much that he's on antidepressants? Ha ha ha"

"My husband died."

"Hey Sweetcheeks! Can I buy you a drink?"

"My husband died."

"I am sure your husband will be able to unplug the toilet with this snake in no time flat."

"My husband died."

Dropping the 'bomb' has its' uses and I am finding it so....perfectly perfect that Jeff is still providing laughter and protection to me in death. (Although I realize that this is most likely a cruel and immature way to get my kicks)... Honey, you the BOMB!

Moi

2010-02-24T23:06:00.000-08:00

Do you know who you are?

When I was a teenager, a friend and I would make lists of things we liked and didn't like. It gave us immense pleasure to see in concrete whispers of who we were. Lately, I have begun playing with this pasttime, but in my mind as I drive, have a shower, make scrambled eggs. My new list is slightly different than the lists of old, but equally as fun.

I like the sound that the computer makes when I 'empty' the recycle bin.

I take a certain amount of joy in working my way up to fully hot water in the shower - No cold.

I rescue earthworms...since I was a kid.

I sometimes pretend I'm a spy. I don't do it as often anymore as my kids would blow the cover I REALLY was a spy making my fantasy less realistic.

My hands are really vein-y.

If I could get away with it, I would only eat the icing from a cake. It sents a bad example for other children, though.

If you were to see the record of all the books I get out of the library, you'd think I was extremely well-read and knowledgeable. Unfortunately, I have to return the vast majority of them before I have even opened them. This does not stop me from taking more out.

I am paranoid about consumerism, marketing and advertising. I hate that our brains are constantly being told and sold a line of crap. We are 'sheeple'.

I sometimes pass roadkill and worry that I will be compelled by some unknown force to lick the carcass. Then I wonder what sort of ailments I would then possess.

I dislike it when cats stare into my eyes. I like cats. I like my eyes. I just hate the two together. Creepy.

The idea of 'space' and the universe freak me out. Too big. Too empty or full.

Melons and cucumbers have a similar 'watery grass' flavour to me. I don't like them much.

I adore chopping wood.
Once I find something I like, including toothpaste, I will stick with it until it is discontinued.
I have eaten dogfood. As an adult. To freak out my kids.
I have a thing with numbers. It there is any sort of pattern, I will remember your phone number until the end of time.
I don't think of myself as supersticious but if we get five eggs in one day, I believe it will be a good day.
I love thick socks. Even better are brightly coloured thick socks.
I like it when my nose whistle or my kids talk in their sleep.

fill the void?

2010-02-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

Photo by Always be Cool

Also posted on Widow's Voice

The thought occasionally enters my mind now and then that maybe I should date. I'm lonely. I want someone to talk to. Someone to spend time with. Someone to care about and have care about me. But then, I wonder, am I just looking for Jeff? No one is EVER going to measure up to him. No one is ever going to have his sense of humour, his sexiness, his strength, his gentleness. I don't want to replace him. I know that would never be even remotely possible. And I worry that anyone I find would be exposed as glaringly lacking compared to the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

But I'd love to have someone to hold my hand. Am I too damaged now? How do you date one person when you're still in love with someone else? Would anyone even want to have anything to do with me when I would obviously leave them in a nanosecond if it were possible for my love to return to me? I don't think I would want to be with someone under those circumstances.

I don't think Jeff would want me to live in loneliness for the rest of my life. But what WOULD he want? What is best for the kids? Should I stay solely a mommy and a widow for the rest of my existence...or do I allow myself to feel the comfort of another person. Does this mean that I am less of a wife to Jeff? Does this mean that I am a bad person?

I stare at his picture and weep. I listen to his voice on his messages and attempt to cling to the moment he left it and feel that he would know what I should do. But, it's messed. It's wrong. It's a strange and foreign concept. How do you ask your husband if you should date again?

welcome home Nula

2010-02-15T22:30:00.001-08:00

We've acquired a new chicken .... actually we got her a couple of weeks ago. Her name is 'Nula' which is an Irish name meaning "white shoulder or neck". She is a Transylvanian Naked Neck AKA a Turken.
Although I am SO excited to have such a ~~ugly~~ different looking chicken, I am worried what will happen with me beloved little flock of hens when our home sells. Oh, how I'll miss having my girls to gaze at! Chickens are such good therapy!!
So the house is not on the market yet. The landlady still has to get a realtor in. She just wanted to give me the heads up. It sounds as if she'll list it in June or October. I am hoping for October so I can still get my garden in a grow part of a crop....
I am hoping for a miracle. Maybe I'll win the lottery before the house goes up. Maybe someone will want to invest some money into a rental property with an absolutely fabulous tenant. Who knows?
I am now over the shock somewhat. All I can do is prepare. I am starting to think about which things are unnecessary and don't need to be moved to another home. I am hoping to fill five boxes every week with items for the Sally Ann....But what do I do with Jeff's stuff? I can't let go yet. I am trying. But I am not yet ready. Maybe by June....or October.

stinking flowers

2010-02-12T05:00:00.000-08:00

Also posted on Widow's Voice

When people die, no one really knows what to do. Call? Visit? Send cards, casseroles or flowers?
I can personally say, that most of the above were very much appreciated. In the fog of grief, many of these overtures were not remembered, unfortunately. So, please, don't be offended if the thank-you card never arrives.
The sympathy cards were kind reminders that other people loved Jeff and missed him too. That we were not alone in our grief and that our family and friends were thinking of us.
The food was a lifesaver. My children were fed. There were all sorts of snacks for visitors to graze on. I never once felt the need to go to the store (even if I hadn't been on sedatives to prevent me from having the energy to scream obscenities into the void).
I found it hard after Jeff died to be at the centre of such hubbub and pain. I had difficulty feeling that I was needed to alleviate other's pain and suffering.
Talking on the phone was unbearable. Speaking face to face was often worse.
I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to communicate. I couldn't get out what I needed/wanted to say. And most often, I didn't want to say anything.
But the flowers were lovely....initially. They were thoughtful and generous. The sentiment was kind.
Then I had to water them. It was more than I could remember and wrap my head around. One more thing I had to accomplish with the energy that I didn't have. I'd sit in the chair by the window staring at the flowers that had adorned the church during his funeral. The happy pinks and purples with the vibrant greens. They seemed futile, smug and ridiculous. They screamed at me, "Life goes forward. We are happy, happy, happy flowers." I wanted to yell at them, "Fuck you, you preppy little losers. I hate you." Instead, I threw wadded up wet tissues at them with the vigor of one who despises something so intensely that thought may just blow it to pieces.
Then they began to wilt. And they reminded me that 'everything dies'. They rubbed my nose in the lesson that I had just learned so painfully. Everything is fleeting. Nothing lasts.
I watched as their once oh-so-smug petals fell to the floor. As their leaves turned transparent and brown.
I felt strangely pleased by their deaths. They deserved it for being so fucking joyful. They knew nothing about life and sadness. Had they even been picked yet when Jeff died? Did they even know what pain was?
But then, I eventually got around to feeling that I should clean them up. And I couldn't do it.
Putting away the vases and throwing out the flowers meant that his funeral had happened and he was indeed dead. That time was still marching on. That I was removing the last vestiges marking the loss of his life from our home.
So those bloody flowers stayed for a long time past their past due date....Always reminding me that Jeff was dead. And that things die. And that life sucks.
I eventually threw the flowers in the composter hoping that this would make me feel that they would be reborn in some other fabulous growing green thing. The vases (aka white cheesy grecian vases adorned with fake plastic ribbons) I held onto until last week. I thought I'd feel guilty releasing these icons of his death. But I didn't. He had never seen them....and it was my last 'screw you' to those stupidly joyous giddy buds.
I will never give flowers to someone mourning again. The care, the upkeep, the reminder and the in-your-face optimism is too much for a person in pain.
Instead, I will send a fabulous casserole with no return address so they don't feel that they need to send a bloody thank-you card for something they would have preferred didn't happen.
(Sorry if I sound ungrateful.....just wondering at the reasoning behind this tradition)

bloody hellllllll

2010-02-08T00:05:00.000-08:00

I got a phonecall from the landlord today. She's selling the house.
We moved in here when Liv was four months old. It's our HOME. I can't imagine living elsewhere or having someone else enjoying the basement that Jeff finished or the carport that he closed in.
I am heartbroken. I am terrified. I have no idea where we'll go for such low rent...and how do you rent with a dog, a cat and seven chickens?
Home has been our one constant. Our one security. Now it will be gone. Another connection to Jeff gone. Another tie cut.
I am at a loss. I am so lonely and fearful right now.

fear of losing more

2010-02-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Jeff's gone. I know that. The kids know that. But he is still such an enormous part of every day, every moment, every breath.
He is thought of constantly. Cherished. Missed.
We talk about him multiple times everyday. To feel close to him. To ensure that my children who were so young when their daddy died, exercise those memories so that they are not lost. So that they can remember who their daddy really was....to them.
But I worry about forgetting. In the days after Jeff died, I made pages of 'Jeff'. This list contained everything from his righthandedness, to his favourite beer, to what he wanted to name our babies. These items were concrete. Firm. Easy to sum up.

How do I write lists including the joy with which he would dance or sing, the way his breath on the back of my neck would comfort me or how he made me feel when he held my hand? These things are sensed. Felt.
I wish that they would know the smell of their father. I always told him that he smelled of wood. Or that they could see the ease with which he shovelled ice on the boat.
I am afraid that they will lose him again....or more, if I don't cling to these memories and relive them over and over.
I want them to know him. I want them to remember his love and devotion to them. I want them to feel his strength, joy and kindness within themselves...because he was a truly great man. And he would be so proud of them. As I was of him.