Letters to the Future

Last week I had a blown away moment...

I'm clearing through my study to try and get it in some semblance of order ready for my university studies to recommence this week.  Since it's recycling day, I figure I may as well sort through some old paperwork and textbooks and get them out of the house.

So I begin to consolidate an accordion file Ian was using.  I knew there wasn't much in there and it could be more compactly stored to be sorted through later.

As I'm working through, I find a document envelope labelled "John 2011". 

I open it up to find a collection of letters Ian had written to John over John's first year of life. 

One is undated.  I wouldn't be surprised to find this is from around the time John was born.

One is dated 5 June 2011, the day after Ian and I's wedding, and I can see through the envelope it contains a copy of the menu from the reception.

One is 11 August 2012. Since Ian died June 2012, I’m pretty certain this is 2011, and would be the day John turned six months old.

One is 16 November 2011, around John's 9 month mark.

And one is dated 17 March 2011.  Ian's 46th birthday and the day he got sick.  Knowing Ian, and since he had a copy of the menu for his birthday lunch in advance, there's probably a copy of that in there.

All the letters are sealed, and will remain that way until I give them to John at an appropriate, or needed, time.   Ian was know for his letter writing,  and I have copies of lots of emails where he talks about John to his friends, but it's such a thrill to find letters written specifically TO John.

So as much as a surprise it was to find these letters, it also wasn't a surprise to find them. 

School

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I am working through one of those 'I wish this decision didn't rest solely on me' moments currently.

John has turned three.  And that's when private schools here interview for the start of school at age 5.

I knew that, somewhere in the back of my mind.

But for some reason I thought I had at least six months before I had to think about setting up private primary schooling for John. 

As long as I've lived here, the local primary school was always going to be actively avoided for any children I may have.  After marrying Ian, he and I had planned to move to a different part of town and into a better school zone. Problem solved, kids won't be going to this school.

But obviously that didn't quite go to plan.  

John and I are still in the same house. 

Still in the same school zone. 

So late last year I started to look into private schools in the area, including one that was recommended by a family from our church.  Yep, that one looks good. 

• Strong academics - students are winning scholarships to top level private high schools. 
• Good language teaching program. 
• Very active sports program
• A smaller Christian school with a strong community.

Ticks a lot of the boxes Ian and I had, plus some I added to my list once I knew I was making schooling decisions on my own.  So to the top of the list it goes.

But I really wish the decision wasn't on my own head.

About this time last year I looked at high schools (back to front, I know), but then Ian's mother was actively involved in the selection & decision process.  We agreed on the choice of school, and for the same reasons. 

But she too is no longer here, so I'm making the primary school decision on my own. 

Late last week, I figure it's time to get a move on, so I look online to find out when they may be doing tours and meet and greets for potential families. I find their first newsletter for the year posted, so take a read.

And have a minor panic attack when I read the Principle is currently interviewing families for the 2016 Reception intake.

John's intake.

Once my heart rate slows down, I make a phone call. Thankfully they still have places available for the intake.  We have an interview with the Principle and school tour booked for today.

Now to hope they'll send an offer of enrolment after they meet us...  

Ornamental







Blessings to you, during this difficult time of year for many of us.

I've handled Christmas pretty well since Ian died.  Partly as we'd not really developed/embedded traditions before he passed, partly because I have a very young child who I want to experience and have memories of the childhood magic and joy of the season.

So I bring you my Christmas Eve musing...

Some have a trophy wife; I have an ornamental husband*.

Ian actually hangs on our Christmas tree.  Well, part of him, anyway.

He's up near the top (safer that way, with an active toddler and all).

At our Church's 2012 Christmas community event that we hold in early December, one of the stalls was run by the wife of a Minister from another parish.  Her hobby is glasswork, making jewellery mostly.

But she also makes small amphora for placing a hope or wish in, written on a small piece of paper.
I saw them on her stall, and immediately my mind went to work about Ian’s ashes.   I’d already had some preserved in a glass orb (or as our best man puts it, I’ve turned him into a paperweight), so I asked her if she thought placing some in the amphora would work.  She thought so, and very, very kindly gave me one as a gift.

About a quarter teaspoon of ashes fit into the vial, and I sealed it with some candle wax. 

And so John and I have a new tradition.  For the last two Christmases, we've hung daddy on the Christmas tree.  Ian's still a part of it all, watching over as our son grows in excitement around the season, and as gifts get placed and opened.

I like that.

*full credit for this line has to go to our Minister, and Ian would have absolutely cracked up at it.

Photo: the amphora with Ian's ashes hanging on our tree.

Untouchable

The other day, my 2 1/2 year old found one of Jeremy's mementos - an autographed baseball still in the box. I had it in one of the boys top drawers to keep so that they might have it one day when they get older.

Naturally, he wanted to play with it. He took it out of the cardboard box, unwrapped the tissue paper around it, and started throwing it around the house. As soon as I realized what he was doing I gently put it away and told him he couldn't play with that particular ball because it was daddy's and it was special.

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Later that afternoon, when the rest of the kids came home from school, my 6 year old son found it (apparently I didn't do a good job of putting it away) and was playing with it in his room. A very devastated toddler came crying down the stairs yelling "Cayub can't pay wif da ball....it's daddy's!" I called Caleb down and explained to him that it was special not only because it was daddy's, but also because it was autographed and might be worth something one day and we needed to keep it nice. My two year old chimed in, eyes still brimming with offended tears "It's so so special...you can't touch it!" He continued to repeat that it was daddy's over and over.

It occurred to me that Carter was genuinely upset, and I wondered suddenly if I had put too much pressure on him to keep all things 'daddy' sacred. This little man, who never got to meet his daddy, has only connections with him through stories and pictures. It is my mission to make sure Carter grows up to know his daddy, even if he never got to meet him face to face. But I never realized that I could potentially "over-do it" in that everything daddy-related was sacred and untouchable. He seemed so upset by the thought of ruining something that was daddy's.

At the same time, my heart leaped to see how much he respected what was Jeremy's and understood, even at such a young age, that his daddy was something special. I want to make sure that Jer is remembered as something real, and not just an idea or something he has to walk on eggshells about. But how can you really do that with a child who has no tangible memories of his daddy, only the aftermath of everyone else's memories?

I don't know the right answer, but I am pretty sure there isn't one. Hopefully, the tender heart of my 2 year old will grow up knowing that someone very special loved him more than life before he even came into this world. The rest I'm just making up as I go along....kind of like parenting, in general. Now that I think of it, kind of like life.

Lost fatherhood

Stupid music.

Just when you've been good for a while - no crying, no slipping back to the memories of That Day just when your head hits the pillow, moving forward ... or at least sideways - then you hear one single song whilst driving to work and you arrive a snotty, tear-stained mess.

Just from some words sung to a lilting tune.

.... not a song about the grief of losing a spouse or friend.
.... but about a miscarriage.

I, like many women have had a miscarriage (or two).  I lost a baby at 10 weeks, which hit me hard.  But the pain (for me) has diminished over time.
But that's not why I cried.

I cried because of the way Sherran sung about wanting to hold this unborn child.

I cried because it reminded me of the way Greg felt about our babies.

He was undone by them.
This pure Australian male had a soft heart but nothing brought him to tears ... except babies.
He cried over babies lost before they were born.
He cried over babies lost just after birth (like his nephew).
He cried over babies being born and thriving (just because this is an enormous miracle when you think about it).
He was a born father (after all, his main aim in life at the age of 5 was to be "a daddy with whiskers").

It hit me just how much Greg is missing out on.
.... how proud he would be.
....how he would have cried along with the children as they grieved, and stroked their head until they calmed down.

I cried for his lost fatherhood.
...and that I have missed out on witnessing more of it.



For those that are interested, the song in question is truly beautiful, but Small Bump is not for the fainthearted (LINK WARNING - trigger imagery of hospital and of course the lyrics are about miscarriage).

Tragedy

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Tragedy has been close to my heart this week.

Monday, as I watched the horror unfold during the Boston marathon, I was once again in awe of how quickly life can go so wrong. How swiftly and senselessly life can end.

My two year old happened to be sitting next to me while I watched some coverage on Hulu, and he would not stop asking questions. "What happened Mommy?" He wanted me to talk him through every scene. Then he asked to watch it four more times - he wanted to watch "the boy hurting show." He kept repeating "people got hurt," or "dat's sad," or "dat's a big boom."

I was a little disturbed that my toddler was so fascinated with this footage of people suffering. And just when I thought perhaps I had a twisted mind on my hands, I watched a lightbulb go off in his head.

"Daddy died Momma. Dat's sad."

Ah, there it is. For his entire life, I've tried to explain who Daddy is and where he is and what happened in the simplest of terms for my sweet boy who never got to meet him face to face. But it was like he understood suddenly in his own way what tragedy was and how devastating it is.

Since then, he's been talking about Daddy a lot. Trying to sort things out, I think. Asking to read his picture book of Daddy, and reminding me after every page turn that Daddy died. It can be gut wrenching to watch his small mind put things together.

It can be hard to constantly be reminded of grief. Sure, it follows me around every single day in different ways, but to overtly bring it to my face and deal with it over and over can get overwhelming.

As Camp Widow East sets to gear up tomorrow, I can't help but have grief in my face again. But as heavy as it can be, I welcome it. I welcome the reminder that I was well loved the pain that still follows me is not just a figment of my imagination. I welcome the opportunity to search my heart deeper for healing, to open myself up to others who are walking this same unintended path. To share my story in hopes that someone out there might have a different lightbulb go off: a lightbulb of hope.

I think some worry that being in an environment surrounded by other widow/widowers somehow "exposes" you to grief you don't necessarily want to share. It reminds you of what a dark world we can live in and perhaps dwelling in that atmosphere seems overwhelming.

But on the contrary, when we ban together to share our hearts and our stories, a little piece of light gets let back in. Yes, the world can be a tough place, but we all know that first hand. But when we break down the walls we've each put up by connecting with others who 'get it', suddenly we see there can be more to life than just merely existing. There can be more to life than just tragedy.

That's the light I keep coming back for more of.
Looking forward to meeting some of you this weekend.

Thunderstorms

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Last night, we got a crazy thunderstorm.

I can't remember the last time we had one like that. I didn't realize how long it had been until Faith came down stairs 30 minutes after her bedtime terrified of the storm like she had never heard one before.

Of course we had heard thunderstorms before...but I had never seen her react like that to it. Over the last 2 1/2 years, we have listened to the storms together and to help calm them down, we used to pretend that God and Daddy were bowling together and we'd cheer when we heard a strike (oh, the ridiculous things we come up with to comfort our children). But Faith had obviously outgrown that theory and she was too scared to go back to bed alone.

So, up I went to lay down with her for a few minutes. It's been too long since we've just laid together and talked one-on-one, at least about life issues. While we tried to tune out the thunderstorm, I got to have a precious conversation with her about her daddy. It went a little something like this:

Me: "What do you miss about your daddy?"
Faith: "Wrestling with him."
Me: "Of course you do, you two loved to wrestle together. What else do you remember about daddy?"
Faith: "Yeah, remember that time daddy got up early with me when I was sick and laid on the couch and gave me an ice pack - it was one of those blue ones - and wrapped it up in a cloth and watched TV with me?"

This simple conversation struck me for a number of reasons. First of all, it was another testament to the wonderful father Jeremy was. He would drop everything to lay with his babies if they were sick. The second thing that struck me was Faith's impeccable memory of her daddy, which I have always been grateful for. She was probably 2 or 3 when this occurred. I only know this because I remember that day...I had to go to work, so Jer stayed home with her and sent me pictures of her pathetic little face and a cloth wrapped ice pack on her forehead. So it wasn't one of her more recent memories of him...how does she remember that stuff?

Even when they can't always put it into words, it's never ceases to amaze me how love transcends through childrens' hearts even in the most abstract of ways. Through memories, through feelings, through art, through behavior....even through thunderstorms. I'm so thankful that love wins, and love defeats death.

I'm also thankful I got to hold her sweet little hand while she fell asleep during the thunderstorm and I prayed she would never lose that wonderful gift.

A birth day to remember

A very special Cars cake made for a very special birthday boy.

How can it be possible? This little man that changed everything is turned 2 on Friday.

Holy Moly.

In some ways, watching him grow is going by way too fast. Gone are the days of baby snuggles and gibberish....he is now a full-blown Cars lovin', running and jumping, never stops talking, knows what he wants, stubborn red-headed tempered, loving and laughing toddler.

In other ways, though, his birth could not seem further away to me. If my reference of time was based solely on that day, I would swear Carter was an adult. Perhaps because I have suppressed that day in my mind and my heart....sure it was a day of joy that Carter safely made it into the world in spite of tragedy going on around him, but it was also the second hardest day of my life next to losing his daddy. It's one of the few pieces of grief I haven't fully come to terms with and I have a hard time talking about. Ashamed that giving birth to this beautiful was a painful experience. Thinking about that day always leaves me in tears. 

Perhaps it also seems so long ago because so much has changed since then. So much life has been lived, so many milestones have been celebrated, created, and passed. And I have changed since then. I'm not the same person who birthed this beautiful boy two years ago. It's crazy to think that so much could change in such a short amount of time. Maybe that's why it doesn't feel like a short amount of time.

The only thing that gives me the ability to speak about the pain of Carter's birth is the knowledge that out of those ashes came the beauty that is my son. The child that forced me to keep going, robbed me of my selfishness, and brought to life another piece of Jeremy for me to hold on to. And the boy that saved my life. This little man is too full of life to keep me focused on the pain...he leads me forward and focused on living. Children have a funny way of doing that.

I would give anything to see Carter with his daddy, even just once. To see the look on Jeremy's face that I have burned into my heart....the look of falling into unconditional love with the life we created. I would do anything to give Carter an opportunity to know his daddy beyond the pictures and stories we tell him every day. I crave the sight of Jeremy on the ground playing Cars with Carter. I ache to see Carter give just one big sloppy, beautiful kiss to his daddy.

As much as it hurts to know I will never get to see these images in my life time, I also know that I do not want Carter's birthdays to be marked by tragedy. Today, I am reminding myself of how far we've come and how much love and happiness Carter has added to my life just by being in it. And I smile knowing Jeremy is watching, beaming with pride that his little man is happy and healthy, despite my shortcomings. And I look forward to seeing where the rest of his birthdays take us.

Happy Birthday, sweet baby boy. 

I love you always.

"Read, Daddy"

Jeremy in the sailor suit, and his other mini-me, Carter bearing the same sweet features.

Now the school is in full swing and we've kinda (and I use that term loosely) got a routine going, I've been able to spend a lot of one-on-one time with my man cub. I haven't had just one child with me in over 5 years! It's been nice to just play with him, talk to him, and watch him grow. His life thus far seems to have gone by in the blink of an eye and I know I was checked out for the first part of it. I feel like I've missed a lot.

Spending more time with him has made me face a lot of grief associated with his life, though. Watching him learn new things and knowing that Jeremy will never get to see him grow. The ache that comes with the understanding that Jeremy never got to hold his son. Thinking about the day he was born never ceases to make me emotional. Sometimes I think that day was harder in some ways than the day Jeremy died. We talk about 'daddy' all the time - he associates my necklace with Jer, the pics of him around the house, the tattoo on my arm, even the Toronto Maple Leafs logo he recognizes with his daddy. It's so incredibly bittersweet.

Last week, I sat down and showed Carter the video I have of Jeremy reading "Barnyard Dance" to Faith and Caleb. He was mesmerized. And I was full of tears and smiles. We went about our day and week until the other day, Carter was pointing to the table throwing a fit because I couldn't understand what he was wanting. When I finally figured out that he was pointing to my computer and saying "read Daddy, read Daddy" I burst into tears. 

He remembered.

Not only did he remember, he wanted more. More of his daddy. He wanted more of this presence he hears referred to all the time but hasn't met him or touched him yet. To hear his voice, see his face, and see him snuggle up against his big brother and sister made an impact on that little 19-month-old heart. He watched it again and again. 

For all the times I worry that Carter may not understand or I might share enough....I realize that Jeremy really is a presence in our hearts and in our lives. And he's in the heart and life of a little man cub who's never met him face to face, but who lives out his legacy as the spitting image of his daddy. 

Jekyll and Hyde

This is a piece I read aloud at Camp Widow during the Blog Slam.  I thought I would share it everyone. 

I like myself – I like being me.

What’s not to like:
Nice Guy – live a clean life – adoring father – good at fantasy baseball.

What’s the point of change, this system works for me.  People would just have to put up with my bad to get my good.   I must be doing well; I have people who love me for just being me.

Then cancer takes one I love most. 

Lisa’s death rattles my confidence.  Months go by and I struggle with being a parent by myself.  With no one to bounce ideas off of, I start to question decision I am making.  My indecisions show and I find I have too short of a fuse with my girls.  I can hear them yelling at me, “But Dad!” as I say, “No, this is how we do things.”  Followed by, “You don’t understand me.”  I walk out of rooms thinking, am I that unapproachable, that unbending?

For the first time in my life a deep reflection of who I really am sets in.  Sleepless nights let me ponder what I’ve taken for granted.  I have not put in the effort to grow my personality; I have relied only on the basic skills I’ve been born with.

I start to ask myself questions.  Questions that are painful to face.  Are my three daughters dealing with a man whois not listening to them?  Even though I may see these issues as crazy, silly, over-dramatic; to them it’s important, and am I pushing them away where they grow up lying to their dad and then in the future to their husbands.  Why not, isn’t that what strong male figures do, not listen?

I see my flaws and in an unexpected way, enjoy this new awaking of how I missed the boat and what I did wrong.  I emotionally start to punch myself in ordert o change my ways, the soft blows feels nice, the pain causes me to alter my current path.

I can feel myself start to change; our bedtime routines are becoming more pleasant, I notice I no longer cut off the girls when they are arguing their point of view.  I walk in the door from work and even though my coat is still on, I stop and listen as three girls all talk at once telling me their “news” of the day.   

However, there are still days of blown opportunities, laziness where the girls are being punished for no real reason at all, in the back of my mind I know the battles I am fighting are not battles at all, just areason for me to be upset, and more real, I am taking out on the girls the tollof my long, lonely, tired days.  They have done nothing wrong, but end up getting blamed for all of my outside frustrations.

I have not changed enough. I continue my personal inquisition. The deeper I dig, the more punishing I become on myself.   After a night of making the kids cry at bedtime, I go downstairs and emotionally tear myself apart, going over every minute detail, every single word I’ve said and convincing myself I have ruined these girls forever.  The punches getharder and my body starts to bruise.  I’m too busy hitting myself that I can’t see the marks.

Soon the punches are at full strength and don’t stop.  The list of how worthless I am gets longer.  Now, not just on the bad nights, but every night when I go to bed, I lie awake replaying the mistakes I made that day.  I wake up exhausted and disliking myself that much more.  Night after night, week after week of focusing on my weaknesses, I am getting lost in my own disgust.

I hate myself.  What’s not to hate, bad father, crappy human being, took my wife for granted, don’t listen to others, try to win too many arguments.  I hate being me.

Lying awake one night, I can finally feels the bruises on my body. I’m covered in them.  Why did I do this to myself?  I call off the dogs, and tell myself to stop hitting.

For the time being I stop the interrogation.  I let the bruises heal first. 

I then call a meeting of the guy who liked himself and the guy who hated himself.  I tell them thereis only room for one Matthew.  I ask them to please leave the most useful parts of each of them on the table and I’ll create a new normal based off those.

I like myself.  But the difference is, this time, I do know what’s not to like.  And I will try my best to make those corrections, I may fail, but at least I now understand a healthy way to progress my personality.

In The Dark

My sister’s kids are over at my parent’s house for a sleepover.  Since we moved into my parent’s basement a year ago, that makes five girls – three are mine, two my sister’s – who run downstairs and begin to pull every toy and game from every drawer, closet shelf, and cubby hole.  In less than five minutes the girls have accomplished making the basement look like 100 kids have been down here playing.

            Without warning, all the lights go out and one of the girls starts to scream.  The others join in and now five young girls are screaming while they run around in a dark basement.  I walk downstairs to inform them that the power is out and I’ll grab the flashlights in the closet.  As I grab one of the flashlights, I see my video camera in back of the shelf.  Sitting next to it are the tapes.  One is labeled, “Lisa’s last winter.”  I pop it in the camcorder and begin to watch - forgetting all about the flashlights.  The small screen now becomes the only light in the whole basement, the kids flock to it like moths to a candle.

            “Whatcha watching?" 

            “Who is that?”

            “Am I in there?”

            “Let me see.  Let me see.”

            I wasn’t planning a reflection of love lost, but it’s happening and now the girls, who I did offer to get a flashlight for, are killing the moment.  Dropping out of reality like I tend to do when it involves memories of Lisa, I lose my desire to help them attain light and walk away.

            “Hold on girls, give me one minute,” I say, as I’m already at the other end of the basement and go to my room.  The door to my basement bedroom has long been removed, as this room has been used for storage the past 10 years.  I don’t think my parents thought one of the kids would ever be coming back home to live at this point in their lives.  So instead of going to the garage and getting the old wooden door that has since been warped by outside weather, a curtain has been hung in its place acting as my bedroom door.  This curtain has a difficult time keeping out a fly, let alone a curious six-year-old child.

            Kelly peeks her head in with Molly hiding behind her – younger sister instinct to let the older sister get in trouble first – and asks again if they can see who is on the video.  They don’t wait for my answer and are almost in my lap within seconds.  I am trying my best to be patient but I haven’t seen live images of Lisa in months and this unexpected trip down memory lane has thrown me.  I get up and walk past the girls and head towards the bathroom – my last great escape in the house.  “Girls, you can see it, but I just need a moment here.”  Walking into the main room, I hear the other kids from the darkness call out my name. 

“There’s Uncle Matt…” 

            “Not now, need to use the bathroom.” I say, cutting them off and locking myself in.

            I close the toilet lid and sit down and start the camcorder again, I am ready to transport myself and pretend this video is happening in real time.  I watch Lisa baking cookies for Haley and Kelly in our old house.  The girls are coloring at the dining room table.  Lisa’s hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her brown sweater lets me know it’s winter, and the radio is on as she bounces to the beat of the music while scooping hot-out-of-the-oven cookies on a plate.  I picture myself in the kitchen with her.

            The voice of my mom talking to the girls brings me back to the bathroom in my parent’s basement.

            “Is someone in the bathroom?” She asks.

            “Dad’s in there.”

            Like getting a shot at the doctor, I close my eyes and lower my head as I know what is about to happen next.

            BANG! BANG! BANG!

            “Matthew, we have no power!  The pump isn’t working; you can’t go to the bathroom down here!”

            “I’m not going to the bathroom!!! Just need a minute of privacy!”

            As soon as those words come out of my mouth, I could tell that sounded like I was holed up in the bathroom wearing woman’s clothing while shaving my legs with a tube of Crest, Vaseline, and Desitin on the sink counter (What? Too specific?).

            I turn off the camera and put it on the bathroom shelf. I guess I wasn’t meant to find the camera tonight. I emerge from the bathroom into the darkness.

            “Dad’s out of the bathroom, come on dad, we’re playing midnight tag ghost.”

            Living in my parent’s basement has been an adjustment.  All of this has been an adjustment.  It’s been close to 20 years since my mom banged on the bathroom door yelling at me – I’ll save that for another day – and I don’t even have a real door for my basement bedroom.  But as I make myself aware of my immediate surroundings, I see five kids running around in the dark, holding flashlights, playing midnight tag ghost.  I smile comes to my face as I hear equal parts laughing and banging into furniture.  This should  be recorded.  Maybe I was meant to find that camera tonight.  I’m in the habit of thinking of the past; I almost missed the point.  I walk back in the bathroom to grab the camcorder off the shelf.

It's Active

Stereotypes are starting to come into fruition.  

I was having a conversation with a lady in line at the grocery store.  She saw me with my three girls hanging all over the cart, my situation came up and she said – in a non-offensive manner, “Oh, you’re raising three girls by yourself, good luck with that, wait until you see what you’re in for.” I respond to her, “I know, I have some challenges in front of me,”   I get it, I thought.  Three girls, without a mother, I need to listen more, yell less, and I need to take deep breathes when they start dating boys.  Yes, I had some challenges, I would just have to pay attention and have more patience. 

Interesting thing is, she smiled at my response and rubbed my shoulder, almost like she was in on a little secret that has yet to been revealed to me.  I wanted to respond, “Your mystery smile isn’t working; there’s no secret here.  I’m raising three girls and someday I’ll have to go bra shopping.  I understand what I am in for!”  But I just smiled back.

“Alright girls time for bed.  Kelly, turn off the TV.  Molly, put the dolls away. Haley, get off the phone.  Come on, everyone get their PJs on.” I say, as I initiate the beginning of the bedtime ritual.  It starts off with us all going to the girls bedroom, getting on pajamas, brushing teeth, returning to the bedroom, and each girl gets to pick their own book for me to read to them.

Kelly and Molly get their pajamas on first and run off to the bathroom to brush teeth.  Haley comes in and picks out her PJs and takes them to the bathroom – at almost 12, she has made it clear she should not be getting dressed in front of people.  Molly and Haley almost collide at the door as Molly has come running in from the bathroom at full speed in order to be the first one to be read to.  Toothpaste is still on her bottom lip as she picks a princess book and jumps in my lap.  We start reading and Kelly comes walking into the bedroom.  She seems to be having a conversation with herself in her head, as she looks up towards the ceiling and her mouth is moving.  She takes her sweet time and eventually climbs to the edge of the bed to wait her turn.  Haley is still in the bathroom. Clearly, Molly is the only one who thought there was a race to be read to first.

We finish the book – only skipped about four pages tonight, a luxury I lose once they learn how to read and follow along – and Kelly, with book in hand, climbs in my lap replacing Molly.  Molly retreats to her bed, with the book we just read, and lies down and “rereads” it, reciting by memory what she remembers I said.  I get halfway through Kelly’s book when Haley enters the room, storms over to the laundry basket, throws her day clothes into it, walks to me while I’m in mid-sentence, and throws her arm straight towards my face sticking out all five fingers as if she’s Superwoman using her hand powers.

“Five!” Haley says. “Name five good things about me!  You can’t even do it, can you?”

“Wait, what?” I say.

“Five, I bet you can’t even name five things that I’m good at!” 

Haley takes off her glasses and slams them a little too hard on her dresser. I wince at the thought of replacing expensive glasses.

“Where is this coming from?” I say.  “Weren’t you just in the bathroom brushing your teeth?  Did I miss something?”

“I’m not good at anything.”

“I can name five things I’m good at,” says Kelly, and sits up proudly in my lap.

“Not now Kelly,” Haley yells.  “This isn’t about you; I’m trying to talk to dad.”

“Haley,” I say. “Calm down, I don’t know where this is coming from.”

“See, you can’t even name one.”

I realize that she’s not looking for me to logically explain why this line of question is unwarranted.  My 11 year-old daughter is asking me to name five things good about her.  Where this came from is irrelevant, why she is suddenly anger has no bearing on this conversation.  She wants to know five things.  So, I rattle off five things: sense of humor, good friend, imagination, etc…

“Half of those don’t count because you’re my dad.” She counters.

“No Haley, I’ve heard other people say those about you.”  I respond, fighting back my first response of, “Come on Haley, this is silly.”

“Okay, fine.  Is there still time for me to have a book?” she asks.

Huh?  It’s over.  That’s it?  Wait, there should be more, we need to talk for an hour about her mental stability, why she felt like this, and how can we avoid these feelings in the future.  But she is standing in front of me holding a book.  So I read it to her, put them all to bed, wait for the other shoe to drop, and turn off the light and walk out of the room.

“Goodnight Dad.” Haley says, as if she hasn’t a care in the world.

For about the 10^th time tonight I censor myself, as I want to say, “So going back to the five things, what happened there?”  But I think I know what happened there.  A lady a few months ago at a grocery store told me, as she patted my shoulder with a smile that made it seem like she was holding a secret I didn’t fully understand.

“Oh, you’re raising three girls by yourself, good luck with that, wait until you see what you’re in for.”

That look.

*

You know the one.

The one that your spouse would give you and you'd feel that strong connection like a bolt to your heart.

I miss getting that look.

That very first shy grin when we met ... and instantly, we both felt that zing of one soul recognising another.

The glowing face that was a result of just looking at me. Greg would just beam at me in greeting. Every Single Morning and Evening.

The glance and smile to share that private joke perfectly, without a word being spoken.

The look that said “I know what you are thinking”. We always knew what the other person was thinking. Even down to which obscure Python quote was perfect for the moment.

The look of the Only Other Person who is as proud of the kids as you are. The Only Other person who can rejoice at the first successful potty mission, and the only other person who could possibly be as proud of their achievements on their report cards (cough – working at ... and topping... an entire year above level at maths and reading age levels double their actual ages - cough).

The looking for each other. Seeking where the other was at a party (Australian parties are often affairs where the men collectively inhabit the bbq area, beer in hand while the women are chatting in the kitchen, or dancing on the patio, wine in hand.) We’d always glance over at each other and telepathically sense whether the other was having fun or whether it was time to leave.

The eyebrow wiggle that said ... well... you can guess the rest of that sentence....

The point is I miss that look that made me feel loved and safe and accepted and known.

The look that let me know I was home.

* Of course I don't actually have a decent picture of 'that look' ... we didn't take so many photos in the days before digital cameras. But this pic was snapped at a wedding shortly after we were smooching and so there is still some remaining traces of 'that look' on our faces.....

Not meant to be doing this alone

photo from here

My son needs to have an endoscopy done under general anaesthetic next week.

I have not told the small boy yet.

It's a relatively minor procedure as these things go, but the thought of my little 7 year old man being probed and prodded whilst knocked out terrifies me.

The specialist who is doing this exploratory procedure will hopefully have some answers to help the boy who has had reflux since he was a baby.... reflux that has grown worse over the past two years and which sees him vomit several times a day, or constantly need to spit out mouthfuls of semi-digested food.

It could be a reaction to grief. It could be an allergy. It could be cancer. It could be habit.

... but the surgery was not deemed "urgent" so I think the paediatric gastroenterologist is leaning toward allergy and is ruling out other causes.

That worry aside, I have another worry ..... my parents are going interstate the following day (my brother's wife is sick and they need to help them).

Which means that if there are complications .... we are on our own.

There should be two parents around to organise the logistics of getting one child to hospital by 6:30am and the other to school by 8am.

There should be two parents to share the worry and talk it through out of earshot of the small boy and his sister.

There should be two parents who can hug each other tight and mutter that everything will be fine.

....and there should be two parents who can make this child feel protected, safe and OK about going to hospital

I am not meant to be doing this alone....

the "d" word

Photo from here...

In preparation for my son's first day of Kindergarten today, I attended an interview with his teacher yesterday. It mostly entailed questions of, "Can he tie his shoes?", "Does he feel shy in new situations?" and "Can he wipe his own bottom?"

At the end of our little meeting, his teacher asked about his special interests. I listed off his favourite play things (Lego, cars, his bike), the things he likes to do with his friends (swim, play hide-n-seek, jump on a trampoline) and his favoured topics of conversation (monster trucks, chickens and death).

His teacher stared at me for a moment after the latter item. "Oh...," she replied, "What does he say when he talks about death?"

"He often ponders over what it feels like or what you see when you die. Sometimes he wonders when he or I will die," I told her in a tone that suggested this was common-place and not really worth a huge amount of detail.

She listened with a faint look of concern on her face. This look turned soft as she asked, "Do you think he would benefit from speaking to our school counsellor?"

I suppose with the fact that this, death, is such a common topic in our house it hadn't occurred to me that this type of conversation might be cause for concern at his school. I thought for a moment about her suggestion. An avalanche of thoughts tumbled around in my brain, "Is it bad that he talks about death? But I want him to feel comfortable talking about his concerns! Are other parents going to be upset when their child quotes my son's occasional morbid thinking? I can't guarantee that he will even say anything to other children. Are his questions abnormal? This IS normal to him!"

All night I thought about this conversation. It struck me as odd how as parents we are instructed to talk to our children about their bodies and how they work. We are expected to teach them how to be healthy and strong. We even teach "sex ed" to ensure that our children are aware of all that our bodies are capable of in a reproductive sense.

But we do not talk to them about the end of our body's life. We do not talk about the imminent eventuality of our body either wearing out or "breaking" prematurely. Although it will happen to each and every one of us, we treat death as a possibility. Not an unavoidable inevitability.

I don't think dodging the subject or treating death as a four letter word is the appropriate way to help our children, or ourselves, develop a healthy view of death. It's unfortunate for them that sex is more accepted as a topic when it is not even a guaranteed act for every human on this planet. But death, well, it will happen to each and everyone of us. I don't want to shy away. I hope to let them know that it's okay to talk about it. It's fine to wonder, to question and even to worry about what and how it happens.

So I've decided that unless my son develops a habit of hiding books about death under his mattress or giggling about it with his friends in whispered tones, I am perfectly happy discussing it with him and I do not think that he requires a counsellor to tell him what to believe or when is an appropriate time to talk about the "d" word. He is sorting that out himself....and he is talking to me about it as he goes.

Nine years ago today.....

(post written on August 15, 2011)

…. I became a mother.
I had finally achieved my life’s ambition – to be a wife and mother and have my very own perfect family.
Seriously.
That’s always what I wanted to be, despite my prizes and academic awards and the push from every direction to focus on my career and climb that fickle beast known as “the ladder”.
…and I achieved a lot before I became a mother. …. before I became a wife.
I got myself a science degree and backed it up with first class honours the following year and a PhD shortly thereafter…. courtesy of a cushy scholarship which some bigwigs saw fit to give me .
I travelled the world and spent a few months living and working in Africa.
I ran a research station and worked as a scientist managing huge budgets, staff and still trying to do actual science in the middle somewhere….
But all I ever really wanted was to be a wife and mother.
…and on this day nine years ago, my beautiful girl was born and Greg and I were so proud of ourselves we thought we wold burst with happiness.
I had Done It. My own nirvana, right there in the form of a tiny baby girl and my husband’s loving embrace.
I never had post-natal depression … I had post-natal elation.
…and we were lucky enough to repeat the performance two years later when I gave birth to our son.
My wonderful husband AND my pigeon pair: my perfect family. Nirvana.
…but I only got to have it all for seven and a half years.
Not long enough. not long enough at all.
On this day last year, all I could think about was what I’d lost.
But this year, I am choosing to remember what I have … two very wonderful children and to have known the love of a husband and father who was perfectly imperfect.
So Happy 9th birthday, darling K. I am so lucky to be your Mum.
XXXX

they are okay

There are days or moments that I watch my little ones and think, "Bloody Hell. They are going to be so messed up after all they've been through." Then there are times that I see them blossom and bloom with smiles, laughter and play where I think, "If you didn't know what had happened, you would think these two had a 'normal' life."

All I know for sure, is that no matter how our lives unfold, they are stronger because they have eachother.

They still know how to laugh and be silly without guilt or remorse.

And that these two little ones are the most amazing teachers of living after your life has stopped.

I am practising seeing the world through their eyes....It isn't as dark as it is through mine.

Originally posted 7 1/2 months after losing their daddy on our personal blog.

silence and vulnerability

Photo from here....

The middle of the night is where I feel your void most intensely. I attempt to busy my brain with other less painful activities. I lay in our nightlight lit room listening to the drippy wet sounds of the aquarium down the hall, the monotonous whirr of the bathroom fan left on, the refrigerator starting up yet again. I attempt to make a mental list of activities that I'd like to do with the kids. A registry of people not yet called, thanked or contacted. A calendar of events that are upcoming.
But no matter what asinine or tedious thought temporarily enters my searching mind, it is constantly forced aside by thoughts of you.
I replay my walk down the aisle of the church...both on the day of our wedding and the day of your funeral. Both times, you waited for me near the altar.
On the day of our wedding, as I walked down that strip of red carpet, we smiled at each other, felt comfort in each other's presence and became the only two in the church. The day of your funeral, I clutched Liv's small hand and held Briar's little body close on my hip. I walked that same carpet with nervousness again, but this time not with nervous excitement. This time, it was terror and loss.
Although the tranquilizers administered to me by the doctor allowed me to stare out from my body with my mouth silent and closed, with my head erect, I felt far from 'tranquil'.
I saw the same faces staring at me from the front of the church as I saw on our wedding day. Their swollen and tear streaked faces a constant reminder of why we were there. But you were missing.
I saw your coffin. You were always the biggest in the room, the centre of attention, the one I looked to when unsure. Now you were a box. A big, wooden box. Liv asked if 'you' were in there. She thought she could hear your snoring. While I smiled at her, I could only imagine you, your shell, laying there, oblivious to the events that were taking place. Completely unknowing that today would be the last day that your body and mine shared the same space. Ignorant of the pain that all of us within that church felt without you there to sing out your laughter, grin your famous smile, make some completely ridiculous joke or tell a far-fetched story.
Without you, without your presence, I felt lost. Adrift. Vulnerable. I still do. I long to hear you. But I shy away from listening to your still recorded answering machine messages. I wish I could feel the comfort of my hand enveloped by yours. But the thought of it reminds me that I will never feel them again no matter how I can remember the shape and the feeling of your immense hand. The touch of your mouth. The softness of your earlobe. The shape of your knees.
On our wedding day, there were the sorts of issues that cause stress at all marriage ceremonies. Seating. Flowers. It was...interesting. But you were there. You would NOT let anything ruin our day. And we were together. That was all that mattered. We were together. The day signified our 'togetherness'.
Your funeral conveyed the separation of you from all of us left behind. A ceremony to let all of us know that we would never again walk with you, work with you, laugh with you, hold you.
As I followed you from the church once again, I had tears of loss and fear slipping over my cheeks marking my coat with wet dots. Gone were the tears of laughter and joy that we shared the day we married.
Liv, our little daughter, was with us both days. And this one fact reminds me of what I still need to live for. If only it is to see both of our little ones grown and happy, I must keep breathing until I can see you again. So I lay in this bed and listen to the appliances that surround me. I stare at the box beside our bed that contains your ashes in the orange glow of the nightlight and I miss you. God, how I miss you. And I wish only that first ceremony had happened. The second should not have happened....not yet.

Originally posted on my personal blog on February 12, 2009 (8 1/2 months widowed)

who you were

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 probably from his mother) 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.

the wishlist

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????