I Believe In Angels

This was a hard year for our family. I think it was a hard year for many Albertans. Heck, it was probably a hard year for most of humanity.

Because of this, I was a little apprehensive about heading into the holiday season. Being immersed in school work, I planned to wait until December before hauling out the tree and accoutrements. I made it to November 29^th before succumbing to my son’s big eyes, pleading for the tree to go up and one more box of decorations to come out. Just one more box. Just one more...

He’s smart. Last night I sat on the couch to study while the tree sparkled cheerfully in the corner and I felt content and peaceful. Maybe Christmas shouldn’t be postponed. Maybe Christmas is exactly what I need.

As I basked in the glow of the tree lights and reflected on my life, I remembered all the angels who have helped our family this year. Not winged seraphs dressed in white robes singing “Glory to God in the Highest”, but angels dressed in regular clothes, quietly going about doing good.

We all need angels, especially in these hard times. Angels in all shapes and sizes – mothers, fathers, children, friends, teachers, volunteers, healthcare providers, emergency responders, neighbours, employers, and strangers. They are you. They are me. Helping, sharing, loving, and spreading peace and good will to all men.

If this is Christmas, I’m ready.

I wish you all a joyous – and angelic – Holiday Season.

Inexperienced Judges

A few weeks ago Harambe, a male gorilla at the Cincinnati Zoo, was shot to save the life of a four year old boy who fell into his enclosure.

While this was a terrible tragedy, I was alarmed at the outcry on social media. Some suggested the gorilla should have been saved at the expense of the child while many others screamed gross parental negligence.

I have a few things to say about that. First, if she took her kids to the zoo, she was trying to be a good mother.

Second, those who don’t have kids don’t get to make judgments about those who do. Unless you babysit regularly or work in a daycare, you simply have no idea how fast and smart and resourceful those little people can be – some more than others. All it takes is one trip to the bathroom, or one glance in the opposite direction. Yes, care-givers need to be vigilant but perfection is impossible. Mistakes happen. Accidents happen.

Those with one child shouldn’t judge those with two, those with two shouldn’t judge those with three, and so forth. Likewise, if you don’t have teenagers, preschool boys, twin girls, or a special needs child, you don’t get to judge those who do.

Here’s a novel idea: Maybe we just shouldn’t judge one another.

That can be hard. For example, I wonder why those who noticed the child go through the fence didn’t grab him by the ankle and hang on. After all, it takes a village – to help, not criticize.

Misery Loves Company

At the end of January we took our son to Edmonton for a long-awaited dental procedure.  Because of his asthma and the possible complications of general anesthesia, it needed to happen at the Stollery Children’s Hospital.

When we got there, I was amazed at the number of children going in for surgery.  Dressed in yellow and white-striped pajama bottoms and green hospital gowns with numbing cream taped to their hands, they sat on parents’ laps and played electronic games.

It’s an emotional thing to wait with a child before surgery.  Fear of the unknown coupled with the knowledge that every now and then something goes wrong is an effective recipe for anxiety.  But, for some reason, seeing so many others there made me feel better.  I guess misery does love company.

Finally, we were taken to a lonely hallway on the third floor where our son happily climbed onto his gurney.  I kissed him, told him he was “my best little boy”, and quickly moved behind him so he couldn’t see my tears.  Seven minutes later my husband came out of the Operating Room and reported he was asleep.  I dried my eyes and we went for lunch.

When we came back to wait for the dentist’s report, another mother was kissing her infant daughter “goodbye”.  Watching her cry made me start up again.  Our eyes met and I said, “It’s hard, isn’t it?”  We both chuckled through our tears and I think she felt better knowing someone understood her pain.

Sometimes, we just need to know we’re not alone.

May Mittens

My preschooler recently discovered a pair of mittens hiding in the bottom of the diaper bag.  I put them there early in the winter to make sure we always had a pair in reserve.  He was delighted when he found them.  He’d been trying to wear his sisters’ gloves but they were always too big and he couldn’t quite get his fingers in the right places.

Now he wears his new blue mittens as often as he can.  Inside, outside, to the park when it’s seventeen degrees…

But who can blame him?  It might be seventeen degrees today but there’s no guarantee it will be above zero tomorrow.  Hi, I’m Kathryn.  I live in Alberta.

I’m often amazed around mid-March when people start complaining about the long winter and how spring just does not want to come this year.  I feel like taking them gently by the shoulders, looking into their eyes and, with as much kindness as I can muster, breaking the news to them that snow could be in the forecast for another two months.  Hi, what’s your name?  Do you know what province you live in?

I must admit, by early May I’m as tired of winter as everyone else and by then I’ve got seven pairs (each) of winter boots, splash boots, running shoes, and flip flops kicking around the house.  Enough!  So I start washing winter coats and packing away boots.  Away – but never too far.  At least until after the May long weekend.

If it snows after Victoria Day, I may have to move back to BC.

Hot Summer Nights

We finally got the hot summer days we’ve been waiting for.  I remind myself of this as I lie in bed at night with my sheet kicked off and the fan on full blast.

But the discomfort of hot summer nights is worth it because of all the things we can do on hot summer days that we can’t do on cold winter days.  Right?

I remember the care-free summer days of childhood.  After the morning work of weeding the garden (I was responsible for a 20-foot row of beans when I was five), there was plenty of time for playing in “Pine Needle Palace” where mud pies were served on rhubarb leaves and “Cops and Robbers” in the woods with walkie-talkies.  In the evenings there were trips to the lake or the creek to wash away the dust and sweat of the day.

I try to help my children have happy summer days like I did.  The younger ones I can hardly keep inside the house, but the suggestion to “go outside and play” is usually met with moans and groans from the older ones.

What happened?  When did “go outside and play” become a punishment instead of a treat?  Is it age?  Or apathy?

If all we want to do is watch Netflix and play on our iPads, we might as well have winter all year long.  So I’ll send my kids out and you send yours out and maybe they’ll find each other and learn what summer’s all about.

Laughable Lunches

About this time of year I get tired of making school lunches.  I don’t always make my kids’ lunches myself, but I’m still responsible to have food on hand for them to put together.

Finding lunch options that are healthy, quick, and affordable is an ongoing challenge.  Unfortunately, the food industry doesn’t make it easier for me.

Some choices are obviously bad, like pop, chips, and hotdogs.  But sometimes we think we’re making healthy choices when we’re not.  For example, a regular sandwich is probably made with genetically modified wheat bread, peanut butter (hydrogenated oil and icing sugar), and jam (lots of sugar).  If we choose lunch meat instead there’s usually nitrates and other words I can’t pronounce in those.

“Fruit” snacks have corn syrup and artificial flavours, “juice” boxes are often not juice but “cocktail” or “punch” with added sugar, granola bars are stuck together with oil and corn syrup, yogurt (the tasty, fruity variety) is full of sweeteners, and cheese strings are laden with fat and sodium.

There are healthier options out there, but you really have to search, read labels, or make it yourself.  It’s depressing.  Especially when we learn that “natural flavours” could mean MSG, ground bugs, or other nasty things.

These days, the term “healthy lunch” is laughable.  Only I’m not laughing.  I’m remembering my own school days:  “What’s that smell?  Oh, it’s just Kathryn’s lunch again – sardines on homemade whole wheat.”

I was hoping to spare my kids that, but I’m running out of options.

A Mother's Day

After almost fifteen years of marriage and five children, my husband knows better than to ask what I’ve done all day.  Some days I proudly announce what I’ve accomplished.  After all, I’m a make-a-list and get-things-done kind of person.  I like checkmarks.

But sometimes I sit down to rest in the evening and wonder what I’ve done.  I mean, I’ve been MOVING a lot, I just don’t see much progress.

The fact that I have a 23-month-old son and a 4-year-old daughter is probably explanation enough.  If it’s not, let me tell you about a day I had a few months ago:

The preschooler let the toddler into her room.  He promptly climbed onto the 7-year-old’s dresser and threw a jar of change onto the floor.  Of course the jar smashed, so cleaning up glass and money became a top priority.  Shortly after I finished that chore, the partners in mischief decided to crumble a chocolate chip cookie on the living room rug.  While I was vacuuming and cleaning chocolate off the carpet, they got into the cooler and scattered picnic supplies all over the sunroom.  By noon I managed to get dressed, make lunch, and go to the school to pick up my 11-year-old who had almost fainted because she went to choir before eating lunch.

That night I sat down discouraged.  I hadn’t accomplished anything.

Except…  The kids were still alive.  They were fed and tucked into warm beds.  And the house was still standing.

Those, I decided, were worth 500 checkmarks apiece.  Score!

It's Nice That You Can

When my oldest child celebrates her birthday, I also mark my anniversary of becoming a Stay-at-Home Mom.  As I trained my replacement at work, co-workers asked, “Are you planning to come back?”  I answered honestly, “No. Not unless something goes wrong.”  Several women replied wistfully, “It’s nice that you can stay home.  You’re so lucky.”

I’ve often wondered what they meant by that.  Did they think I could stay home because we were well off financially? 

When our daughter was born, we lived on my income in a one-bedroom apartment.  My husband was in his third year of university, paying tuition with a student loan.  We didn’t own a car or a couch.  We walked or took the bus everywhere and relaxed on an old loveseat from my parents.

But that was the plan.  Before we married we decided to do whatever it took to allow me to stay home with the children.  We still believe it’s the best place I can be right now.

It’s a choice all parents must make at some point.  Who will care for your children?  Single or divorced parents have less options – God bless you for working to care for your families.  For the rest of us, it can be a hard decision.

Lately we’ve been contemplating Disneyland.  By the time the baby is old enough to enjoy it, we may have enough saved.  Of course, if I was working outside the home we’d be able to afford it sooner.  But we’ve chosen different priorities.

Yes, it is nice that we can…make choices.

Little Climbers

The first phrase I spoke was “Get down!”  I said this sternly after standing in my high chair.  No doubt I’d heard those words a few times.

Some grandparents secretly – or not so secretly – chuckle to themselves when their escapist child winds up with an escapist child, or their drama queen granddaughter is as dramatic and stubborn as their own daughter once was.  Those grandparents would be laughing at me now too.

“Get down” has been spoken frequently in our home the past thirteen years.  Also “Get off” (the counter, the dresser, the piano) and “Get out” (of the fridge, the pantry, and the dryer).

It’s a sad day for me when the baby learns to drag chairs across rooms.  Nothing is safe any longer.  HE’s not safe any longer.  This morning he climbed on a chair, stuck a knife in the toaster then smeared butter all over it.  That was a new trick.  Dancing on the table and swinging the chandelier is an old one.

All of my children have been climbers.  I’m sure many parents can empathize.  We really should organize a Parents of Climbers support group.

For now, I’m done with chairs.  I’ve stacked them in the sunroom. We’ll bring them in for dinner, or saw the legs off the table.  If you come to visit, bring a pillow.

But it’s worth it.  Someday my chairs will all stay where they belong and I’ll long for little grand-climbers to come and visit.  And I’ll chuckle as I watch my kids pull them down, off, and out.

Lost Laundry

A week before Christmas I sent my best jeans to the laundry.  This means I carried them downstairs and put them in the blacks-and-blues pile to await washing.  A week later I noticed they hadn’t yet returned to my closet.

I asked the child on laundry duty that day if she’d mistakenly sorted my jeans into someone else’s pile.  She said no.

So I scoured my closet to make sure they hadn’t fallen among the boxes of wrapping paper and presents hiding there (original place to hide gifts, I know).  No luck.

Now, losing small items in the laundry, like socks, is a normal occurrence.  I simply treat the remaining sock as if its partner is there, knowing that the rogue sock will turn up eventually (usually).  Sometimes it takes awhile, often showing up under a bed or stuck inside another item of clothing.

But pants?  I’m no waif.  We’re talking size 14 women’s jeans here.  There’s no way they were sucked into the pipes or blown out the dryer vent or static-clung to the inside of a sleeve.

I guess stranger things have happened, though.  Like random shoes on the side of the highway.  How does someone lose a shoe on the side of a highway?  Were they sleeping with one leg hanging out the window?  I don’t know.

Anyway, back to the jeans.  I knew they had to be in the house somewhere – unless there really is some supernatural, clothes-snatching phenomenon at work – so I checked my daughter’s room and found them in a pile of clean laundry still waiting to be put away.  Mystery solved.  And it only took me two weeks.

I’m thankful that my children help with laundry.  Now it’s time to teach them how to find things.  And put stuff away.  Wish me luck with that.

Christmas Spirit

I started the season by writing a short story, The Christmas Condition, about a young woman whose first Christmas home after moving to the city isn’t quite what she expected.  Eventually, she learns that the condition of her heart is more important than the conditions around her.

With those sentiments in mind, I got off to a good start – thinking of others, feeling the joy, not stressing over things that don’t matter.

Somehow, despite my good intentions, the evil elf squeezed his way into our home and began to spread anti-Christmas tidings.  Don’t you hate it when the “bah humbuggers” ruin things for the rest of us?

A few nights ago I couldn’t take the negativity anymore.  I mean, when you get to bickering over which holiday movie to enjoy as a family, things aren’t going well.  So I went to my room and finished reading a favourite Christmas book.  Then I stared at the ceiling for awhile until I had an idea.  Not just an idea; inspiration: “The only person you can change is yourself.”

Words from my novelette’s main character echoed in my head:  “I realized that my Christmas cheer was conditional – based on events that were happening NOW instead of THE EVENT that happened two thousand years ago.”

Was it possible?  Was I allowing my Christmas cheer to ebb and flow based on the actions of those around me instead of what was in my own heart?

I said a quick prayer then asked, “Who wants a story?”  Three of my children gathered around to hear an inspiring Christmas tale.  As we snuggled, our hearts filled and spilled with love, patience, forgiveness, selflessness, and gratitude.  The Spirit of Christmas, which is the Spirit of Christ, was back.

To you and yours this holiday season, I wish you hearts full of peace, love, and joy.

Ho Ho Ho or Boo Hoo Hoo

Seven years ago, upon the advice of a family member who said if we wanted our kids to trust us in the big things we shouldn’t lie about the little things, I broke the news to my six-year-old that Santa Claus wasn’t real.  She seemed to take it well.

The next year, however, she sadly admitted, “I wish I still believed in Santa.”  I decided then and there that I would let my children discover the truth about Santa when they were ready.

This doesn’t mean I actively lie to my kids.  I simply play the game and let them believe – the same as I do with the Tooth Fairy or when I eat their playdough cookies.

It’s not that hard to allow the fantasy without the fraud.  When they see Santa at the mall and ask, “Is that really Santa Claus?” I say, “No, that’s just someone dressed up like Santa.”  When they ask, “Does Santa really climb down chimneys?” I say, “No, there are lots of houses without chimneys – like ours.”  When they ask, “Is Santa real?”  I say, “What do you think?”  Then I praise them for their deductive reasoning, welcome them into the “grown up” world, and remind them to keep the secret so it stays fun for the little ones.

I don’t think allowing children the excitement and wonder of believing in something magical is a bad thing.  Of course, we make sure they understand the religious side of Christmas first and foremost – that we are celebrating the birth of our Savior, not Santa Claus.

But what’s really great about the Santa tradition is that it motivates adults to be selfless.  It’s a time when we think about bringing joy to others by giving anonymously, without expecting anything in return.

And that’s definitely a good thing.

Write, Read, and Remember

As I helped my daughter sort through her “special box”, I noticed there was a fancy journal she had started but decided not to continue because she had messed up a page and thought it was too ugly to keep.

I tried to convince her that diaries didn’t have to be neat.  In fact, sometimes the messy writing, scribbled diagrams, or tear stains are part of their charm.  She didn’t believe me, so I went to my cedar chest and dug out my box of old journals.  My children gathered around as I lifted these treasures out one by one.  I carefully opened the pages and showed them what my printing (starting at age 7), then cursive, looked like.  I pointed out mistakes and misspelled words.  They were enthralled and convinced that perfection is not the point of keeping a personal record.

What is the point of keeping a journal?  To remember special moments, learn from past mistakes, relate to youngsters, and resolve family disputes.  But most of all, to leave a record of your life so your children and grandchildren can know you.

When email came on the scene, I noticed my journal entries decreased.  Instead of spending a half hour on Sunday afternoons to write, I found myself typing emails to my family and friends instead.  But then I got smart and printed off these emails to put in a binder journal.

Then came Facebook.  I recently realized that precious information about who I am in 2012 while my children are young is being sent into cyber-wherever-ness instead of being preserved in something tangible.

So I bought a pretty spiral notebook and began to copy my status updates into it.  I add extra personal information as needed – et voila! – I’ve got another valuable record that I can read, remember, and share with future generations.

Watchful Citizens

Last week a friend of mine posted on Facebook that there had been an abduction a few blocks from her home in Fort McMurray.  Roads were closed, police out in full force.

The next day another friend posted that HE was the one the police were looking for.  He had been on the way to the park with his two children when it started to rain.  His autistic son began to scream and run, so he gave chase with his 4-year-old daughter on his shoulders.  Someone heard the screams and saw the man running with a little girl on his shoulders – and came to the wrong conclusion.

Some think this story is hilarious.  I have mixed feelings about it.  Of course I can see the humourous side and I’m thankful it has a happy ending, but I find it rather alarming that an entire city was disrupted and the police’s time wasted because of a misunderstanding that could have been avoided if the witness had spent a few more seconds to understand what was really going on.

On one hand I want to say “thank you” for watching and helping to keep our children safe.  It’s nice to know people are willing to step in and be good Samaritans and pro-active bystanders.

On the other hand, sometimes I wonder if we are too quick to assume the worst of parents and others – labeling them neglectful or abusive without any real understanding of what’s actually going on.  As in my friend’s case, how many innocent situations are being turned into dramatic, traumatizing ones?

But speaking of traumatic events, I’m sure nothing could be as awful as having a child kidnapped, so let’s continue to be watchful citizens, using our brains and our intuition to keep our neighbourhoods safe.

Synchronized Sleeping

Kids are awesome.  So awesome, in fact, that I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when my youngest leaves home in about 18 years.

Well, I do know one thing I plan to do.  Sleep.  The whole night through.  Without interruptions.  Won’t that be blissful?  Unless, of course, I’ve forgotten how to sleep by then.

I do get uninterrupted sleep occasionally – like when the planets are on the same side of the sun or something.  But that doesn’t happen very often.

It’s not my baby’s fault.  He’s a pretty good sleeper when he’s not sick or teething.  It’s my nocturnal preschooler who keeps me up late then climbs into our bed a few hours later, kicking my husband downstairs to sleep in the spare room.

Even when we all manage to synchronize the timing of our shut-eye, the sleeping habits of seven people don’t always mesh.  One of my children sleep-talks.  The other night she sat up in bed and yelled, “Who wants ice-cream?”  At least she’s friendly.  We also have a few snorers, a teeth-grinder, and the bed-roaming preschooler who prefers to sleep perpendicular while offering regular swift kicks to the head and stomach.

If you don’t have young children at home, please be kind to those of us who show up late with bleary eyes and tousled hair.  Just be thankful we’re there – with pants on.

And if you’re a new parent, take heed to the counsel “Sleep when your baby sleeps”.  Unless you luck out like my sister did and get children who sleep for 12 hours straight, it may be the last time in a while that you get to enjoy synchronized sleeping.

The Top of The Hill

This week I turn the age that some people decide to stay at forever.  No, not twenty-nine; the other one.

Late January is a nice time to have a birthday.  It’s far enough from Christmas that I have money again, and it’s something to look forward to during the cold, winter months.  Well, that was when I actually looked forward to birthdays.  Now I can totally understand midlife crises.  I’m almost there.  Eek!

The first half of my life was all about growing, learning, and looking to the future.  Graduating, falling in love, getting married, having children, buying a home, pursuing careers, chasing dreams…

What will the second half be like?  I guess that all depends on my attitude and the decisions I make.  With five children, though, I’m pretty sure I’ll have grandchildren to love and spoil.  That’s something to look forward to.

The year I turned twenty-two was my hardest birthday because I realized I wasn’t where I had hoped to be by that point in my life.  But with that realization came the motivation to take control and make decisions that would move me forward.

My husband’s birthday is the day after mine.  One day every year (my birthday) he can claim that he is three years younger than me.  Calling your wife old on her birthday is not a wise thing to do, so I pat him on the head, snarl, and remind him that I’m not quite a cougar.

On my birthday, he takes me out to eat.  On his day, we share a cake and open presents.  When he turns forty, however, he has requested his own cake with forty candles to blow out.

We’ll see; by then he may have realized he’s reached the top of the hill and want to stick his head in the flames instead.

Tooth Fairy Economics

The Tooth Fairy is behind again.  At the rate my children are losing their teeth, one can hardly blame her.

Unlike Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny who can plan in advance for one special night, the Tooth Fairy has her schedule sprung upon her by temperamental teeth.  And unlike Santa and his magical elves, the Tooth Fairy works alone.

Every now and then, when a tooth lies unclaimed for a day or two, my children issue a not-so-gentle reminder:  “Mom, is the Tooth Fairy dead?”

I’ve heard that some children get big bucks for their teeth – like five dollar bills or more.  No wonder people complain that raising children is expensive.

One friend admitted that her son received five dollars for his tooth because that was all she had on her at the time.  Oh, the importance of a well-stocked change-jar!  Without elves creeping in to replenish it, the Tooth Fairy needs to make sure she has dimes, quarters, or loonies available at all times.  Pennies reproduce on their own.

The Tooth Fairy in our home knows that little ones who don’t yet understand the value of money would rather have ten sparkly pennies or five shiny dimes to jingle in her purse or pocket rather than a boring five-dollar bill.

Plain and simple, old teeth just aren’t worth much – except for, maybe, those teeny-tiny cute ones, poking through swollen baby gums, white and sharp, appearing amidst tears and cheers.

If lost baby teeth are worthless, why are the contents of the Ziploc bag in my jewelry box growing?  Why is it so hard to throw away those disgusting little things?

I guess no amount the Tooth Fairy settles on will be correct since no one can put an accurate price on what those baby teeth represent:  invaluable memories of precious childhoods, passing entirely too quickly.

Spoiled Rotten

The fun part’s over.  The shiny delights under the tree have turned into annoying objects in need of homes on the toy shelf – preferably before I break my neck tripping on them.

Sometimes I think Little House On The Prairie Christmases would be lovely.  You know, the ones with an orange, a stick of candy, and knitted mittens wrapped up in brown paper.

Can you imagine what our kids would say about that?

My kids are spoiled.  I never meant to do it but when they complained about fast food and not getting to watch a third DVD on the way to Calgary, I knew it had happened.

My kids aren’t the only ones who are spoiled.  Remember those modern luxuries that became conveniences that are now must-haves?  Microwaves, dishwashers, remote starters, cell phones…

Yeah.  We’re all spoiled and each generation seems to get worse.  But these are advancements that improve our quality of life, we argue.  Yes, most of them do, I suppose.  We are truly blessed.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we understood that we are spoiled (I mean blessed) and appreciate it, but along with this spoiling seems to come an attitude of entitlement and expectations for more.  We’re blessed rotten.

Could we ever return to oranges and mittens?  Even switching back from iPads and Xboxes to jump ropes and LEGO would be a step in the right direction.

Why not try spoiling our kids in other ways – like home-cooked meals, bedtime stories, lots of chores, family camping trips, and saying “no” once in a while?  Ah, yes, time and attention instead of things.  Then our children would be truly blessed instead of spoiled.  They would be whole instead of rotten.  Blessed wholly – as all children should be.