Happy??? What am I supposed to do with that?

The Character Project has been on hiatus since the end of June and I can't wait until we're back in September. Over the summer I continued to write -- I have been working on another project that is coming along better than I had hoped -- but I have missed the weekly challenges.

Some weeks the stories came easily. I would read the prompt and connected immediately with the character. Other weeks I would read the assignment over and over and nothing would come to me.

Week 12 was one such challenge. We were asked to write about Paula who was happy. Happy? What am I supposed to do with happy? Conflict makes for a much better story.

It took five days for me to get anything from Paula. Here is the story she finally told me.

packing up dreams

“You did what?”
“I booked two plane tickets to Europe,” Peter said with a grin. “Now, our flight leaves in six hours so we need to be at the airport in three. That gives you two hours to pack so you better get moving.”
Peter hustled Paula towards the stairs and followed her with an empty suitcase in hand. As she headed up to their room Paula’s mind was reeling.
“Peter, we simply cannot go away for ten days. What about the kids?”
“Your sister will be here in an hour. She is staying here at the house and looking after everything while we are gone.”
“You asked my sister to watch our three kids?” Paula was shocked.
“No, she offered and I accepted.” Peter headed over to the closet and started looking through the clothes hanging in front of him. “You are going to need at least two dresses for sit-down dinners. Does the black one and the purple one sound alright with you?”
Paula nodded so he brought the two dresses back to the suitcase and began to lay them flat at the bottom of the garment bag.
“Peter, I can’t just pick up and leave work. People count on me.”
“I called Janet three weeks ago and told her all about the trip. She agreed on the condition that you send her a postcard from Paris.”
“You called my boss? Does everyone know about this trip except me?”
“Yep.” Peter chuckled and moved over to the dresser where he started rifling through Paula’s neatly folded clothes. “The hotel in Paris has a pool. Do you want your one-piece or your two-piece swim suit?”
“Peter — Stop,” Paula walked over to him and grabbed his hand. “We really cannot afford a ten-day trip to Europe. “
Peter stopped and wrapped his wife tightly in his arms. “Please relax and trust me sweetheart. Everything has been taken care of.”
With a quick kiss on the top of her head he released her and headed to the en suite bathroom. She heard him searching through the vanity drawers and collecting various bottles in the shower.
“How long have you been planning this?” she asked with a giggle.
“Four years.”
“Excuse me? You have been planning this for four years and you never told me!”
Peter emerged from the bathroom with Paula’s bright pink toiletries case and dropped it into the suitcase. “Do you remember when I quit smoking?”
Paula nodded.
“You told me that I should take the money I had been spending on cigarettes and bring you to Europe.”
“I was kidding.”
“Well, maybe you were but it was a damn fine idea. Since then I have been putting my cigarette money into a secret account every week. Three months ago I had finally put enough away so I called a travel agent and bought the tickets.”
Paula sunk down and on the bed and stared at Peter; she shook her head unable to speak. Peter crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside her.
“Do you remember the night we met twenty years ago?”
“Of course I do…”
“We went to that little cafe on Sycamore Street and you told me about how you were going to go to Europe when you finally finished your degree. You had it all planned out.”
Paula smiled. “I had been dreaming of heading to Europe since I was thirteen. And then I met you….”
“Exactly. You met me and we got married. We bought a house and we each got jobs. Then the kids came and now it is twenty years and three kids later and you never left the continent.”
“I love my life,” Paula said squeezing his hands in hers. “I love the kids and my job. I have no regrets.”
“I know you don’t.”
Peter stood up and headed over to the dresser and pulled out two pairs of blue jeans to put in the suitcase.
“You have been a fabulous wife and an amazing mother and you have been the woman I always dreamed of. But in the back of my mind I always felt guilty that you never lived your dream.”
“I had new dreams,” Paula protested.
Peter smiled and looked at the woman who had been the centre of his life for as long as he could remember. “I know, and I love you for that. But when I sat in that coffee shop twenty years ago I fell in love with an amazing, vibrant woman and I promised myself that I would help to make all of her dreams come true.”
Paula stood up and headed to the closet. She pulled down a black blouse and a denim skirt and brought them over to the suitcase.
“I love you,” she said looking up at him with tears in her eyes. After twenty years he was still the man she fell in love with sitting at that same coffee shop on Sycamore Street.

Gracie is ten

It seems crazy to be typing that title. Gracie -- my baby -- is ten. (Of course now that she is ten she would like to be called Grace instead. As her mother I have permission to continue calling her Gracie.)

Gracie is my firstborn. I remember bringing her home from the hospital and spending hours just staring at her as she slept in my arms. She slept in a lot of people's arms -- between me, Paul and my parents I am sure there were days that her little body barely touched her crib or her bouncy-seat.

As I have shared in other posts my road to motherhood was a long and difficult one. Paul and I had been told by doctors that we may never have children before embarking on a number of fertility regimes. We were blessed. We named her Grace for that reason. We wanted a constant reminder that this little person was our gift from God.

Gracie is the spitting image of me. No one ever questions that she is my daughter. Her personality is also a lot like mine: she is a type A perfectionist that spends far too much time worrying about things she can't control. It drives me insane partly because it is something I understand far too well.

She is a beautiful child. She is a talented artist -- she gets that from my mom-- drawing pictures that amaze both Paul and I. She designs clothing and has recently starting sewing. I have no doubt that she will be an artist one day. She is a fabulous dancer even without any formal training and she shines when she has a chance to perform (even though she worries herself almost sick beforehand).

Grace feels things more deeply than anyone I know. When she is happy or excited she has a look of joy on her face that is contagious. But she also feels pain more deeply. She is frequently out of money because she has given all of her savings to a worthy cause: breast cancer research, combating child labor in Pakistan or supporting orphans in Haiti. For her birthday each year my parents adopt an endangered animal at the Toronto Zoo in her name. This year my mom asked if she wanted something else. Grace was horrified: "Nana, the komodo dragon needs us!" She can't help herself. She will give her last cent to make someone's (or something's) life better.

She is painfully loyal. When she was three she refused to try blueberries. She told me that she really liked raspberries and felt that eating blueberries would be a betrayal. I had no words to argue with that.

She can't pick a favorite -- not a color, not a food or even a favorite moment from a trip. She would feel that she was betraying all of the others and gets teary-eyed if she even tries. Since then I have learned to ask: "tell me three things that you really liked about your day" so she does not have to pick one as superior to the others.

When she was little I used to pray that God would toughen her up a little bit. At seven she would get so sad about every squabble with a friend or B on her school work. I was -- and still am -- petrified of the hurts and disappointments that face as she gets older. However, as the years passed I stopped praying that prayer. Grace's ability to feel things so deeply is one of the things I admire most about her. As her mother I can never protect her from the world but I can be there to hold her hand or give her a hug whenever she wants one.

Gracie I love you dearly. You are my gift from God and He blessed me more than I ever could have imagined when you came into my life. Your momma loves you.