I still do

This week my husband and I will celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary. Sixteen years...

Like any couple who has been married for a long time I can barely remember a time when Paul was not a part of my life. I look back at the pictures of our wedding and realize that we both looked like kids that day. I was twenty-three and he was twenty-seven and we had our whole lives ahead of us.

I wonder what we would have thought that day, if we had been given a glimpse of what was to come. The Julie and Paul who stood at that altar didn't want any more kids -- what would they have thought of the two daughters on they way? Would the couple saying 'I do' have believed that they would still be living in the same house or that it would take sixteen years before they finally took that trip to Europe?

I won't pretend the last sixteen years have been perfect. We have had our share of ups and downs but one thing remains -- I am still madly in love with the man I married.

--

When you are twenty-one years old you think you know everything. When I met Paul I was just finishing the third year of my degree (only one to go) and I was newly single. Like many young women coming through a tough break-up I had sworn off men. The plan was simple. I was going to finish my degree without the distractions of a relationship, graduate and then meet the man of my dreams and get married.

The man of my dreams would be tall, a white-collar professional with strong career prospects, a sharp dresser with a keen eye for fashion and an avid reader. He would have a taste for the finer things in life -- good hotels, nice trips. He would respect the fact that I wanted a career and would be willing to consider not having children. I wanted to live downtown -- never in the suburbs -- and I never, ever wanted to drive a minivan.

And then I met Paul.

He's not tall, he will never work in an office. His wardrobe was horrible (sorry honey, but you should choose a pair of pants for fit and not for the number of pockets). He loved to camp and brought me rock-climbing when we were dating. He was separated with a child, he lived in a condo in Kanata and he drove a mini-van. Thank God he liked to read so I had one criteria that I could point to from my precious list.

But he had a smile that melted my heart and he treated me like gold. He carried an extra pair of gloves in his pocket because my hands are always cold and I never had mine with me. He always warmed up the car and picked me up at the door. He made fabulous dinners and set up picnics on the floor complete with candles and placemats before he finally got around to buying a table for that condo in the suburbs.

He never bad-mouthed his ex and he was a great dad whose eyes lit up when he talked about his daughter. He didn't have a degree but he was smart as hell and could discuss current issues with a unique life perspective that far outweighed my university friends who quoted articles and read current events books.

For our first Christmas together he gave me booster cables, flares and traction pads. I had just bought a car and did a lot of driving between Kanata and Orleans so he wanted me to be safe. At the time I thought it was the worst gift ever, I realize now that this was a man who really loved me.

Within a year we were discussing marriage.

--

My relationship with Paul falls firmly under the heading of opposites attract.

Paul is calm and rational. He doesn't let himself worry about things that are out of his control. He understands that most arguments are not worth having and refuses to waste his energy disagreeing with people about unimportant things. He respects the views of others and feels no need to try convince them of his opinion. Live and let live.

When we first got married I found this extremely irritating. I often worried and wanted him to worry along with me. When we disagreed I felt the need to make my case and wanted to continue our debates until he realized I was right and he changed his position. I am sure this annoyed the hell out of him but he rarely lost his temper.

We fought a lot in those early years (or at least I fought) and on many occasions I wondered if our marriage would last. More than once I packed a bag as I ranted and raved, he stood quietly and watched me have my temper tantrum. I realize now how mean that tactic was and I am very, very lucky he never called my bluff.

I can't imagine my life without him.

--

Over the years our marriage has fallen into a pattern. We are a good team and without thinking about it we have taken on quite traditional roles. I am also aware that he spoils me.

One of my friends recently told me a story about her ex-boyfriend that shocked me. She told me that when they were out and the car needed gas her boyfriend would only get out and pump the gas if he had been the driver.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"If I was driving then I would get out and pump the gas," she repeated.

"What did he do?"

"He would sit in the car and listen to the radio."

"While you filled the tank?"

"Yes."

"What if it was cold."

"If I drove, I pumped."

"Even when you were pregnant?!"

"Yes. What do you do?"

"Paul pumps the gas all of the time. It would never occur to him to make me get out and fill the tank. That is one of things I love about him."

"Really?"

"Yep. In fact, I don't think I would continue dating a man that made me pump my own gas while he sat in the car. That would be a deal-breaker for me."

When I asked Paul about it later he told me that he does not see it as a question of man's job versus a woman's job. To him it is simple a) I hate the cold while he does not mind it b) he does not care if he smells like gasoline but he knows that I don't like it; and c) he does not spend the three minutes at the pump thinking about all of the dirty hands that have been on that pump recently. (Let's face it, how often are they washing those handles. Shudder) He does not see pumping gas as a man's job, he simply sees it as a job that is more-suited to him than it is to me.

It does not stop at the gas tank. Paul is also in charge of minor car repairs (although I do bring it in for servicing when it needs it), mowing the lawn, shoveling the driveway (if he is home), hanging Christmas lights, putting out the garbage and killing bugs. My cousin Kim calls these tasks the blue jobs. Again, most of these tasks are more physical and outdoorsy and Paul knows that I am just as happy to leave them to him.

I wonder if chivalry plays a role as well. Paul is very good about opening doors or giving me the last seat. Often I will wake up on a snowy winter morning to find that he took a few minutes to scrape my car before he went to work. In short, he likes to do little things to make my life easier. When he goes to Starbucks he will grab an extra 'cup sleeve' and leave it in my car because he knows I always forget to grab one and my fingers burn.

Early in our marriage I bemoaned the fact that Paul is not the man who has the fancy words to express how much he loves me. It took me a few years to realize that he says it all the time in the things he does. For Paul, talk is cheap. He makes it a point to show me how much he loves me.

--

Even as we have come to these understandings I realize Paul and I are still opposites. Last month when the Conservatives put a campaign sign on our front lawn I pulled it out in a huff put it in our front entryway. When Paul got home he said: "the sign is here."

"You want to put it up?" I asked him in shock. "Sure," he said. He likes the Conservatives.

I am voting for the NDP, I told him. He smiled. "Maybe we should get both signs," he suggested.

"Maybe we should just put this one out every other day," I countered. "We'll move it around each time and we can aerate the lawn while we're at it."

I didn't feel the need to change his mind and he didn't bother to try and change mine. In the end it doesn't really matter. We respect each other's opinions and cuddled on the sofa as we watched the election results roll in.

--

Our marriage after sixteen years is nothing like the one I pictured when we wed. At twenty-one, I refused to say "obey" in our vows and I insisted on keeping my name. We had separate bank accounts, our own cars and individual credit cards. Today Paul is the primary earner and I stay home with the girls. We share everything and I often introduce myself as Julie Gendron. If we were to get married again I would probably say obey in our vows.

Today I know that, more often than not, Paul lets me have my own way. I make the majority of decisions about the house, vehicle purchases, summer trips, our plans for the weekends and about our daughters. He trusts my judgement and wants me to be happy so if he does argue with me it is because he feels very, very strongly about the issue.

Case in point: when I was pregnant for Grace I was concerned about childhood vaccinations. I read dozens of books and articles and fretted about the formulations, the preservatives and the possible effects. I announced one night that our baby would not get the standard vaccinations. Paul didn't get upset -- he just asked if I had ever been to a country where children die of measles, mumps or whooping cough. When I said no he nodded.

"Well I have," he answered. "And my daughter is getting vaccinated." It was the end of that discussion and Gracie got all of the shots on the schedule. He had considered my opinion and he felt strongly enough about it to put his foot down. I didn't even argue.

--

Every night when Paul gets home from work I watch his car drive up and unless something is boiling over on the stove I open the door for him. He always gets a kiss hello (and our kids complain about us kissing again) and a hug before he heads off to hear about Grace and Kathryn's day at school. After sixteen years, I still get butterflies as he walks up the driveway. I think he is even hotter than the day I met him and I am genuinely happy he is home. Life is better when he is by my side.

When I get good news he is the first person I want to call. As we plan our trip to Italy this summer I realize that there is no one I would rather have at my side for this adventure. When I am sad or disappointed I yearn to hear his voice -- knowing he is there for me makes any challenge seem more manageable. He doesn't even have to be in the same city -- I just know that he has my back, no matter what.

If he needed me there is nothing I would not do for him. Nothing.

My friends have said that when Paul looks at me from across the room even a stranger would be able to tell that he adores me. When we go out he is the gentleman that offers to take my coat or get me a drink. When we walk he puts his hand on the small of my back in a way that demonstrates that he is proud to be at my side.

He can still kiss me in a way that makes my heart stop.

So on Friday morning, when he kisses me good-bye before leaving for work and wishes me a happy anniversary I hope he knows that I would do it again in a heartbeat. I hope he knows the last sixteen years with him have been a blessing that I would not trade for anything in the world.

Paul: you are not the dream man from my list but you are exactly the man I needed. I pray every day that our girls will one day find someone like you to spend their lives with. Someone who loves and respects them. Someone who does not try to change them but who helps them to grow and improve. Someone who does not try to control them but will walk beside them through every tough moment life has to offer. Someone who accepts every part of them -- even the things that they would like to change about themselves.

I love you Ginger. Sixteen years later -- I still do. There is no one else I would rather spend my life with.

Is it just a number?

I have fabulous memories of my mom's father.

I remember that he loved to do crossword puzzles and he listened to the radio all of the time. He loved baseball and would bring my brother and I to see the Expos if we were in town for a home game. He enjoyed reading, loved music and often whistled as he kept busy in the kitchen. He served canapes whenever we visited and he made the BEST Caesar salad in the world.

Whenever he poured a drink for me he would put in five or six Maraschino cherries because he knew I loved them. It made me feel just as special at thirty drinking a rum and coke as it did when I was ten drinking orange juice. Each time I would visit he would look at me and proclaim Julie, you're terrific before giving me a big hug. I am getting teary as I write this, just thinking about it.

One of my most vivid memories is from when I was five or six years old and I was playing in the front yard at my grandparent's home. It was rare that we would be in the front yard; the house was up on a steep hill and at the bottom of the driveway was a T-junction of two busy streets. Grandpa was washing his car -- which is likely why were in the front yard instead of the back-- and I was at the top of the driveway counting marbles from a bag he had bought me earlier that day. Somehow I spilled the bag and all of the marbles rolled down the driveway and into the busy intersection. Before I could even cry I remember him running down to the road and stopping traffic as he collected the precious glass balls that I had dropped.

It was over thirty years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday.

My grandfather died a few years ago. He was in his mid-eighties and had been in the hospital for several months. When I was a little girl he seemed huge to me but when he passed he seemed smaller, frailer. I was devastated by the loss.

------

Last weekend I had the pleasure of spending time with my two cousins O and H. While they are my first cousins they are the same age as my daughters. They had come up from the U.S. to visit for the long weekend and spent a few days in Montreal before coming to our house for Good Friday. On the first evening I was asking my Uncle about his visit to see his mother -- my grandmother -- who has Alzheimer's. It is a wicked disease that steals the people you love and hurts not just the patients but the people who love them.

I asked O if she enjoyed seeing Granny and she nodded. "Your granny is my granny too," I reminded her as she played with my daughter Kathryn.

"My grandpa is dead," she said in a matter-of-fact tone that comes so easily for a six-year-old. "But he was very old."

"He wasn't always old," I told her. It makes me sad to think that her only memories are of an old man in the hospital when I have so many wonderful stories about a grandfather who danced at my wedding and played cards with me even though I was too young to really understand the rules.

"When I was your age Grandpa was young," I told her. I did a quick calculation in my head. When I was O's age, he was only 51!

What?! When I was six he seemed old. Now that I am pushing forty I am seeing fifty-one in a whole new perspective.

I suppose I shouldn't be too shocked. After all, I am married to someone's grandfather and I don't think of him as old. Grandfather or not my husband is still the hottest man I can imagine.

------

Age is a strange concept. People argue that it is just a number and I guess that is true. What is really important is our ideas about that number and how those ideas can change with our perspective.

When I was in the second grade, I remember the teacher telling us about the year 2000. She was telling us how the turn of the millennium would be a big celebration that few people in history would get to experience.

After a quick calculation on the blackboard she told us that we would all be 28 for the big New Year's Eve party. I remember thinking: "Gee, I'll be too old to even enjoy it!" In reality I was too pregnant to enjoy it. At twenty eight I was expecting our first baby and didn't feel that old at all.

------

It hit me again last week when I noticed an obituary on the bulletin board at work. George -- one of our regulars -- had died of a heart attack at seventy-nine. I was stunned.

I liked George. He was a friendly guy who always had a smile and something nice to say. He liked to joke with people and seemed to enjoy his daily routine at the gym. Apparently he had been ill but I had no idea. He looked healthy to me. In fact, I was shocked to learn that he was seventy-nine. He was fit and active. To be honest, I had never really thought about his age at all.

Working at a gym in the mornings, the majority of the people in my classes fall into one of three categories: stay-at-home moms, shift workers and retirees. I remember one Spin class a few years ago when some members complained about a new heart rate chart that only went up to the 55-65 age range. What about the rest of us? Someone asked. I looked around and realized that almost half of them fell past that parameter but despite their age they could still kick ass on those bikes.

Working in fitness I have learned that chronological age is highly irrelevant. I know plenty of seventy year-olds that could run circles around my forty year old friends. I know eighty year-olds that are younger-at-heart than people half their age. I have always been very bad at judging age. When I was a teenager working in retail I would dread "senior discount day." I always ended the shift with a pile of voided slips from discounts I missed and offended patrons from discounts I offered to those who didn't qualify. I'd probably still suck at it today.

Maybe my inability to judge age is an advantage. I don't want to assume anything based on age. I would rather be shocked and impressed when I see people living their dreams -- age be damned.

Why I hate April

I met my husband in April.

It was a Friday night and a friend and I were celebrating the end of my third year of university at a downtown bar. Paul was there with a group of friends and somehow we ended up dancing. Before that day I had never believed in love at first sight but the first time I looked in his eyes (and saw that amazing dimple when he smiled) I knew I would marry him.

A year later -- also in April -- he proposed. The circumstances were bad, the words weren't romantic and he didn't get down on one knee. But there he was: the only man I had every really loved was holding a ring and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him.

We used to celebrate both of these 'anniversaries'. We would go out to dinner or if he was away he would make sure to call. When you are young and have no kids to distract you these milestones seem so important.

But now I hate April.

The dread starts a week before and by the time April finally rolls around I am in a full-fledged funk. I used to try hide it. Friends would comment that I was unusually quiet but I would smile and dismiss it as nothing. After ten years it seems too difficult to explain.

Some people suggest that time makes grief fade but I have come to realize that some types of sadness are always a part of you: hiding in your tissues, in your heart, in your mind. Sometimes it ebbs and your focus turns to other happy aspects of your life but you know it is not really gone. It will flow back.

Sometimes you know it is coming and sometimes it blindsides you when you least expect it.

I always expect it in April.

In April 2000 we should have been celebrating the birth of our first child; the baby Paul and I had nicknamed Gaffer. We had been waiting for this little person to come into our lives for almost three years. With each doctor's appointment, drug treatment and negative test Paul would hold me and remind me to focus on the baby that was waiting for us. His faith never wavered.

Our struggles with infertility started in 1997 when Paul and I decided to have kids (you can read about it in this post: http://juliehollingergendon.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-journey-to-motherhood.html) There were tests, pills, injections, mood swings and ultrasounds galore but in early August 1999 my prayers were answered. Against all odds -- I was pregnant.

I had just finished a disastrous treatment cycle and I had not held out a lot of hope for success. Midway through the cycle the specialists at the fertility clinic considered discontinuing the treatment, I had to take twice as many injections as they predicted and ended up I ovulating the day before a business trip (we had to ditch the insemination at the lab and buy Paul a plane ticket to San Francisco instead). When I started to bleed a few weeks later I was not surprised, I simply tried to put it out of my head.

Try as I might though I could not snap out of it. I was exhausted and nauseated and I chalked it up to the fertility meds working their way out of my system. The nurses at the clinic were not convinced. One of them explained that since I had two eggs there was still a chance I was pregnant. Sometimes one egg won't 'take' but the other will hang on. She encouraged me to buy a pregnancy test and find out for sure.

After three years in infertility hell, I had spent a small fortune on pregnancy tests. I had never, ever seen a positive sign and I was not holding out hope that this would be any different. I didn't even tell Paul I was doing it. I woke up, peed on the stick and braced myself for another heartache. As I sat on the side of the tub I watched the stick. One line appeared -- the test was working. Line two appeared -- I screamed.

Paul was in a dead sleep but was in the bathroom in a second, thinking I had either been attacked by a home invader or had been cornered by a spider. He was not prepared for a happy wife and the positive pregnancy test we had been dreaming about. We got dressed immediately and headed to the clinic for a blood test to confirm. I was pregnant.

Ten days later it started to unravel. More spotting, some cramping... I called the clinic and they told me it happened sometimes. Don't panic. A few days later I called my GP who sent me for another blood test. My levels were still climbing, he assured me. I was pregnant. A few days later I woke up with more horrible cramping and after a trip to the bathroom I woke Paul and told him that we had to go to the hospital. We drove in silence as I cried.

After a quick exam the doctor started an IV and did a blood test. They gave us a private room because I was almost hysterical. Paul was a rock but held it together for me. I can only imagine how much he was hurting. Finally the doctor came back. He was quiet and sat down on the stool by my bed. I never looked at him. I remember staring intently at the IV on the back of my hand wishing he would just leave. I knew that as soon as he opened his mouth it was over.

My levels were dropping he told Paul quietly. If I had not already lost the baby it was only a matter of time. There was nothing they could do. "I'm sorry," he said as he left us. I remember hearing the paper crumple as Paul sat down on the table behind me and held me as I sobbed. I remember the nurse peeking in and then leaving. When she returned a few minutes later her eyes were glassy. She removed the IV in my hand without saying anything to us. What was there to say? Instead she rubbed my arm and asked if there was anything else that she could do.

"Do you want me to call someone," she asked. "We have a chaplain and a social worker on call." Paul assured her that we were fine and after she left he helped me get dressed and all but carried me to the car. The next few days are a blur. I called in sick to work. I avoided phone calls and I cried. I was devastated and I was angry. I have never felt so out of control in my life. There was nothing I could do or say to bring my baby back so I punched walls, I kicked things and I cried some more.

After a few weeks, Paul convinced me to try another round of treatment and I got pregnant again. I was petrified of losing this baby and I did everything the doctors told me to do. We found out that we were having a baby girl and we picked a name. My parents bought us a crib and we set up a nursery. There were pink outfits folded in the dresser and hanging in the closet. I was so busy that when April rolled around I was surprised to feel the sadness set in.

The baby I lost had been due in April. While my belly was swelling with a daughter I loved more than life itself, I felt empty. While my rational mind reminded me that I was blessed to have a healthy baby kicking me from within, I mourned the baby I had lost. I would never know if it was a boy or girl. I would never give it a 'proper' name. That child would always be my Gaffer. I felt selfish as I cried. I wanted my baby back. I wanted them both.

At first I dismissed it as hormones. I was pregnant -- crying came with the territory. But the following April it happened again. And with every passing April for a decade the grief takes hold as the snow starts to melt.

Every April I open the beautiful wooden box that Paul and I bought after my miscarriage. It contains the pregnancy journal I had been filling out during my treatments and through the brief weeks my baby was with us. There is an ad for the hotel in San Francisco that trumped the fertility clinic. There is a ziploc bag with the positive pregnancy test. Some condolence cards. A poem that was sent to me by a friend who lost a baby and understood my pain. The hospital bracelet from our trip to the emergency room. A coin set. A package of seeds -- Forget-Me-Nots.

I never planted the seeds; I fully intended to when my mother gave them to me but the next year I was afraid. What if they didn't take? What if I planted them and they died? It would make me too sad. Instead I keep the packet. The seeds have potential -- the promise of life. It is seems odd to me that I am clinging to possibility of life that these seeds carry as I mourn the potential life that was lost. Instead of planting the seeds and letting them thrive, I am hoarding them. As long as the potential is there then I can't be hurt again.

I have thought about this post for a few days and struggled with whether or not to publish it; it is very personal and the pain is still raw after eleven years. But as I approach my fortieth birthday and look back at the events that shaped the woman I am today there is no way to ignore this part of my life. This child that no one had a chance to meet is as real to me as my others. I am also sharing this story because I know that I am not alone. Many of my friends admit quietly that they too have lost children. I am willing to bet that I am not the only one still mourning.

So as April sits on the horizon I brace myself to feel the sadness, to pull out the wooden box that no one else ever opens and to shed a few more tears for my Gaffer. This summer I will buy a flat of Forget-Me-Nots and plant them in my garden. The seeds will stay in the box.

You can't get there from here...

A few weeks ago I was talking to a girl at the gym who is in her last year of high school. She had been accepted at one university but was still waiting to hear back from the program at the top of her list. Although it has been more than twenty years since I applied to university, I vividly remember the anxiety she was describing as she talked about checking her mailbox each day.

I was seventeen and it was mid-June. I was at school preparing to write one of my last exams. I had already heard back from Queen's and Ottawa U -- both had accepted me for general arts -- but I was holding out for Carleton. I had applied for the journalism program and the competition was stiff. One of my friends had gone home for lunch that day and had come back to school with a letter from Carleton offering an early acceptance to their engineering program. I called home and begged my mom to check the mail. Yes, there was a letter from Carleton. No, she was not going to open it before my exam.

Is it a big envelope or a little envelope? I asked. Is there a department on the return address? Tell me something... anything.... I begged.

I got home that afternoon and called my dad so he could hear the news along with everyone else. I got in. I screamed. I danced. I read the letter four times (later I would even frame it).

At that moment I felt that my life was set; I was going to be a journalist. My first choice was magazine writing but I would have been happy working for a major newspaper. I was going to live in Europe and marry someone fabulous. I wasn't going to have kids. I didn't like children and even if I did they take a lot of time and would interfere with my career. Yep. I had it all decided.

Twenty-some years later I look back at that girl and laugh. I did finish my journalism degree but mid-way through year one I realized that I definitely did not want to be a journalist. I have three lovely daughters and I live only minutes away from the house where I grew up. (I did marry someone fabulous, though!) I am a stay-at-home mom. I studied to be a nutritionist and a personal trainer. I teach yoga and fitness classes and I am writing a romance novel in my scarce free time.

If there was a road map for life's paths and someone plotted the life I had planned against the life I have now they would probably conclude 'you can't get there from here'. But somehow I did.

With the big four-oh only eight months away I have been doing a lot of thinking about the decisions and the circumstances that lead me to where I am now. How did a girl who hated phys ed. end up teaching Spin classes? I spent my early-twenties thinking romance novels were drivel -- today I would like to see my name on the cover of one.

Over the next few weeks I will share some of these turning points with you. Some have been significant -- meeting my husband, having a baby, quitting my job -- but some happened so gradually that I barely noticed them at the time. It wasn't a sharp right or a left but a slow merge from one road to another.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you about why I hate April.

clutter be gone

As most of my friends know, housework is not my strong suit. I do it because I have to. If something more fun comes up I'll drop my chores like a bad habit and save them for the following week.

I used to stress about the house being tidy but over the years I have made peace with the fact that my house is never going to end up on the pages of "Good Housekeeping". Ever. It is clean but lived in. There are four people in this family and we all have lots of stuff.

It was easier before we had kids and even easier when we had a cleaning service that came in every second week. I would invite company and organize dinner parties for the day after the amazing Lisa was scheduled to come and would do my best to 'maintain' between visits.

The winter is the worst. We have a small entrance way and the hats, boots, coats, snowpants, mitts and scarves tend to overflow their baskets making the place look cluttered. When you add in the school bags, gym bags, running shoes and purses it tends to get overwhelming. I try to close my eyes and imagine a happier Julie when the summer rolls around and my front entrance is tidier. On days like today I just snap.

"That's it," I said to Paul this morning in a snippy voice. "I'm done."

Paul looked up from his computer to see what I was stewing about.

"If any of you has something in this house they really love they had better hide it," I yelled out. "Starting tomorrow I am throwing shit out!"

Not my finest parenting moment I'll admit but they know I'm serious and should consider themselves warned. If something special goes missing next week, it won't be my fault.

When Paul and I first bought our house we had precious little to fill it. A bed, a sofa, a dresser, a desk, a dining room table, a kitchen table, our appliances and an old stereo that had only one working cassette player and a turn-table on top. We each had clothes and a mountain of books but it was pretty sparse overall. As we would give people tours of our new house we would show them the storage room, the furnace room and the back room in our basement and wonder what in the world we would ever put there.

Fifteen years later we found out. The storage rooms are packed, the closets are stuffed and we have plenty of furniture. Now we have a choice. We can get a bigger house or get rid of some stuff.

I have been talking about de-cluttering for a while. Last month I was in the bookstore and I found a book on how to de-clutter your house in seven days. I flipped through it imaging a fabulous, minimalist home and nearly made it to the cash before my friend L shattered my dreams.

"You don't need another book to add to the clutter," she said in an annoyingly logical voice. "You just need to do it."

A month later I was back at Chapters (without that spoil-sport L) and saw a book called '100 Things". Paul was already in line at the cash so I could only flip through quickly. The author was talking about how he had walked through his home puzzled by how he had accumulated so much. I could relate. It started him on a one-year journey to live with less.

I was inspired.

"I'm going to do it," I told Paul on the way home. "Over the next year I am going to throw out one hundred things." He didn't say much. I tend to come up with a lot grand schemes and lofty plans so over the years Paul had become jaded when I make these proclamations.

I ignored his lack of enthusiasm and decided to google 100 Things when I got home to learn more. The first thing I learned was that I had missed the premise of the book. He isn't throwing out 100 things - he is going to live with only 100 things!

Huh? 100 things!! I have more than 100 items of clothing. I have a magazine collection in the basement that easily tops one hundred. Don't even get me started on the books. 100 items is crazy.

I looked at his list and was shocked to see that the writer gave up his yoga mat but used up 8 items on his list for camping gear! Clearly this man was cut from a different cloth than me. He did group all of his books under one item called library which made me feel a little better but I am still shocked. He lived with those 100 items for over a year.

While I admire the man's dedication I am sticking with my own guidelines and will be content with throwing out one hundred items. There are plenty of things in my closet that I no longer wear that could be put to better use at the free store at church. I have jewelery that I don't wear and cosmetics that need to be trashed. The nail polish has taken over a larger section of the refrigerator than I would like so that is another area to work with. Do I need three yoga mats? Probably not.

In the meantime I have been thinking about what items I would need to have on my 100 Things list. It is not a serious goal but more like the game you play at dinner parties: If you were stuck on a desert island and could only bring three things, what would you choose. (For the record I would bring Paul and let him choose the other two items -- what do I know about surviving on a desert island.)

What's on your list? I would be interested to hear what items my friends couldn't live without.

Looking back at my blog posts for the past few months I realized that it has been a while since I posted any of my fiction. So, here is one from June of last year about a character named Linda, a cynical kindergarten teacher who has recently been disappointed by someone in her life. The challenged was to imagine a scenario where Linda is trying to teach her class but is being interrupted by her cell phone. The kids can only hear one side of the conversation.

________

in other words...

Linda sighed as she heard her cell phone start to ring again.

The first time it rang she had ignored it. Usually she turned her phone off during school hours but she had been getting a pep talk from her sister when the bell rang and had quickly thrown the phone in her desk drawer as the kids started to file in. Now it was circle time and she was clear across the room sitting in the old rocking chair with eighteen pairs of eyes staring at her.

When it first rang the kids giggled. She knew it was him. ‘Fly me to the moon’ was their song and she had set it as his ringtone the night they met and danced all evening at the old jazz club on Main Street.

She tried to ignore the interruption by diverting their attention.

“Samuel? Would you like to be Miss Linda’s helper today? Why don’t you come up here and pick a book for the class to read this morning?” Samuel happily scrambled over the bookshelf and considered his choices with glee. Oh, to be five again….

They were on page three when the phone rang the second time. Damn it, why did he keep calling? Linda made a face and pointed at a silly squirrel on the brightly-colored page hoping the kids laughter would drown out the tune that now made her want to cry.

If the kids noticed, no one said anything and she continued with the story. With a quick glance at the clock she noticed that it was only 9:30: it was going to be a long, long day.

She had wanted to call in sick; to pull out the list of substitute teachers who could save her from putting on her happy face for the eighteen little people who sat in front of her. Her sister convinced her to soldier on. “Linda, you need to go to work. Get up, splash some cold water on your face, load up on the Visine and face the world. What else are you going to do? Sit at home and cry for that cheating bastard?”

By 10:30 the kids were sitting at their tables to work on printing. She had spent the last hour singing loud songs and doing silly dances with them in an effort to drown out the constant calls and she knew they all needed a little downtime. But with the kids concentrating on making neat and precise R’s the phone’s ring seemed so loud it almost echoed. Enough.

“Excuse me boys and girls. Miss Linda is just going to answer this call so we can get rid of the interruptions. Everyone keep working on their printing. You are all doing such a good job,” she said in her best kindergarten teacher voice.

She placed her hand over her mouth as she slid open her cell to answer the call. “What do you want?” she growled much louder than she intended. A few kids at a nearby table looked up with alarm but she smiled back at them. “I am very busy right now,” she said returning to her melodic teaching voice in an attempt to reassure the kids. It was not the voice she would have chosen if she hadn’t had an audience. The words she wanted to use were also off-limits in a classroom full of five year-olds.

“I’m sorry. I know… I just, I needed to talk to you, to explain.”

“There is nothing to explain. Your, ahem, partner explained it quite clearly when we spoke on Friday. There is no need for you to keep calling.”

“Look I didn’t know that my wife was going to call you. I am so sorry. That should never have happened. I was going to explain.”

“I don’t think any further explanations are necessary. In fact, I think the whole situation is quite clear,” she said choosing her words quite carefully. “I was surprised to find out that another venture existed so I have decided to invest elsewhere.”

“Why are you talking like this? Oh shit, are your kids there? Is the whole class listening to you? Damn it, I should have thought about this before I called you.”

“Yes, I agree. There are numerous issues that should have considered beforehand but it’s too late to change it now.”

“I’m going to leave her. I love you, I swear, I just need time.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have already made my decision. Thank you so much for following up,” she let the sarcasm drip from her voice. “I don’t think you need to call again.”

Linda snapped the phone closed and took a deep breath steadying herself against the tears that threatened to fall. “I am sorry boys and girls. I am turning my phone off right now.”

Samuel looked up from the table in the centre of the room. “My mommy hates it when people call on the phone to sell us things we don’t need. She says they always call at the wrong time and that they are a ‘pain a butt’.” The kids all giggled.

Linda looked over at the little blond-haired, boy with the thick glasses who had handily changed the subject and saved her from having to make more excuses to the young class.

Yep, she had picked the perfect helper today.

__________________________

I am happy to say that The Character Project is continuing in the new year. If you love to write you should consider joining us. There are weekly prompts to inspire you and you can participate as often as your life will allow.

What is the lesson

I am a New Year's resolution girl. I like to think of January 1 as a fresh start and it always seems like a good idea to focus on one or two areas where I can make improvements over the next 365 days. For many, New Year's resolutions don't last more than a week before they are forgotten (I work in a gym -- enough said).

In the past my resolution usually focused on my weight; I have entered more than one January hell-bent on losing five to ten pounds. I finally gave up on that train of thought because more often than not I ended up feeling worst about myself instead of better.

For 2011 I have resolved to learn. I love learning so on the surface it seems easy enough. Paul calls me a perpetual student and knows I am always happy to be knee-deep in books, papers and exams. But the resolution is not about that kind of learning, it is about the day-to-day lessons we all ignore everyday.

I truly believe that if we open our eyes we will see that life is presenting us with lessons all the time.

The people crossing our paths do so for a reason; we can learn from them. But it is not just the people we like that can help us to learn and grow -- what about the people in our lives that are more (ahem) 'challenging'? I read once that the people in our lives that we like the least are the ones that remind us of something in ourselves we do not like. Ouch...

My knee-jerk reaction is to dismiss the theory but when I stop to think about it there is a lot of truth there. Whether these people mirror a quality in me -- or have overcome a struggle that still holds me back -- their presence makes me uncomfortable. Recognizing this I have a choice to make: do I walk away or do I start to work on those areas in my life that are clearly hindering me?

There is a Sanskrit greeting Namaste which means (and I am paraphrasing) the Divine that is within me, recognizes the Divine that is within you. It is beautiful idea that transcends any creed or religion. While we may all have different interpretation of the Divine the core principal is the same. Every person has a 'spark' or a goodness in them. We may not see it immediately but it is something that we should recognize and respect.

It would be easier to lose five pounds. I have done it before but inevitably those five pounds will creep right back. The lessons, however, have the potential to make permanent changes in my life.

When did kids stop being kids?

It is Christmas holidays and I am having a blast with Paul and the girls.

Over the past few days we have been doing a Star Wars movie marathon and Paul has been introducing the kids to the wonders of Luke, Leia, Han Solo Darth Vader and Yoda (we are not Jar Jar Binks fans so we are trying to discourage their enthusiasm for bumbling Gungan). As they watched the movies we have been watching their faces and their enthusiasm for the story. It has been fabulous to revisit the saga again from their perspective.

As with all kids their age, Christmas is top of mind. They are thrilled to have everyone come to our house for turkey dinner this year. They are anxious to see us open the gifts they bought for us at the school's Christmas shop and they are excited to see what Santa will deliver for them.

As I write this, Paul has brought them to the mall to get their photo taken with Santa. Kathyrn is six this year and Gracie is ten and they looked so cute in their outfits. I realize with a tinge of sadness that this may be the last year Gracie will agree to pose with the big man. I am hoping that she will continue to humor me well into her teenage years.

While I recognize that my daughter is growing up far too quickly for my liking I am thrilled that she is still a kid at heart. Some may argue that she is a little young for ten but Paul and I made a conscious decision to let our girls be kids for as long as possible. We monitor their television and movie viewing carefully, we try not to watch the news if they are in the room and I review all of Gracie's books if they have not been recommended by someone I trust.

They are sheltered and perhaps that is why I was so shocked by a sign I saw at CHEO yesterday.

While we were waiting for Kathryn in the reception area of the MRI and CAT scan clinic I saw a yellow sheet posted on the wall. "All female patients over the age of eleven will be asked about the possibility of pregnancy prior to a CAT scan or MRI." I almost spit out my coffee when I spotted it. My daughter will be eleven in only eight months and the very idea that someone her age could be pregnant devastated me.

I tried to imagine what I would have done if Gracie would have been the one having the test done. I don't think that the waiting room at CHEO is any place for me to have 'the talk' with my daughter -- especially when the nurse could be calling her name at any moment. She knows about the egg and the sperm but we have not explained all the details about the mechanics. I didn't think it was necessary yet.

I want to say up-front that I am not criticizing the staff at CHEO: I am sure the doctors, nurses and technicians see heart-wrenching situations and that there are good reasons why this policy is in place. It makes me sad, however, to think that there are eleven-year-old girls living lives where pregnancy may be an issue.

Eleven.

Maybe I am naive. As the parent of a pre-teen (and pretty one at that) I know that boys and dating are going to an issue soon. As a mother I will not be able to be with my girls 24/7 but I pray the lessons Paul and I taught them will stick. I want them to make smart decisions. I hope they know that they can come to us if they need to talk or if they have a problem they don't feel ready to handle.

In the meantime, we will continue to let our girls be children. I am glad that they have that luxury. Reading that sign yesterday I was reminded that not all little girls do.

It seemed like a good idea at the time

Now usually when I say those eight words (I am referring to the title above) my friend L is somehow involved.

• "We could totally raise $2,000 each and walk 60km in a weekend!"
• "Don't worry, Julie and I can make hundreds of chocolate suckers for the Easter service."
• "Sure it will hurt initially to pierce the cartilage in our ears but I am sure it will heal in no time."
• "You'll love running in the winter. If you dress right you'll never even notice is it 20 below zero!"

This time I have no one else to blame. Signing up for NaNoWriMo was all my idea. For those of you who are not familiar with National Novel Writing Month, the challenge is to write a 50,000 word 'novel' in 30 days. For me the challenge is perfect. I am a master procrastinator and the 1,667 word quota each day provides me with incentive to sit down at my computer regularly. I actually like writing once I sit down but I lack the discipline to get started each day.

A few of my friends know that for the past four months I have obsessed with a story that has been floating around in my head. A few of the characters have been slowly introducing themselves to me and as the weeks go by I am seeing the framework of a larger tale coming together. I have typed out some of my notes about the characters, I have come up with a number of plot scenarios and I have even written a few scenes but the sheer scope of the project has been daunting. Frustrated and overwhelmed I realized that I needed to put that project on a shelf for a few weeks to see if I can get some clarity.

Enter NaNoWriMo. A few million people around the world would be starting from scratch on November 1. Keeping each other on track. Offering encouragement and suggestions on-line. I signed up in September and promptly forgot all about it.

Two weeks ago the e-mails started arriving. NaNoWriMo starts soon. Are you ready? I must admit I was tempted to drop out but the more I thought about it the more excited I got. There were four characters from a story I had written earlier this year that were hanging out in the back of my brain. Lisa, a pregnant paralegal; Jason, her lawyer partner and the father of her baby; Jon, her friend from university who was secretly in love with her; and Margaret, who got stuck in an elevator with her one fateful day. (click the links to read their initial stories)

A few friends had asked me whatever happened to them. Was this my opportunity to finally tell their full story?

Well, today is day 6 of NaNoWriMo and I am almost 8,500 words in! I am a little behind schedule (truth be told, I should be working on my novel and not on this blog post) but I am excited . Each time I sit down to write I am getting a little traction and a little more confidence.

I will keep you all posted and maybe by the end of the month I will have 50,000 words to share with all of the folks who asked me "whatever happened to Lisa?"

My beautiful Kathryn

A few months ago I wrote a blog post about my daughter Grace on her birthday. I got a number of great comments and a few friends asked if I would write a similar post about Kathryn. So, in honor of her sixth birthday here are some of my thoughts about Kaye.

Kathryn is my bonus baby

I never planned to have a second child. I had trouble getting pregnant with Grace then had a horrible pregnancy followed by thirty hours of labour. My first words to Paul after Grace was born were: "I am NEVER doing that again." For well over a year we never even discussed the idea of another baby. Gracie had Meghan so she wasn't really an only child. Quite frankly, I did not want to press my luck. I had the healthy baby I had been praying for.

After a few years the idea of baby number two started to come up more often. Like all couples with only one child living at home, we were constantly told that we had to have another. Kids need to share, Gracie should have someone to play with, etc. etc...

I was reluctant. The first time around I had tried a number of drugs with unknown side-effects because I desperately wanted a child. But with Gracie in the picture I was less willing to take chances with my health: I was someone's mom!

Paul and I discussed adoption and started to get information from agencies specializing in international adoption. The process seemed so daunting and the waiting lists were long. "Would you be willing to try one cycle of fertility meds?" Paul asked me. I thought about all that entailed: giving myself injections in the stomach, countless blood tests and ultrasounds, crazy hormones. I looked at my beautiful Gracie and then at my husband. "One.. Just one," I agreed.

After a few months on the waiting list the process began. On at least three occasions we were hit with crazy obstacles that threatened to stop the whole project in its tracks. In each case an unlikely solution would drop in our laps. After only one cycle, I was pregnant. At the time I believed that baby was meant to be a part of our family. Only after meeting Kathryn would I realize how that true that really was.

Kathryn Adelaide

Finding a name was not easy. Paul and I picked a boy's name immediately (Noah for Paul's grandfather). A girl's name was more difficult. Sarah, Maya and Renee were all in the running but we finally settled on Lorelai, a name I fell in love with early on.

As my pregnancy was classified high-risk we got an extra ultrasound and coming into month five we found out we were having another daughter. My initial reaction was to say: "hello Lorelai" to the shadow on the screen but something stopped me. As we left the hospital I turned to Paul and asked what we would name our daughter.

"I thought we were going to name her Lorelai."

"What do you want to name her?"

"I want to name her Kathryn." (It is a name shared by of one of his favorite aunts and one of his favorite cousins.) The smile on his face was worth losing the naming rights for.

"Kathryn it is then. Can I call her Katie?"

"No, her name is Kathryn."

"Kate?"

"Kathryn."

There's something about Kathryn

I can't quite explain it, but there is something about Kathryn. It may be in her smile, or a gleam in her eye, or a tone in her voice, but there is something about Kathryn that makes people love her. The kid has her own little fan club.

If you have ever met Kaye in person you know about 'Kathryn speak'. She has some trouble pronouncing her R's and her Th's so she had to repeat herself a lot when she was younger so people would understand. Frequently Gracie would step in to translate as she spoke 'Kathryn' most fluently and always seemed to know what her sister was saying. When Gracie was not around things got a bit more dicey.

K: Momma, I bwushed (brushed) by haiw (hair) and teeth, so I'm gonna put it on the cho-chot.

Me: Cho-chot?

K: Yes the Cho-Chot.

Me:(in my head) cho-chot?, cho-chot....? (out loud) Where's Grace?

K: Upstaiws (upstairs)

Me: (in my head) Cho-chot?.... Kathryn, say it one more time for Momma.

K: CHO CHOT

Me: Sweetie I am sorry, why don't you just show me what you are talking about.

K: (pointing at the chore chart I had mounted on the fridge the day before). CHO-CHOT

Me: Oh, the chore chart.

K: That's what I said!

On another day...

K: Nana (my mom is making supper and does not hear her)

K: Nana! (still in the other room not hearing Kaye calling)

K: Nana (my mom looks up) Youw (you're) annoying me.

Nana: Excuse me?

K: I called and you did not answer. Youw (you're) annoying me.

Gracie: (who luckily intervenes) She is saying IGNORING

K: That's what I said!

One of my favorites!

K: Momma, how come my name doesn't have an F in it? It should have an F.

Me: No sweetie your name is Kathryn.

K: But there is an F sound

Me: No there isn't, it's a TH sound

K: (Pointing at her ear and speaking very slowly) Momma listen when I say it. KAFFFFWYN

Me: No, it's Kathryn

K: (shakes her head with disgust and leaves)

No Filter

Kathryn has no tolerance for foolishness -- Paul says she gets that from me. She sees no reason to play games or pussy-foot around. Kathryn will cut to the heart of an issue quickly and ruthlessly.

One day after circling the grocery store looking for something or other, I began to get frustrated. "Momma," she asked. "Why do they call it the Soupa Sto (Super Store), if it's not Soupa?" I could not help but laugh.

Kathryn also likes to follow our neighbor around when he does his lawn work. She chatters while he works and asks questions as they come to her. Some days it is about the lawn or the garden hose. Other times I cringe to hear her ask things like: "Why are you wearing that sweatshirt again? You wore it yesterday" Or, "You have more grey hair in your beard than my daddy, why?" She does not mean to be rude, she just wants to know. Luckily, the neighbor has a good sense of humor and a soft-spot for Kathryn.

Kathryn goes to school

With her quick wit and low level of tact Paul and I were concerned when Kathryn started school. Educators always assure you that your child will be different in the classroom but we had our doubts.

In junior kindergarten we were told that Kaye was the last one in her class to print her name. If this would have been Gracie I would have been panicking but with child number two you tend take these things in stride. I asked Kaye about it and she told me matter-of-factly that her name was too long to print. She had decided that she would only put a "K" on her work.

Me: There are five kids in your class that have names starting with K.

K: But they all write their names Momma!

I turned my head quickly so she would not see me laugh. That night we worked on our printing. It turned out that she could indeed print her name -- she was choosing not to.

The following year the teacher was concerned that her name was not printed correctly. She would only print her name with a capital R while the curriculum dictated that only the first letter should be capitalized. Apparently in SK, 'KathRyn' was not acceptable even if one could read at a grade two level.

It was February so I used Kaye's Valentine cards as an opportunity to work on printing.

Me: OK sweetie, write your name as neatly as you can.

K: K-a-t-h-R-y-n

Me: No sweetie, you need to use a small r. Can you make a small r?

K: Yes. (she prints a small r on the scrap paper)

Me: OK. Let's try again with the next card.

K: K-a-t-h-R-y-n

Me: OK again with the big R. Why?

K: It's prettier.

Me: But your teacher says you need to use the little r. Let's try again on the next card.

K: K-a-t-h-R-y-n

Me: Kathryn!

K: But Momma I am better at making the big Rs

Me: If you wrote your name properly you would get more practice!

17 Valentine cards all signed KathRyn. I wrote a note to the teacher telling her to let Kaye write her name however she wanted. Perhaps at thirty she will be a famous artist signing all of her work with that capital R. Maybe one day it would be her trademark.

The next parent-teacher interview did not go much better. Printing was still an issue but I was no longer willing to discuss it --let's face it, one day we will all be using computers anyway. This time it was about circle time. Kaye was having problems raising her hand.

Me: Kathryn, your teacher says that you have really good ideas and participate a lot in circle time. That's great. Are you raising your hand?

K: No

Me: Why not?

K: I know the answer.

Me: Maybe some of the other kids know the answer too.

K: But I said it first!

Me: Because they are raising their hands!!

Paul actually left the room during that talk he was laughing so hard. It is hard to get around her logic.

Katie G

A few months ago Kathryn made an announcement at the dinner table.

K: When I go back to school I want people to call me Katie.

Paul: Your name is Kathryn (he never really got over that)

K: I want people to call me Katie.

Me: Why? Don't you like your name.

K: I want to be Katie. It is shorter to write and there are no R's in it.

Me: No R's?

K: (sighing) The are seven letters in my name and I can't even say fwee (three) of them. I want to be Katie.

Paul: Your name is Kathryn.

K: Don't worry daddy. You can call me Kathryn when we are at home.

Kathryn loves dogs

Well, maybe it is more accurate to say that Kathryn really wants to like dogs. In reality she is scared to death of them. After a few run-ins she is petrified of any dog that may jump up on her.

Me: Just say DOWN when a dog comes near you sweetie. They don't want to hurt you. Dogs are just friends with fur.

K: But that's wude (rude)

Me: Rude?

K: They're dogs. It is not their fault that they can't talk. They just want to say hi. What if I say 'down' and it hurts their feelings?

Kathryn's new plan: to run away screaming lest she offend a dog that may want to jump on her.

Kathryn does have one dog friend that is the exception to the rule. My friend Jess has a black lab named Skye that Kathryn loves. Skye is calm and she doesn't jump! Kathryn was so taken by Skye that when Jess and Skye came for a sleepover Kathryn took it upon herself to make her dog friend feel welcome. After a quick game of Doggy Spa (Kaye combed a very patient Skye's fur) Kaye got a blanket and a book and cuddled up with Skye on her doggie bed.

K: Skye I am going to wead (read) you 101 Dollmations. It is a book about dogs.

(Skye watches cautiously as Kaye moves over on the dog bed and opens the book)

K: Now these are dogs but they are spotted dogs. You are a black dog. You are the blackest dog I have ever seen.

Unfortunately Skye moved to Alberta so they don't see as much of each other but Kaye still asks about Skye and gets excited whenever Jess posts more pictures on facebook.

Kathryn Speaks for herself

It is hard to describe Kaye so I hope that my stories about my beautiful girl will speak for themselves. Paul and I have tonnes of Kathryn stories and many of our friends have their favorites -- Jess loves to tell people about the doggy spa. Kathryn's way of looking at the world makes people laugh. She is honest, direct and funny.

Kathryn loves life. She wakes up with a smile on her face and she talks, laughs and sings all day long. She is in perpetual motion until she puts her head on the pillow and then falls asleep within seconds resting up for the next day.

A few weeks ago Kathryn started school full-time. I was excited for her because she was ready for the challenge but it also made me a little sad. For the last six years (with the exception of six months when I went back to work) Kaye has been my constant companion. She has chattered with me as we ran to the grocery store, she sang songs and told me silly jokes. I couldn't imagine how quiet my day would be without her.

I love you Kathryn

As I said at the beginning of this post Kathryn was not always in the cards for us. She was the second child we did not dare to hope for. For several years after Gracie was born we thought our family was finished. And then Kathryn came along!

Kathryn completes our family. She reminds us that life is supposed to be fun. Just because you're busy it doesn't mean that you can't have a good time. Kathryn does not take herself too seriously and she reminds me that I shouldn't take myself too seriously either. I hope she will carry this joy with her for the rest of her life.

Kathryn: your Momma loves you so much. I can't imagine my life without you. Happy birthday baby. Thank you for all of the laughs, for the hugs and for the lessons you teach me every day.

A penny for your thoughts

To those of you who read my blog regularly (and thank you for that by the way) it is no secret that I love my husband dearly. He is a good man, a great dad and we get along famously. There are times however when I realize that Paul and I are polar opposites in so many ways.

He gets up early with a smile on his face; I stay in bed as long as I possibly can and grumble until the first jolt of caffeine hits my system. He loves the outdoors and Canadian winters; I think the indoors is highly under-rated and shiver from October until May. Paul thinks that footwear is designed for comfort and ankle support; I think that comfort is a secondary concern at best and that all of his boots and shoes should be burned for being so ugly.

Sometimes when I see him sitting quietly I'll ask him, "what are you thinking?" and he says "nothing". Wow! really? nothing? I cannot imagine what that's like. Some people have claimed that it's a "male thing" but I don't agree. I think that everyone is hard-wired differently. I am sure there are plenty of women who are able to quiet their minds and plenty of men who have minds that race a million miles an hour.

Paul and I can be having a lovely chat and after a five-second pause I will turn the conversation on its ear. We start talking about cars, I ask him if he bought eggs at the grocery store. "How the heck did you get to that?" he used to ask. A few times I tried to explain how my mind ended up moving from point A to point B and he just shook his head. He rarely asks anymore.

"Well, we were talking about how you liked the blue car in front of us and you asked if we should get something similar when our lease was up. That car has a bumper sticker on it that says Washington. I have always wanted to go to Washington but never got the chance. I have also really wanted to go to Europe but we haven't got there yet either. You used to live in Europe -- in Germany. We both like German food and I was thinking of making spaetzle some time next week. The recipe I use calls for eggs but we only have one left because I had and omelet yesterday which was yummy which made me think that maybe I could make omelets for brunch tomorrow morning. But, I won't be able to unless you picked up eggs. See... it makes perfect sense."

"You thought about all of that in 5 seconds?!"

"Yup!"

"Your mind is a very scary place, isn't it?"

It took a few years but I have learned to accept that Paul may indeed be sitting there thinking about absolutely nothing and he has discovered that my mind spins like a top for about eighteen hours a day. I think it is one of the reasons why people find it surprising that I teach yoga. 'Yoga seems so calm and peaceful,' they explain. 'And you're.... well.... '

There have been plenty of times when I struggle with yoga. There are days when my mind is going like a whirling Dervish and I wonder if it would not make more sense to go for a run with my iPod on full blast to settle down. Most often those are the days when yoga does me the most good. Focusing on my breath and on my alignment leaves little room for my mind to take a detour. I am not going to lie and say that I'm always successful. There have been plenty of mornings on my mat when I'm in Triangle position and I realized that mind is somewhere else completely: "what am I going to make the kids for supper? There is karate tonight and Mondays always mean a lot of homework so I need something quick but there is nothing defrosted and we don't have a microwave so I am going to have to get to the grocery store and, oh, I don't have enough gas in my car..."

One of my first yoga teachers told me that I had crazy monkey mind and that yoga would help me learn to quiet my thoughts and focus on the here and now. The image of a monkey jumping from branch to branch resonated with me so clearly that this instructor became one of my favorites. I learned so much from him because he understood my struggle. For me, yoga needed to start with the mind. I would often catch him out of the corner of my eye as he tapped his temple to remind me to focus. Nine times out of ten he was right and I had become distracted from what I was doing.

Ten years later I wonder what went on his mind. Was he able to find peace and quiet with his thoughts? Or, was he more like me and was that why he understood me so well? Maybe he was like Paul, calm of mind and married to someone with crazy monkey mind.

waiting in billund

This story was certainly more timely when I wrote it but I have not been posting them to my blog as quickly as I had planned. (On the flip side I am almost caught up on my past stories and will soon be posting them as I write).

The prompt was to write a story about nineteen year-old Abigail who was stuck in a European city following a volcano in Iceland. While she is waiting to get home she meets someone. The first line was given to us.

Here is what I came up with!

waiting in billund

“Hi, mom, I don’t think I’ll be able to get home for a few days. Can you send me some money?”

He watched her across the lounge as she listened to the voice on the other side of the line. She uttered a few uh-huh’s and yes mom’s before hanging up and dropped her forehead against the brick wall miming exhaustion. Earlier in the day he had noticed that her big, green eyes were looking a little tired but he knew that frustration was the more likely culprit behind her display.

Slowly Abby lifted her head from the wall and turned to him with a bright smile on her face. As she walked back and sat on the seat across from him he found it hard to believe that it had been only thirty-six hours since they first met. Sure everyone else in the airport – hell everyone else in the world – was cursing the ash from a distant volcano, but he was praying for more time stranded with this girl.

She flopped down in the chair in front of him. “So…. my mom is freaking out. She actually talked about having my grandma come back and get me until the flight advisory is lifted.”

Kyle’s stomach tightened with anxiety but he tried not to let it show on his face. “What did you say?”

“I told her it was ridiculous. It is a three-hour drive each way from their town to the airport. There is no way that she should be away from grandpa for another six hours.” He noticed the sadness in her eyes as she mentioned her ailing grandfather and he got up and shifted across the aisle to sit in the seat beside her. He hesitated for a moment before putting his arm around her but she settled against him immediately and lay her head down on his shoulder. Quietly he took a breath and smelt a faint trace of mint in her shampoo. He fought the urge to kiss the top of her head knowing it was way too soon but at the same time he was painfully aware that his time with her was drawing to a close.

Feeling her sigh he closed his arm around her a little tighter. “You ok?”

“Yeah. I was just realizing that I will never see him again. He is old and the doctors say he only has a few months left. This trip was an amazing chance to see Denmark but it was really about saying goodbye.”

“I am sure it made him happy to see you,” Kyle said quietly. “I am sure that these last two weeks were as important to him as they were to you.” Last night she had told him about the dozens of hours she had spent sitting on the end of her grandfather’s bed looking at photos as he regaled her with tales of his youth and his time in the army.

“I know it sounds funny – because I just met you – but I wish you could meet him,” she said as she sat up and turned to face him. “I think you would really like him.”

“I’m sure I would.”

In fact, the idea didn't seem funny to Kyle at all. He would love to meet anyone who was so important to the girl beside him. He would love to rent an old car and travel the countryside with her to visit the home where her mother had grown up, to walk in on her arm and to enjoy a meal with her family.

When Kyle arrived at the airport yesterday morning nothing seemed more important to him than getting back to his classes in Toronto but this girl had caused his priorities to shift. He had noticed her immediately. She was sitting cross-legged on the blue vinyl bench with her nose deep in a book. She had curly blond hair that was pulled up into a sloppy pony-tail and she was twirling one stray lock absently around her finger. After a brief argument with the frazzled attendant at the ticket counter he had flopped down on the bench across from her.

She looked up at him and smiled. “No one is going anywhere today. I kinda feel bad for her; you are the first person in an hour that did not yell at her.”

He pointed at the Canadian flag sewn on her tattered backpack. “Are you going to Toronto as well?”

“Yeah. My mom made me put that on my bag. She said that people would be nicer to me if they knew I was Canadian. You are the first person that it has worked on.”

They talked on-and-off all night as flight after flight was cancelled. They watched travelers come and go and for a while they had placed bets on which ones would lose their temper and which ones would politely take a seat in the waiting area. They took turns napping on the vinyl bench while the other kept an eye on the luggage. Their “first date” had been a picnic of stale sandwiches and lukewarm coffee on the floor of the departures lounge.

In thirty-six short hours he discovered that Abigail Nichols was a promising photographer who was starting design school in the fall. She was a free-spirit who loved adventure and chaos much to the chagrin of her straight-laced mother. She loved coffee and chocolate and her nose crinkled when she laughed. In short, he discovered that he loved her.

Family -- finding the right blend

Last week I was showing off pictures of my grandson to a group of friends. The ladies oooh'd and aaah'd as I bragged about how big he was and how he has learned to walk at only ten months. As far as I am concerned he is the cutest, most talented little boy on the planet.

In the small group was a friend-of-a-friend that I have only met a few times. "Your grandson?" she asked. "You don't seem old enough to have a grandson!"

I was thrilled at this observation and wondered why don't I talk to this woman more often. She is clearly brilliant!

I gave a quick explanation of my family situation. My oldest daughter is from my husbands' first marriage and she had a child when she was quite young.

"So he's not really your grandson then," she said.

Immediately I remembered why this woman and I didn't get along. "Of course he is. He is my daughter's son." Perhaps it was the tone of my voice but the conversation ended quickly.

It is not the first time I have heard the argument. Whenever I mention that I have a daughter in her twenties and two others in elementary school I inevitably have to explain that my oldest was a 'signing bonus' when I married my husband. I have stopped trying to understand why people feel the need to point out that only the younger two are 'really' mine.

****

I was twenty-one when I met my husband. He told me he was legally separated and had a child on the night we met. It was not something I was looking for in a relationship but I fell in love fast and hard for this man and that was part of the package.

We were married two years later. At twenty-three I was too young to be a step-mom. I was too selfish, too self-involved and too stubborn. As the adult in that relationship I take full responsibility. I should have done a better job and my failure to do so is one of my life's biggest regrets. As Meghan grew up -- and I grew up too -- I learned to love her. Several years ago I apologized to Megs for our early relationship and she was gracious enough to accept it and clear the slate so we could start over. She is a tremendous young woman with a loving heart and I am blessed to have her in my life.

On a few occasions she has lived in our home and I now think of her as one of my kids. I would do anything to help her if she needed me. If she needed a kidney -- I would be one of the first ones in line.

***

One of the turning points in our relationship was the birth of my first child. When I got pregnant everyone warned me that it would cause problems. Meghan was eleven years old and used to being an only child. Everyone predicted this baby would only make waves.

In hindsight I realize that Meghan's mother deserves all the credit for making Gracie's birth a positive event for our family. She would send Meghan for visits with brochures, pamphlets and booklets about baby care that we could look at together. She encouraged Meghan to be excited about a new sibling. It seems like an obvious approach to parenting but I have heard far too many horror stories about ex-spouses who see the birth of a new child as a threat. I will always be grateful to Carolyn for her role in making our family stronger.

When Paul and I discussed names for the baby we had a brief discussion about surnames. In the end we decided to go with Paul's last name because we wanted all of our daughters to have the same last name. My girls have never referred to Meghan as a 'half-sister'. In fact they only heard the term recently and Kathryn looked confused when she asked me how anyone could be only "half a sister". An excellent point Kathryn!

When Gracie was born Meghan was the first person we called. She was thrilled to find out about her new sister. When I got out of the hospital Meghan's grandparents drove her down to meet Gracie and the look on her face said it all. She was in LOVE -- they were not half-sisters.

****

When Meghan turned thirteen her mom brought her and a few friends to Ottawa for a concert and an overnight stay in a hotel (I know, very cool). Paul and I invited Carolyn and the girls over for breakfast the next day so we could wish her well and she could introduce her little sister to her friends.

As we sipped on our coffee I asked Carolyn if this was weird. She understood what I meant and we had a quick laugh as she told me that all of the girls at the table were from blended families. Moms, step-moms, dads, step-dads were the new norm. Both Carolyn and I come from traditional families: both of us have parents who are still happily married. We were the exceptions to the rule!

****

About half of my friends are divorced. Some have since married men who have ex-wives and kids of their own. Among them I am still the exception. I am fortunate enough to be in a blended family that works. Have we had disagreements? Of course we have. But we have been able to work them out without the stress, drama (and expense) of family court.

As I talk to some of my friends about their divorces and separations I am often tempted to call Carolyn and thank her for being so reasonable over the years. Carolyn: if you are reading this, THANK YOU!!

****

When Meghan called to tell us she was expecting a baby we were surprised but thrilled. I love babies and I believe that a new little person to love is always good news. "You are going to be a grandpa" I told Paul.

Minutes later the phone rang and I answered it. It was Carolyn. "Hi Grandma" she said. "Am I a grandmother too?" I asked her (not wanting to take on a title that was rightfully hers) and she assured me that I was. I was honored and thrilled that she was willing to share the joy of being a Nana.

So, to the lady who pointed out that Rowan was not 'really' my grandson let me assure you that you are wrong. He is my grandson. In our blended family there are no 'halfs'.

the delivery (part 2)

Today story is part two of the tale I posted yesterday. If you did not read yesterday's story STOP and click here to get to part one!

*******

Lindsay fidgeted with the buttons on the blazer of her new wool pant-suit. It was hot, uncomfortable and had cost her the last three paycheques from the boutique but it was all worth it.

Today she slipped on the‘uniform’ and walked right past the receptionist at the firm without attracting so much as a second glance. Lindsay would look familiar enough after meeting the woman at the firm’s Christmas party but knew the receptionist would never be able to pinpoint her in her new office attire.

Moments ago she had seen Samantha at the cafe across the street and knew that this was her window to move. She strolled right past the receptionist and down the long corridor to Peter’s outer office and dropped the envelope on the desk.

She wished she could be a fly on the wall in Peter’s office this afternoon as he wracked his brain trying to figure out who was responsible. She knew that she would never be on the list of suspects. Peter had greatly under-estimated her trying to tuck her away in a dead-end job at the teen store. She may not be a candidate for Mensa but she was no fool – and she was definitely smarter than the dim-witted paralegal who believed that Peter could love her.

Peter did not love anyone. Lindsay had always known that.

the delivery

Today's story involves a character we met in week 2.

Peter and Lindsay Lahann are newly married. He is a partner in a law firm and she is the manager of a teen clothing store.

The last time around we focused on Lindsay and her step-daughter Sarah but this week's story focuses on Peter. Specifically I wondered why he was so happy about Lindsay's new job. Why was he so keen to keep Lindsay busy during the day?

*****

the delivery

“Samantha, would you come in here please.”

Peter closed the envelope and held it up as his assistant entered the office. “Where did you get this envelope?”

“It was on my desk when I came back from the coffee shop. I know that you were waiting for information about the Hall deposition so I brought it in with your coffee and left it on your desk.”

“Who signed for it?”

“I don’t know,” she said as she shrugged her shoulders. “I was out so I just assumed that one of the other assistants signed for me. Usually Sophie keeps an eye on things while I am away from my desk and I do the same for her.”

“Go ask Sophie who delivered it and when,” Peter said abruptly. Samantha looked confused but got up immediately and did as she was told.

As she closed the door behind her Peter opened the large envelope once again. It was a plain manila — not the type of package he would expect to receive legal documents in but Samantha was new and likely did not know better.

The glossy eight-by-ten photos fell onto his desk and he flipped through them once again. The first shot was of him and a woman eating lunch in the back corner of a dark restaurant; him holding hands with his lunch companion; a quick kiss on the sidewalk out front; and finally one of him and his companion walking hand-in-hand into a nearby hotel. He recognized the images immediately. They were taken last week, during his business trip to Boston with his paralegal.

He shook the envelope one more time and a small note fell out. It was red marker scrawled on yellow lined stationary. “Is this why the new wife is hidden away at the mall – so she won’t catch you in your escapades? “ There were no threats, no ultimatums but Peter felt a cold chill run up his spine.

Lindsay… They had been married for less than a year and he had been sure that everything was under control. When they first met she was his housekeeper and she had asked him about working at the firm when she tired of cleaning houses. He told her it was impossible because of the firm’s ethics policy but nothing was further from truth. While the firm specialized in sexual harassment and wrongful dismissal cases, at least half of his partners were currently married to former assistants and just as many were fucking other members of the staff behind their wives’ backs. It was an irony they frequently chuckled about over scotch and cigars.

He wondered if he should talk to the other partners to see if they too had received a mysterious envelope today. Maybe it was an attack on the firm: it was an idea that had merit.

It could also be his ex-wife. The bloody woman was trying to get more money for Sarah’s private school and dance competitions. At sixteen, his daughter was already costing him a fortune and college was still years away. He would not put it past that cut-throat lawyer Susan had hired to pull a stunt like this to get some leverage. Lord knows Susan had never forgiven him for all of the indiscretions during their marriage. To ruin his relationship with Lindsay, that would be icing on the cake.

Peter got angrier with every passing minute. He worked hard to orchestrate things so that Lindsay was removed from his day-to-day life. He had encouraged her to take a job so she would be unavailable for lunches with the other partners’ wives. He bit his tongue when she found the position at the mall as the assistant manager in a teen boutique. While the job was an embarrassment, he knew that Lindsay’s new younger friends and lunches at the food court would never interfere with his own lunch-hour plans.

No matter who was responsible for this special delivery he had to keep the whole matter as far away from Lindsay as possible. He could not afford another messy divorce or another alimony payment.

There was a quiet knock on the door and he looked up to find Samantha sticking her head around the corner. “Sophie said she did not sign for any envelopes this morning. I also went to talk to the receptionist and she has been at her desk all day. She has signed for five packages and none of them were for you.”

“Thanks,” he said with a sigh. This was definitely not good news. Whoever was playing this game was closer than he had imagined.

Want to know more? .... Part 2 has been posted

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.