On Your Mark, Get Set…

What’s left is to go.  Out east that is.

It’s been an idea in my head for a while.  A road trip that is.  When I mentioned it to the boys, they were gung ho about it.  So we’ve been quietly planning it.  Getting some maps, a trip tik, some camping info, snacks, lots of snacks and some techno stuff.  I don’t know how far we’ll get each day.  I’m not a particularly gifted driver or navigator.  We’ll go as far as we can and then look for a place to hunker down until the next day.  We hope to arrive at Hopewell Rocks in New Brunswick and walk on the ocean floor.  Another desire is to drive over Confederation Bridge and see the red sand in P.E.I.  The trip will mostly be dictated by feelings.  What do we want to do today?  The pace will be relaxed and unstressed.  That’s the plan anyways.  I’ve never done anything like this so either it will be great or I’ll have a major anxiety attack and have to go on meds.  I’m rooting for “it will be great”.

The boys are taking the lap top along so that I can blog and download pictures on route.  That’s what they told me anyways.  That sounds a lot better than “we want to surf the internet and play games on this trip”.  I don’t know if they’ll get the thing working the way they think they will.  If they do, you might see some great pics on this blog.  I’m taking the digital camera with me and I’ll be snap happy if I’m not dead dog tired from driving.

Stay tuned.  The “go” part of the statement happens tomorrow morning.

Music Man

The must have item P bought with his birthday money is…wait for it…

a UKULELE!

I guess all his friends are into this diminutive instrument so P is too.  We were fortunate enough to pop into the music shop when the music teacher from P’s school was there.  He smiled seeing P pick out this orange beauty and then went on to tune it for him, teach him his first chord and play a little ditty on it just for our entertainment.

I loved how the orange ukelele contrasted with P’s shirt and made him stand against the wall holding these balloons up with his head (the helium is pretty much out of them) so that I could get a really colourful picture.  The music man complied.  Surely there’s a song in there somewhere.

He’s Learning My Language

Years ago I read a book by Gary Chapman called “The Five Love Languages”.  It was one of those books that enlightened me and changed my behaviour.  I finally understood why I could KNOW someone loved me but didn’t really FEEL like they did.  We were speaking different love languages.

Chapman outlines five love languages:  words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service and physical touch.  To understand what language makes you feel loved you generally have to know what language you use to express love.  If you show someone that you love them by doing jobs for them your primary love language is acts of service.  If you stop everything to spend time with them, you’re a quality time communicator.

All of the love languages are good and everyone can speak any one of them with effort.  Usually though, there is one that is your primary way of speaking.  I’m a gifts person.  When I care about someone and want them to know it, I make them something or buy them something.  Not big things.  Stuff like homemade cookies, a card, a basket of their favourite treats, a bouquet of flowers; things like that.  When people think of me when I’m not around and purchase or make something with me in mind and then give it to me I feel loved.  It touches me in a way that the other love languages don’t.

DA is a physical touch sort of guy.  He comes behind me while I’m doing dishes just to give me a hug.  He reaches out for my hand while driving.  He puts his arm around me when we’re walking side by side to Walmart.  It’s his way of saying “I love you” and it’s his way of feeling loved.  He doesn’t mind little gifts but he’d rather have a hug any day.  Knowing that, I need to go out of my way to speak his language because it isn’t mine.

I’ve explained this all to my husband since he hasn’t read the book.  It was interesting to him.  He still generally hugs me or kisses me or holds my hand to let me know I’m loved.  That’s what comes naturally to him.  But he’s making effort to speak my language too.  On the weekend, he had a business trip to Kingston.  When he came back, he had a maple lollipop in his hand.  He had picked it out for me.  He knows I love maple syrup and this sweet confection made him think of his sweetie when she was nowhere near.  It’s not the size or price tag of the gift that matters.  It’s the thought behind it that warms me.  I felt loved.

This morning I am up early.  I have dentist appointments that will take up a chunk of time and I have extra paper routes.  I need to get started earlier than usual.  Tied to the dining room chair is a bouquet of balloons.  They are from DA’s workplace.  It’s his job at the end of the evening to pop all the balloons so that they don’t blow around and set off the motion detectors.  Instead of popping one bouquet, he brought it home for us to enjoy.  It didn’t cost him anything but a little effort but it’s that little effort that has me smiling.  He did it for me.  He’s speaking my language.  And yes, I feel loved.  DA is sleeping now.  He gets in very late from work.  I will let him get the rest he needs and then…then…I’ll practice speaking his language.  Communication is a great thing in a marriage.  It often doesn’t take much but those little choices can make life beautiful.  After all, it’s a beautiful thing to know you are loved and to feel you are too.

A Girl!!

Give blood.  Run errands.  Pick up inserts.  Check chrysallis.

I had to put that last item on my “to do” list because yesterday evening I noticed that Danaus’ chrysallis had changed from emerald green to more clear.  I could see her butterfly wings showing through.

By the time I got to the “check chrysallis” item on my list Danaus had already emerged and was almost ready for flight.  She opened her wings for me and there were no spots.  She’s a girl alright.  I think I’ll have to dig out a magnifying glass the next time I get to the pupa stage with a monarch caterpillar.  I could not see that indentation with the naked eye that was supposed to be an indication of a female inside.

I didn’t have much time for pics.  DA wanted to get her out of the house before she started fluttering around.

Here she is on his hand:

And this our girl before she took off from our deck:

Happy flying Danaus!

Travelling Companions

There has been someone on the journey with me for as long as I can remember.  She is not a friend.  She mutters, not audibly, but I hear it nonetheless.  I know she is in the employ of another, one who would destroy me.  I call her Depression because that is where she takes me.  I look in the mirror and she looks too.  She tells me my hips are too big, my face too narrow, my hair too flat.  I go about my daily chores and she says that my life has no value,  I’m not very good at maintaining a home, I lose my temper too much with the boys, at best my cooking is mediocre.  Her voice drips like honey and what she says sounds true.  Her aim is to lure me off the straight and narrow down a slippery slope into a pit of despair.  Sometimes I listen to her.

There is another companion on the journey.  He sticks closer than a brother.  He speaks in a still, small voice but what he says is true.   At the mirror he tells me that I am fearfully and wonderfully made, that I am his workmanship.  As I clean my home and care for my children he reminds me that my work is not in vain, that he sees it and values it and will one day reward it.  When I start to stray from the truth, he is faithful to shepherd me back into the way.  He’s a good friend, the best friend a person could have.  He is for me and not against me.

All day long both speak to me and I get to choose who I will listen too.  If I let the mutterer’s words sink into my heart, I spiral down and feel worthless.  If I listen to the truth-speaker, I have peace and joy.  Every day, all day long, I get to choose and the choices I make determine my feelings.  I am not powerless.  I can’t control circumstances but I can control what I think about.  I can choose to entertain the truth or I can choose to dwell on the lie.  The choice I make makes all the difference.

The Story Behind The Pictures

I saw a beautiful Swallowtail butterfly and took pictures of it.  The end.

No.  There’s a little bit more to the story.  I just happened to be wearing my Sunday best (skirt, blouse, coordinating earrings, necklace and shoes, even an attempt at a hairstyle) when I spotted this winged jewel.  I had my camera in hand so I thought I’d try to capture its beauty in a picture.  Trouble is this particular butterfly seemed a little camera shy.  It fluttered crazily all over the place and I followed it just as crazily right onto someone else’s yard.  It seemed to want to sit kind of low on this person’s bushes so I got lower.  Think hands and knees low here.  It had a hard time deciding which bush it wanted to perch low on so I followed it around on hands and knees in my Sunday best on someone else’s front yard trying to get in position to photograph it.

Just then, D and P happened to bike by.

“Mom, WHAT are you doing?”

“SHHHH…I’m trying to get a picture of this butterfly.”

Watch two boys look at each other like their mother has lost her marbles and then watch them bicycle away as if they don’t know the crazy skirted lady crawling around on who knows who’s front yard.

There’s a three part happy ending to this story.  I got a couple pictures I like of this particular Swallowtail.  I didn’t soil my skirt or my blouse.  And the people who owned the yard didn’t come out with sawed off shot guns saying, “What in blazes are you doin’ crawlin’ around my spirea bushes?”  They probably just watched from the window hoping the amazingly well dressed lady would quietly crawl away into someone else’s yard.

Please Tell Me

When you look through “Better Homes and Gardens” you never see messy rooms.  There’s a reason for that.  Clean and organized is beautiful.  Messy is not.  I like beauty.  I like rooms that are clean and organized.  I also like my boys.  Boys and beautiful rooms don’t often go together in the same sentence.  I have always tried to emphasize cleanliness and organization to D and P.  When they were little cleaning up followed pretty much every activity we did.  If we played a game, we finished by cleaning up.  That way all the pieces of the game stayed with the game and we could enjoy it again another time.  When we baked, we finished by cleaning up.  That way there was room on the table to eat whatever goody we had made.  When we drew, we cleaned up.  That way the markers didn’t dry out and we could find all the colours we wanted the next time we felt like drawing.  I always gave them good reasons for cleaning up because I wanted them to internalize the value of it.

Something went wrong somewhere.  As long as I am there directing the tidying, it happens without problem.  The boys know better than to fight me.  A couple minutes of cleaning up is way better than a lot more time of consequences for refusing to obey.  D and P are older now.  They do a lot of things independently.  That’s good.  I rejoice in it.  What saddens me and sometimes angers me is that they haven’t internalized cleaning up.  All kinds of things get left laying around which causes all kinds of problems – injuries, stuff getting lost, things getting broken, a mom who is frustrated.  The last one is the biggest problem.  If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy.  The boys don’t like it when I’m upset.  I don’t like it either.  I keep letting them know that there is something easy they can do to help me be the happy mother they desire – CLEAN UP!

It is slow to sink in.  Having them home all day has wreaked havoc on the home.  In a bid to control my mounting frustration with them, I have instituted manditory clean up after supper.  Every night for fifteen minutes, they have to work in their rooms or in the room of my choosing while the timer ticks.  Mean ol’ ma is there watching and directing and the consequences are heavy iffen the tidyin’ don’t git done to my likin’ .  No T.V., no computer, no books (they asked about that one), no nothin’ until I see them working hard at cleaning up.  It’s amazing what two young men can get done in so little time when so much is at stake.  Will it sink in?  Cleaning up isn’t hard and it improves the quality of our lives.  Less time is spent looking for things which leaves more time for enjoying things.  Fewer things get lost or busted which means fewer dollars have to be spent on replacing things.  That leaves more moulah for fun things.  Mama walks around after clean up time with a smile on her face instead of a scowl.  See?  Cleaning up is a good idea.  Can you tell what I’m saying the whole time they are heaving and hauling and finding suitable homes for their possessions?  Maybe if I explain it enough times a light will go on and they’ll just clean up automatically without the taskmaster glaring over them.  That can happen, right?  Tell me I haven’t wasted the last thirteen years of my life.  Tell me that I won’t ship out two pigs to unsuspecting wives.  Tell me I can have boys and a beautiful home and live to tell about it.

Happy Birthday P!

My baby turned twelve yesterday.

I remember clearly the day he was born.  It was hot that year and my doctor decided to induce me instead of letting me endure more of the heat with P inside me and a young D on my hip.  I was silly enough to think that getting induced would mean that things would go quickly and easily.  Almost eight hours later I was still getting nowhere despite having had thousands of contractions.  It finally came time to decide whether to proceed naturally or go the route of C-section.  I was given the epidural and wonder of wonders, a half hour later and only two mighty pushes and P was born.

He was a good baby.  He ate.  He slept.  He was content.

He was also a beautiful baby.  He had long eyelashes and swooping red hair.  I guess that’s why  the first time the nurses brought him in they had dressed him in a pink toque and put a girl sign on the front of his bassinette.  One quick check in the diaper told them they had made a mistake.  They hurried out, topped him with a blue toque and reentered showing off a decidedly masculine baby.  We still laugh about that whenever P has a birthday.

He’s grown into a good young man.  He still likes to eat.  He still sleeps well.  He’s still content and easygoing.

And he’s still good looking.

Happy Birthday P!

Flower Power

My peonies were looking pretty spent so I ventured out into the drizzle to pick some new flowers to take their place.  The mosquitoes were out en masse so I hacked these stems off as quickly as I could and just plopped them into the vase.

They don’t look like something arranged by a florist but that perky yellow sure is cheery when you come in the front door.

The living room got some new colour too – purple.

Every room needs a little purple, right?

Canada Day 2009

We stayed local this year for Canada’s birthday.

Our day started with a bang (literally) as a local historical society staged a mock sea battle with period costumes, loud artillery and boats.

It changed pace as we checked out some of the attractions.

D and P loved the dog show, the snakes and the marshmallow guns I bought them.  I loved the girls in the pretty dresses, so much so that I quietly commented that sometimes I wished the boys had been girls so that I could dress them up in fancy duds.  OOPS!  That set off some indignation on their part and some recanting of remarks on mine.

We divided our time between what was happening downtown and an invitation by DA’s parents to join them for dinner.

The pre-dinner activities included a hunt for frogs at the local pond.

We saw them but we didn’t nab any.

We did find some wild strawberries though.

We also saw a great blue heron

some fossils

and a giant pike.

(That’s P looking over the dock into the water at it.)

Our time outside (or maybe the spotting of that giant pike) made the boys want to go fishing.  Uncle G was happy to help them out.  P caught a perch and DA caught a pike.

(That’s Uncle G showing off the pike his brother caught.)

The night ended with fireworks.  DA planned it perfectly.  We got there about 30 seconds before the fireworks started and parked far enough away that we weren’t stuck in a horrible parking jam afterwards.  It just started raining as we hopped in the car.

Going local was quite a different flavour from last year’s Canada Day on Parliament Hill but it was one that we all quite liked and one I’m sure we’ll sample some more in years to come.