I'm back. It's been over a year and I've missed this space. We've been dealing with our son's increasing seizures over the past year. The seizures continue, but so does life. So...here's a column I wrote a few months ago for Natural Life Magazine. This is a subject that really moves me...
One and Only
Okay. I've had enough. It's time to put this in writing.
I have one five year old son. That makes my son an only child. That makes me mother of an only child. I am thirty-seven years old, my husband is forty-two, and our wonderful son is five.
However, I worry about writing that my son is wonderful because lately our critics would say I am a typical over- indulgent mother of an only child.
And I'm growing weary of it.
I don't know if we will have more children. As the parents to a child who was diagnosed with a catastrophic seizure disorder, Infantile Spasms, at five months of age, it's a complicated issue. Over the past five years, we've had seven emergency rides in ambulances. I've hovered in that horrible place where I wait for my son to start breathing, stop seizing, or wake up and be himself again. Each time we speed to the hospital with sirens blaring, I ask myself, what would I do if I had a newborn right now? Would I be able to sustain a pregnancy with this stress? What if my next child has health concerns? There is a voice inside me that says, "this is enough. I can't manage anything else."
At the same time, I long for my boy to have the sibling relationship that I enjoyed growing up. I love being a mother and miss nurturing a baby. I feel selfish to deprive him of siblings but I also feel selfish to bring another person into our world when sometimes it feels like we can barely manage our current situation.
I've been told that we would find a way to cope. This gives me chills. Since my son's devastating diagnosis, we've been struggling to move beyond just coping, to live our lives with joy and without fear. We're almost there.
Born by emergency C-section, our son's birth was frightening for all three of us. I underestimated how much time it would take for us to heal. I don't want to imply that we weren't elated to have him in our lives, seizures or not. Between the scary parts, we marvelled at his little, wrinkled forehead and his long toes. We held him and talked to him and comforted him. But there was always the fear that something was brewing and sometimes, the seizures literally seized our lives.
So I'm always amazed when people casually suggest (usually in an awkward public place) that we better get going on having a second, like we're reproductive lollygaggers. It feels surreal when people who I've always viewed as sensitive or intelligent (or even both) will drill my husband and me about something so personal.
I've written before how the grocery store seems to be the place where parents are most publicly and vocally judged. Recently, a friend of mine, who is mother to a four year old, was in the checkout line. The cashier asked my friend if she had more children at home. When she said she had one child, the cashier whispered ominously, "What if he dies?"
Should every parent have a spare? Like an extra tire?
I think about the parents who have lost a child. I think about the about the parents enduring the silent grief of miscarriage. I think about how they must feel when flippantly critiqued by strangers or acquaintances for not having the "right" number of children.
The few times I've tried to explain our reasons for having one child, I've been told I'll worry less about my son and his seizures if I had another baby. But if love multiplies, doesn't the worry, too?
Sometimes, I fall prey to false ideas about only children. Will he grow up to be self-centred? Will he resent us for not giving him a brother or sister? Will he be alone when we die? The answer to all of these questions is of course not. Only children do just fine. As for being selfish? Gandhi was an only child. Enough said.
If we parent lovingly and mindfully, it doesn't matter how many children we have. There are myths surrounding all numbers of children. If we have two, the older becomes an over-achiever. If we have three, we deal with the dreaded "middle child" syndrome. And so on.
There is nothing selfish about loving a child. I love my son. Mothering him is the most rewarding experience of my life. While I'm not yet at peace with having one child (I still have bins full of neatly labelled baby clothes), I know that it's the right thing for now. And it may be the right thing for always.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Treehouse
What started off as a tree fort to use up leftover wood from our deck...turned into a tree castle...um...turned into a tree fortress. I get nervous when the two boys are searching the computer and conspiring about zip-lines and climbing walls.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
A Good Man
I am so lucky to have not one, but two, handymen around the house. My personal chef truly possesses a diverse skill-set.
From making soup...
To fixing the plumbing.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Comic K
My son has been loving graphic stories and comics these days. The other day, I loosely drew some boxes in my sketch book and he went wild. The story-telling was riveting, the cast of characters dynamic. All I had to do was add the voice boxes in after he was finished.
Oh! The drama! The excitement!
Oh! The drama! The excitement!He chattered away to himself the entire time he was drawing. When it came time to add the words, he knew exactly who would say what. So funny.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Surrounded by Angels
For years, we've been on alert for seizures or any other neurological symptoms in our son. After eight months of no new seizure activity, no new tics, and no new concerns, we'd started to exhale...a little. As much as we exhale, anyway.
Then, just about two weeks ago, we woke up to find Kieran in a daze. He would alternate between vacant staring and terrified screaming. We thought his seizures had changed.
It turns out that his blood sugar was very low. The good news is that we don't think what he experienced was a neurological seizure but we have no explanation yet for why his blood sugar dropped dangerously low. After a panicked ambulance ride, we spent the day in emergency and were sent home to wait for further testing.
The next day, as I nursed my shattered nerves, Kieran moved around the backyard methodically making these snow angels. In the end, there were about a dozen. It's a funny thing but I took great comfort in this army of angels created by a little boy so full of fight.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Book Signing and Reading
Come one, come all!
Be at the Wedgewood in downtown Brockville on Wednesday, February 23 at 3:00pm.
I'll be reading from my new book, Cameron's Corner.
I'll also answer questions and sign books.
It's gonna be a party! Hope to see you there!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Tyranny of the Flu
So...I was just bragging the other day about how long it's been since I've have the flu. Of course, I promptly came down with the worst cast of the flu I've had in recent memory. I compare the experience to the life-sucking machine in The Princess Bride. For several days, all that worked was my brain--while my aching limbs became useless appendages, I was still able to issue various commands from the couch.
Put the kettle on!
Go buy lozenges!
Warm me some broth!
Get me a blanket!
My husband contentedly went about caring for me as I peered at him through swollen red eyes and spoke through fever-dried lips. It wasn't pretty. Even when I woke him from a dead sleep at 11:00pm to go buy me some cough syrup, he didn't complain.
I know it was like living under a tyrannical dictatorship.
And then Kieran got sick.
If I was tyrannical, Kieran was ruthless.
Read to me!
Read to me some more!
Dance the Fox Trot! (really)
Read to me!
He didn't care that my throat was so sore each story was like munching on a bowl of razor blades. Read, I did.
Anyway, we're on the mend. It's been a long haul but we're all working together to get well...and praying that Mike doesn't get this.
Put the kettle on!
Go buy lozenges!
Warm me some broth!
Get me a blanket!
My husband contentedly went about caring for me as I peered at him through swollen red eyes and spoke through fever-dried lips. It wasn't pretty. Even when I woke him from a dead sleep at 11:00pm to go buy me some cough syrup, he didn't complain.
I know it was like living under a tyrannical dictatorship.
And then Kieran got sick.
If I was tyrannical, Kieran was ruthless.
Read to me!
Read to me some more!
Dance the Fox Trot! (really)
Read to me!
He didn't care that my throat was so sore each story was like munching on a bowl of razor blades. Read, I did.
Anyway, we're on the mend. It's been a long haul but we're all working together to get well...and praying that Mike doesn't get this.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Amy Chua: Tiger Mother
I really like Amy Chua. People who have read my columns and my blog might be shocked by that. I don't agree with her on many things but I admire the value she brings to mothering. She stands up and declares that mothering is hard work, that we need to believe in our kids, and that it's okay to have high expectations. Furthermore, I think she's pretty funny.
While I will never force my son to play the piano for three hours a day or deny him playdates, I agree with her that hard work makes things enjoyable. Self-esteem and confidence don't come from our words. Whether we're parents or teachers, we can't speak those qualities into our children. Children believe in themselves when they accomplish things. These accomplishments can be as simple as sewing on a button or as dramatic as getting a touchdown. In Ms. Chua's case, it's playing at Carnegie Hall. In my case, my son's love of literature is important. Do these things reflect our own interests as parents? Of course. But, it's what I have to offer my child. It's natural that we share our gifts and interests with our children. And then, when they're old enough, they'll find their own way, but they'll have a solid foundation. They'll know what it's like to care about something.
When Kieran was a baby and so much of the advice I received was absolute, I chanted the mantra in my head: there are many ways to raise a child. I thank Amy Chua for reminding us of that. I thank her for getting us thinking about the impact of our words and actions (or lack thereof). I thank her for caring about mothering.
If you haven't already, make sure you read her essay--and the comments that follow. She'll infuriate and inspire. She certainly doesn't deserve death threats...but I guess it's good for book sales.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html?mod=WSJ_article_related
While I will never force my son to play the piano for three hours a day or deny him playdates, I agree with her that hard work makes things enjoyable. Self-esteem and confidence don't come from our words. Whether we're parents or teachers, we can't speak those qualities into our children. Children believe in themselves when they accomplish things. These accomplishments can be as simple as sewing on a button or as dramatic as getting a touchdown. In Ms. Chua's case, it's playing at Carnegie Hall. In my case, my son's love of literature is important. Do these things reflect our own interests as parents? Of course. But, it's what I have to offer my child. It's natural that we share our gifts and interests with our children. And then, when they're old enough, they'll find their own way, but they'll have a solid foundation. They'll know what it's like to care about something.
When Kieran was a baby and so much of the advice I received was absolute, I chanted the mantra in my head: there are many ways to raise a child. I thank Amy Chua for reminding us of that. I thank her for getting us thinking about the impact of our words and actions (or lack thereof). I thank her for caring about mothering.
If you haven't already, make sure you read her essay--and the comments that follow. She'll infuriate and inspire. She certainly doesn't deserve death threats...but I guess it's good for book sales.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html?mod=WSJ_article_related
Sunday, January 30, 2011
There is a Bird on Your Head!
Elephant and Piggie crack us up. They are funny, earnest, dedicated companions. In this book, a bird lands on Elephant's head and Piggie helps him reconcile this uncomfortable fate. Mo Willem is an award-winning writer and illustrator. A Caledott winner for his books, he's also won several Emmys for his work on shows such as Seasame Street.
As you can see, we're into comedic books these days...
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Zoom
We are loving Zoom the cat these days. Written by Tim Wynne-Jones, these books carry the reader through imaginative worlds. The pencil sketches are filled with surprising de
tail that my son examines while I read. I espeically love the portrayal of Egpyt. The three Zoom titles--Zoom, Zoom at Sea, and Zoom Away--have been published by Groundwood Books in one collection. This collection feels like something we might be reading fifty or one hundred years from now. Love this discovery!
tail that my son examines while I read. I espeically love the portrayal of Egpyt. The three Zoom titles--Zoom, Zoom at Sea, and Zoom Away--have been published by Groundwood Books in one collection. This collection feels like something we might be reading fifty or one hundred years from now. Love this discovery!Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Cathy Cavanagh
Cathy Cavanagh will be reading from her book Soul Side at the Wedgewood tomorrow at 3:00pm.
Her writing challenges, comforts, and inspires.
Oh, and she's awesome.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
For Mrs. Harvey
When my mom read my recently published collection of columns, I asked her what she thought. She paused. It didn't feel like a good pause.
"There's something missing," she said.
"What?" I asked, my stomach turning.
"Well, I can't believe you haven't mentioned Mrs. Harvey."
Mrs. Harvey.
School wasn't my thing. For many years, particularly in high school, I found it frustrating, confusing, and boring. In math class, I tried so hard to focus, but my mind would wander. I'd understand the first few steps of a problem, but once I reached an obstacle, my comprehension unravelled. I'd stare at the list of questions, knowing that if I couldn't do the first one, I couldn't do the rest. I thought I was stupid.
Passionate about things like history and art, I read avidly at home but scraped by at school. I was in some academic (advanced) and some applied (general) classes. I didn't really consider going to university--it didn't seem like an option.
I entered Grade Twelve, feeling a little nauseated when our guidance counsellors started talking about "the future." I had no idea what I wanted to do.
On my first day of Senior English, I appraised my new teacher. A streak of white blazed through her dark curly hair. She wore Birkenstocks and a funky dress. She laughed easily and revealed a genuine passion for teaching. I listened as she went over the course outline. She expected a lot and I wondered if I shouldn't switch to another class. But something made me want to stay.
The classroom promised adventure. Mrs. Harvey had positioned a dead tree at the front of the room, its branches casting twisted shadows across her lectern. Images of Picasso's "Three Musicians" and characters from Greek Mythology decorated the walls. A mournful painting of Prometheus watching his liver be devoured by an eagle captured my imagination. His agonized face etched the definition of hubris onto my mind. Cassettes of Leonard Cohen and Dylan Thomas lined the shelf beside the tape player. Student artwork and poetry found places alongside "the greats." It seemed like an interesting spot and Mrs. Harvey's eccentric enthusiasm made me wonder if I might learn something.
There are things I don't remember about the day I got my first assignment back in that class. I don't remember where I sat in the room. I don't remember what I was wearing. I don't even remember what the assignment was about or the grade I received. But I do remember that Mrs. Harvey's comment was written in green ballpoint pen. And I know that it changed the course of my life.
The comment said: "I hope you plan to pursue English at the post-secondary level."
Well, then. Maybe I wasn't stupid.
Mrs. Harvey told me I was good at writing and whether or not that was actually true, she ignited a little spark that urged me to make something of myself. Thinking that I had ability made me realize it was worthwhile to work at it.
Work at it, I did. Over the school year, we read challenging texts, wrote poetry, composed essays, and discussed the human condition. She was ruthless about grammar and style. Suddenly, the humble comma exuded power if strategically placed. I felt awake, alive, and challenged.
While I came from a loving and supportive home, it was the encouragement of a teacher that pushed me in the right direction, confirming that it really does take a village to raise a child. It's something that we adults need to remember. Whether we are boss, teacher, coach, or mentor to youth, our words prove powerful.
It's not about indulging kids with false hope and inflated entitlement. It's about seeing something real, recognizing it, and telling them. The feeling of having another adult--other than my parents who loved me unconditionally--recognize my potential not only made me work harder, it made me believe in myself. It made me a better person.
Have I told Mrs. Harvey about the impact she's had on my life? Yes. Several times. But it's been a number of years now. I just might send her a copy of this column.
If anyone finds any grammatical errors, please let me know.
Really.
This has not been a great day. At least Mr. Tyler will appear on American Idol tonight. It might make that show tolerable.
"There's something missing," she said.
"What?" I asked, my stomach turning.
"Well, I can't believe you haven't mentioned Mrs. Harvey."
Mrs. Harvey.
School wasn't my thing. For many years, particularly in high school, I found it frustrating, confusing, and boring. In math class, I tried so hard to focus, but my mind would wander. I'd understand the first few steps of a problem, but once I reached an obstacle, my comprehension unravelled. I'd stare at the list of questions, knowing that if I couldn't do the first one, I couldn't do the rest. I thought I was stupid.
Passionate about things like history and art, I read avidly at home but scraped by at school. I was in some academic (advanced) and some applied (general) classes. I didn't really consider going to university--it didn't seem like an option.
I entered Grade Twelve, feeling a little nauseated when our guidance counsellors started talking about "the future." I had no idea what I wanted to do.
On my first day of Senior English, I appraised my new teacher. A streak of white blazed through her dark curly hair. She wore Birkenstocks and a funky dress. She laughed easily and revealed a genuine passion for teaching. I listened as she went over the course outline. She expected a lot and I wondered if I shouldn't switch to another class. But something made me want to stay.
The classroom promised adventure. Mrs. Harvey had positioned a dead tree at the front of the room, its branches casting twisted shadows across her lectern. Images of Picasso's "Three Musicians" and characters from Greek Mythology decorated the walls. A mournful painting of Prometheus watching his liver be devoured by an eagle captured my imagination. His agonized face etched the definition of hubris onto my mind. Cassettes of Leonard Cohen and Dylan Thomas lined the shelf beside the tape player. Student artwork and poetry found places alongside "the greats." It seemed like an interesting spot and Mrs. Harvey's eccentric enthusiasm made me wonder if I might learn something.
There are things I don't remember about the day I got my first assignment back in that class. I don't remember where I sat in the room. I don't remember what I was wearing. I don't even remember what the assignment was about or the grade I received. But I do remember that Mrs. Harvey's comment was written in green ballpoint pen. And I know that it changed the course of my life.
The comment said: "I hope you plan to pursue English at the post-secondary level."
Well, then. Maybe I wasn't stupid.
Mrs. Harvey told me I was good at writing and whether or not that was actually true, she ignited a little spark that urged me to make something of myself. Thinking that I had ability made me realize it was worthwhile to work at it.
Work at it, I did. Over the school year, we read challenging texts, wrote poetry, composed essays, and discussed the human condition. She was ruthless about grammar and style. Suddenly, the humble comma exuded power if strategically placed. I felt awake, alive, and challenged.
While I came from a loving and supportive home, it was the encouragement of a teacher that pushed me in the right direction, confirming that it really does take a village to raise a child. It's something that we adults need to remember. Whether we are boss, teacher, coach, or mentor to youth, our words prove powerful.
It's not about indulging kids with false hope and inflated entitlement. It's about seeing something real, recognizing it, and telling them. The feeling of having another adult--other than my parents who loved me unconditionally--recognize my potential not only made me work harder, it made me believe in myself. It made me a better person.
Have I told Mrs. Harvey about the impact she's had on my life? Yes. Several times. But it's been a number of years now. I just might send her a copy of this column.
If anyone finds any grammatical errors, please let me know.
Really.
This has not been a great day. At least Mr. Tyler will appear on American Idol tonight. It might make that show tolerable.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Resolutions
I didn't make any New Years resolutions yet this year. Hmmm...
I try to avoid "self-improvement" resolutions. They just make me feel crummy. Who wants to lose weight or save money? Too much pressure. Making the resolution draws attention to the problem. Then, when I fail to fix myself, I feel like I suck even more. Why bother? I prefer denial and I'm happier (and curvier) for it.
Over the years, I've made some obscure resolutions. I've resolved to start a compost, buy more local food, learn to knit, write a novel...all of which I've done. Because they're not really about me. It's easier to commit to something that isn't about me...and then, in the end, it is about me. Also, these things are all easier than running a marathon.
I try to avoid "self-improvement" resolutions. They just make me feel crummy. Who wants to lose weight or save money? Too much pressure. Making the resolution draws attention to the problem. Then, when I fail to fix myself, I feel like I suck even more. Why bother? I prefer denial and I'm happier (and curvier) for it.
Over the years, I've made some obscure resolutions. I've resolved to start a compost, buy more local food, learn to knit, write a novel...all of which I've done. Because they're not really about me. It's easier to commit to something that isn't about me...and then, in the end, it is about me. Also, these things are all easier than running a marathon.
As I write this, Findley purrs in my lap. I ask him what I should do and he ignores me.
Here goes:
1) Get a clothesline and a water barrel.
2) Read more. Maybe Findley wasn't ignoring me. He was guiding my attention towards my books with his thoughtful gaze.
3) Find a sport Kieran and I can do together...like rock climbing...or something...
4) Write a novel. Again.
5) Laugh more.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
This Year...It's Four in the Morning
The thing I hate most about going back to work after a holiday is the return of MORNINGS! No matter how organized I am or how early I start, the last few minutes always delay a perfectly timed departure. There is a young saboteur in my life!
This morning, as I was rushing around, trying not to raise my voice, I realized how unhinged I must have sounded to a little boy who just wants to play. I was reminded of this column from last year. I don't think I ever posted it here. It's in my collection of columns.
Three in the Morning
Finish your breakfast. Brush your teeth. Hurry up. I have to get to work. Put on your hat. Come back here. No, I don't have time to be a polar bear. We have to go. I'm going to be late. I love you, too. Your hair's a mess. I said, come here. You're going to spill my coffee. Okay, now put on your boots. Let's go, love. Get in the car. Oh, please don't sit on the ground--you're not wearing snow pants. I said, get in the car! There goes my coffee. Sigh.
The day begins...
It wasn't until I wrote it all out in one paragraph that I realized how irrational my morning tirade must sound to a three year old. Pre-child, I used to actually think my morning routine was rushed. Now, it's nothing short of insane.
And yes, we follow all of the advice so liberally shared in parenting magazines. We get up twenty minutes earlier (most days). I make lunches the night before. The bags are packed and at the door. We have lots of quick and healthy breakfast options. But all the preparation in the world can't account for a three year old who realizes he has some power over his mama. He knows I have to get to work, and he knows that drama ensues when he clomps through the living room in his dirty boots.
There was nothing different about my routine the other day. I chanted my morning mantra of madness as I tried to wrestle my son into his winter clothes. The furrow in my brow deepened as I raced towards our caregiver's place. Kieran chattered away in the backseat, asking me question after question, which I answered with robotic predictability.
"When's my birthday, mommy?"
"May."
"How old will I be?"
"You're three now. So what's next?"
"Four. I'll be four."
I turned the corner, taking the first sip from my half-empty travel mug. I glanced at the clock. We were running five minutes behind.
And then...
"Mommy? When will I be three again?"
"Oh...um...never...you'll only be three once."
Oh, dear.
We arrived at our wonderful caregiver's house, my eyes red and watery. I paused a little longer as I kissed my son good-bye.
As if this working mom needs to feel more guilty, more torn, than I already do.
But, the funny thing is, I didn't feel guilty.
Not about this, at least.
I have loved the exuberance, imagination, and fickle tyranny of age three. But, I also loved the affection, energy, and intensity of age two. I know there will be things about four that make it my favourite age.
So, while I don't feel guilty, I do feel a little sad. With each year, things change, independence grows, making me glad I followed the advice of so many other parents who told me to enjoy my son while he was young. Enjoy him, I have. Three has not passed me by. And, as we close in on four, I know it won't either.
Maintaining balance takes mindful effort. Sometimes the house is a mess. Sometimes I'm frazzled when I arrive at work. Sometimes I feel like I'm doing too many things and none of them well. There are days when I drop everything to read to Kieran, but there are also times when I tell him to go play because I have work to do. That's life.
It's the impermanence of childhood that makes it so wonderful. And this isn't just Kieran's journey. It's mine too. He'll only be three once, but I'll only be mother to this particular boy, at this particular age, once. So, in between my warnings about spilled coffee and messy hair, I remember to breathe.
Breathe.
And enjoy the last magical months of three.
Even in the morning.
This morning, as I was rushing around, trying not to raise my voice, I realized how unhinged I must have sounded to a little boy who just wants to play. I was reminded of this column from last year. I don't think I ever posted it here. It's in my collection of columns.
Three in the Morning
Finish your breakfast. Brush your teeth. Hurry up. I have to get to work. Put on your hat. Come back here. No, I don't have time to be a polar bear. We have to go. I'm going to be late. I love you, too. Your hair's a mess. I said, come here. You're going to spill my coffee. Okay, now put on your boots. Let's go, love. Get in the car. Oh, please don't sit on the ground--you're not wearing snow pants. I said, get in the car! There goes my coffee. Sigh.
The day begins...
It wasn't until I wrote it all out in one paragraph that I realized how irrational my morning tirade must sound to a three year old. Pre-child, I used to actually think my morning routine was rushed. Now, it's nothing short of insane.
And yes, we follow all of the advice so liberally shared in parenting magazines. We get up twenty minutes earlier (most days). I make lunches the night before. The bags are packed and at the door. We have lots of quick and healthy breakfast options. But all the preparation in the world can't account for a three year old who realizes he has some power over his mama. He knows I have to get to work, and he knows that drama ensues when he clomps through the living room in his dirty boots.
There was nothing different about my routine the other day. I chanted my morning mantra of madness as I tried to wrestle my son into his winter clothes. The furrow in my brow deepened as I raced towards our caregiver's place. Kieran chattered away in the backseat, asking me question after question, which I answered with robotic predictability.
"When's my birthday, mommy?"
"May."
"How old will I be?"
"You're three now. So what's next?"
"Four. I'll be four."
I turned the corner, taking the first sip from my half-empty travel mug. I glanced at the clock. We were running five minutes behind.
And then...
"Mommy? When will I be three again?"
"Oh...um...never...you'll only be three once."
Oh, dear.
We arrived at our wonderful caregiver's house, my eyes red and watery. I paused a little longer as I kissed my son good-bye.
As if this working mom needs to feel more guilty, more torn, than I already do.
But, the funny thing is, I didn't feel guilty.
Not about this, at least.
I have loved the exuberance, imagination, and fickle tyranny of age three. But, I also loved the affection, energy, and intensity of age two. I know there will be things about four that make it my favourite age.
So, while I don't feel guilty, I do feel a little sad. With each year, things change, independence grows, making me glad I followed the advice of so many other parents who told me to enjoy my son while he was young. Enjoy him, I have. Three has not passed me by. And, as we close in on four, I know it won't either.
Maintaining balance takes mindful effort. Sometimes the house is a mess. Sometimes I'm frazzled when I arrive at work. Sometimes I feel like I'm doing too many things and none of them well. There are days when I drop everything to read to Kieran, but there are also times when I tell him to go play because I have work to do. That's life.
It's the impermanence of childhood that makes it so wonderful. And this isn't just Kieran's journey. It's mine too. He'll only be three once, but I'll only be mother to this particular boy, at this particular age, once. So, in between my warnings about spilled coffee and messy hair, I remember to breathe.
Breathe.
And enjoy the last magical months of three.
Even in the morning.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
I'm trying hard not to read right now. I'm on Catching Fire, book two of the Hunger Games Trilogy. I don't want to read because that's ALL I'll do for the rest of the night and I have some things to do. And really, I don't want it all to be over just yet. I was up until 1:00am two nights ago. I love/hate it when this happens.
Here's what I like about these books:
1) post-apocalyptic setting
2) greater themes regarding social justice and distribution of wealth
3) male and female characters are layered, compelling, and mysterious--I can imagine teaching this to a class--both genders would relate
4) violence and danger
5) explore the ethical implications of reality television
6) we get to cheer for the reluctant, adolescent subversive as she defies an authoritarian regime
7) imaginative detail regarding botany and herbal healing
8) cool character names like Gale, Rue, and Glimmer
9) Ms. Collins isn't afraid to kill sympathetic characters
10) THERE'S A LOVE TRIANGLE...TEAM GALE!
I'm just going to go have a "peek" at the next chapter. See you in a few days.
Here's what I like about these books:
1) post-apocalyptic setting
2) greater themes regarding social justice and distribution of wealth
3) male and female characters are layered, compelling, and mysterious--I can imagine teaching this to a class--both genders would relate
4) violence and danger
5) explore the ethical implications of reality television
6) we get to cheer for the reluctant, adolescent subversive as she defies an authoritarian regime
7) imaginative detail regarding botany and herbal healing
8) cool character names like Gale, Rue, and Glimmer
9) Ms. Collins isn't afraid to kill sympathetic characters
10) THERE'S A LOVE TRIANGLE...TEAM GALE!
I'm just going to go have a "peek" at the next chapter. See you in a few days.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Sock Entitlement
So, our dear Nanny and Poppy came to visit at Christmas. Of course, I got myself in way over my head by starting to knit my dad a pair of sock with VERY thin wool.
On Christmas Day, he got to open one sock. The other was in my lap, unfinished.
He was quite patient about the whole thing and my mom says he wears them all the time.
Kieran had to rub it in that he has not just ONE pair of homemade socks, but FOUR.
Can anyone else see the "sock entitlement" of my boy's stance? Poppy is much more humble. His is the stance of "he who owns one pair." Even if the toes are oddly pointy...
Making Things Happen: Crystle Mazurek and Catherine Cavanagh
I'm so proud of my friends, Crystle and Cathy, for their latest achievements. We started meeting as a writing group a few years back. We sat in our living rooms, reading each other's work, and providing feedback. The thing I knew about these women is that they'd give me their honest opinion. Now, all three of us have completed our books. Cathy's is about faith. Crystle's is about India. Mine is about parenting. Our topics are so different but we are united in our desire to tell stories...and by our love of good food and drink. It's amazing what can happen when chai and chocolate are involved.
Crystle Mazurek
Crystle recently returned from India where she spent several months working for her NGO, The India Village Fund. Her book, Mommy,When Are We Going Home? will be released in February 2011. Here is the latest article about her in The Brockville Recorder and Times.
Crystle Mazurek
Crystle recently returned from India where she spent several months working for her NGO, The India Village Fund. Her book, Mommy,When Are We Going Home? will be released in February 2011. Here is the latest article about her in The Brockville Recorder and Times.
http://www.recorder.ca/ArticleDisplay.aspx?archive=true&e=2910897
Here is the link to The India Village Fund:
http://www.indiavillagefund.org/
Catherine Cavanagh
Catherine Cavanagh placed second in this year's Brockville Recorder and Times Short Story Contest. Here is her beautiful and compelling story "Hagar."
http://www.recorder.ca/ArticleDisplay.aspx?archive=true&e=2916982Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Now Available for Purchase...
For those outside of Brockville who wish to purchase my book, you can order through Paypal and have it in a couple of days.
Look to the right...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
A Poem
S-21
by Andrea Cameron
I spent an hour with you today.
I walked through
claustrophobic caverns,
my footsteps resounding
in the temple of your hideous secret.
I looked through your barbed wire smile
and stared shamelessly
at your treasure of skulls,
your collection of souls,
taken in terror.
You offer me a tiny shoe,
boast with your photo exibit,
brandish tools of torture,
invite me inside
to gape at your ghastly trophies.
I spent only an hour with you,
and your six thousand faces,
wide-eyed and battered,
their only memorial
trapped behind your rusty grin.
In 1997, I went to Cambodia for Christmas. Just after New Year's, I went to S-21. Formerly Tuol Svay Prey High School in Phnom Penh, this building was turned into a prison in 1975. It was renamed Security Prison (S-21) and was also known as Tuol Sleng. Approximately 20,000 people were detailed in S-21 before being murdered by the Khmer Rouge. Now, the prison walls are covered with thousands of black and white photographs of prisoners, all of whom were killed. There were only seven known survivors.
I wrote this poem shortly after the visit. It was published in Room Magazine a few years ago. I'm glad I wrote this so I wouldn't forget the things I saw.
by Andrea Cameron
I spent an hour with you today.
I walked through
claustrophobic caverns,
my footsteps resounding
in the temple of your hideous secret.
I looked through your barbed wire smile
and stared shamelessly
at your treasure of skulls,
your collection of souls,
taken in terror.
You offer me a tiny shoe,
boast with your photo exibit,
brandish tools of torture,
invite me inside
to gape at your ghastly trophies.
I spent only an hour with you,
and your six thousand faces,
wide-eyed and battered,
their only memorial
trapped behind your rusty grin.
In 1997, I went to Cambodia for Christmas. Just after New Year's, I went to S-21. Formerly Tuol Svay Prey High School in Phnom Penh, this building was turned into a prison in 1975. It was renamed Security Prison (S-21) and was also known as Tuol Sleng. Approximately 20,000 people were detailed in S-21 before being murdered by the Khmer Rouge. Now, the prison walls are covered with thousands of black and white photographs of prisoners, all of whom were killed. There were only seven known survivors.
I wrote this poem shortly after the visit. It was published in Room Magazine a few years ago. I'm glad I wrote this so I wouldn't forget the things I saw.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Congratulations to Patsy Aldana
Patsy Aldana, publisher of Groundwood Books, was named a member of the Order of Canada last week. I'm grateful to all that she's done to bring quality literature to young readers. She's concerned that children and youth seem to be deriving less pleasure from reading. Ms. Aldana questions our focus on literacy as a skill for the workplace rather than on nurturing reading for enjoyment. She asserts that reading can heal. It can make us understand the motivations of others.
Here's her quote in today's Globe and Mail: "If you become a reader, you have a chance to become a critical thinker, to be a person who has some power over your life."
Our family has enjoyed many of the titles from Groundwood. Our latest read is Doggie in the Window by Elaine Arsenault. Our signed copy was a gift when Kieran was a baby. He loves this story of a costume designing dog.
http://www.groundwoodbooks.com/gw_titles.cfm?pub_id=328
In the area of young adult, I loved Skim, a graphic novel by Mariko Tamaki. We are also big fans of the Stella books by Marie-Louise Gay.
Here's her quote in today's Globe and Mail: "If you become a reader, you have a chance to become a critical thinker, to be a person who has some power over your life."
Our family has enjoyed many of the titles from Groundwood. Our latest read is Doggie in the Window by Elaine Arsenault. Our signed copy was a gift when Kieran was a baby. He loves this story of a costume designing dog.
http://www.groundwoodbooks.com/gw_titles.cfm?pub_id=328
In the area of young adult, I loved Skim, a graphic novel by Mariko Tamaki. We are also big fans of the Stella books by Marie-Louise Gay.
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