For Matt On His 10th Birthday

Darling Matthew,

I know, I know...these days, people call you "Matt." I'm sorry. It's just taking me a bit to get used to. Now that you are 10, I am almost used to being a mother.

Last night, I told you the story of the night before and the day of your birth - how you surprised everyone, especially me, by being early, but surprised no one, especially me, by being such a fierce little warrior.

My sensitive, sweet-natured boy, at your core, in your deepest heart, you are still a warrior. How I (mostly) love to see your fire when you have perceived that something is unjust or unfair. You are fierce and loud and so very brave, choosing your words with precision and mounting an argument without a qualm.

I am proud of the friend that I've seen you become to a select few, but how you continue to be friendly to most people who cross your path. I see you trying very hard to be kinder to your little brother because I have asked you to - I love your heart's efforts and his smile when they work.

I love your humour and your unselfconscious laughter. I love your preening and your shy and your determination to score one more goal, take one more shot, read one more page, have one more minute. It's hard to deny you these moments because your victory echoes in the heart just over the spot where you grew in my belly.

That's a funny thought, isn't it? That I could feel as you do, simply because I am your mother. But I do. And long before I was your mother, I was a daughter first. And once, a long, LONG time ago, I too, turned 10. I have not forgotten, my boy, the slight awe and the wonder of finally becoming an age that had seemed so far out of reach. I have not forgotten the weirdness of those years, when my heart both pushed my own mother out, even as another part opened up to her and begged her to stay.

Well, maybe I have forgotten some of it, love, which is usually when I holler and yell and we fight and spit daggers aimed for each other's eyes until one of us remembers to be a grown-up and stops. Mostly that's me, but sometimes it's you first and oh, Matt, how proud I am of you in those moments.

 Those are glimpses, you see, of the man you will one day be and I see him more and more, as time moves past me. He is wise and good and funny and fierce.  Just like the you of today, only taller. And he has a cool car. I can't remember which kind, but you'll know it when you see it. Remind me, ok?

In the meantime, know that I love you beyond words, more than the whole of the universe and always from the deepest part of my heart. I love that in being born, you gave me this life as your mother and that now, 10 years later, I continue to find such joy in that role and in you and in our shared days.

You make me laugh and cry and ponder and question and think and wish and dream...just as you did long before I met you. You're kind of magic, you know?

The day you were born was the day my heart's desire came true.

Thank you, as always, for choosing me.

Happy Birthday, Matt.

I love you.

Mum

Family Rules: 2015

Family Rules

Brush your teeth. Pick up your feet. Do as you've been told, when you're told. Close the fridge. Wipe up the juice. Don't use a tea towel, use paper towel. On the counter. Tie your shoes. Hands to yourself. Don't stomp up the stairs. Eat everything on your plate. Get your feet off the seat. Take your garbage with you. Did you brush your teeth? Don't put the empty pickle jar back in the fridge. CLOSE THE FRIDGE! Finish your water bottle. Finish the whole bottle. STICK YOUR HEAD UNDER THE TAP, YOU'RE NOT GETTING ANOTHER BOTTLE! Be kind to your brother. Say please. Say thank you. Get your feet out of his face. The couch is to be shared. Turn off the video game. Turn OFF the video game. TURN IT OFF! Give me those headphones, I'll give them back when I get my voice back. Keep asking questions, yes. Questions are good. Get in the car. IN. Get in the car. Hands inside, guys. Hands inside. Use soap. Do as you're told, when you're told. Change your underpants. No, you wore those yesterday. Yes, you did. Why are you still arguing with me? Go to your room. Don't stomp, Daddy's sleeping. Close the door quietly. Wipe up the crumbs. There. RIGHT THERE! HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE THEM??? Find your glasses. Turn off the video game. Clean your glasses. Turn OFF the video game. PUT THEM ON YOUR FACE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! Wear sunscreen. And repellent. Well, hold your breath then. Burned is worse. You can SO breathe, stop being dramatic. Yes, I'm trying to kill you. You've found me out. Because you didn't brush your teeth. Dude, I can smell you from here. Get in the car. Hands inside. Tie your laces. You know that thing you do, when you drag your feet across every surface like a Neanderthal? Stop doing that. Tie your laces. No, you didn't. If you had, I wouldn't be asking you. Leave the window control alone. No it wasn't him, it was you. His control thing is on HIS side...HANDS TO YOURSELF! Find something to do. Rinse the dishes first. Towels on the rack. Towels on the rack. Brush your teeth. Fine, sleep naked, I don't care. Get your bum out of your brother's face. No, I was RIGHT HERE. Yes, I saw. He did not. GET INTO BED! No, only one chapter. One. That's what I said. One. Less if you keep this up. Get your feet off the wall. Yes, they ARE dirty. Because you didn't use soap, like I told you to. Get your FEET OFF your BROTHER. Your bed. No. No sleepovers with each other. Your bed. NOW. Lights out. Lights out. Stop scaring him like that...no that's not an alien come to take you away, it's your brother. Yes, I can smell AND see him.  Because he didn't use soap. Snuggle down, now. Put your sillies away. Have good dreams. See you in mine. Well, because it would be lovely, wouldn't it? Because in my dreams, you use soap and brush your teeth and get in the car when I say. Never mind. Forget it. Know that I love you. Yes, I do. No, not more than your brother, differently. I'm sure. Because you're different people. Stop asking questions. For the love of GOD, please go to sleep. GO TO SLEEP! We'll try again tomorrow...

God's Pool

At Mass this morning, a guest priest asked for prayers for our country, that we might stand firm and protest same-sex marriage and abortion. My sons, standing on either side of me, turned their handsome faces up in confusion.

Huh?

"Does he mean boys can't marry boys? Mummy, you said they could."

For a moment, I could say nothing. My youngest Red is a week away from receiving his First Communion, which is essentially, being invited to sit at the Lord's table.

 I walked away from it for many, many years but found that I was drawn back to the ritual and community, especially when I became a parent. I have sometimes wondered at the wisdom of returning to a church whose ideas I do not wholly embrace, nor support. Some, I outright defy.

This is one of them.

"Some people believe that only men and women should marry," I finally whispered, "But I don't. I think God wants you to love who you love and that's that."

"But can we still come here if you think that? For my communion? I'm learning all the songs, even though the words are hard."

In my mind, I pictured myself gathering up my children and making a big show of huffing from the pew and into the aisle, incensed and hollering, "MY God welcomes everyone to His table!" and then storming out. Alas, I am not that brave, so instead, I sat when I should have remained standing and tugged them in close to me.

"God says that whenever two or more people get together and sing about Him and pray to Him and enjoy their time together, He's hanging out, too. Invisibly. And He loves us. Period. Full-stop. Forever. So, yes, we can come here. Especially since you're learning all the songs."

"But...why did the priest say that?" This from my oldest, the champion of "Why?" questions that make my head hurt.

"Because he believes it. Because it scares him. Because the world is a different place than it used to be, when men couldn't marry men and women couldn't marry women. He's sort of...stuck there."

"But who's right?"

"Who do you think is right?"

"You."

"Why do you think I'm right?"

"Because you said that if we want to marry a man then you'd be ok with that because it means you get to have more sons to love. And God helped us choose you to be our mummy and so if He chooses us to marry a man, He's really choosing you for them, too. Or them for you. Kind of. Do you know what I mean?"

I closed my eyes, offered up a silent prayer of thanks for these tiny souls. "Yes. Yes, I do. Now let Mummy pray here, ok?"

"Ok," my youngest again, tugging impatiently on my arm, "Can you pray that the person I marry has a pool?

I opened up one eye. "A pool?"

"Yeah. God would probably want me to have a pool. And a diving board to practice flips. I bet He's choosing that for me right now. I just have to wait and find out."

I guess we all will.

That God. He's so funny.

Life With Molly the Dog

Molly the Dog, ours since Christmas 2013, will be going home today.

Mostly, I am happy for her - and for us. Her new home is a horse farm, where she often goes to play. My friend, Raphael already loves her and she, him. She will be happy and free and beloved: knowing that makes this ache in my heart not as painful as it might be.

Today, I offer some snippets of life with Molly the Dog, as we knew it, culled from my Facebook page:

 

 

It's a good thing I got paid today because Molly the Dog just ate my LAST pair of sandals. I got them last pay day. Since that time, she has devoured my old sandals, a pair of flip-flops and my slippers.

It's no use complaining to Mark because he has told me a dozen times not to leave my shoes all over the place and I have cheerfully agreed and them promptly forgotten.

I hate when he's right.

 

 

 

So, if you were Molly the Dog and managed to snag one of those white things that covers the screws in the base of toilet and you raced downstairs despite your person hollering at you to "Sit, Molly!"...where would you hide it?

 

 

I cracked the back door open to let Molly the Dog outside. She sniffed the air, looked up at me as if to say, "Are you KIDDING me?" and then turned and swished her way back upstairs. I'm pretty sure I heard her "Hmph!" as she settled down.

I DO wish she'd learn to communicate her feelings more clearly...

 

 

Molly the Dog just stalked, killed and ate the BIGGEST house centipede I have ever seen.

Molly the Dog is my new hero and is hereby forgiven for every single status update containing curse words that I've written since bringing her home.

 

 

 

 

 

Molly the Dog did not get to the dog park today. To demonstrate her displeasure, she ate Mark's ball cap, one shoe, a tiny birchwood canoe off my dresser.

Just now, she decimated a roll of paper towel and when I looked over and asked, "What have you DONE?" she farted.

Molly the Dog is a pre-teen boy in a dog's body.

 

During Parent-Teacher interviews, I left a lasagna cooling on the stove.

While we were gone, Molly the Dog ate it. Well, most of it. The rest, she dragged across the kitchen floor, the dining room and the family room.

For dessert, she ate my phone.

Molly the Dog is now in the newly-resurrected crate.

Molly the Dog is grounded.

 

 

 

 

Molly the Dog during a rare, calm moment.
 

Dear Molly the Dog,

I am so mad at you right now, I can't even look at you. Partially, this is my doing for not following through on the "Come!" portion of your TWO rounds of obedience training. I was lulled into complacency, it seems, when vigilance was needed. There talk of electrifying the fence, my girl. And that chain that so terrifies you? Get used to it, until I can figure out how to keep being your owner without losing my mind.
And therein, lies the rub: it goes against your nature to be chained and tied and boxed in. It goes against my heart to be the one who chain and binds you when the beautiful dog that you are only longs to run freely.
I cannot decide if keeping you is selfish, or if offering you a different home where you can roam and run would be...

St. Patrick's Day 2015

Sometimes love means letting go.

 

Steady as you go, Molly the Dog.

 

Remember love.

 

 

 

 

 

For Sara

Several years ago, a group of strangers gathered at another stranger's house, bearing gifts of wine, cake and friendship. Then, we called ourselves the Twitter Ladies as we'd "met" on Twitter - all of us, save one, transplants to the Friendly City in which we live.

That first evening was hilarious - no sooner had we kicked off our shoes at the door, we were kicking off our nerves and our fears and our sense of weird about being in a stranger's home with women from the internet.

We swiftly assigned nicknames and monikers with the ease of new friends aiming to become long-term ones (mostly this was to differentiate between the Jens, who became Baker Jen, Nurse Jen and Preacher Jen, respectively) Our numbers have fluctuated over the years and we are now the Quinte Women's Respite Commission, which makes me giggle even typing it. We are each other's respite, for sure.

Sara was the youngest of us, then and remains the youngest of us now. She is impossibly beautiful and gentle-voiced. She chooses her words with absolute care and moves without any superfluous gestures whatsoever. She is a writer, a teacher, a community activist, a traveller, a dreamer.

Sara, Kyle and the aptly-named Jasper the Dog

She is my friend.

And she is also leaving.

Sara and her travelling-partner-for-life,  Kyle are both gypsies at heart. At month's end, they are heading to Alberta, having gamely spent their first year as a couple here in Ontario. Those of us who love her (and him) wish them nothing but oodles of luck as they embark on this very exciting adventure. But....we will miss her. I am the Storyteller of the group and of course, I have some things to tell her:


1. I am proud of you, my friend. This is a big deal, moving away from all that is familiar and all those who are dear. Though I know your heart has longed to return to the province of your childhood, I know too, how hard it is to leave behind the woman you've grown into here, in the pretty city by the Bay. I know that it has been a privilege to watch her. Now, I'll just have to do so through my computer.

2. Pictures. Take lots of 'em. Document the awesome views and the mundane moments...but not so much that you forget to live in them, either. Share them, love. With those who've made a similar journey and who have sepia-washed memories of their own, and with those still dreaming of becoming someone more, in a different place.

3. Miss us. Miss the loud and the messy of our lives, spilled out onto every table we've gathered around. Miss the laughter and the bawdy humour of women who maybe freak you out a little, but who adore you and see in you, our younger selves. Miss the magic of belonging to something bigger than you, than all of us -  the women who surround you in your journey are all facets of your own heart. And all of us will miss you.

A photo of Sara and Kyle's new home, that I shamelessly pinched
from her blog. That's the kind of friend I am.

Steady as you go, Skipper. Carry our love in the pockets of your heart.

Meeting Jason...

*One of my new favourite phrases, as I settle into my 40s, is "That God. He's so funny."

I am not a particularly religious person. By that, I suppose I mean that I am not a regular church-goer and my faith, while strengthening, is often fraught with doubt and questions. Despite them, every once in awhile, I receive a gentle nudge from the universe - one that lets me know that I am on the right path. I call that God, but whatever floats your boat works for me, too.

This piece, lifted directly from my Facebook wall shortly before Christmas, 2014, is a vivid and pointed "steady as you go, Skipper" moment, given to me by a lonely, troubled stranger on a rainy winter's night. *

I have been given the enormous privilege of being one of a Circle of Accompaniment for my dear friend, Jen, who is seeking ministry with the United Church of Canada. Tonight's meeting was the first of many with her circle and it was interesting. Even MORE interesting? What happened before:

Before the meeting began, I volunteered to open the church's locked side door to those attending. A lone man appeared, seeking the pastor, or he muttered, "someone to talk to," hastily yanking his tattered hat from his head as I ushered him in, out of the rain.

Together, we searched the meeting rooms, interrupted some strangers, but found no pastor. At a loss, I gestured to the bench in the foyer and so he eased himself down and then looked up at me.
"I just need someone to...listen, " he said quietly. And so I sat, too.

Opening up...

 

 

He said nothing for awhile, so I didn't, either. To be honest, I was a little bit afraid of him and his need and worried that perhaps I shouldn't have let him in. This was not my church, or my home and its congregation were strangers to me. I tried not to fidget and willed someone - anyone - to come and tell me, tell us, what to do.

"You know what's hard?" he asked, turning a battered face to mine, eyes blazing.

I shook my head.

"That there is no place for me to go, when I need to. The library will close soon and I have no money for coffee. I don't want a fucking coffee anyway, I just want someone to take these thoughts out of my head for awhile. Where's the pastor, that's what I want to know. WHERE THE HELL IS HE?"

"I don't know. But...I have a cell phone. Is there anyone you'd like to call?"

"Look at me! Do I look like the kind of person whose call would be answered?"

I blinked, afraid. "Uh...well, maybe not. You look sort of scary and mad. But you SOUND like someone who's smart and aware. And you need those thoughts out of your head, right? You could call up anyone and leave them on their voice mail, if they don't pick up."

With a loud bark, he BURST out laughing, and I jolted, which made him laugh even harder. I chuckled along, in that "ha-ha-holy-shit-you-freak-me-out" kind of way, until he stopped and then stuck out his hand for mine. "I'm Jason. Who are you?"

"I'm Liz."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're not to supposed to encourage the crazy people, Liz?"

"Well...yeah. But I can't seem to help myself. It's a curse, really."

Jason pitched over laughing again, while I sat there trying to figure out what to DO. And then he got up, jammed his hat back on his head and turned to haul me to my feet. I asked him what he was going to do.

"I'm going to go now, Liz. It was a pleasure meeting you. Thanks for making me laugh. I can probably hang onto my head until I get to the next church."

"Well, good luck. And Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too. And hey, if anyone ever tells you to stop talking to the crazy people, you tell 'em to go f*ck themselves. Got it?"

Got it.

That God. He's so funny.

Welcome, Sailors!

And so...a new journey begins.

I "retired" my old blog "Life With Bellymonster" in August of 2014. At that time, the stories I wanted to share were not mine to tell. Most of them still aren't, though perhaps one day, they will be.

However, it  became apparent, by the rapid and almost immediate lengthening of my Facebook status updates, that I simply cannot NOT blog. Somewhere, I still needed a place to share the extraordinary lessons I am learning as I move through my days. They are not always happy ones, but nor are they always hard. I have also discovered, in sharing, that the lessons are not only mine: there is much to be said for letting another's story change one's own.

Safe harbour

Mostly, I hope that this space will become a harbour of sorts - where I can share and reflect upon the stories others bring to my sphere. And where you can dip your feet and heart in, every now and again, for some inspiration, or simply, a shoring-up.