The Steps to Where I Am

Relaxing in a hot bath, jets massaging, bubbles growing and caressing every exposed piece of skin. The dim light of the candles flicker, creating a soft light in the darkened room as the shades have been drawn, hiding the last rays of the late afternoon sun. The tall glass of cool wine sits invitingly on the tub's edge. As I slide further down into the welcoming heat of the water, I take in the atmosphere of my surroundings,and let myself feel the happiness spread through me. When I think of the man who created such a perfect moment for me, who is letting me share my life with him, I revel in this feeling of being exactly where I am meant to be.

I wonder at the circumstances of my life that led me to this moment. The interconnectedness of past decisions and choices is overwhelming when reflected on with purpose. If I took the time to trace the path of my life backwards from this instant, there are an infinite number of twists and turns along the way that would have redirected the entire course of my life. Each one of us could lay claim to this idea. Sometimes it is a result of a conscious choice we are making. In my own life this includes my university selection, the career that I followed, the man I married and then chose to leave. However, there are directions that seem to be mapped out for us, when fate or destiny decides to regain some control, not allowing us to be too content with our comfortable plans. The death of my father seemed cruel and devastating to my family. How could a man with so much life left in him, be taken away? The remarriage of my mother has not only given her the chance to love again, but has also allowed our family to grow beyond the familiar boundaries of what had been our life with our father. The birth of my youngest daughter, diagnosed prenatally with a life-altering physical and mental disability was another unforeseen event that was a shock to our family. Now, as I watch Lisa grow, see her kindness and witness her gentle, but determined nature, I am grateful to be on this path with her. I can't wait to see where it leads.

Each of the steps I have taken that have led to where I am right now has come with its own set of emotions and consequences. Sometimes the steps have been painful, but other times the happiness that it has created has been worth the ride. My goal is to make those moments of seeing the cup half full last longer, or at least be remembered more boldly. One of my followers made a comment about the feeling of happiness which struck a chord with me. It showed me another way of going forward, of taking another step with a positive mindset. "...the feeling of 'happiness' is always a fleeting moment. The only time it is longer is when it's your memory of happiness. It is normal that life is up and down in the span of a day. You come to rejoice longer periods of happiness through your memory of it."

I am not going to critically analyze the interconnectedness of my life decisions. I am not going to play the "if only" game with myself. But, I am going to amaze myself with where I take myself next.

When is it ever enough?

I know that this time of year can be a source of conflict- the joyous celebration of Christmas, gatherings with family and friends, good cheer to all! The flip side of the holiday coin is the gritting of the teeth at various events; the perfection of decorating, baking, shopping; the crowds; the pressure of creating that nostalgic holiday in today's high tech world. As I am writing this post, I am feeling the pull from both poles of the Christmas globe. This evening, sitting amongst family and friends at my daughter's Christmas concert, marvelling at the magnificent beauty of the country jewel of Catholic churches that we are blessed to have in our community, I feel a tightening in my chest as the tug of Christmas memories floods my mind. The carols echo; I sing along with the school choir; I disappear into the spirit of the holidays. How quickly that fades as I drive home alone, walk into my cold, dark house, and wish for that feeling back again.

How do I keep that sense of peace? When will all that I do ever feel like it is enough to satisfy myself, and to satisfy the people in my life?

I write...but I want to write more. I want to reach out to more people.
I teach...but I want to reach every single child in my class. I want to make a difference for each one of them.
I parent...but there are days that the baby steps seem enormously gigantic.
I am a friend...but why do I feel like I take more than I give.
I love...but why do I feel like my words and my actions are not enough.

I cannot undo what has happened. I can only learn and grow. I can embrace the people of my life, and be grateful for who they are. I can look around me every day and soak up the small miracles of my life. If you want to join me, my life is open and the ride is waiting. The cost of your ticket? To know that I am doing enough.

The Impetus

"When the chocolate comes, your whole life will change. It's the impetus." (p. 42, Lamb). This quote is taken from a book that I am currently reading called Julia's Chocolates by Cathy Lamb. I admit that the only reason I picked this particular book off the shelf at Chapters was because the word "chocolate" was in the title. The green cover with the picture of the wedding veil hanging from a tree branch also caught my eye. But, as I read the synopsis on the back cover, I was drawn to the story as well. It will be added to my growing collection of chick lit books that portrays a woman who finds herself struggling to survive amidst the chaos of her life. This story has a bit of eccentric humour with the addition of peculiar Aunt Lydia: the obviously strong character of Aunt Lydia draws the strength and courage out of what seemed, at the beginning, like the weakened Julia.

I believe that things happen for a reason. I also believe that we are drawn to things, to moments, to events in our lives at exactly the right time for a reason. Why did I pick a book by an author that I had never heard of? Why did I actually buy the book? Why did that particular quote steal my breath from me when I first read it? Why did I keep reading that quote, and then fold the page down so I would always know where to find it? My blog, these posts, these pieces of my life that I have openly shared with so many of you have all been the chocolate that came into my life at a time when I needed an impetus; I needed to change. It has been almost six months since I wrote my first blog post. There are weeks that I have found it difficult to write and to share. But the words I have received in return from the many followers that take the time to read about one ordinary woman's life have inspired me to keep writing.

So what has happened since the Chocolate of Women has come into my life.
* I got a job in a school that I called my chocolate school long before I came up with the idea for the Chocolate of Women.
* I began the process of re-educating myself in the ever-changing field of education. The passion for my teaching surged back into my life.
* I ran my first 10km race. (emphasis on the word "first")
* I have connected with so many women who motivate me in ways that are unknown to them, but are small celebrations to me.
* I have met a man who inspires me to be more, who challenges me with his sharp mind, but also lets me be me.
* I have confronted some of my personal fears in some of my most tumultuous relationships. (this one is a continual work in progress)

I know that we tend to get caught up in the drama of our own lives, and it is easy to hide out from what the rest of the world is living. My writing, and the sharing of it, has helped me to open up the everyday, ordinary lives of women. It has helped me to realize that we are all very extraordinary in our own way. It has made me more aware of the similarities of our fears, our desires, and our dreams. I now know that I'm not the only mother who is frantically waiting for that text message on a Saturday night from the teenager who can't seem to read the time on that same cell phone that sends thousands of messages a month. I know that I am not the only woman who scrambles madly to pick up dirty laundry, and tidy an untidy house when the door bell rings. I know that many other women fear the state of their hair at the end of a hot, humid day. I know that many women love to share with their friends, and feel the chocolate comfort over that shared cup of coffee.

My life has changed, and it will continue to change. Will chocolate be the impetus? Maybe, along with many of the other "chocolates" of my life.

Brick Walls

I read a lot. And when I read, I make connections to many different parts of my life.
When I read for pleasure, I sometimes align myself so deeply with the hero or heroine that it is almost hard to say goodbye to the characters when I get to the last page. I feel compassion for their struggles, as well as joy in their successes, as though it was actually something that was happening to me.
When I read for teaching, the ability to focus on the theories and practices can sometimes blur on the page. But, there are times when I feel the excitement of finding that one strategy that will help the little boy in my class who just can't get it. I find a problem to solve that I can't wait to share with my class, to see the "aha" moment of discovering the solution. (See if you can figure this one out- my grade 2/3 class could: You can't hold it. It weighs nothing. You can see it. When you put it in a can, the can weighs less. What is it?)
And when I read for self-discovery, for personal growth, I get to experience my own "aha" moments, and I apply them to my life. They aren't always successful. The changes that I make aren't always well-received by the people closest to me. But, the impact that some of these ideas have had on my life makes the unbalanced chaos that the people around me might see and feel, worthwhile.

In my last post, I described how I had been struggling with writer's block the past few weeks. Ironically, there were many other brick walls that I was faced with during the same time frame which were frustrating and, at times, zapped the energy out of me. This analogy of the brick wall was something that I first read about in the book "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch. Terminally ill with pancreatic cancer, his book was a tribute to the last lecture that he made- a lecture about achieving our childhood dreams. One theme that repeated itself throughout his writing, was the idea that we are all presented with obstacles or "brick walls" on our quest to achieve our childhood dreams. But, these walls aren't there to make the acquisition of our dreams impossible, or to let ourselves believe that the dream is so out of our reach that we should just give up. Instead, "Brick walls are there for a reason. They give us a chance to show how badly we want something." (p. 79, Pausch). "The brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough. They're there to stop the other people." (p.73, Pausch).

One of my dreams, or perhaps three of my dreams, has been to first nurture, then guide my children to be responsible, to be kind and compassionate, and to be happy and at peace with the choices that they make. There are many days as a mother that I feel as though I am sliding down the brick wall, back into a pit of mud at the base of it. Can that look of annoyance, of pure negative attitude really be directed at me? Can those angry words being thrown at me truly be what my child thinks, how my child feels? Not only have I slid down the wall on days such as these, but I am buried in that thick oozing mud up to my waist trying to find a desperate handhold on the wall in front of me, trying to pull myself up and out. How do I get out? How do I start the climb up that wall again? I remember what the dream is. I remember that the brick walls of parenting are there for a reason. Some days it is easy. There are days that are filled with laughing, teasing; days filled with pride in each other. These are days that I feel as though I am almost over the wall. But, then the other days- the days of anger, the days of being scared- suddenly creep back in again. But, I know how badly I want the dream. I remember that I want my children to be caring, responsible, and happy. I know that I want that dream for my children more than anyone else does, and that makes the brick wall surmountable.

Everyday Passions

My writing has always been a way for me to escape. It allows me to release what is building up inside of me. It lets me air the negative, but also lets me remember the positive. I sometimes have to remind myself of the feeling, the high, that I get from putting my thoughts on paper. For the past few weeks, I have been consumed with report cards, curriculum expectations, medical issues, the drama of motherhood, the daily living of life. I tried to sit down to write. I wanted to recapture that moment of euphoria when I have finished a post. But, for some reason, the words were stuck. I needed to find a way to climb the wall of my writer's block. I had to write again to rekindle the connection I have made with so many women. I had to write again for me.

I keep various journals, depending on my mood, depending on the purpose of my writing. I read through many of my pieces hoping to renew the inspiration. As I was reading, the pride of seeing my own words on paper grew into that desire to write again. One piece in particular was written shortly before I created "The Chocolate of Women". It was written at a time when I was building the passion I feel for my life and all of the people and things that I have in my life. It was written in the spring, when the world reawakens, when it is easy to hope. The journal that I chose to write in on that spring day is called "Passion, every day".

May 24, 2009: "Only passions, great passions, can elevate the soul to great things." (Denis Diderot) I am sitting on my back patio, sipping my coffee, listening to the birds, the sound of my neighbour's water hose as it soaks the dry ground, breathing in the scent of my purple lilac bush, feeling like I am on vacation at a northern Ontario resort. I want to revel in the feeling of being away from my life, even if it is only for half an hour. For this small bit of time, there are no unwelcome interruptions into my thoughts- internally or externally. The sun is feeling warmer now, almost hot, so bright on the white pages of my journal. I love late spring; the world is alive again, and has breathed new purpose back into my soul. I feel the drive to make my passions grow. In the dark days of winter, I was afraid that I had lost that drive or buried it so deep that it would take years to resurface. But, each day I feel its return and welcome it with open arms.
Today's passion is my garden. The beauty and colours of my gardens inspire me to tend to them, learn more and watch them grow and mature. Today, I add life and beauty to my outside home. I am so lucky to have the means to spend a glorious Sunday pursuing this passion. It is not a chore. It is the beauty of my life.


As I read this journal entry this week, chips of my writer's block fell away. I wanted to feel that passion again. I wanted to remember all of the small things that have healed me, and have allowed me to grow into the person I am. I wanted to write.

I Am Who I Am

Why do I let the opinions of others guide my life? I have touched on this topic in previous posts. It is a struggle that I have battled for as long as I can remember. At times, the battle is screaming loud and in my face. Other times, it is a soft whisper that I can barely hear, but always enough of an echo that I know it hasn't completely disappeared.

Living in a small town has given me the blessing of having lifelong relationships, family and friends always present and ready to help me up, laugh with, share a life with. But, with that blessing, comes the loss of privacy, the lack of anonymity that I sometimes crave, that I need in order to quiet the ongoing conversation in my head; the worries and fears of what others will think.

The way I look, the way I dress, the way I act, the behaviour of my children, the state of my home, being a single mom, my job, my friends, and on and on and on. Why do I care? Why do I feel judged?

This past week, a person who I have known only since this past summer-a person who has come to mean so much to me in such a short time- reminded me that no matter what I say, what I write, or what I do, people are going to think and say and feel what they want. It is their problems and their issues that ultimately affect how they will react to anything that is happening in my life. It is beyond my control. All I can do is be who I am. With those words, he helped to remind me that I need to live my life with confidence knowing that I am doing everything I can to move forward in a way that not only fulfills me, but also shows the people who I truly care about and love that I will fight for them, I will stand with them.

The first day that I met this man, I remember saying to him that I was tired of trying to prove my worth to people. I was fed up with living up to what other people wanted. I am who I am. What you see and experience with me is what you get. My state of mind on that carefree summer weekend allowed me to let down my guard and not pretend. He saw the best of me, but also the truth of me. Because of that I have allowed him to reach in and discover more about me, to draw more potential, and to open me up to new possibilities.

When I begin to feel vulnerable or weak, I only have to remember his words "Jo, just be who you are. Be confident in what you say and what you do."

Others may sometimes be offended by my words or my actions. If I need to apologize I will. If I need to defend, I will. But, if I am just living my life, being who I am, then I will continue to live, to speak, to write, to love, to be me.

What's Broken Can Be Healed

Almost four years ago, with my foot in a cast, the dream of walking without crutches, without a cane, without a limp was a daily prayer. I would wake up each morning and hope that I was one day closer to healing. I wanted to know what it felt like to jump out of bed instead of strapping on the velcro air cast and pumping the air into the hidden bubble sacks to the exact tension that would give my foot the needed support, but not cause the numbing sensation of zero circulation. I wanted to stand in the shower again instead of balancing unsteadily on one foot as I tried to lower myself into the tub without causing even more injury. I wanted to go for a walk. I wanted to dance. I wanted to fill my day, not endure it. I wanted to appreciate what had temporarily been taken away, and never take it for granted again.

The broken foot, ironically, occurred at a time in my life when there were so many other things that were broken. When I retell the story of that night of dancing in my bare feet- which ultimately led to a trip to the ER, a plaster cast, an air cast, surgery, a fibreglass cast, the air cast again- it might seem as though my five month saga was adventurous, even comical. It was, after all, only a broken foot. What people don't see or hear, and what I never wanted them to see and hear, was how that short loss of my independence and my capabilities created a struggle inside of me that eventually gave me a source of inner strength that I didn't think I even possessed. I re-evaluated so many of my choices during those months. I could let my life continue to feel broken, or I could take charge, fix it, and then give it time to heal into a life that I really wanted.

Four years later, my foot long out of the cast, and I know that not only has my physical self healed, but I am on a path that is helping me to create the life that I once thought was out of my reach. There have been many days, weeks, months that I have questioned how I tried to fix what was broken. But there have also been so many new experiences and new people brought into my life that I am so grateful for, that I don't have any regrets about the imbalance that I thought I was creating for everyone else. A counsellor I was seeing at that time was trying to help me to embrace the changes in my life while still considering the effect of these changes on the people around me. She wanted me to see that it was okay. She used the analogy of a wind chime. When a wind chime is still, each piece is hanging perfectly straight; there is no movement to create noise or confusion. When one piece of the chime starts to move, it causes a chain reaction of movement in the other pieces which creates the sound and the swaying of the entire chime. The change can be heard as a beautiful sound by some, or to others as an annoying disturbance of their silence. Eventually, the chime stills and order is restored. I was the piece that swayed in the chime. I disrupted the balance, caused the movement, and made the noise. The noise has gradually become soothing and peaceful music. The chime of my life is once again finding its equilibrium.

Finding the sources of my strength to continue the healing has been an ongoing journey for me. Last week, I accomplished a goal that I had set for myself this past summer. I was going to run and finish a 10km race with my son. There were many days that I didn't feel like adding an extra km to my training; I didn't want to run up that pool hill; and I really didn't want to hear the sound of my son's voice when I returned from the run, and he's telling me that I can shorten my time. Run faster? Is he kidding? I'm happy to have returned at all. But, what I really didn't want to do was to give up. I listened to that voice in my head as it reminded me of those crutches, of the cane, of the months of physiotherapy. I listened when it reminded me of how broken my will to be my own person had become. I listened when it told me to set my new goals, and do everything I could to make them happen.

As I passed the 9km marker at the Festival City Run, I could hear the crowds near the finish line, as each runner's people inspired that last shot of adrenaline to get to that line. Nearing the last bend, an old friend of mine who had already finished the race, ran up beside me, pushing me with his encouraging words, and I could feel the energy inside me build. As he dropped away to let me taste the thrill of the finish, I looked up and saw my three children, heard them cheering for their mom, Greg yelling at me to pass the girl in front of me. I sprinted to that finish line with a smile on my face, and a sense of pride and accomplishment in myself for having achieved my goal- I had finished the race; I had rebuilt my life.

Dancing- My Lifelong Escape Hatch

I walk through the door at my dance school, hear the familiar fiddle music echoing from the studio room, lace up my tap shoes, and the worries in my head are forgotten.

I have danced since I was seven years old. It began innocently in response to a little girl's request to wear the black shiny shoes with the jingly taps. Coincidentally, step dance lessons were offered one block from my house, once a week. This involved no parental driving time, and the cost of equipment and registration did not involve remortgaging the family home. There were no grand visions of becoming a famous broadway dancer. At that time, extra curricular meant getting some exercise, having some fun, and appreciating that you were even given the opportunity to be wearing those shiny black shoes.

More than 35 years later, and I still love wearing my dance shoes, hearing the sounds of the taps, being able to make my feet move in ways that seem almost unnatural. The memories I have made and the friendships that have been cemented in place by the simple act of dancing are what keep me dancing. I have performed in front of crowds of thousands, as well as for the simple pleasure of my family and friends. I have tasted victory in competitions, but also learned how to lose graciously. I watched dance students experience the thrill of finally getting it, and have been so lucky to continue to experience that thrill myself.

Last week, the new year of dance lessons began. As I was sitting in the waiting room tightening the laces on my shoes, I noticed that there was a considerable age difference between myself and the other dancers. There were no unfamiliar faces in the room as I had danced with these young people for a few years and performed with them in many shows. However, in the past, our lessons had always been a combination of the "young teenagers", and the "older women". When our instructor opened the door to the dance studio, I quietly asked her "Did I get the time wrong?" With a big welcoming smile on her face, she reassured me that I was in the right class. I wasn't quite so sure. Determined not to embarrass myself or my instructor (who is also a very dear friend of mine), I emptied my head of all worries and all concerns that I had arrived with, and I focused on my feet and the music for the next two hours. When the shoes came off, I felt the familiar high of a grueling workout, as well as the pride of being able to do it. I had not given in to my fear of being the most experienced (read between the lines, and I really mean the oldest) dancer in the room. I had used that unwavering faith that my instructor has in my ability to once again surprise myself with another accomplishment.

Over the years, dancing has created some of my most unforgettable lifetime moments. One such experience was two years ago. After months of training and hundreds of hours of practice, a group of thirty advanced dancers were ready to perform at a national dance convention in Nashville, Tennessee. The honour of being asked to be part of this dance group still causes a swell of emotion to build inside of me. But, what makes the memory even more precious is that my oldest daughter performed on stage with me. At the time, she was fifteen, angry at the world about her parents' divorce and not really liking me at all. There were many tears and loud arguments during the rehearsals, and on the car rides to and from those practices. But as the trip to Nashville drew closer, there was a gradual thawing in the icy mood that hung between the two of us. The car rides became less confrontational and more conversational. The talk expanded beyond dancing, beyond her angry words, and became more about us and about where do we go from here. I hoped this mood would continue for our trip. When we arrived in Nashville, after a 14 hour bus ride, we were both grumpy and tired, feeling grimy from the overnight ride. There were still many practice hours to put in before the big show. I had no idea what would erupt between the two of us. It's amazing, however, what a few hours of sleep in a big, comfy bed, and a hot shower will do for any relationship. By the time we were dressed and ready to perform, Jessica threw her arm around me, and gave the camera a beaming "I'm ready" smile. Dressed in our matching red glitter tops, black pants, and shiny black tap shoes, we made our way back stage. It is difficult for me to put into words how I felt when I looked across the stage and saw my daughter dancing alongside me. At one time, I thought I had lost that mother/daughter relationship with her, or at least had seen it change to one that would never be what it once was. Dancing gave me a chance to build that with her again. Dancing put me one step closer to getting my daughter back.

The high of the big moments and the pleasure of just being able to dance keep my feet moving. This week I put my dance shoes on at school, and put on a small demonstration for my group of grade 2/3 students. The fact that I was able to do something more than just be a teacher was quite fascinating to my young audience. When I slipped on my shoes and then stood in front of these wide-eyed children, that familiar thrill of performing, of being able to dance coursed through me. It can be a crowded dance hall, or a simple classroom, the effect is still the same. The looks on their faces and the words from their mouths make it all worthwhile. "Mrs. Van Moorsel, how do you make your feet move so fast? You must be a professional." Oh, how I love to dance!

Locate the Escape Hatch

I'm not sure what brings it on. I just know that when it starts to happen, I have to have a clear view of my escape hatch, to get out of my head, and out of my thinking.

For the past few weeks, my life has been a whirlwind. September is always filled with new beginnings and old routines. The structure of school is a welcome relief by the time summer holidays flicker away into our memories. The re-emergence of extra curricular activities fills the calendar to bursting capacity. The added excitement of my new job has increased the speed of the slipping away of the days and weeks of the month. Throw in one teenage daughter's wisdom tooth surgery, including a week of recovery (and zero pain tolerance!), another daughter's bout with strep throat, my son's insistence on joining every fall sport that school offers, kids' work schedules, and it's a wonder that there were even enough hours in September to accommodate the load.

The motive for my writing today, however, is not sympathy. It's not for pity. We are all parents with busy schedules and full lives. Today is about coping. It's about not letting the load become too heavy. I tend to let that happen, much too often. My head becomes so full of what I should be doing, what needs to be done, and what I happen to be doing at the moment, that it is easy to allow system meltdown and ultimately nothing getting done. This is when I need the escape hatch.

I need to escape to that place of being still. I need to remember exactly what makes me happy. I need to find those things that give me peace. Sometimes, it's as simple as going for a run. It could be reading a book, going to dance class, sitting in the sun on my back patio, talking to a friend on the phone, writing on my blog. Whatever it is, I don't have to explain why to anyone but me. I just do it.

I have to remember that although the big things give each of us those much-needed euphoric highs, it is how I walk through each day that really matters. As long as I know where the escape hatch is.

Note to self: When I am having trouble finding the handle on that escape hatch, don't watch Grey's Anatomy, mourning the loss of George; don't try to pay my bills; and don't attempt to finish my almost-due school long range plans.

Africa is Calling- My Dream

Last week I said Bon Voyage to a very dear friend. Although I will miss her over the next three months, I know that this is the fulfillment of a dream for her. She is, at this very moment, on the island of Zanzibar off the east coast of Africa. An organization called "Hands Across Borders" has welcomed her into their world. For many years, she has always wanted to become more culturally aware, teach and learn about tolerance of people beyond our own small worlds, in a way that she felt immersed in their world. She didn't want to portray herself as the affluent westerner that lacks the compassion or the desire to motivate the culture to learn. She wanted to teach them how to be healthy, how to become educated, how to build a self-sustained life that didn't involve exploitation of the poor masses. It had to be an experience that filled her with a feeling of purpose, a feeling of community, and a feeling of appreciation and peace with the world she left behind.

I researched the organization that she became involved with. It's hard not to fall in love with the beauty of the land, the willingness of the people to make a better life, the philosophy behind what these cultures are working towards. In reading the goals of Hands Across Borders (HABS), I can better understand how my friend was drawn to this small village of Jambiani- even the name is fun to say as it rolls off your tongue, and makes the speaker sound intelligently exotic.

"Hands Across Borders Society's goal can be divided into four main purposes as outlined in our constitution:

* To assist in alleviating poverty through Community Economic Development
(CED) initiatives
* To provide and advance education and health care
* To create international links between Canada and the developing world
* To involve and encourage active participation of youth"

As a nurse in the truest sense of the word, with her caring, compassionate character that transcends her work world, extending to her family, and her friends, this opportunity did seem like a perfect fit for the dream that she has carried within her for so many years.

The passion of her dream, combined with the balance in her mind that this was what she really wanted to do and needed to do, are both what gave her the courage to take action, apply, receive acceptance, then finally board the plane. I can't wait to hear about her adventures, listen to her stories, see the spark in her eye that made her new journey so worthwhile. This was her dream.

Watching her take this courageous step, in combination with the more frequent appearances of many other interesting people and events in my own life, now have me re-evaluating my own goals and dreams. I once had a passion to teach overseas. When I was younger, I admit, it was more the thrill of traveling and the adventure of it that caught my eye. After teaching for many years, resigning, and now opening up the world of teaching to myself again, I have a different perspective about my passion of teaching the underprivileged, whether it be Africa, Asia, Central America... the options are limitless.

But why? I want to share the world. I want to soak up as much information as I can and share it with the wonder-filled students that I teach. What better way than to live the reality of another culture. How are we expected to teach students about the world, if we rarely leave our own classrooms? How do we adequately explain the tastes of the food, the feel of the climate, the flamboyance of the culture, the arts, the talk, the traditions? How do we teach tolerance? How do we explain the perseverance and desire of these people to learn? In our over-indulged, desensitized society, many students are coming to school unwillingly, or with prejudgments about what school will be for them. The desire to learn and grow is a tough concept to break through the preconceived notions about traditional western school life. How do we motivate? How do we duplicate that desire of the students in Africa, in Afghanistan, in any underprivileged country? I don't have the answer to that.

My dream: To teach a classroom full of students with that look of wonder on their faces, grateful that they are even at school, learning to read and write; that they are even being given the chance to think about a dream of their own someday.

Tonight on my run, listening to my iPod, the song "Anyway" by Martina McBride started to play. The idea for tonight's blog was already rolling around in my mind when I was running, and the theme of "dreams" was prevalent in the blog-writing part of my brain. One line of that song repeated for me, and stayed the rest of my way home.

"You can chase a dream, that seems so out of reach, and you know it might not ever come your way. Dream it anyway."

Fate, coincidence, I don't know, but words to live by.

It Happened One Night- A Story of 3

The all-knowing "they" say that things happen in 3's. Last night, as I helped a step dancing friend celebrate her birthday, I discovered that it is not only emotional, negative events in our life that tend to happen in 3's...it can also refer to embarrassing, ridiculous events as well (in my case anyway). As I recall the details of the night and try to piece together each moment of embarrassment, I see a pattern emerging as to the cause. I have no one to blame, no chain of coincidental circumstances that I can see- it's me. It's my uncanny inability to take in all the important details of what is happening around me, and to think first before I react either verbally or dramatically.

Event #1: The restaurant/pub was packed. There was lots of action with the wait staff almost running to keep up. The noise level was, in my teacher terms, at an "outside voice" level, combined with the music, the breaking of glasses, the sports channels on the big screen tv's. In my defense, that is a lot to take in when you are trying to focus on the conversation of the person you are dining with, someone whose story had me totally enraptured with what she was saying as well. I vaguely remember a waiter setting some platters of food on the small round table pushed into the corner beside us. No one was sitting at this table. A few minutes later, two young men arrived at that small table, did not sit down, but proceeded to pick up the platters of food. Once again, in my defense, would anyone not just assume that these two men were waiters? It was at this precise moment that my friend needed a refill for her drink and had been unable to flag down our waitress. Being the helpful friend, I leaned over and politely asked one of the men picking up the food at the table next to us, if he could bring my friend another glass of red wine. His response wasn't openly rude, but loud enough that three tables of people could hear him. "Maybe you should ask somebody who actually works here." Left at that it would have been not too embarrassing, but of course, anyone who knows me well, knows that I tend to be quite dramatic. Thus, the over-exuberant apologizing followed, accompanied with the nervous laughter, and then the "omigosh I can't believe that I just did that" scene, resulting in at least three more tables of restaurant patrons joining in on the embarrassing incident. A few minutes later, with the red in my face slowly draining, a waiter (a real one) came to our table with a glass of red wine for my friend.
Waiter: "I heard from the band that you ladies needed a refill for your drinks."
I turned in the direction of where the band was set up, made eye contact with the drummer(the waiter in my mind a few minutes earlier), who then tipped his drumstick to his forehead, gave me a slight nod and a smile. My embarrassment was now complete.

To be honest, the cause of Events 2 & 3 may have been slightly influenced by the consumption of alcohol. I should have my own personal warning that extends beyond not operating a motorized vehicle after consuming alcohol, to also include, do not speak or move without thinking through the consequences of all of your actions.

Event #2: The birthday celebration changed venues throughout the evening as we moved from the restaurant to a dance bar across town. When we arrived, I wasn't sure how many people I would actually know at my friend's birthday party as we usually moved in different social circles. There were a few familiar faces, not close friends, but at least people that I recognized. As we moved deeper into the room, scanning the crowd, I saw the husband of one of my very close friends sitting on a stool at the bar across the room. Once again, tunnel vision kicked into high gear as I made my way over to where he was sitting, to say hello. In my world, public greetings of my close friends are not formal, polite, etiquettely-correct (is that a word?) kiss, kiss greetings. It begins with a bit of a squeal, followed by the name of the person in the same high-pitched tone, and then a dramatic hug that would seem as though this was a long-lost friend returning from the dead. My friend's husband has known me for years, and being quite accustomed to such scenes, willingly played along. It was just as I reached my arms up to give him my hug that the moment changed from a greeting to another embarrassing event. It was dark in the bar. It was crowded too. I didn't even notice the waitress trying to squeeze between me and the table beside where I was standing. I also didn't notice her tray of full drinks...at least not until my elbow made contact with it and the whole thing went crashing on the floor. Once again, my exuberant apologizing, my nervous laughter, and my assistance with the clean-up only proved to draw more attention to the whole situation. My friend's husband, having witnessed many similar scenes involving myself, his wife, and the rest of our group of silly friends over the years, merely shook his head and then added the cost of the drinks to his bar tab. Thanks Charlie!

Event #3: The final event of the evening is something that I'm sure has happened to many other people. It caused no harm to anyone, no damage was done, and it could have been easily kept between the three people involved in the conversation, if I could just manage to control my reactions.
Mingling through the crowd, I ran into a woman who I hadn't seen in a number of years. We used to be in the same dance class, and I had only ever known her by her first name. I chatted with her and the man that was with her for a while, reminiscing about our time together in dance, how she missed it, how she had danced for many years- all things I hadn't really known about her before. I was surprised to learn how involved she had been with dance for such a long period of time. Within a few minutes, this was all going to make more sense to me. Having exhausted the only topic that we seemed to have in common, I asked her about the birthday party that we were both celebrating.

Joanne: You are here tonight for Kristina's birthday?

Mary Lou (with a puzzled look on her face): Yes...

Joanne: How do you know Kristina? Have you known her for long?

Mary Lou (with a look of "are you for real" on her face now): Joanne, I'm Kristina's mom.

Just how many dim-witted things can one person say or do in one night? Once again, the dramatic shock on my face, the "omigod, I never knew you were Kristina's mom!", the "why won't I just stop talking" reaction I gave her must have prompted her to want to share the humour. She got the attention of everyone who was sitting with Kristina- aunts, uncles, cousins, friends- and asked quite loudly "Kristina, how long have I known you?", then proceeded to retell our conversation to the entire group. Fortunately, I am one of those people who finds it difficult not to laugh along with everyone else when they get to witness some of my stories in real life.

The night came full circle when, at last call, the band from the restaurant at the beginning of my night wandered into the bar. It's funny how well-remembered a person is for the ridiculous moments as two of the band members walked past me, stopped, and made some kind of comment to me about serving drinks. I kept walking, out the door, and directly into a cab. It was definitely time for me to go home.

Mother Bears

There is a unique relationship between a mother and her offspring. In the animal world, the protective nature of the mother bear towards her cubs is renowned and feared. If mama senses danger, her instinct is to defend her babies.

"Mother black bears are notoriously protective of their cubs..." (National Geographic)

"They [brown bears] can be dangerous to humans, particularly if surprised or if a person gets between a mother bear and her cubs." (National Geographic)

"Females [polar bears] aggressively protect their young..." (National Geographic)

My own children are my cubs, and I am their mother bear. I, too, will aggressively protect my children if I sense that they are in danger, or if they have been hurt. Unlike bears, however, my claws will also come out when I know that my children are suffering emotionally or mentally, especially when I know that this suffering has been caused by another human.

I make no excuses for being impolite, socially improper, or openly rude if the person who I am throwing this attitude towards has been the cause of my child's tears, and the cause of preventable anguish. I will not play the game of social pretense. I will not be your friend. I will, however, always be the mother bear for my cubs.

My Last "First Day of School"

When my oldest daughter started kindergarten, I was the typical young mother standing at the end of the laneway waiting for the bus to arrive, camera in hand, son hanging off the other hand (to keep him from chasing the cars on the highway), baby daughter on hip. Jessica stood proudly with her bright white running shoes, brand new clothes, Barbie backpack and matching lunchbox. Grade 8 graduation seemed a lifetime away; grade 12 even longer.

This past Monday night, the night before school started, she was gathering all of her school stuff...trendy bag, funky coloured binders, fashion smart first day of school outfit. It was no different from any other September night before school begins...until she said it. One sentence out of her mouth, and it hit me so unexpectedly, like a burst of adrenaline in the midst of the calm of my mind.

"Hey mom, tomorrow is going to be my last first day of school!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, I could tell by the look on her face that she was regretting having said it out loud. My face must have been an obvious mirror into the workings of my mind.

"Mom, don't start crying!" (heavy emphasis on the word "don't")

Too late, the floodgates had opened. It wasn't a tidal wave of instantaneous tears. I was trying to stay composed. But, until that very moment, I hadn't even thought about the significance of the next day for her. This was her last year of high school. This was her last year at home. How could I, the mother who was sentimental about my daughter leaving the cottage one day earlier than the rest of us, have forgotten the "last first day of school"?

Now that the thought had been made public by her innocent statement, I couldn't stop the onslaught of memories, combined with the musings about her future. What would it be like next year when she was at university, walking out the door on her first day of classes in a strange city, with room mates instead of family, with the exuberant optimism and "I can take on the world" attitude of youth? Part of me wanted to be excited with her. She is ready. I know she is. This is what the past 17 years of training have all been for. But, part of me also wanted to remind myself to take in the moments of this last year at home, take nothing for granted. If thirteen years of school can go by in the blink of an eye, then the next 365 days are soon to be a cloud of dust behind us.

It seemed quite coincidental, or maybe fateful, that it was this past weekend that I chose to read the book "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch. It has been gathering dust on my end table for over a year now, and for some unexplained reason, it was this weekend that it was finally opened, and then read cover to cover. A brief synopsis of the book appears inside the front cover:

"When Randy Pausch, a computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon, was asked to give such a lecture, he didn't have to imagine it as his last, since he had recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. But the lecture he gave- "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams"- wasn't about dying. It was about the importance of overcoming obstacles, of enabling the dreams of others, of seizing every moment (because "time is all you have...and you may find one day that you have less than you think")."

There were so many life lessons throughout this book, so many ideas and thoughts that could apply to every single person, that could make each one of us think more carefully about the life that we really want to lead. It made me not want to waste a second. It made me want to hold each person who means anything to me and tell them every day how lucky I am to have them in my life. You see, this book wasn't about an old grey-haired professor who had lived a full life. This was about a 47 year old man with a beautiful wife, and three young children. This was about a man who was more afraid of his kids growing up without a father than worrying about what he would miss. "I'm focused more on what they're going to lose than on what I'm going to lose."

Throughout my mental anguish of my daughter's last first day of school, I was pulling quotes and ideas from this book into the forefront of my mind. How lucky am I to even be here with her today! I should be rejoicing... and I am. I want Jessica to fulfill her dreams, whatever they happen to be. I want her to know that her dreams are important, that they are achievable. I read a passage of the book to her on the night of that first day of school. After one day at school her mind was already filling with selecting universities, choosing a course path, worries and anxieties. I know it's part of the process for her, and I know that the decision ultimately has to be hers. I couldn't find the right words, so I pulled out the book, opened it up to one of the many pages that I had folded over for future reference.

"Because I've been so vocal about the power of childhood dreams, some people have been asking lately about the dreams I have for my own children.
...As I see it, a parent's job is to encourage kids to develop a joy for life and a great urge to follow their own dreams. The best we can do is to help them develop a personal set of tools for the task.
So my dreams for my kids are very exact. I want them to find their own path to fulfillment. And given that I won't be there, I want to make this clear: Kids, don't try to figure out what I wanted you to become. I want you to become what you want to become."

I plan on being there!

A Miracle called Lisa

A team of doctors at Thames Valley Children's Center have been a part of the life of Lisa since she was still protected lovingly inside of me. At that time, I was afraid for her to be born. The answers to her medical mysteries would come to life the minute she took her first breath. And even with all of the ultrasounds, the mounds of information about Spina Bifida and Hydrocephalus, and the weekly reports from the doctors, there was still a small part of me that clung onto a thread of hope that everyone was wrong. The swelling of the ventricles in her brain could have been misread on the ultrasound screen, as well as the lesion on her back where the spine had failed to close around the spinal cord.

The miracle of a medical misdiagnosis was not in our plan, however. Lisa was born on a cold winter night, surrounded by a medical staff prepared to welcome her, nurture her, and do whatever was necessary to heal her. With that last bit of hope that I had hung onto, now evidently gone, I vowed that I would do everything in my power to give Lisa the life that she deserved. The optimism of the medical team was contagious, and it was difficult not to share their enthusiasm for my beautiful baby. I have a picture of Lisa sleeping peacefully in her hospital isolette, her back wrapped in protective gauze, a full head of black hair and her chubby cheek resting softly on the blanket. Her one arm is bent at the elbow, her tiny fist laying by her mouth. But it is not the image of the sleeping baby that makes me love this picture so much. Looking closely at her curled up hand, she has one finger laying out straight on the blanket...yes "the middle finger". Even as a baby, she was ready to take on the world. She was ready to prove that she would be a fighter.

The twelve years following the birth of Lisa have been a mix of typical baby and little girl experiences, and spina bifida/hydrocephalus learning and enduring experiences. In the first year alone, there were four surgeries and weeks of hospital stays that added up to months. The medical language of hospitals and doctors became a fluent part of my vocabulary. Rounds of therapy and clinic visits became a part of ordinary life for our family. As she grew and her world expanded beyond her home and into school, my job as advocate and educator of the new people in her life became a primary focus. I wanted Lisa to achieve all that was possible for her; I didn't want her to ever settle for anything less than what she was capable of. There have been some setbacks over the years, as she had to undergo two more surgeries when she was seven. There were complications resulting in a loss of memory, a loss of previously gained capabilities. But, as with anything new in anyone's life, we adapt. We make changes to accommodate our shortcomings, and enhance our strengths.

As Lisa enters the pre-teen phase of her life, my worries as a mother have shifted from the physical concerns that she has to deal with, to the social and emotional drama that comes with most young teenagers, but are intensified when there is a disability that accompanies the changes of puberty. Because of the nerve damage to her spinal cord, Lisa has no bowel or bladder control. She is not able to feel any sensation of emptying either one. She wears a diaper. She catheterizes herself five times a day to ensure that her bladder is empty, and to prevent infections. Asking her to go to the washroom and try to eliminate is like asking a person in a wheelchair to get up and walk. Surprisingly, this has not been an emotional issue for Lisa yet. Her washroom routine is accepted as normal for her, and she will openly discuss it with anyone who asks. I, however, am dreading the day (which I know is coming soon), when she will fully comprehend her differences, when she will hate the diaper.

This past Tuesday, Lisa had an appointment at the Children's Hospital to have a renal ultrasound performed which shows the bladder and the kidneys. Following the test, she had an appointment with her urologist who, in the past, usually discusses the results of the test, asks questions about her general health, and then sends us home with a follow up appointment for next year. I had no idea that this year's appointment would be different. I had no idea that this year's appointment would allow Lisa to dream the possibility of living a diaper-free normal life. For the past year, Lisa has been taking a daily dose of medicine that helps to control the leakage of urine from her bladder in between her catheterization times. Taken regularly, it works miraculously well. If her only concern was her bladder, she would already be able to throw out the diapers. The biggest stumbling block, however, has always been her bowels. Unpleasant a topic as it is, this is a daily concern for Lisa. It is not something that she can ever be modest about.

After reviewing the dosage of her bladder medication, and asking for Lisa's input about how she thought it was working, the doctor then turned to me and very calmly stated that we needed to focus on achieving bowel continence, in other words, no more messy accidents. I looked at him in disbelief, at first thinking that I had misunderstood him. He went on to explain that Lisa was a candidate for a procedure that has been performed quite regularly on people with bowel dysfunction. Especially considering that she would soon be a teenager, he thought the timing was right to at least think about the benefits for her. As he continued to explain the procedure- known as MACE- my mind was racing with questions and concerns. I was afraid to believe that this hope even existed. Simply explained, Lisa's appendix would be used as a natural tubing that then becomes surgically implanted at the top of the colon creating a valve. There would be a small opening on her abdomen that would give her access to the "appendix tube". She would then insert a catheter containing an enema solution into the opening. This would effectively clean out her bowels. She would have to repeat this process every 3-5 days, but would have little to no soiling in between. I am still trying to comprehend the enormous difference that such an unbelievable surgery would have on Lisa's life. Once again my perfectionism has kicked into overdrive and I am searching for all kinds of information about MACE- both negative and positive outcomes. Surgery always means some risks. Not every person with bowel dysfunction benefits. Is it painful? Is there risk of infection? I want to see pictures. I want to talk to other parents. How could that doctor look so calm when he literally changed my daughter's life with his simple suggestion?

Throughout the whole discussion, Lisa sat on the table, eyes growing wider with each vivid description of the surgery. I snapped back into the presence of the moment when I saw the fear growing in her. I knew what kind of an impact a successful MACE surgery would have on her life, but I needed to remember that she was growing up. She needed to become an active participant in her health care, and what she wanted to do with her body. The doctor must have sensed Lisa's unease as well, because he turned to her and simply asked her "Wouldn't you like it if you didn't have to wear diapers anymore?" She smiled and nodded her head. That few seconds that the doctor took to include Lisa, to remember that she was more than just another surgery, reassured me and made me very grateful to him for his humanness.

We are at the very beginning stages of this next journey in Lisa's life, with many questions, more research, and clinic visits to look forward to. But, the miracle of the possibility for her is worth every second of this journey. Lisa looked at me with a big smile on her face when we were driving home on Tuesday. She spoke one sentence that would mean nothing to me coming from my other two kids, but is something that I never thought she would ever say to me. "Mom, I have to buy some new underwear."

Why do I Run?

When thinking about the answer to my question- why do I run?- I'm not sure if I am referring to the physical act of running, which is something that I have recently been torturing my body with, or if it refers to the mental running that my mind and my heart has also been tortured with over the past four years. Both forms of running began with the same purpose in mind- to provide an escape from the current stress of my life, an outlet for my over-active thinking. The end result has been the same as well- the renewed sense of calm, the return of an inner motivation to move forward in my life. It's everything that happens between the beginning and the end that shows the true difference between the physical and the mental.

Two months ago, I would have laughed at the person who told me that I was going to add running to my repertoire of extra curricular activities. It had never appealed to me, and seemed to lack a purpose. Was I running to get somewhere? No. Was I running away from someone or some dangerous animal? No. Was I running to catch someone? No. Like I said, no purpose. And then, just as dramatically as I emphasized that I didn't like to run, my mind completely reversed and suddenly, wanted to run. It literally happened over night. It reminded me of how unexpectedly inspirational the idea for my blog started. I tend to be a very reactive person. When I am passionate about an idea, an activity, or a person, I consume myself with wanting to learn and do all I can, trying to soak up all the energy and use it to create something wonderfully positive in my life. And that is how I felt the day I started to run.

If I think more deeply about my desire to run, there were signs that were trying to force their way into my awareness. My son loves to run. He competes in Cross Country every year with his school team, and qualified to run at the provincial level last year for his age category. Part of me realized that this could be one more way of connecting with him. It would give us something to talk about, and eventually he might even like to join me on a run- ok, let's be honest, I would be desperately attempting to keep up to his slow jog. There were other signs too- the lack of cardio during the summer months of dancing hiatus; the sluggish, heavy feeling of inactivity; the sudden appearance of people in my life whose exhilaration for physical activity was contagious; the desire to move, to feel that heart pounding, lung gasping, face burning sensation of being healthy and alive. It all sounds very inspirational. It seemed easy enough to lace up my running shoes, hook up my iPod, and take off running down the nature trail. From the door of my house, to the start of the trail, and then looped back again is approximately 5km. That first night, the running gradually turned to a jog, and then to a walk, back to a jog, walk, can't run anymore, walk, jog...I guess I was going to require some more training. When I arrived back at the front steps leading into my house, every muscle in my legs loudly protested the climbing of those steps. If there had been a soft pillow and a warm blanket on my front lawn, I would have gladly laid my weary body down upon it for the night.

Six weeks into the running, and I am hooked. I have built my endurance up to a steady jog of 6 km each time I run, which is usually 4 to 5 times each week. My son has joined me, and has intensified the workout with some sprint drills. I think he must forget that he is actually running with his mother. I remind myself though that each desperate gasp of air, and each burn of muscle in my legs, is worth the time I am sharing with my son. It's worth the decluttered feeling in my brain at the end of the run. It's worth the addition of one more piece of my life that is just for me.

The running of my mind and my heart is a journey that I will have to share in another post. It has required much more training, and I'm not sure that I will ever arrive at the doorstep at the end of that run. Maybe a part of me doesn't want to arrive either, maybe the run is what keeps me invigoratingly alive.

A New Language

Yesterday I became one step closer to becoming fluent in a second language. It is the language of "Mobilish". This language is not confined to one specific geographic area. It is not a romance language, nor one of the ancient historic languages. In fact, it is quite modern. The origin of the word "Mobilish" comes from the combination of the word "mobile" as in mobile phone, and the word "gibberish" which is what I think comes out of the mouths of the mobile phone representatives.

The most current lesson in "Mobilish" occurred as the result of my older daughter dropping her cell phone in the toilet on the weekend. In brief, the chaotic state of her bathroom, too many electric/electronic appliances cluttering up the counter top, trying to straighten her hair, applying make-up, sending text messages, and scrolling through her Ipod all at the same time somehow led to her cell phone flying into the bowl of water that no girl wants to stick her hand into. Once fished out of the toilet, she attempted to fix the situation. She seemed to recall that the all-knowing "they" say that when a cell phone gets wet, set it in a bowl of dry rice and it will miraculously soak up the moisture. Honestly, I think this is an urban myth. Next attempt was to get out the blow dryer. Unsuccessful as well. Finally, call mom and cause that dreaded moment of panic when the first words out of her mouth were "Mom, I've had a bit of an accident." It's amazing how many horrific images can flash through a parent's mind in the span of a few seconds with that one brief sentence. Once given the details of her accident, the relief quickly changed to disbelief that she would scare me like that, and then finally to humour as I laughed out loud (lol in "Mobilish") at her predicament. Apparently the withdrawal of her cell phone addiction had already begun, as she didn't appreciate the laughter.

How did we get to this point? How did my usually sensible teenage daughter transform into a babbling fool thinking I could produce a new cell phone for her on a Saturday night within the hour before she was to meet her friends?

It was a gradual progression, moving from Core Mobilish 101 to full Mobilish Immersion. A few years ago, I was quite content to have my "for emergency purposes only" cell phone tucked away at the bottom of my purse- usually turned off, or drained of its battery. It didn't bother me at all that I wasn't immediately accessible to every person in my life who felt the need to tug me in yet another direction of responsibility. The seed of change was planted, however, the year that the above mentioned teenage daughter set foot inside the walls of secondary school. I was adamant that I was not going to fall for the teenage parent peer pressure, that overwhelming need we have to want our kids to fit in. Timing, however, was everything. This was the year that my husband and I separated, which meant the kids were with him for one week and with me for one week. My daughter also expanded her circle of friends, and started her first job. With her sudden increase in mobility, she was sometimes difficult to track down. The obvious solution was to give in to the peer pressure and buy her a phone, which also meant that I would actually have to learn how to use mine if I wanted the communication to be two-way.

Our first in-depth lesson into the world of Mobilish seemed simple enough at first. She would use a "pay-as-you-go" phone. There were only a few options for her to choose from, and then it was her responsibility to buy minutes each month. Things became a bit more complicated when my phone was thrown into the lesson. I had to be taken off of my husband's plan, set up with a new phone, change carriers, pick a new plan, decide on the features that I wanted to use, and then commit to a three-year contract. Were we really talking about cell phones, or were they secretly trying to remortgage my house? When I walked out of that store, I had a phone that I barely knew how to turn on, did not know how to retrieve or send messages, and I had no idea what this "plan" or "contract" was that I had signed my name to. It was a slow learning curve for me as I pushed buttons, scrolled through menu options, picked ring tones (one for phone calls, one for text messages that were sent, one for text messages received, one for voice mail messages), attempted to send a very long, very slow text message, set the clock in the correct time zone, set the alarm, look at the calendar that I had no idea how to input information into...all I really wanted to be able to do was make a phone call.

For the next year, I slowly moved into the more advanced class of Mobilish as I learned how to text. It's strange how the word "text" is now a well-known verb, instead of referring to words on a page of writing. It's also unusual how the improper "texted" and "texting" became frequently used and then accepted as correct forms of the word "text". I still find myself struggling with the acronyms of Mobilish text messages- brb, btw, lol, lmao, 2gtbt, asap, g2g, bff, and soooo many more. There are entire web sites dedicated to the world of texting.

As my own world expanded beyond the life of my family, I began to feel my own sense of addiction to my cell phone. So much so, that I decided to fast track my learning to the iPhone! I was ready.

No, I wasn't ready. Unlmited text plan, voice minutes, My5, My10, data plans, 16GB, email access, iPod with access to itunes, the Apps store, weather, stocks, sync with my laptop, games, games, games... What was I thinking? Months later, and I still don't know how to send an email from this efficient, easy-to-use device. It's funny how my oldest daughter and her friends think I'm such a cool mom to have such a cool phone. I'm waiting for the day they ask me to show them how all of the applications work. I know I will probably slip back into Intro to Mobilish 101 class again.

Throughout the process of modernizing mom, my oldest daughter had long since outgrown the use of the "pay-as-you-go". She had graduated to her own, much more efficient slide phone, as well as her own "student plan". Why does the bill for her plan get mailed in the same envelope with my statement? Why is the total amount owing on my statement the total of my bill and hers? Great plan, if you are a student living at home. We go through a Mobilish lesson each month as I lay out the statement for her and patiently explain that the $25 low monthly fee for her own phone does not include unlimited texting, downloading of anything, long distance, system access fee (what exactly is that anyway), instant messaging through her msn, roaming charges, or her taxes. It's funny how that base fee becomes doubled very quickly.

Thus, we have arrived at the moment of withdrawal, after pulling the cause of the addiction out of the toilet that I would have liked to flush the phone down (along with any contracts attached to that phone). I let her suffer for a few days, but in the end, it was frustrating for me in not being able to reach her when I wanted. As we had guessed, her phone was not salvageable. The picking out of the phones begins.

Mom: No you don't need a Blackberry. You can have a Blackberry after you have graduated from university, work in a high profile corporate job, and show a need for owning a Blackberry

Daughter: I won't use it for data. I like the keyboard. It will be so much easier for texting.

Helpful Sales Rep: We do have some Blackberry Pearls that she is eligible for with her phone upgrade, and she doesn't have to have the data pack.

Mom: (glaring at the helpful sales rep, but trying to keep an open mind) How much is it? Are there other options?

Son: (who also decided to tag along to scope out phone options that he might like to have) Mom, let her get the Blackberry, then I can get this cool pay-as-you-go that kind of looks like a Blackberry.

What was our solution? Over an hour later, we left the store with one Blackberry Pearl with the no data option, a handful of literature re-explaining my plan, my daughter's plan, and the new pay-as-you-go plans for my son. Obviously, I'm not at the level of Mobilish fluency that I thought I was. And at this point, I don't think I ever want to be either.

The Women of My Life

Today is my birthday. Unlike many women I know, I don't fear this day, or dread the dawning of it in any way. Being a true Leo, I love the attention that a birthday brings- the calls, the email messages, the flowers, the cards, the gifts, the pedicure, the dining out. Bring it on! Although this sounds quite brave, I do have enough of the great lion in me to also resent the signs of aging that are becoming increasingly more obvious with the passing of each year. Why is it that in my heart and in my mind I still feel like I am 25, but the calendar and the mirror remind me that I am 43? If I could only combine the energy and perkiness of a 20-something body with the experience and wisdom of my 40-something mind. What a marketing concept that would be in this day of wrinkle-reducing, fat-burning, calorie-counting, youth obsessed culture.

Apart from the obvious glow of the birthday celebration, one of the most important reasons why I welcome this day each year, is the coming together of the people in my life. My children and other members of my family are given little choice in remembering my day with my subtle and not so subtle reminders of the big event. Really, how could they miss the calendar posted on the fridge (that they frequent at least a dozen times a day) with August 14th highlighted and then written in big bold letters "MOM'S BIRTHDAY!!!" They patiently play the game of building up the suspense of my gifts, planning some surprises, and then embarrass me in front of a crowd of strangers at Boston Pizza with the singing and clapping, and the eating of the 10,000 calorie gigantic hot fudge brownie dessert, smothered in vanilla ice cream, dripping with caramel sauce.

I love my family dearly for the attention of the day. But, today's post is going to be devoted to another group of "sisters" who not only remind me on my birthday of their unconditional love for me, but at so many other times throughout our almost thirty year friendship.

We formed our bond in our high school years, initially because no one seemed to really understand our sense of humour, or our desire to live up to the words of Cyndi Lauper's hit song of the time "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". The groundwork was laid for the coming together of the seven women of my life on a typical rural Ontario night of fun. There were no hip bars, fancy nightclubs, or big band concerts to attend where we came from. We were deep in the heart of redneck country where fun meant a party of your closest three hundred friends, a huge bonfire, broken styrofoam coolers, tight jeans, plaid shirts, loud music with speakers the size of a house pillar mounted on a barn bank, peeing in the field with an animal of some kind usually staring back, and the careless sense of teenage invincibility everywhere you looked. It was at the end of one such night- our first night together as a group- that the "Silly Seven" were christened, and would proudly be called by their new name for the next thirty years. We were leaving the party, heading towards the big red Cougar (and I'm not referring to today's popular meaning of the word "cougar"; it was actually a car!). I don't know if it was the scent of our female fun or the sound of our high pitched giggling, but whatever the reason, when the farmer's two Dobermans were inadvertently released from their pens, they ran straight to our group of seven teenage girls. Panic followed, with background yelling from the crowd, and the very loud, angry barking of the dogs. Disbelief soon turned to fear, as those menacing jaws came directly towards us. The scene unfolded: seven girls screaming; seven girls running; seven girls climbing on top of the hood of the car just as one dog grabbed a hold of the pant leg of the last girl to climb up, thankfully tearing only cloth and not skin; seven girls hugging and crying as close to the middle of the hood of the car as they could get, with the dogs furiously growling and leaping upward to get at their prey. The car was locked. This was years before the time of the automatic door unlock on today's key fobs. Desperate to get inside the safety of the car, the girl who was driving laid down on the roof, reaching over with the key, trying to insert it into the lock as we tried to distract the dogs. No luck. You may be wondering what the rest of the two hundred and ninety three of our friends were doing while we were imprisoned on the hood of a car by two dogs. Apparently, we were putting on quite a show. After what seemed like an eternity, the crowd lost interest, the owner called off the dogs, and we were able to scramble for cover inside the Cougar. The hysterics of the past few moments screamed loudly inside the vehicle as we all tried to outdo the other with our story of fear. Our driver wanted to make a quick escape. I'm sure we were a distraction to her. I'm sure she was feeling the effects of the scare. I'm sure that is why we ended up spinning out of control at the end of the laneway and landed in the ditch on the other side of the road. Oh what a night!

The memories of our teenage years makes me fear for the safety of my own teenage children every time I see them walk out the door for a weekend of fun. If they only knew what lay in the memory bank of their mother.

After high school graduation, we all ventured off in different directions- university, college, work force. But we always kept in touch. We didn't want to lose that connection that had taken hold, a connection that had seen us forsake the rule of our parents and the time spent with boyfriends; a connection that had us craving the fun and the familiarity of each other; a connection that few people are ever lucky enough to find. Our bond grew as we lived through the joy of weddings and the births of our children (20 babies between the seven of us). It grew stronger still as we lived through the heartbreak of losing some of our parents, dealing with the struggles of our children, the difficulties of our most precious relationships. I have felt joy with these women, as we share old memories and create new ones, laughing til my stomach aches and tears are running down my face. I have felt their sorrows, seen each one of them cry, held each one of them in an embrace of friendship.

Yesterday we enjoyed the celebration of two of the August birthdays in our group. It began as a very adult get together as we all try to remember that we are now in our 40's. We were dressed in our summer favourites, sipping cool drinks on a patio at one of our favourite Italian restaurants. The facade slowly faded as the afternoon wore on and we slipped into our familiar comfort zone of Silly Seven humour. Moving the party to the private backyard pool of one of our group uncovered even more of the teenage spirit that we still hold on to. Drifting lazily on the inner tube, I slowly opened my eyes when I heard the counting. 1, 2, 3, Bomb Her!!! Attacked from both sides, I didn't have a chance and gave in easily to the sinking of my body under the water. I resurfaced from underneath the tube, giggling with the fun of the moment.

Today's posting is dedicated to these women of my life. I love each one of you. And I can't wait to bomb your inner tube when we turn 80.

Something to Think About

"At midnight tonight, you'll get a most amazing gift: a fresh set of 24 hours. These hours are pure and flawless and limitless. They offer you the opportunity to show courage, behave brilliantly, connect compassionately, and forge those new habits of mastery that will get you to a better place of being. And they offer you a space to laugh. To create value. And to do your dreams. Whether you'll admit it or not, tomorrow is incredible. Not everyone gets one." Robin Sharma from his book "The Greatness Guide Book 2"

I wanted to share this quote, and the power of the message that can be drawn from it. It's more than just about living each moment of each day. It's about giving ourselves permission to learn and grow, to forgive ourselves for our mistakes, to imagine, to feel.

"Out with the Negative, In with the Positive"

Today's posting was inspired by a response I received from one of my "Chocolate of Women" followers. It seems like such a simple thought, but when reflected upon, it can have a sweeping impact on our lives. I am a big believer in the power of positive thinking. I have read "The Secret", which in turn led me to read other works detailing the power of the law of attraction. Admittedly, at first I was quite skeptical about the validity of such an immeasurable law. Could I not just interpret the events in my life in a way that made it seem that I had drawn them into my reality? How could anyone prove that my thinking, my unconscious thoughts, my words, and my actions were actually creating the situations that I happened to find myself in? Then, I stopped thinking about it, stopped trying to analyse this theory so much. Instead, in my day to day life, I tried to focus on what I needed to do during that day to make me a positive person, to make my day an experience that gave me a sense of peace and contentment.

I don't want to give the false impression that each one of my days is filled with the "Brady Bunch" false positive that still makes me cringe when I think of how perfect that tv family was. What I have discovered, however, is that I have become more aware of what I am thinking and doing, which gives me a stronger feeling of being in control of what I want to do in my day. If my kids are driving me crazy with their arguing and bickering, if the ringing of the phone seems never-ending, if the constant game of catch up with my to-do list seems like a losing battle, I now look those struggles in the face and realize that I need to somehow give myself a moment of "positive".

How do I do that? One of the most powerful tools that I rely on, is to stop the moment, completely remove myself from it if I have to. Then, I sit and remember. I think about many of the small things that people have done for me that have had an unforgettable impact on me...someone who has gone out of their way to make sure I am okay. That feeling of belonging, of compassion and caring, can't be bought. It can't be disguised with big, expensive gifts. It can, however, be felt years later. It can be remembered at just the right moment.

I am very lucky to have so many people in my life who have provided me with a multitude of "selfless act" memories. As I am writing this, remembering the details of some of these recollections, I feel the positive, the peace of my life, how grateful I am. Following are only a few examples of "small things with big impacts" on my life.

* A close friend who stopped in at my house with a coffee and a vanilla berry yogurt from Tim Horton's. The timing was perfect. I was on no-weight bearing recovery from foot surgery after months of no healing, months of depending on everyone around me to do everything, months of inactivity, months of slowly losing my mind.

* My sister-in-law who called me every single day following the diagnosis of my unborn baby with spina bifida. I was so lost in my grief and anguish for my baby, so overwhelmed by the heaps of information and by the medical professionals who became intertwined in our life, that I could barely focus on what a normal life was. She called every day to ask me how I was, to check on my other children, to let me know that she cared.

* A card in the mail during a winter of torment, a season of never seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. It read "It's always broccoli just before the pie. Hope things are pie soon." This came from a dear friend who always seems to know.

* A framed photo of my grandpa surrounded by his great grandchildren. This was a gift on Mother's Day from my oldest daughter. Three days later my grandpa passed away.

* The friend who changed her plans for the day the minute she received the tearful phone call from me. She arrived bearing Italian food, and a shoulder to cry on.

* The scrap piece of paper, folded haphazardly by my youngest daughter when she was five years old. "Dear Mom, I love you! You are great!"

* The man who gave me a sprig of rosemary from his garden, to carry with me on my journey home, knowing the scent filling my car would remind me of him.

These are the moments that I remember, and so many more. It is these kind acts of human nature that give me my moment of "positive". They help me to see the kind of person that I want to be.

The Pictures of Our Life

I was scrolling through my weekend pictures tonight, adding to my "Summer '09" photo file. Usually, the whole cropping, resizing, editing of the photos process is a task that I don't look forward to. I get so caught up in the work, that I rarely even look at the photos. Why is that? The reason I drag my camera along, forcing my family and friends to pose for pictures that they don't even want to be in, is to capture those Kodak moments and save them forever on a computer disk, in a box, tucked away in a cabinet. Seriously though, I am the fellow traveler that everyone eventually becomes quite annoyed with as I love to take pictures, and I love to be in pictures. If you are one of the chosen few who have actually been fortunate to have been on a vacation with me, or even just out for the night with me, you know that I am the first one to whip out the camera. I am also the tourist posing in my own pictures as I pull the nearest person to me in tight for my "self-taken" photo shots. It's amazing how many of these have turned out to be some of my best pictures.

Tonight though, I actually took the time to look at the pictures- not just from this past weekend, but from the beginning of the summer until now. The details of each event, complete with the feeling of belonging and friendship, grew stronger in my mind with each picture. I know that when I am having a bad day, or when I am feeling overwhelmed with whatever happens to be the stress of the moment, it is easy to forget those photos. Why do we let ourselves be consumed with the negative? I can't remember the last time that I took a picture of my kids arguing, or me with a headache, or any of the other multitude of sad, mad, bad events that are happening in our lives. If we don't want to pull these events out of our picture file on our computer, then why do we want to pull them out of our memory bank and relive them?

I look at my summer pictures and I want to remember my daughter hugging a new friend at the Canada Day concert. I want to remember the feeling of the sun on my skin lying on the dock at the cottage. I want to remember the pride of my son as he succeeded in water skiing on one ski. I want to remember the feeling of family as we gathered for a barbeque in my parent's backyard on a hot summer Sunday. I want to remember how the beauty of Tremblant took my breath away.

As cliche as it may sound, its time to stop and smell the roses. Or in this case, its time to really look at your pictures. It's time to revisit the moments in your life that make it all worthwhile.

Why is the Quiet so Loud?

I drove my oldest daughter back to work about an hour ago. I just watched my son and my youngest daughter walk out the door with their dad. They will be with him through the long weekend until Monday night. I know this is a choice that I made that I have to live with. I know there are parents on summer holidays right now, wishing for a moment of solitude away from the boredom noise of their children. I know there are parents who have lost a child, or who are separated from their children either physically or emotionally. I know there are parents who are watching their children suffer from illnesses and disabilities. I only wish that all of this knowledge that I have, would somehow ease the sick feeling of separation anxiety that I feel each time I have to say good-bye to my kids.

I have no doubt that my children are well-cared for when they are with their father. In fact, I encourage the relationship they have with him because I know it is important for children to have two parents who are actively involved in their lives. It is also important that the kids have two different adult role models, as I think we each offer unique points of view regarding their choices and questions.

However, as a self-declared perfectionist mother, I struggle with the "not knowing". What are they eating for supper tonight? Did my youngest remember to shower and use enough shampoo? What is my teenage daughter doing on the weekend? Who is she with? Where is she going? Is my son arguing with his dad as much as he argues with me? And the countless other questions that run through my head when they aren't with me each day.

Technology has made the life of a single parent much more adaptable with the ability to communicate at any given moment on any given day- msn, text messages, cell phone calls, email... The sound of their voices helps. Their smiles on Facebook make me smile back. But, there is nothing like the laughing I hear from my rec room, the footsteps through the house, the doors opening and closing, the feeling of their presence.

The missing of my children and the overwhelming noise of the silence was one of my biggest fears when my marriage broke down. A counselor who was guiding us through the process of ending our marriage and helping our kids to cope, offered some wisdom that I try to hang on to when I watch my kids leave. She said that as parents, our children are only on loan to us. Each day that they are with us, we are teaching them to become more independent. They bring us joy and fulfillment, combined with the anguish and the worry. But, ultimately, they will become their own directors and producers of their lives. We will always be their parents. We will always be a support. But, eventually, we all have to learn to let go.

With this in mind, I fill each moment I spend with them, listening to their words, watching the expressions on their faces, being the observer of their lives. The complaining, the eye-rolling, the sarcasm, the tears, the smiles, the hugs...I take it all in. I hold those memories close to me when they aren't with me, and this is what gives me my strength.

Days 3 to 6

I would love to be able to write that the rest of our vacation continued without any other problems…as any normal family vacation should. What I mean by normal is an equal balance of adult down time, family activity time, sun burns, bug bites, stomach aches, swimming, biking, canoeing, hiking. Our cottage stay did include all of these things-maybe not too many sun burns, as the sun would actually have to be out for that to happen- but still, a lot of picture perfect fun. However, fate or destiny or some other kind of higher power had other plans in mind as well.

Day 3: Honestly, I can’t even remember if this was a Day 2 or Day 3 event. The day doesn’t really matter because when I look back on the week now, each one kind of blended into the next, presenting its own surprises and challenges.
At some point mid week, the mechanical black cloud returned. Unbelievably, it had nothing to do with the seadoo. After a day of fun on the lake water skiing and tubing, the seadoo had suddenly become a welcome member of our family again. However, there were still two more mechanical machines parked on our steep, gravelly laneway- my Volvo, and my ex-husband’s pick up truck. I wish I could say that the problem had been my car. But, that would make my story much less exciting.
Apparently, a loud grinding sound followed by the clanging of metal on metal is not a sound that you want to hear coming from the back end of a vehicle. Of course, the first impulsive thing to do is to stop, get out of the truck, walk to the approximate location of the sound, and try to find the source. As I bent over looking underneath the pick up, two thoughts ran through my head: 1- Every piece of metal underneath here looks completely unrecognizable to me regardless of whether it belongs or is in the right place, and 2- What exactly did I think I was going to do? Park it, that’s what I did- remembering of course, to put on the emergency brake.
A friend of mine who was cottaging not too far from where we were staying, was kind enough to stop in, crawl underneath the truck, and make a quick diagnosis of the problem. Definitely, the back brakes, and definitely not safe to drive. Following a call to CAA to arrange to have the broken truck with the broken brakes towed to a GM dealer in Parry Sound the following day, I vowed to put it out of my head and enjoy the rest of the evening with my kids.
It was a perfect night to get the barbeque fired up for pork chops and baked potatoes, with my nightly glass of white Pinot Grigio. Hmm, that knob on top of the propane tank was so tight. I checked the arrow on top, and I was turning it in the right direction. My oldest daughter then tried, followed by my son. I ran to get the vice grips (can you believe I actually brought a tool along with me!), but they were too small to grip around the knob. For some reason my son thought that banging on the handle with the vice grips would work, although the thought did cross my mind that this could be a somewhat unsafe thing to do to a propane tank. Alas, nothing worked as I stared at our foil wrapped unbaked potatoes and dripping red, thawed pork chops. Tail between my legs, I walked the steep slope over to my neighbour’s cottage and asked for help as I silenced that voice in my head that kept repeating “helpless female syndrome”. Two of the men were more than happy to assist the helpless mother and her brood of children. To my unspoken delight, neither one of those men could turn that knob either! Just when I thought, “Ha, it’s the tank, not me”, one of the men turned to me and asked “Are you sure it’s not already on? Did you try turning it off at all?” Oh My God! I laughed nervously, praying that this was not the case. He opened the lid, turned on a burner, flicked on the barbeque lighter, and unbelievably we had fire in our burners. “Uh, Thanks”, tail seriously between my legs now.

Day 4- The loading of the pick up seemed a ceremonious event. All four of us stood watching as the CAA truck driver hydraulically lowered and tipped the flat bed of his truck, hooked up the chains to the pick up, and then carefully pulled it back up onto the metal platform, and secured it in place for its ride into the repair shop. With a signature on a paper, I watched yet another strange man drive away with my ex-husband’s truck. It’s amazing how much faith I put in total strangers throughout this whole trip. If anything, the experience has made me much more aware of how decent people can be when they know you are at their mercy for help. Unlike being in a big city, people did seem to care about our daily misfortunes.
By the end of the day, the truck was fixed. Ironically, that emergency brake that I had faithfully made sure was securely pushed on when I was parking on our steep laneway ended up being the cause of the breakdown. Unbeknownst to me, the emergency brake had been disconnected and hadn’t been used for quite some time. According to the mechanic at the dealer, he said that the “shoe” of the emergency brake broke off (maybe because I was pushing it on every single time I parked) and became dislodged in the back brake rotor, hence the loud metal on metal clanging sounds. I now know what a chewed up brake rotor looks like.

Day 5- My oldest daughter was heading home as she had to work the next day. I had my usual sentimental “I wish you could stay” mommy moment as she was packing. She did her usual teenage daughter eye roll, calmly reminding me that she would see me the next night when we got home. Volvo gassed up, Ipod hooked up to the car stereo system, GPS firmly attached to the windshield, extra money from mom (just in case), and she was off. Being in a very poor area for cell phone reception, I didn’t receive her emergency call or text messages until her dramatic drive home had already come to a peaceful end. Being a teenager in today’s world of reliable technology, the use of actual road signs was quite foreign to her. She dutifully followed the directions of the GPS which took her directly down Highway 400, onto the 407, followed by the 401- at the beginning of rush hour traffic!
Transcript of her text messages “Am I supposed to see signs for TO?”
“This is really NOT FUN”
By the time I received these messages, she was safely on two lane Highway 8 coming into Stratford. A tearful phone call to her dad as six lanes suddenly expanded into ten with exits to anywhere in Toronto that you wanted to go, resulted in him guiding her by phone until she felt safe enough to continue on her own.
There are so many “I feel like a bad mother” moments in that experience that I have decided to let it be a lesson for future planning, and not let it become a recurring nightmare in mind of the many “what ifs” that could have happened.

Day 6- Of course, the owners of the resort now knew me on a first name basis because of the many strangers that continually came to the resort office throughout our week looking for the occupants of Cottage 4 who had called needing some kind of assistance or another.
When I walked into the office to give them the key to the cottage, immediately the first words were “Joanne, is everything ok?”

And, I could honestly answer her that it was. I know that the memories and lessons of this vacation, ranging from the highs of the fun to the lows of the breakdowns, will be laughed about, teased about, and cherished for many years.

Everything Happens for a Reason

Today’s title is a quote from my son to me, on Day two of our vacation in Parry Sound. It is a quote that he has heard come from my mouth many times, and was throwing it back at me at a time when I really needed to hear it. It took me a while to understand what the reasons behind my continual mechanical misfortunes were, but I have convinced myself that it was to make me appreciate every drop of coffee and each sip of wine that I savoured on the deck of that cottage retreat.

Following is a chronological journey of our “everything happens for a reason” vacation.

Day One- A clear day for travelling, with light traffic. The truck pulls the seadoo easily, all lights are functioning properly. Washroom/eating stops have been preplanned to avoid having to back up the vehicle under any circumstances. I haven’t quite mastered that skill of turning the steering wheel in the opposite direction that you want the trailer to move. For some reason, the more I try to move the truck and trailer backwards in a straight line, the more jack-knifed the whole unit becomes. Once frustration sets in, I give up. We are once again faced with the helpless female syndrome; or my son and I unhook the trailer, I back up the truck, then we reattach the trailer. Hmmm, I think this should be another reason to sell my seadoo.
Four hours of perfect driving conditions later, followed by the maze of twists and turns and hills of the back roads of the Muskokas, and we arrive at Sunny Point Resort. All rules explained to us, key in hand, we were anxious to get to our cottage. The friendly owners told us not to worry about the seadoo as they would launch it for us the next day. One look at the steep, ungraded gravel launch ramp had me counting my blessings that I had thought to prearrange this request with the owners before I booked the cottage. Little did I know what other adventures that launch ramp would hold for us.
The cottage was everything we had hoped for, as we did the quick tour including the calling of bedrooms. How did my son end up with the master bedroom with the view of the lake, and I ended up in the only bedroom facing the driveway, and a touch light at the head of the bed that I repeatedly tapped in the middle of the night waking myself up to the question of “Who turned on my light?”
All was well for the night with kids happy, mom happy, truck parked with emergency brake securely holding it in place on yet another steep, gravel ridge of a laneway. I could sleep.

Day Two- Of course, my son doesn’t care that it’s only 17º C. He sees the sun, the dock, the smooth lake, and it’s all systems go for a day of seadooing. As I sit on my deck, wrapped up in my pj’s and sweater, fingers curled lovingly around my morning coffee cup, I plead with him to let me enjoy my moment. Some internal timer in his mind must know exactly when “my moment” has extended past its expiry.
I am given a bit of a reprieve from his constant badgering when we are told that we have to wait until the afternoon to put the seadoo in the water as the guest (yes, I said guest, not owner) who was going to be kind enough to launch it for us, was not available until after lunch. When the big event finally took place, I watched and prayed in silent horror as my ex-husband’s truck was backed down the slippery, gravelly slope by some man that I didn’t even know. Again, that nagging question in my head “Was that a bad thing to do?” Once at the water, the seadoo is unhooked, my son jumps on, starts it up, reverses out into the lake, and I’m happy to hear that motor running. Me and the girls over-exuberantly thank the kind stranger, we jump in the truck and drive back to the cottage. We park, once again making sure to use the emergency brake, make our way down to the dock only to hear my son yelling at me from out on the water. Did he really say he had no steering? I watch as my problem-solving son maneuvers his way to our dock by reversing the seadoo to make it turn in a circle, pointing it in the direction he wants to head, then taking it out of reverse, and continuing this whole process until he is safely docked. Not an easy task with no steering- I had heard him correctly. That rudder was not moving even a fraction of a millimeter when the handle bars were moved.
Small voice in my head “I am not going to cry, I am not going to cry. I hate this machine. I hate this machine.” I slowly walked up the 56 steps to the cottage, sat down on a deck chair, and proceeded to cry…again about a Seadoo!!!
Out of nowhere, my son produced the Otter Lake Marina flyer that the owners of the resort had thought to give us upon our arrival, just in case. After 17 attempts, and 17 busy signals, I decided that the wilderness drive in unfamiliar territory might be the cooling down time that I needed. Of course, my son did not trust that I could find my way to the marina on my own, and also get the help that we needed to repair the seadoo, so he jumped in with me. Hence, the comment from him, “Mom, everything happens for a reason.” Peering at him from over top of my sunglasses, I give him a look of disbelief, grip the steering wheel, and keep driving. With two failed GPS attempts at finding this place, we decided to do it the old-fashioned way and actually read the road signs. Forty minutes later, we pulled in to a little bit of paradise. The racing of my mind came to a halt as I watched families swimming in the small bay, saw the smiles, felt the calm of that piece of the lake. The warmth and friendliness that my son and I were greeted with made the whole trip to the marina so worthwhile- and I also informed them that their phone was off the hook. Arrangements were made for someone to boat over to our dock to have a look at the seadoo.
Less than an hour later, I once again watched another strange man back my ex-husband’s truck down the same slippery, gravelly slope. I also watched the empty cooler, the water skis, the tube, and the tow ropes all slide out of the truck box, past the point where the tail gate should have been raised, and down the same gravelly slope.
One more hour later, and I found myself speeding down a smooth-as-glass lake with my sunglasses suctioned onto my face and the wind in my cheeks creating what I’m sure must have looked like a cartoon caricature of me. I felt that rush, that high from the speed and that feeling of invincibility.
I should have bottled that feeling- to prepare myself for days 3-6.