Sunday, March 1, 2015
This week, you will turn four. Four! I wish I could save you up, your four-year-old self, to show your grown-up self all the treasures you embody just now. You stretch my heart hard, you pummel every boundary, and I love you for it.
If I were a painter, I would want to paint you at your softest, sweetest - maybe leaning over a delighted baby Kachi, showing him your new robot figurine. I would paint the sun washing over you both so bright and totally lost in the moment. I would catch the details of your hastily-cut nails, the unevenness of your haircut, the way your pants never seem to sit straight on your body - because who has time to stand still while mama fusses? Not you, my darling whirlwind.
I would include the socks which are evidently too small, because you are growing faster than I can remember to replace them.
I would try to show that moment when Kachi reaches out with everything he's got - both hands stretched toward you, fingers clumsily half-extended - smiling so big it bursts into a squeal. The way you look into his eyes with tenderness and wonder. You are so sure he understands every word you say. (He does - at least, he gets the heartbeat of it, and that's the kind of listening that really matters anyway.)
But that kind of picture wouldn't show all of you, because you've got a big dose of feisty too. You've got a strong aversion to sharing and you've started saying NO with your new big-kid stubborn jaw and you don't see anything wrong with using the hands God gave you to get what you want. You adore Vava and want to spend time with her but you like best when she is at the scary end of your pretend dinosaur claws. Sometimes I feel like all I do, all day long, is say no to you. And that's hard on both of us - I know.
But you remind me in the heart-stealingest ways that even in the maelstrom of defiance and timeouts you have this wild soft heart that just aches for love.
I tried it once, giving in to God's pressure on my own angry heart to speak peace instead of anger when I just wanted to yell you to your room. I cleared my angry eyebrows and swallowed the volume and looked up the stairs and said gently I'm sorry for yelling and I want you to know I love you even when I'm angry.
And your beautiful brown eyes welled up and that chin stopped jutting and started trembling and you replied I love you too and I forgive you.
And now it's part of our everyday, like oatmeal, like kissing, like brushing our teeth. I love you even when you don't let me push buttons on the computer. I love you even when I'm angry with you. I love you even when you put me in timeout. I forgive you. I love you.
It's not easy being four. I know I expect a lot. Share and take turns. No, don't share your boogers. Use your words. Not those ones! Play with your toys. Clean them up. Don't throw toys. Throw the ball! Help Vava get out of her crib. Never lift Kachi out of his crib.
But even though it's hard and confusing, you have some really amazing victories. You (almost always) say excuse me instead of interrupting. You are really great at using your words to tell me how you feel, and you are increasing in understanding how other people are feeling too. You have a tender heart and always ask if I'm okay when I hurt myself. You build really great things with Duplo ... dinosaurs and robots and towers with identifiable features. You sing to yourself when you get lost in your play, and you love a good story.
YOU HAVE MEMORIZED TWO BOOKS! (And a whole whack of songs.) Vava and Kachi both love when you read to them. You can pour your own drink, open yogurt cups, and crack a pretty mean egg. You even drew a picture of me (it was two giant legs, a giant bum, and an unbelievably tiny head. It was a good reminder that I need to spend more time at your eye-level ;) ).
I'm sorry for the times I ignore you or miss the everyday wonder of you.
I'm grateful to be your mama, and glad like a blue sky full of sunshine that you are my boy.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Saturday, February 14, 2015
And your eternal patience
With my backseat driving.
I love you
And how you come home everyday
Ready to play.
I love you
And the way you wave to us
Before you get in the car.
I love you
And your midnight laughter
I love you
And your silly dancy songs
With the babies.
I love you
And your clever coffee alarm
I love you
And your willing endurance
Of my favourite songs on repeat.
I love you
And the way you eat soup with me
All winter long.
I love you
And the way you run upstairs
To check on the kids at night.
I love you
And geeking out on history and dialogue together
After we leave the movies.
I love you
And I love you
And I love you.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
3623. Hot water.
3625. Aunt D driving Patrick to work.
3626. The excitement of company coming!
3627. A gift in the mail.
3628. Vava wanting a cuddle.
3629. Sam helping me with garbage.
3630. . Mini chocolate granola bars.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
God saw the people of Israel - and God knew.
Whatever you're up to, whatever you're struggling with, whatever your heart holds trembling in fear, rest in this: God sees, and God knows.
Settle your heart in peace, friends.
God sees. God knows.
Monday, January 26, 2015
I learn best through allegory, metaphor, so I won't apologize for the weird mental stretch in this post. It's not really for anyone else, just me working out my own thoughts for myself about the economy. :) I hope I've scared everyone but the die-hards away.
Just us then? Let's go.
Before I start with the parallels, I need to explain PCOS - my own lovely little syndrome (that was sarcastic). When you hear Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, you're like ooh cysts on ovaries. I get it. But it's so much more than cysts on ovaries - and doesn't even necessarily even include them. (They're just the symptom that usually triggers a diagnosis, because the other symptoms are often overlooked.)
PCOS is a collection of symptoms that occur together frequently enough for them to be identified as one disorder - disease - condition - but nobody is sure of their cause or why they often occur together. (Some of the links within the syndrome are causal, but not all.) I'm not a doctor, so I'll likely muddle this up, but I'm going to explain it the way I understand it.
The PCOS body doesn't know what to do with carbs. A carbohydrate comes in, my body sets off an alert, and traps them in a fat cell, along with hormones and nutrients, and puts a high security warning on the door. Nothing is getting out. Carbs that come with a lot of fibre - like fresh fruit and veggies - get swept away fairly quickly. But carbs that don't - like bread and sugar - are instead locked inside fat cells along with hormones and vitamin D and all sorts of other helpful (but now inaccessible) elements that my body needs in order to function properly. All the potential is there - but it's in lockdown. My fat cells are hyper amazing jailers ... they're just really sucky police officers, and they think everyone is a threat. As a result, the PCOS body is often tired, malnourished (my doctor was scared of rickets, my D count was so low), chubby, pimply, balding, and infertile. Not really working the way it was designed - not beautiful, healthy, strong, productive. And it craves carbs - the carbs it's actually stuffed with, but needy cells can't access it.
It's an Alanis Morrisette song waiting to be written.
But when I found out all the details of PCOS, I was so furious. Mad, that I actually had all the resources I need, but due to my hoarding fat cells, was unable to access. I was particularly mad about fertility, but pretty ticked about weight gain, zits, mood swings, and potential rickets too. Everything was there! But nothing was going where it needed to go. I can feel my temper kindling as I think about it.
Last week, when the news came out about Target closing and the CEO's severance package being equivalent to the severance of all the other 17000 employees combined, I saw that same kind of temper kindling. We know that CEOs earn more than shop-floor employees, but that he was getting THAT much more? A collective "Not fair!" echoed around the internet.
And because I learn by analogy, I started thinking about the ways that hoarding resources is bad for the whole of society and I began to think that our economy is a lot like a PCOS body.
Fat cells are good. They insulate the body and we need them. But when they start hoarding resources, the rest of the body suffers.
Same with the wealthy. We need wealthy people in our economy - they can efficiently use their wealth to create jobs, provide a storehouse of financial nutrition that borrowers can draw from to meet new demands or to survive lean times. But when the wealthy hoard resources simply to lock them away -
people suffer. People die.
In Spain, after WWI, the small upper class was excessively rich. So rich that they didn't need to spend their resources to become wealthier. They had more than more-than-enough. So instead of employing the peasants to work their land (who might, after all, earn or steal a little more than subsistence demands), they let the land lie idle. The prices of food increased but the wealthy didn't mind. The peasants starved. Land lay empty all around them, they begged for work, begged for land in which to plant some food - but their begging fell on deaf ears. The rich were like my stupid fat cells, hoarding all the goodness inside while my body breaks down around it. It wasn't necessarily malice, but apathy - they couldn't be bothered to go to the trouble.
And what the fat cells don't realize is that they support - or ruin - the body in which they dwell. Personal hoarding makes a cell fatter but does not make the body better. A well-stocked fat cell is a blessing and a joy, when the fat is able to be burned for energy, when it cushions bone, when it does its job. (Anyone medical is probably dying with laughter, but you know what I mean!)
One of my favourite stories of fat-cell success starts in a small town in Zimbabwe. There was a woman whose husband died, and she had four children. She had always worked the family garden while her husband earned money to buy the things she couldn't grow - school fees, meat, bus fare, that sort of thing. But with him gone, what was she to do?
She asked a visiting doctor for a loan.
After two years, she paid back half of the loan. After four years, she repaid the remaining balance, with interest. In those four years, she had used the loan to keep her children in school, food on the table, and eventually opened a store. The loan met her need, and enabled her to establish the means to keep her needs being met into the future.
That is the fat cell, working well.
I think of that Target CEO and his former employees and I get so mad - he failed, and he gets THAT kind of money? The system that funnels the resources his way is broken, the same way that my PCOS body sends all my carbs straight to lockdown.
Until I realize that I can compare myself in the other direction too. I'm also a fat cell. Compared to a lot of the world, a hoardy one.
We've all got resources - we can use them, we can hoard them, we can cultivate them, we can let them rot -
But no matter who we are, I think Haley's lesson from Economics 11 stands.
Those who can, should.
PS - They haven't found a cure for PCOS yet - but there are ways of working around it and managing the symptoms. It's a lot of work - but the effects are beautiful (some of them are sleeping upstairs as I write).
PS2 - That doctor was so inspired, he turned around and inspired a lot of people. Microloans are a thing - Google it.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
The thing I remember most about Economics wasn't in the textbook, wasn't in a lecture, wasn't my teacher - whom I loved; she was comfortable, kind, and had understanding eyes - it was in a quiet and beautiful moment with one of the Barbiest girls in school.
The class dynamic was unique for me - there were only four girls - and there were students from every grade. I was used to girl-heavy classes like French Immersion and Advanced English, classes where I knew most of the kids. I didn't know anyone at all when I walked into that room. It was fun to be in a room where no one knew me - where I got to decide what side of me to be for fifty minutes a day.
Haley was perfectly gorgeous - slim and graceful and shiny - and likeable, though really really bad at Econ. She picked me as a partner for every project, and all the boys tried to sit next to us and steal our ideas. It was far from my normal - and it was awesome.
One day - probably a Friday afternoon, that chafing time of week - we were supposed to be doing groupwork, and became too rowdy to bear. The teacher slammed her textbook down on her desk and shouted. She gave us to the count of ten to put our desks back in rows and sit still and quietly or else we'd have to stay after class. There was a huge scraping and clanking as we whipped our desks back into place and dashed to sit down.
Just when she reached ten, the room fell silent. Every desk was in place, and every body was still. In front of me, J didn't notice that his stack of books was teetering on the edge of his desk - hipchecked by a lanky grade twelve on his way down the aisle.
The teacher turned to the board and began to write our homework down, when the books came crashing to the floor. She turned, dagger eyes at the ready.
Nobody dared move.
If we stirred, we risked the wrath of the entire class - nobody wanted to be the one to make everyone stay late.
But the awful thing was, J was in a wheelchair, and couldn't pick up his own books. It had to be one of us. The books just lay there, weighted with meaning, a challenge, a metaphor.
It felt like forever until someone was brave enough to stand up and pick up the books. Haley stood up and walked across the room. She picked up each book and dusted it off and made a neat pile on J's desk.
You know that ache in the back of your throat that you get when you see something that's just about perfect? Haley might've been bad at Econ 11, but she understood the driving imperative of a good economy - that those who can, should.
I've got too much to say about this topic for one post. More later.
Haley, wherever you are - God bless you.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
3611. Flowers that smell like spring.
3612. Sam and Vava playing happily together.
3613. Kachinvya's happy alertness.
3615. A new book.
3617. Micah playing with Sam while I cleaned unhindered.
3618. Vava wanting to sit on my yap :D.
3619. Our church getting a new pastor.
3620. Laughing with Patrick.
Monday, January 19, 2015
My tender-hearted Sam had such a rough day yesterday.
His gorgeous hair was overdue for a trim this weekend, so on Saturday I popped him on a stool and snipped away. I am never very sure what I'm doing, and while the back was tolerably even, I messed up above one ear, and took a little too much off one side. So yesterday, Patrick asked Sam if he wanted a haircut like his, with the clippers. Sam was ecstatic at the thought of using papa's clippers, so we went upstairs.
The first pass with the clippers was fun - "that tickles!" Sam giggled. But partway through the process, Sam started crying. "Put it back!" he wailed.
His gorgeous curls! Gone! Ahh I know it grows back but his stricken face completely pierced my heart. And there was nothing to do but hold him tight and finish the job. He thrashed and screamed and fought until he saw I was crying too. Then he sobbed "ohhh mama!" and threw himself into my arms.
He wouldn't even look in the mirror.
The storm passed and we went out for supper and a little playdate, and he wore the cutest hat to keep his head warm. It wasn't until after bathtime, though, that he finally peeked in the mirror at his new look.
He grinned at himself, and then smiled shyly at me. "You're so handsome!" I said, kissing him.
"I know," he laughed, streaking down the hallway toward his pyjamas.
This mother-heart is sore today, and I'm sure I have more silver in my hair than I did yesterday morning. But hey, I can always buzz it away, right? ;)
Friday, January 16, 2015
3601. My patient Patrick.
3603. Great grocery prices.
3604. Dancing with the kids.
3605. My kids' forgiveness.
3607. Kachi laughing so loudly he startled himself.
3608. Sam speaking tenderly to his brother, "hi Kachimbeewa, are you my tweasure? Yes you are, yes you are!"
3609. A reminder to parent gently.
3610. My night to sleep on the undisturbable side of the bed ♥.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
3591. Happy kids who don't seem to feel the cold.
3592. Kachi being so cute and content while I fed the bigs.
3593. Aunt D picking up Patrick and brushing the snow off our car.
3594. Vava, super absorbed in playing with her toys.
3595. Sam's single tear at the sad point in his movie.
3596. Sam asking for "a yittle candy?" (I can't resist that "yittle".)
3597. Finding a duplicate of Sam's long lost and deeply missed dinosaur.
3598. Watching The Musketeers with my OTL.
3599. Having book-nerd friends who really get it.
3600. The prospect of heat returning tomorrow!! Hooray for a fixed furnace!