Sunday, February 28, 2010

You Owe It All To ME

Well,I know some of you are feeling very happy with Sidney Crosby right now, and that's okay. But the person you should really be happy with? Is none other than... ME!!! That's right!

How come?

Here's my story, the real story of Canada's most golden gold medal...

I tried to watch the game this afternoon. It got too intense for me, plus I always feel a little bit like if I watch a game, the team I want to win will lose... (Like what happened
last time I watched a big game.) So, I left the room during the last five minutes. I could hear the crowd cheering as the clock wound down, but I wouldn't watch. Till I knew it was the last few seconds, when I said to myself, "You can't miss this! It's a historic win! Just go watch the last few seconds. Watch them win!" So I did. And I KID YOU NOT. The SECOND I walked back into the room the States scored. All because of me.

So I left. We packed up our kids to go grocery shopping, and I KID YOU NOT... We left, and minutes later, Sidney scored, all thanks to me.

You're welcome Canada.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Boots

It started with the boots I think. All of Dad's boots are in the laundry room downstairs at Mom and Dad's now. Not in the closets. They're all lined up neatly in the basement. Except for that big pair of black boots with the reflective strip. I think the boys must have got their hands on those, because they aren't neatly side by side like the other ones.

I stood there, a day or two ago, looking at all those pairs of boots, and I could picture Dad wearing each of them. His old scuffed up work boots that he stopped wearing to work years ago, and his hiking boots... And they make me so sad. They break my heart. I picture him lacing them up to go to work, or to go for a walk with the boys, or for a trip into town to do some shopping at Canadian tire, or taking them out to let Ben try them on. I picture his boots driving the car, or climbing to the top of a hill in the gravel pit, and now they're just sitting there empty and still.

And this morning I can't seem to stop crying. Because, I know at some point, Mom will have to get rid of them. And even thinking of it kills me. Even seeing them moved to the basement, instead sitting in the closet, kills me. Because he doesn't need them anymore.

And as illogical as it is, I feel like if all his stuff is there waiting, he could still come back. He could come home, and he'd have clothes to wear, and boots for his feet. And all his tools in the garage would be just where he left them, ready for him to do some project, or pack them in his trunk to come help me do a project at my house.
It would be so easy for him to just step back into his boots, and our lives.

And I know he's not going to. I know. But I want him to. I want him to, more than I've ever wanted anything, but he can't. I can't have him.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

The Sales Pitch Strikes Again

Tonight on the way home from (super fun) bowling, and from picking up my (hurrah!) fixed laptop, Glen was explaining to Ben why Mommy was mad at (the idiots at) Del. It went something like this:

"Mommy's computer got broken and she asked the people from the factory where the computer came from to fix it, but they said it would cost lots and lots and LOTS of money. So we asked Uncle Dale to fix it and he did and it only cost a little money!" (I am totally calling Del this week and telling them off.)

At which point Sammy breaks in with, "I wish I had ninety ninety-five money!!!!"

And Ben contributes something like, "I wish I had a million moneys!"

But Sam is still talking. "... And then we could get that machine slap thing, that slap chop, right?"

And I realize he wishes he had $19.95. So he could get one of these. I swear, that ad was specifically written for impressionable little boys. It was already pretty adorable, but then he said, "It's so easy boys can do it!" and took it from just pretty adorable to just SO STINKIN' adorable.

You should have heard how excited he was when I told him we already have one and when we get home tomorrow I'll let him chop stuff with it.

(If this post seems like something you've read before it is probably because of this post.)

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Not That Hard to Interpret

You know when you have a nightmare and it's so scary that you have to turn on all the lights when you wake up and you're scared to go back to sleep, and yet when you try to tell someone about it, it really doesn't sound that scary, even to you?

Last night I dreamed the basement at Mom and Dad's was flooding. It was terrifying.

It started with the usual sort of dreamy gibberish. All of us "girls" were having a sleepover in the basement. Gramma Newson was even there. Wearing her Snuggie. Ang was causing trouble by refusing to wear pajamas to bed... Claiming she couldn't "get comfortable" unless she was au naturale, and this was was the reason she couldn't stay the night with the rest of us. I went upstairs for a while, and when I came back down everyone was gone.

I walked into the laundry room to discover Ang bailing water with a shovel, and Dad trying to fix the hot water heater. I started laughing at all the water, and the way Ang was uselessly flinging it up into the air with her dumb shovel, and Dad said, "Don't laugh. This is more serious than you can see."


And I asked, "Isn't there someone you can call to fix it? Or turn it off or something?"

And Dad said, "By the time they get here, it will already to be late."

And by then, I could see that he was right. The water was gushing up from the floor and it was already almost up to my knees. I ran through the water to my room, which is (or was when I lived there anyways) in the basement, and started grabbing things and throwing them up onto the front lawn through my window. For some reason Aimee Penner (I went to elementary school with her) was there and I yelled at her to help me. I grabbed all my pictures first. I thought with relief of my bible at home safe in Yorkton, which was strange since for some reason I still lived in Martensville and had all my stuff there, but I was picturing my bible where it is actually sitting right now here in the living room.

As the water got higher, I started to panic, and worked even faster to get all of my favorite things out of my room. After my pictures, I grabbed my flute and guitar and music stand and gave them to Aimee to put out the window. She got the music stand stuck somehow and started crying, so I had to stop what I was doing and help her with it, and then help her climb out the window.

By now the water was almost to my waist and I was grabbing all my stuffed animals off of the shelves. As I shoved them through the window I was so terrified. I could feel my heart racing and that sick panicky feeling starting to overtake me.

And while I frantically threw my favorite things up out of the window, I thought, "This feels so much like a nightmare, I can't believe this is really happening, I can't believe I'm not going to wake up from this and everything will be okay..."

And then I woke up.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Hannah Grace

When I was around ten my mom showed me this doll in, I believe, the Canadian Tire flier, and asked me if I wanted one for Christmas. I said no. I thought they were ugly. Sadly for me, that doll was the most popular doll that Christmas, and most of my friends showed up with one at school in January. And then they showed up with them at birthday parties, and sleepovers, and pretty much everywhere for years after that.

And I couldn't bring myself to ask for one, even though by then I really wanted one, and had decided that they were cute... Too embarrassed.

So Hannah had to have one. And Abbey. I ordered them online, the 25th anniversary ones, so that I could get ones that looked like their cute little owners, and so that I could name them and have birth certificates with Hannah and Abbey's birthdays on them. (Don't you think Hannah Grace and Abigail Dawn are perfect names for Cabbage Patches? I do.)

Anyways. I only had one problem. The closest doll I could get to looking like Hannah had either pale skin, red hair, and GREEN eyes, OR it had tanned skin, red hair, and blue eyes. I went with the tanned one hoping that in real life it wouldn't look as tanned as it did in the picture. When we got it, it looked more tanned. Sigh. This was disappointing to me and I thought about it often as Christmas got closer. The only thing was, of course, it was ridiculous to think of buying another doll. I'd already spent enough. But she was just SO tanned and Hannah is SO pale...

And then I snapped. I had found this website that will restore or customize your Cabbage Patches. So I ordered Hannah a new doll. The one with the green eyes. And I sent her in to the Cabbage Patch Spa to get some blue contacts.

I got this picture in my email yesterday to confirm that Hannah Grace had safely arrived and was being well looked after:
LOL. Oh man, Karen (the lady who does this) really knows how to run a business. I wanna order more things to be done to Hannah Grace just to see what pictures I get back. I can't wait till she is sent back all ready for Hannah's first birthday.

And yes, I do see how completely over the top this is, and that I've completely lost my mind. Also, is anyone interested in a red-haired, blue-eyed, tanned cabbage patch named Isabella Glynda? Because I happen to have one to spare.

Monday, February 01, 2010

Keep Breathing

Imagine someone lying injured and bleeding somewhere. Someone discovers them, surveys the damage and tells them, "You're alive. That's enough. Just keep breathing."

A while ago, I would have thought that was an insensitive thing to say. Everything we know tells us that just breathing is not enough. There is a way to fix things, to stop the bleeding, to bind the wounds, to speed the healing. Telling someone to just keep breathing, to keep living because you have to... That's not enough. There must be something we can do, that they can do. Because there should be more. There should be healing, and wholeness, and hope. At least there should be hope. They should be able to want more, and find a way to get there, and a true friend should help them to see that, and maybe even help them get it.

But now, I see what a relief it is. To have it put so clearly. When something terrible happens it feels like there are a million things to do. Let go. Never forget. Forgive. Hold it in. Let it out. Be grateful. Pray. Be vulnerable. Be strong. Let people help you. Learn to stand on your own. Cry. Smile. Laugh again. Be wounded. Heal. HEAL. (That's a big one.)

It's too much. It's a relief to focus on one thing. Keep going. Keep breathing. Keep walking. Keep living. If you can do that for long enough...

Someone said something like that for Mom a while back. She was out for lunch and someone asked her how she was, with that sad please-break-down-and-cry-right-here-in-public-so-I-can-comfort-you look that we are all way too familiar with now, and another lady replied for Mom, "She's fine, because she has to be."

And that's it.

I would love to lay down and stop breathing. I think about it often. Stop hurting. Stop missing. Just stop. But I can't. So I breath. And I do the things I need to do. Because I have to.

And that's enough for now. It has to be.


A friend burned this song onto a disc for me. I cry every time I listen to it. And I let go of all the other stuff that I, or other people, expect of me or want for me. I let it go and I focus. On breathing.