Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Category: Motherhood Page 13 of 18

A Child Lost Is Too Much To Lose and Not Learn From

Initially published as a column in the Armchair Mayor News on Friday, March 27, 2015. 

The day is foggy and grey. Somewhat sad except that I’ve always loved the rain and its plaintive reminders. As I do the usual ruffling through the news I come across the case of a 21-month-old toddler who, two years ago this month, died while in foster care. Too sad for words, but upon reading the entire story, several more shades of darkness pile up.

The mother, who had her baby taken away by social services just two months after birth – she was deemed unsuitable to be a parent due to a learning disability – is now suing the B.C Children’s Ministry for the death of her daughter.

The toddler was found to have several arm fractures, old and new, as well as bruises on face, arms and legs, the coroner’s report stated, yet the cause of death was deemed as unclear.

That a child is dead is unacceptable. Parenting is hard work, everyone knows that, but this is not about parenting and its hard trials. This is about a system failing to step in, and it is also about the failure to present the birth mother with an answer as to why her baby died, having her fight to shed some light which, as of now, has not been the case.

Instead, she had bureaucrats shrugging and filling the space with empty words. There is nothing that can ever fill the space where a child once was.

A life is a life. We simply cannot shrug, call it sad and move on. We are approaching new elections and thus we will have a chance to change things. Will we know what needs to be changed? What can we ask for? The basics to start with. Respect and care for our most vulnerable, children and the elderly, as well as other categories, the ones that cannot always speak for themselves.

We should be asking that our collective children are cared for, that every one of them is properly accounted for and that the system will not fail children or parents, but rather engage into helping them be looked after and/or reunite when the situation allows for it.

In the last few years I have heard of more than one case of parents struggling to keep their children only to end up losing them to foster care, or extended families trying to keep in touch with children yet having their pleas completely ignored.

Truth is, raising children, whether by natural or foster parents, should be a team effort. It provides accountability of some sort. Someone in the network that we strive to create around each child will be able to notice when things aren’t right. Then, of course, comes the objectivity in assessing the facts and taking appropriate measures.

If we allow for learning disabilities to become reasons for losing the right to parent a child, we enter a grey area that would have many children ripped from the people who love them the most. Yes, they may need support and guidance, yet that would be a much better use of resources and a significant gain for our society as a whole.

While some parents are truly unsuitable, as sad as that is, we cannot allow for those who want to be good parents to be deemed unfit and have their children thrown into a system that dangerously lacks proper screening criteria for foster parents.

At the same time, there are many foster families out there going above and beyond in striving to provide a loving home to children other than their own, and they do not deserve to be painted with a tainted brush at any time.

It comes down to being responsible for one’s actions. Good or bad, if actions are accounted for properly, there is high hope that fewer children will fall through the cracks. Proper assessments of those in charge of children, control measures and not filling the space with empty words but action that sees the bad corrected.

When children are cared for and raised in ways that help them learn kindness and compassion from those who care for them, they’ll grow up to pay it forward and the entire society will benefit from it.

A society is as strong as its care for the most vulnerable is. Striving to do our best where best is needed – the purpose of a job is not just to be done but to be done well – will allow us to weave the kind of societal fabric that will not allow for anyone to fall through.

Shutting down a foster home after a child dies like the one where baby Isabella died, if not followed by an inquiry, misses the point of obligatory due diligence that we owe to all those who our yet imperfect system failed. Closure is not a word but should be a set of actions with a common denominator: now we know better.

A child’s life, as so many along the way, has been lost and that cannot be undone. Let’s not allow today’s news to just wash over it with no lessons learned. Hugging our children should be a constant reminder that life is precious and we are all bound by the high purpose of protecting it. All we have to do is live up to that purpose.

Tying Wind and River Together… The Dance Continues

yellowThis is the place I discovered last year in May when the cacti were in bloom. And it was our first time seeing a cactus flower. It gives you the tingles. No pun, it does. You want to become a bee for the privilege of loading your insect pants with cactus flower pollen. A green bee. They exist.

Today is cloudy and the wind wraps us up in occasional shivers. It dies down just a bit as we follow the path. Dry dirt, past tracks of people and bikes and dogs, and the smell of sage, strong as we brush against the bushes still drowsy, awakened too son from winter, grumpy with sunshine that is too intrusive, too betraying of a spring that’s not here to dance with yet.

gazeWe have a companion, my dog friend, the dog of my friend. He runs ahead, waits, sniffs, runs again, returns, a furry pioneer smelling the wind and letting it ruffle its long smooth hair. It’s easy to become dependent on that gaze he throws back… Are you coming? Yes, do, the wind will ruffle your hair toosmell the world we’re in, it’s intoxicating. He knows. A dance forgotten. You have to smile back and catch the wind in your hair or else.

The trail snakes up, so steep you almost fall backwards, so you lean forward and see the dust up-close. You’re a higher expression of it. Dust is all. Walking, dancing. Dust…

Remember the boys on the day of the cactus flowers… They were running and dust was swirling behind them and back then both had long hair and the sky was blue. A swallowtail butterfly was resting on a purple flower that looked like a goblin’s head full of purple hair…

small Remember that boys grow; they turn back to smile every now and then, and you should do too. Never mistake their wind and dust-grimaced faces for grumpiness. You will though, it’s how you’re taught of opening the door that lets your heart dance outside, naked of pretense and belief that you know it all. You never will. Humbleness to go… to grow.

SidesWe walk, Max and I, and the city gurgles on one side and the silent hills grow on the other. We’re in between. Dog, me, him. Up and down, dance, know that life is happening now, learn to see life and the moments that happen as you blink. Breathe. Chests inflate with wings that stir the dust as you make our way to secret, quiet places.

ShyWait… A yellow thimble. The first yellow spring bells. So shy. It’s like seeing a friend, fragile and quiet. By the side of the trail, by the prickles of the cactus… awake, unspoiled by dust. Hello.

I kneel by it, I see more. There are Ponderosa pines dripping with sounds of birds singing of wind and worry, and all is as it should be. We walk far enough to find a spot with dried grasses, among fragrant sage. We sit down. Quiet. The mountains to the east have freckles of snow. They ache for more. There should be more. We sit, aware of so much, graceful to let the silence be. Dog, me, him. Sit, eyes on skies that move, thoughts that want to fly but stop right there. Just for a bit. Take it all in, leave everything aside and know that this moment will never come again.

Dog whines… he wants to move. We smile. Yes, let’s. The wind picks up and we walk. Hold on. We will come back. You’re tied to a place that echoes your heartbeat.

We drop off dog friend, then we sit, and eat and talk. Sip tea, talk softly. What if… Dreams and rewinding life. Be kind, rewind… We learn by rewinding, we step with truth and when the path is too steep we lean forward; for balance. There is a path to follow.

BoysThere is much to learn as we step alongside each other, boys in tow. It is portal to a magic land. Watching kids grow. You forget that they can be pirates and roaring dinosaurs and their growing pains are real. But their hugs are sweet and their eyes remind you of stories once told, of snuggles where seeds of patience and unconditional love were planted long ago. You tell the stories again, you have to… The language is kindness. You teach it to them, they speak it.

We walk along the river, stop to sit on rocks near the old metal bridge. Cold and quiet, the river laps in waves small and relentless. Let’s measure time by the lapping sounds. Me, him, a river so wide and deep. We’re here. Again.

TurnsAgainTwo ducks skid on the water surface. Him, her, water so green. They take turns putting their heads in. Head in, head out… Repeat. How human of them. They stare, I say hello. I have to. I love to, I always do. It reminds me of connections we so easily forget. In the middle of the river, a sand bank speckled with birds. Loud and pretty. We smile. Hands are warm and together.

Time to pick up little boy. Little boy and his friend. They have the same name and they delight in tiny things whispered in the back seat as we drive home. Sharks and giggles, and all that becomes when children are free to play.

‘Mom, was Ringo in here today?’

‘Yes love, we took him for a walk… ‘

Remember last summer when dog and boys piled up in the back and we drove to a lake that had clear water but also mucky shores and leeches?… ‘Yuck’ said the boys, fascinated and disgusted at once. Wet dog, wet boys on the drive back, moments that will always be.

Home… Boys keep on playing, running, chasing each other, laughing out loud, chewing on crunchy apples and popcorn made in the big pot… no kernels burnt today. Silliness. Hide and seek. Whirlwinds of now.

I make coffee, we sit and sip. Max, me, swirls of coffee smells, a day of time and stillness, coffee to slow down time that picks up again like the wind of the hill we roamed on today, following the path where memories of summers and flowers live, where we plant dreams of what’s to come and dogs run wild, tussled hair over brown eyes that know you know… Time, preciousness of bits we make ours every now and then, skies that bloom into storms, and then storms pass and new skies return.

roses are...The living room hides a bouquet of roses and the air is inundated by Brahms’s Hungarian Dances. Among the loud sounds of boys, whispers of days past and promises of kind presence, life happens here, true. Every day.

‘Mom, can we snuggle and read about sharks tonight?’

‘Yes we can.’

‘And the tickling that you do?’

‘That too…’

We call it as it is. Good night.

 

Will It Rain? Looking Back Into The Summer That Was…

Summer thenWill it rain? Who knows. It’s all a guessing game, though if you were to ask my dad he’d tell you it’s not. You do know, he’d say. There are signs. Humbly, you know it’s true. There are signs, you have a way to go until you learn them that’s all…

You want the rain because there’s tomatoes and spinach and garden peas that beg for it. Water is water but rain is better water, they seem to say.

Rain brings weeds also, there’s more weeds every day and less time, and you wish for a magic touch that will take them all away and make the garden clean of unwanted green. Someone once said that weeds are good, they would not flourish in bad soil. Take heart, is what they meant…

Bringing up children and tender crops. The same. Weeds taking over in both worlds. Screams, stomping of small feet and sulking, fights among boys too wild to know the slow art of diplomacy, and they’ll tell you being diplomatic makes you a loser… ‘cuz they know, they’re in the thick of it. Could all of that go like dandelion fluff, all the weedy dragon-like behavior and you’ll see but smiling faces, mannered boys taking turns speaking and never ever talking with their mouths full or stealing from other’s plates, no talking back… Nope. Sigh? No sigh. Joy. Nothing goes away that comes from within. Acceptance, all the struggle that children put into becoming people. All the struggle of tiny seedlings to push through gritty soil.

You pull weeds, and the air is pierced by the boys’ voices. Shrills, screams, laughter, then the loud dragons again… ‘No, no, no, I am not playing with you…’

Should you step up and see about it? You call their names… Silence.

‘We’re good!’ Magic? Perhaps. They are tough, you can see their heads past the weeds just like you can see the corn rising thin and green and brave, reaching high. There’s no going back now.

Weeds, glassy skies, rags of clouds hanging lose, the world seems lazier than a sloth in the leftover heat of late afternoon, but you don’t stop. You can’t. The earth is dry, feels sandy between your toes. Barefoot boys, skipping past pebbles, they don’t stop… They can’t. It’s the game.

It’s the rhythmicity of it that makes it all exist, grow, and become more. Day after day, small things becoming big deeds, small roots holding small bodies, there’s no going back now. Rhythmic. Every day. Enough to fill the spaces in your body where you felt fear so often. You will again, but fear moves up, like bubbles in a glass that’s always half-full. Fear for them, for the crops to grow. But fear withers like the weeds you pull out of the ground and throw to the side. Fear has small roots. It must…

‘Mom, can we go for a bike ride?’ Little boy rides fast, you run to catch up.

‘Tag me if you can…’

If you can, what cheekiness… Just wait.  You chase him just to hear the giggle, then you slow down so the mad dash won’t make boy and bike topple. And they do, but there’s no crying. Grimaces, a look of ‘it hurts’ that you want to go and make better, but there’s no need because… ‘Tag me again!’

Remember the day when big brother stopped crying when he fell. That day… he rubbed the knees, rubbed palms, no need for kiss to make it better. T-shirts wiped all that Band-Aids masked until then. ‘Will these scars stay, Mom? I hope they do…’

Signs of time. Scars are not to cover. Boys are afraid no more, now your fear can go away too.

‘Try to catch me on the way home!’

You run, but wait… there’s berries in the back lane, growing wild, kissed by sunsets and taken care of by invisible hands… time. You gotta remember to bring the boys to the back lane bounty in a couple of weeks. Bounty, growing wild. You know it’ll be sweet and flavourful, and it’ll be like that whether someone pulls the cluster of weeds surrounding its spiky feet or not. It’ll be sweet, whether it rains or not, or despite of it… You know everything grows stronger without perfection to choke it. Children too. Bounty.

You follow the boy and his head of wild hair, palms of glowing sunset light caressing every strand and making them into golden streams. You’re at peace, not worried of rains and weeds and magic touches that can make everything perfect.

Magic is when you let go of the fear that you have to have it perfect so they’ll turn right. Magic is when you finally understand that they’ll still need the hug to make it better, but not for scraped knees. For egos that grow too soon, for life so loud it makes your heart pound and for bruises that come with it.

Day’s over. You pick tender leaves of lettuce, green and red, herbs… The shimmering sunset light is about to plunge behind the horizon. Tomorrow’s roots.

Soon it will rain and that is how it should be.

Of Eagles, Specks of Gold and Never Ending Dreaming

I didn’t notice the eagle until it took off flying from some scraggly tree near the beach the boys affectionately call Golden Sands. The sand is speckled with mica, but we all choose to think of it as gold. Not the gold bits you’d ravenously stick into your pockets to become rich, but the gold you’re already rich with because you can see it and feel happy because you do.

goldIt was sunny and all four of us descended on the Golden Sands with hearts overinflated with sunshine and the feeling of having missed the place. A sliver of uneasiness pierced my joy …these banks should’ve been under water if the season wasn’t so messed up. Heavy snow melt should’ve come and bathed these shores in lots and lots of green heavy waters till late June.

The boys ran zigzags and sand flew behind them in twirls that sparkled. No matter what ails you when you’re heading outside, having kids by your side and more sunshine than you ever thought yourself worthy of, that just dissolves any and all bitter bits of life and hands you over this sweet pill of hope and incredible gratefulness. It was like we had our own golden butterflies that we released for the sheer joy of it.

themragsThe four of us walked together for a while until the boys decided to stay put in a camp of their own where they could play. Max and I kept walking; the river was wide and lazy and the sky the freshest blue you can imagine, with shreds of clouds scattered like kid clothes all over the floor. I should know.

The eagle flew so close we saw the bright white feathers on its head. It flew silently to another tall tree and I could not help wondering what he thought of us. Intruders? One thing was certain. He saw more of us than we saw of him. That invites to reverence. How much life was there aware of our presence and hiding away because of us?

fortWe came across a shelter built of old branches and driftwood, with a bench inside, and an old bag of marshmallows hanging on the side.

More sunshine, curtains of clouds drawn to the side by the wind. On and off, again and again… an ocean of golden specks, the boys like two bugs hopping in the distance, rolling in the sand, crawling, creating small golden tornadoes. A world of our own.

We walked back to tell the boys of the shelter.

We walked and talked. It’s never enough; our together time to churn through bits of life, to talk about the next steps, to build dreams together, to think ourselves grateful. We played the game of ‘if you could add one more thing to what you have now…’ and we both wanted for nothing more. That’s the kind of soul embrace I wish upon everyone. Simple and sturdy, the belief that everything else is a bonus feature.

pathThe path ahead is as it should be. Control is an illusion and what we have is what we see right now. Chasing golden specks with the intention to collect them all, to have them all… or choosing to keep on walking, too see them fly high with winds and children’s playing, knowing that having is not really having but rather renouncing what you already have… the joy of experiencing life on any given day, trespassing areas of grey together to get to the sunshine that’s always there. If only you can see it.

We walked with the sun on our backs and our steps sinking in the sand; the boys waved in the distance and came running. We led the way back to the shelter. They sat on the bench, with long lines of sunshine traced on their cheeks, red from all the running and playing, sparkles in their hair.

Onwards? We kept on walking until we found a narrow path through the trees to the main path that would take us back. We noticed another guardian perched high in the trees, not a bald eagle, but maybe a golden one, so we all turned quiet and stared. It stared back, but did not fly away, clearly knowing who the visitor is and who’s there to stay. Reverence.

brightThe sun was splashed all over the hills and on some orange trees in the near distance, making them glow bright and surreal. Another eagle flew low and silent over our heads, graciously sailing through the air saturated with sunlight, and farther away a yellow airplane took off noisily and with a somewhat awkward wobbling. So much to learn still…

We walked and talked and I stopped for one more photo. My perpetual attempt to make it last, to remember. I sometimes think of all the photos I am accumulating; megabytes of emotions and beauty, days I will never remember by the actual date, but by how I felt, by the storms or the sunshine that was gifted to us that day.

I often think I should print them all so on any given day I will be reminded that I am blessed because I got to see it all and through photos I get to see it again and again, relearning the lessons of then and knowing that it is all like the flight of the eagles… short-lived for those walking on the ground, easily missed if you’re walking with your head down, and majestically uplifting because it speaks of heights from where everything we let ourselves be overcome by becomes what it really is… specks.

The day’s lesson… Bird’s eye view. Never mind the specks. Hold onto what you have, what you see, what you know it’s there.

We drove home, ate dinner and got one step closer. To each other, to understanding the purpose of being, to just being and not asking for anything else because just being in the moment is plenty. To knowing that enough and plenty are, as far as we’re concerned, unlikely but decidedly so, synonyms.

In Cars With Boys On An Ordinary Day

Feet are ready to walk but school is far nowadays so driving it is. For now… But driving has its charm when you drive children. A wee bit of music, sleepy words snaking their way through the foggy morning air, buckle up and go…

Grey‘Do you see the hills?’ you ask as you drive down the hill and little boy says yeah with a sleepy voice and you think he just says it to be polite but then, just like a small bird taking sudden flight, his words come out chirpy-jolly… ‘Mama, look at the light on that hill…Is that the sun? Is it rising now? We can see the sunrise?’

Which one do you answer first? You listen, the chirping continues but now it’s something else. Words and their meanings, things to do when back from school, plans for later, homeschooling, making sense of a world too big, too small, so beautiful and present…

You drive slower just to catch some more time, you love the time with little boy tucked into the back seat, chirping or sitting quietly, listening, thinking, learning…

Hug, kiss, have a good day, you see him walk into the school yard with the big backpack on. You want him to stay, to chirp some more, to ask you of your favourite season, again and again…’I like summer,’ he says when you ask. But he delights in icicles too, you remind him, hanging off drippy awning, time frozen… you tease him, he smiles, he loves that… silly fuzzy morning thoughts you wrap yourself in on the drive home.

You love the time with little sleepy boy, his chirps and tiny laughter clinging to frosty windows, melting the white icy fuzz so the world outside becomes clearer. It always does when children laugh.

Later on, the drive home with so much that happened in the time you weren’t there. ‘Why’ abounds, and you try your best, and you also shrug and say ‘I don’t know’ and little boy still thinks you know everything anyway as if you put the world together from one end to the other… you secretly delight in that, in the love that gives you more than you ever imagined. ‘Are you singing, mama?’ Yes, I am, you say… it’s a song your grandma loved. You make a mental note to learn all words soon enough.

Later on, big boy hops in, you drive in the dark, you listen to music and he does too, you hum and he asks softly ‘Are you singing, mama?’ You smile and say yes, almost adding that you don’t know all the words, but before you get a chance to say it he says with a smile ‘I like that.’ This is not about perfect lyrics anyway.

It is turning dark and the sky is burning with colours so alive you feel grateful for having the chance to see them. ‘Mama, I love the sky…’ The day falls asleep on the horizon, slipping behind it like a child’s arm falls off his mama’s shoulder when asleep…

You’re on your way, again, driving, going places – what a busy day today is – but you get to see it, you get to see the wonder of it all. There’s wonder in ordinary, small things… Big boy sees it too and he talks about things that are not easy to talk about.

You whisper almost in response, your voice is low and all there, and if your heart were the ground he could walk on, your voice was the fence to help keep him safe… until he is ready to open the gate and fly. Free of things that cling hard to his wings; you help him peel them away. Again, and again, one step closer to lightness. Today is good and soft and the sunset is now over with; night settles in and you’re almost there… ‘Let’s park and talk, mama’.

You talk, and he talks, and silly jokes come in uninvited and you laugh silly, and he laughs too and you can see the heaviness falling off his wings… You talk about dreams and fears and growing towards tomorrow, knowing that being human comes with joys and struggles, often times too big to take on by himself; you talk, he talks, stars are plentiful and you feel happy for no particular reason, but because you find peace in knowing you’re right there, to hear the words, to soothe worries and to laugh silly. To have thoughts merge, sighs chased away with hugs. See you later you say and drive home thinking of them boys… ‘Today was good and it’s not over yet.’

You are all alone now, listening to songs your mom loved, you miss her so much, and her voice, but it’s all there, inside, a pocket of bitter sweetness you can reach into anytime, pockets of souls that are made of all that you cannot explain but know it present. Life. You’re grateful and quiet, you listen to songs and then you learn words… later on, you pick up big boy and he chirps away, fears gone and words flying high like kites that nothing can bring down. Nothing? Not today. And that is good enough.

You listen, he talks, you smile, he talks and laughs, you love his presence right next to you; his laughter clings onto the windows like a bug with sticky feet, sweet and fragile… you’ll remember it all in the morning when little boy will take his place, sleepy and slow, in the back seat, ready to see the sun, the hills, to listen and chirp away, to laugh… again, and again, melting the frost. And you’ll be there, and you’ll be reminded that gratefulness is a celebration of life, and no day is ordinary, and no time too short to make it count…

Of Days That Still Are

ThenI still have the card. I open it on my birthday every year; a ritual of some sort that brings it all back for a bit. It has a photo of snowdrops and crocuses. Inside, my dad’s neat narrow letters, tilted just so… I always loved his handwriting. My mom’s written words followed his. They would write letters and cards together, each bringing their own thoughts as gifts.

My mom’s round letters remind me of her hands. I loved watching her cook and iron and I wanted my hands to be the same; they seemed to know so much of life. They were always warm.

The card, the last birthday card they ever sent brings it all back. Truth is, nothing really goes away. The pain of missing is like an old lifeless tree still standing by the side of road after life left its every branch but with roots still anchoring it to the ground. You want it there but it hurts every time you see it.

The pain of missing the ones who leave us clings to us. You cannot rush it. You let it sink in, and it reveals colours you think are too harsh to use, only to realize that those are the colours you can use to paint your world alive from now on, the only real ones you have. They help you know who you are and they trace the roots of who will become.

I did not look back for the longest time. Out of fear of pain, I didn’t. You’re never ready for that. You miss so much of what could never come back.

My birthdays at home, the smell of my parents’ kitchen with coffee and cake and warmth… I don’t remember the cakes or the presents, but the flavor of mornings I’d wake up knowing them there. My parents, both present, eyes happy to see me. I belonged to them and my birthday did too. This year is the first without them both.

One time my dad brought me a white cyclamen in a green pot. I was turning 12. I kept it in my room on the desk by the window, right next’ to my sister’s red one. Bright as the snow outside, it whispered happy birthday every time I’d look at it.

The next year I got a bouquet of freesia and the fragrance became mine forever. It is the smell of my birthday. I miss that. The smell of those snowy mornings, cold air and afternoon freesia. That’s when my dad would come back from work and we’d have cake.

I have been trying to make peace with it all. Not having them around. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. On my birthday it doesn’t. On the boys’ birthdays it doesn’t either. There is an emptiness that just sits there not sure what to do with itself, and I am not wise enough to say ‘now you go, there’s nothing for you to do here…’

‘Do you think she would’ve liked us, mama?’ Yes. Little boy never got to meet my mom. His brother did, yet all he has are bits of memory. They knows stories and miss her because I do. They see photos and try to paint their grandparents alive but that never works. They called it unfair a few times, the loss and the emptiness of my world and theirs, the smiles of times that could’ve been. There must be a better answer than shrugging…

MirrorsThe last chat I had with my mom… I remember it because I held onto that phone bill for a few years. I would stare at the date of that last chat, a line among many; like eavesdropping on the past, I could hear our laughter and silliness amidst the most serious things that life was throwing our way, her words ‘You take care of yourself, and of the boys…’ Like she knew, but she didn’t. In my darkest moments the pain of the most punishing thought there is ‘if I wouldn’t have hung up, she wouldn’t have gone to sleep and… ‘ grows so strong it’s unbearable.

I’d touch the date with the tip of my index finger, as if to take some memory dust and make that time mine again. Try again, do it better. It never works like that. It’s a one-time deal. Then came the realization that that piece of paper was heavier than the heaviest anchor and was tethering me to a place of pain that had no beginning or end. It was humbling and revealing. Two years ago I parted with the paper that was telling of a time that did not exist anymore, knowing that the door that opened just for my mom to leave could not have me knock on it to bring her back. Such doors are not for knocking.

Soon after, my dad’s long suffering came to an end and he too, opened the door and walked away. He had it rough and I knew he’d go. Still, the world without him was so much poorer and sadder. So much sunniness missing, memories of him returning in strong waves and trying me in new ways. My boys’ world without him and them both was turning grayer and all I could do was shrug, fighting back tears and knowing that I could not make this one right for them. Feeling powerless in the face of life becomes real in ways you cannot anticipate and you write the script of crawling out of that deep dark pit as you go; you see yourself slip downwards but keep on trying because of your children.

Mourning happens in waves. It comes and goes, it hurts, it stops; it transforms you. You grow into a better, braver version of yourself and then every now and then you wake up crying, dwarfed by pain and the missing of that place you grew so used to as a kid, the place where everything was good and safe and warm; inside your parents’ heart. Home.

Life seems cruel in how it peels layers off of us, leaving raw and hurting patches, yet the story is as it should be. How else would the inner layers show? We never are just who we are in this moment. We are who we become from what we once were, sheltered in our parents’ hearts until we learn how to make ours a shelter for our own children.

Yet, we’re never ready. We’re children playing house and giggling away, seeing the bright light shining through the branches of the tree we’re sheltered by, never minding the shadows, so spoiled in the comfort that grows with every time we touch the time-kissed bark.

We carve our names in it, blissfully unaware of the times to come when reading the very names in the bark of the tree that is no longer alive will bring around a sound we’ve never heard before. Mourning.

We honour pain the best we can, remembering that pain is only part of the song we will now sing to our children. Songs of people we loved so much, our parents, stories of times, of loss, of petals peeled away suddenly and buds revealed too soon but what choice is there anyway?…

Time rolls and drags you along, incomplete and prematurely exposed to suns too bright and winds too strong. But you grow, you grow kind and mindful of time, knowing that even the longest summer day will at some point become night and the darkness holds no threats of being lost from brightness, but the promise of at least one more day.

So you make the most of the one you have. And you help your children understand that though never the same, life without the ones who leave is not poorer, but that much richer because they were once in it. And you say the name you once carved with little child hands in the bark of the trees you love, you say it out loud, and the sound becomes a song.

GrowYou see the contours of every letter, you remember, and you become more. You ask your kids to close their eyes and you guide their fingers to feel your name, and in doing so they’ll discover that some are now in their names too. You help them belong and know that they are not fragments of worlds lost but pieces of the one that cannot be complete without them.

They’re safe from shrugging and emptiness now, and you are too for having learned that night comes with the promise of yet another new day; at least one more, which you will make the most of…

Of Growing Boys, and Tears, And Stories, and Soft Grey Caterpillars

Striving‘I cannot do it!’ Little boy says it loud and though no tears come into his eyes, I could hear them stomp behind the words. Loudly; tears.

It is about a game. Cute, old-fashioned design, itty bitty characters that look like baby crocodiles… Yes, sigh, the one Nintendo game little boy gets to play is wrapping him up in frustration like a cocoon.

What a long day the day had been. School in the morning, a laughter-all-around Lego building time with a friend who came for a visit, plus a whole lot of playing outside with big brother in and around a melting igloo… And so much more, all that a child’s world brings for him to see, smell, fear, dare through, be silly about, be serious about, be there every minute of a day so long and rich.

‘I cannot do it!’ He says it again. Loud, frustrated, chin trembling.

The mom that I am wants to say ‘You can do it’ but how is that not patronizing when a kid is frustrated to sky and back. Games like that are not easy, I am told. Like many things in life, there are levels. You learn, you persist, you get to the next. But when you only have one hour and fifteen minutes three times a week to make it happen… a battle ensues, I am also told.

Here is the things though: When the world tells so often of things you can get just like that – yes, instant gratification is an occurrence that creates false realities whether we want it or not in our children –  what to make then of the occasional hurdle? Electronic game or not, frustration caused by inability to do what you want to do, what you expected to be able to do so easily, or somehow hoped that invisible arms will make it happen for you… how to then?

‘I cannot do it!’ If you’re a little boy, and tired, you say it again and again. And big brother looks into your big round sad eyes and says ‘I can help you.’

Mom (that’s me) says ‘That is not help, but cheating.’ Two boys, four eyes, big and bright and wondering… But to help, Mama, just this time, I can help him… Big brother melts, understands and insists. To help is to tell him he can do it, I tell him.

“But I cannot!’ Feet stomping, big pouty face. Hug? Yes and no wrestle on his face. ‘I can’t.’

Yes, you can one step at a time… ‘No, I cannot!’ Tears. Sadness. A thought strikes true. I turn to my screen and type ‘inspirational man with no arms and no legs’. Just like that. I had heard about him but never really searched properly; there are only that many hours in a day. Today has more.

The two boys and their four big eyes watched and listened, and I did too, peeking at their faces and wondering about it all. You can search and see. Nick Vujicic is his name and he will inspire you.

He talks about frustration, about failing again and again and not giving up, he talks about taking steps – one at a time, to reach your destination. He talks about falling down and getting up, and how it never ends until it ends… He would know.

Two boys with bright big eyes looked at me and asked ‘how could he do all of that?’ knowing the only answer there is. Because he did not give up; because he chose to see the gifts that he had, rather than cry about the ones he did not have.

Sighs, smiles, crooked and sweet, no more tears.

‘Mom?… I can try again.’ Yes indeed. Thank you. I was grateful for help. All settled and peaceful, the evening rolled along like a big, grey and soft caterpillar, smiling at us… until. Until it all went black again, and a crow of hungry ‘Can I please have help just this time?’ swooped down and scattered the caterpillar’s fluff all over. ‘I cannot’ returned for one last flight through the house.

No, I will not, could not, should not. Allow for that kind of help.

That’d be like falling back twenty steps after you’ve advanced ten I tell them. They stop and listen. ‘But not every time,’ they plead, ‘just this time.’ I trade hugs and stories for half-smiles and listening ears. No is a must.

I am not cruel, but loving this. What a good chance. Sit down then. Boys listen to stories of little kids crying because they could not draw like their older siblings could; getting help when help meant locking them in a box that said ‘I cannot by myself…’ and how love should be fair, and encouraging and never ever indulging in ways that cripple. I tell stories of people lost, people who loved ones help by saying no. It turns serious but they listen.

Faces lit with smiles. Yes, they get it. Yes, they feel loved when a no is lovingly said, and fair and encouraging, and I do too. I thank the man who gave us a push today over the hurdle.

No arms, no legs, no worries, he says. How could one do it like that? By not giving up, by getting up again when falling, by reminding yourself of the brightness of the day when the night threatens with too much darkness… using the light of the day to brighten the night ahead. Belief.

The night caterpillar returns fluffy and grey and sleepy. Grateful. We snuggle on the couch reading stories of mice with big ears and big courageous hearts and then we snuggle some more. Bedtime, hugs, ‘your special kisses, mom, and then I’ll give you mine…’ A nightly ritual that brings sparkles from many days of love and brightness into all the nights that threaten to be too dark. Not now, not yet, not ever?…

Goodnight, sleep tight, wake up bright… Two boys with bright eyes and big smiles learned a lot today, I did too; they’ve grown so much and so have I. More tomorrow, again and again… one step, two steps, can never take two at the same time. Just as long as you know where you’re going… When you forget, I’ll remind you both. Of a day, of tears, of smiles, of a day so bright and a night so soft… Goodnight

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