My father warned me just after Kenzie was born that now that I had a child of my own, time would fly by - and it has.

On Sunday, Mackenzie will turn sixteen.   Even with the warning, the years have flown by faster than I thought possible.

In the past few weeks my heart has been flooded with memories.  In my minds eye I can see a little girl, skin speckled with mosquito bites making mud pies in the backyard.  Kenzie always had dirt under her fingernails, and her had was forever a tangled mass.  I remember brushing hair, the back so curly and fine that it was impossible to get the tangles out without hurting her - and I tried so hard not to hurt her. 

I also remember how cautious she was when she attempted a new skill, like her first time crossing the street by herself.  We had given her instructions to make sure she looked both directions.  Kenzie looked to the left, she looked to the right - no cars, she looked to the left, she looked to the right - no cars she did this over and over until she was confident that it was safe to cross.  And then a car passed by.  So she had to start the process all over again.  The poor thing stood on that corner a long time that day.  But she didn't give up, she didn't ask for help.

Another time Kenzie showed determination was when she taught herself to ride a bike.  At seven, John and I could see that she was no where near ready for the training wheels to come off, she just didn't have the balance.  But when she asked her Dad to take off her training wheels, John decided to give her a chance.  Kenzie tried for weeks to get the hang of it.  Over and over she would peddle a few strokes, then loose her balance and have to steady herself with her feet.  The neighbourhood all watched her try and fail, try and fail.  One neighbour came to me and suggested that we just put the wheels back on.  I didn't want to do that to her.  Because even though it was hard, she wasn't giving up and I wasn't about to give up on her either.  When she eventually did ride, I couldn't have been prouder.  It didn't come easy for her and she didn't give up.

Witnessing my daughter grow up has been one of the great gifts in my life.  Kenzie has a strength that I admire.  Because of her I want to be a better woman myself.   

Sixteen.  It's a big year.  She has been studying her driver's handbook, and has her first job.  At sixteen, she could meet the love of her life (I did) or have her heart broken for the first time.  This week, she brought home paper work for a SHSM (Specialized High School Major) in Health and Wellness.  Kenzie is planning long term goals that aren't so long term anymore.  I feel like she is on the cusp of something great and this will be the year she will soar.

I think that Kenzie believes this herself.  She has choosen One Little Word for 2012 as well.  FORWARD.  Seems appropiate.

Happy Birthday Kiddo, love you. xoxo

One Little Word::Easy

One Little Word is a class I'm taken over at Big Picture Classes taught by Ali Edwards.  The  concept of One Little Word is that you choose a word to embody how wish live your year.

Last year for my one little word, I choose THRIVE.  Thriving taught me lessons and pushed me to grow into parts of myself I didn't know existed.  But after a year of flourishing and developing vigorously, I'm exhausted.

When I began to think about what word I would want for 2012, I joked that I wanted an easy year.  Would easy be such a bad word?  Easy has so many negative associations but the more I thought about it the more EASY started to make sense to me.  From the Gage Canadian Dictionary:

Easy - {ee-zee} adjective
1. requiring little effort.
2. free from pain, discomfort, trouble or worry: an easy life.
3. giving comfort or rest: easy chair.
4. fond of comfort or rest; lazy.
5. not harsh, not severe: easy terms.
6. not hard to influence, ready to agree with or help. Choose whichever one you wish, I'm easy.
7. smooth and pleasant; not awkward: easy manners.
8. not tight loose: an easy fit.
9. not fast, slow: an easy pace.
10. promiscuous
11. of a money market, favorable to borrowers.

I'm sure my husband wouldn't mind easy meaning promiscuous. 
But easy could mean so much more for me.   
Easy means letting go of the struggle.  Easy means that I don't define myself with my struggles.  Easy means acceptance, peace and joy.  Easy means rest and reflection.  Easy means laughter.  Easy means finding answers to problems not dwelling on problems.  Easy means freedom.

I'm ready for easy. 

Slowly The Story Will Be Told

It's been a long time since I've posted.  Part of the problem is that for the last few months the only thing I was capable of was living life, rather than writing about it.  The other problem for me, was that I felt like I wrote myself into a corner.

When I started writing about Josh and our autism journey, I thought that one post, maybe two would tell our story.  I was wrong.  To tell our story, I need to use so many more words than will fit neatly into one or two posts.  To tell our story, I need to be open in a way that is a little scary.  And then I got stuck. 

Keep checking back, because slowly, the rest of the story will be told.  But for today, for right now, I'm not quite ready.

Happy Birthday Grandma.

 My daughter and I were chatting the other day about how often you should brush your hair. We both agreed that even though it's not recommended brushing 100 strokes a day, it just feels so good.  I was reminded of a time where my hair was brushed over and over again.

I remember sitting on my grandparents front porch.  It was coffee break on the last day of my week long stay with Grandma and Grandpa. I sipped my lemonade from the orange plastic tumbler, while she and Grandpa drank their coffees.  I sat one step down, between my grandmother's legs, while she brushed my hair dry in the summer sun.  I didn't have what you would call pretty hair.  My hair was wavy and coarse, a mousy shade of brown.  To top it off, literally, I had a double crown, so it looked like I had a small squirrel on top of my head.  Anyways, that day sitting in the sun, sipping lemonade, with Grandma, I felt pretty.  I don't know if I have ever felt more loved. 

I think about Grandma a lot but especially at this time of year.  Yesterday would have been her 88th birthday, but that's not why autumn reminds me of her.  Fall was Grandma's favourite season.  Thinking of the fall, without thinking of Grandma would be like fall with out the brilliant colours, or fall without the crisp cool temperatures.

With apologies to all the rock stars in my life - my husband, my parents, my children, my best girl friends, I am going on record as saying my maternal Grandmother is my all time favourite person.  If you met her, you'd know why.

She was born Angelina Tibando.  Being of Italian descent during a war where Italy was your enemy, couldn't have been easy.  Not one to hang her head in shame, Grandma signed up to help the war effort.  It was her army girlfriends who renamed her Cora - but I'm not sure why.  The army was where my grandparents met. Grandma had slipped and fallen into a mud puddle, and Grandpa helped her up.  They were married six weeks later.  

When I think of what love looks like, I think of my grandparents.  They loved each other beyond words.  You could feel their love when you were in the room with them.  When Grandpa died, Grandma slipped their love letters in his front pocket.  "Grandma," I said to her, "Why are you sending them with Grandpa?  Don't you want to read them?"  No, she wanted to send them with Grandpa, that way when she's gone, none of us would be able to snoop. I assumed that the letters were filled with cute little I love yous, but the way Grandma blushed told me I was wrong.

The other thing I remember about Grandpa's funeral, is that Grandma asked us not to wear black.  She herself wore a yellow dress, the exact same shade as a Black Eyed Susan.  Grandma was sad, but strong.  I knew that she would miss my grandfather, but I also knew that she was going to be okay.

Of course she would be okay. She wasn't about to sit around and wait to die.  Seriously, this is what she said to me when I remarked one visit that I thought it was neat that she was trying to root a rose she had been given.

I don't usually remember Grandma with sadness.  I miss her, but I know she would want us to remember her in her yellow dress, laughing, trying new things and exploring her world.  

me and my pet squirrel.

grandma and I at the "falls"

a love beyond words.

Summer's Growth

Summer is the space between springs promise and fall's bounty.  Summer is the season to grow.

 

As a child I often suffered terrible growing pains in my legs, the kind that would wake you up from sleep.  My mother would give me a baby aspirin and tuck me back into bed.  I would whimper in my bed as I waited for the medicine to work.  This would wake my older sister.  She would get up and wrap my legs in the afghan that Aunt Marg knit.  As long as I could remember the people who loved and cared for me always helped me with my growing pains.

I have experienced so much growth this year.  It's not surprising.  My one little word for 2011 was thrive:

(1) to make steady progress; prosper. 

(2) to grow vigorously; flourish

Maybe I didn't think my word all the way through.  Growth often uncomfortable.  And while a baby aspirin and my legs lovingly wrapped in a blanket isn't going to help my growing pains, it is still my family that I am look to for comfort and encouragement.

When I was editing my pictures, putting together the collages for this post, I felt overwhelming feeling of love and pride.  Seeing us camping, at the beach or just hanging out together, I know that John and I have built a strong foundation.  A strong base that will support all of us as we grow and thrive.  

How To Stay in Love

kiss

cuddle

share

say please

say thank-you

validate

appreciate

giggle

say sorry

forgive & forget

accept

make time

make conversation

make love

nurture

prioritize

fight fair

learn from mistakes

be venerable

be kind

be interested

be interesting

say i love you

compromise

"see" him

"see" yourself

hold hands

celebrate

give up the notion of "my job" or "his job" - you're in this together

explore

play

dream

set goals

remember

be friends

be a soft place to land

take time for yourself

dance together

embrace quirks - yours and his

try hard

laugh together

laugh at his jokes

brag about him

turn off the tv

be intimate - mind, body and soul

let go

be careful; egos are fragile

focus

invest in each other

ride it out

be deliberate

create rituals

honour

respect

have faith

spoil him

be aware

slow down

get lost on adventures

talk to each other; the "big" talks and the "nothing" talks

plan together

sympathize

grow



Did I miss something?  Add it below in the comment box!

 



When I Was 17

The other night the kid was sitting in my room watching MTV's "When I Was 17."  It got me to reminiscing about who I was when I was 17...

  I was on the cusp of seventeen when I met my first boyfriend.  I remember getting ready to go to a New Year's Eve party.  I spent extra time getting ready, applying my frosted metallic brown makeup and matching nail polish. I did my hair, that year for a Christmas gift my father had spent $75.00 on a spiral perm (a fortune at the time.) I went to the closet and picked out my Buffalo jeans, my plum blouse with the military buttons, and my ankle booties.  I felt pretty, and I hoped the boy I liked would notice me.  He did, and we've been together ever since.  It's been twenty years, and I love him more today than ever.

Having a boyfriend, a person who thought the world of me, changed how I felt about myself.   His love for me made me realize that perhaps I was lovable.  When John and I were seventeen, we would spend hours on the phone each night.  Because we went to different high schools, we had our own space, with stories to share with each other at night.  Neither one of us had our licence and so we only saw each other once a week, usually Wednesdays and on the weekends with our group of friends.  That all changed when John got his licence and bought his first car, a 1981 gold Chevette.  After that, we saw each other more. We would drive around, listening to Nirvana, Guns n' Roses and Van Halen.  Or we would just stay home, hang out and listen to Lenny Kravitz. 

As important as my relationship with my boyfriend was to me when I was seventeen, so were my group of friends.  There were four of us.  At lunch time, Amanda would drive us in her dad's big black Cadillac to one of our houses.  There we would cook up Kraft Dinner, chicken strips, or chocolate chip muffins for lunch.  We would put on our parents old ABBA records (totally not cool, but fun) and we would dance and sing.  The four of us laughed a lot.  That's not to say that there wasn't some drama with the four of us, but overall, there was enough respect between us to make it work. 

My parents had split up when I was fifteen, and I lived with my father and brother.  Their separation was hard on me, and looking back probably harder than I realized.  My mom fell in love with another tman.  Her new relationship was abusive.  I struggled with how she could leave us and not her new boyfriend.  I remember my Dad and I fighting often over chores and what my responsibilities were.  It was hard for me to balance being a child with trying to keep the house and family together.  Seventeen is also the year that I became an aunt.  My sister, two years older than myself, gave birth to her son. 

As many sweet memories I have of seventeen, there was also a dark side.  By the end of seventeen, I fell into a dark depression.  John was there for me, and for that I am eternally grateful.  School became harder and harder for me, and soon after, I made the decision to drop out.  Part of me wishes that I could have stuck it out, but I know that my journey and the lessons I needed to learn took me on a different path.

I would tell my seventeen year old self to give herself more credit.  She is doing the best she can and learning along the way.

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Frank Sinatra - Always, Dedicated to Grandma

  Grandma has had a lifetime of loves and losses.  Her mother, father, sister, son, husband and her daughter all great loves that she has lost.  It seems so unfair that now she is on the verge of losing herself.

Like an unknowing, innocent child Dementia has taken her by the hand and is taking her down a road of uncertainty and fear. 

 More and more when I look into her eyes, instead of seeing the woman who I have grown to love and respect, I see the eyes of a girl, trying so hard to understand.  It's heartbreaking to see her try so hard and comprehend so little.

 All my life I've been a caregiver.  I have  given encouragement, love, praise, discipline, and advise to those who needed me.  Knowing that one day the people I was caring for would become independent - or at least that's the goal.  When  you care for a child, you can say to yourself, "It's just a phase, they will grow out of it."   Elder care is different, there is no growing out of it. It's harder because of the fact that with each passing phase there is a decline.  Independence is still a goal, but safety and well being start to be the greater need to be met.  The challenge balancing the two, with dignity and respect. 





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