Families, to most of us are probably the most important things we have in our lives, through our life cycle from being children, parents of children, adult children of aging parents and then grandparents. For some it is something they’ve never had and wish they had.
I have been blessed to grow up in a close-knit family with two brothers. I was further blessed to have five children of my own. For many of their growing up years, I was a single mother but by working together as a team, we became very close. I am now a grandmother of five with two more grandbabies due this year.
Life and Memories is going to be about how I feel about family in general and about parenting and being a grandmother. I also think memories are an important part of our lives. I will include some of my own memories as well and hope that others will do so also.
I look forward to hearing from everyone.
I have discovered through my years of parenting and of being a grandparent that we are often shaped by the children in our lives.
Often children see life more clearly than grown-ups do. For adults, life is often viewed with all the fuzzy edges that disappointments, experience and living have wrapped around their outlook. But if we really listen to the children in our lives, we will realize that they often ‘get it’ before we do. We look for the hidden meanings, the double meanings and the nuances. With kids the obvious is right there before their eyes and everything is taken at face value. Children show the world their true selves. What a lesson for adults!
Children take the time to enjoy the simple things in life. While walking with my grandson, we have watched crabs scurrying for cover when rocks have been overturned and have marveled at a snake undulating through waves and over rocks. These are things, had I been walking on my own, I would likely not have noticed or have taken the time to watch. How sad to have lost the capacity to enjoy the simple things in life.
One of the most exciting things for children to do is to go trick ‘or’ treating on Hallowe’en. For children it is not the ordeal we see it as. We view it as having to walk around in the freezing cold or rainy weather. For a child, it is the excitement of dressing up, the wonder of what they’ll get at each house they visit, being together with mom or dad when usually mom or dad are busy, and the excitement of sharing this time with friends.
Also, going to look at Christmas light displays is magical for children. If we look at the displays through the eyes of our children, we will be able to feel some of the magic ourselves if we can enjoy what our children see; animated snowmen, Santa Clauses, reindeer prancing across lawns and Christmas music; the happiest of all music. When we get into the spirit of the Christmas magic as children do, we may be able to remember the excitement we felt from our earliest memories of Christmases past.
Spending time with my grandchildren has opened my eyes and helped me view life through their eyes. When my grandson helps me in my garden, he is learning the difference between plants and weeds, how to harvest seeds for next year and how to pick the vegetables we grow. And I am learning how my grandchild feels about the snails we find on the plants and what he thinks as we watch their antennas disappear when they are disturbed. And I discover his reactions to the world around him.
When we go for walks, he is learning the difference between maple and oak leaves, how many shapes and sizes of pine cones there are, what kind of sea life there is on the beach and the colour a worm becomes when it wiggles through a mud puddle. I am learning that we don’t always have to hurry, we don’t have to end up where we originally thought we’d go, that there are many little flowers in a seemingly flowerless area of grass and it really is nice to feed the seagulls.
Life takes on meaning when viewing it from a child’s perspective. When we do craft projects together, they are learning co-ordination, another new skill, the enjoyment of art, the experience of new accomplishments and that there are a lot of interesting things to do. I am learning there are many different ways to do things, that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and there is a perfect spot for each ‘work of art’. I am also appreciating the capabilities of young children without my adult expectations.
When we snuggle together to read or watch a video, they are learning about love, family, warmth and good times and I am renewing my appreciation for the miracle of a child. And the more time spent with my grandchildren, the more rituals we develop. Through these rituals they gain a sense of belonging and I enjoy time shared with my grandchildren.
Children have enthusiasm and excitement for what we consider just everyday situations. They are always ready for the next adventure. They revel in a smile and a hug; they know that love and time spent together is more important than material possessions, climbing a corporate ladder, buying an expensive new car or an expensive house. From watching my children and grandchildren, I have learned that life is for living, not amassing and it is for doing the best I can in the time I have. It is living life in such a way that hopefully I will leave a legacy of love behind me. It will mean looking into the eyes of the children who have been in my life and seeing the true meaning of life reflected back to me. If I manage to accomplish this, I think I will have been a success.
June 12/08
When I became a grandmother for the fifth time, there were some that said it should be ‘old hat’ by now. But, like the birth of each of my own five children, the miracle of this new life was every bit as wondrous the fifth time as it was the first time. Having a grandchild seems perhaps to be even more of a miracle than when I had my own children. I was now viewing the miracle through the years of my experience, knowing how fragile life can be compared to when I was young and felt myself, and those close to me, to be immortal.
When my eldest son’s baby was due, I was pleased to be invited to be part of the birthing process. It was exciting on several different levels: first, it was great to see the actual birth of my granddaughter; it was a wonderful experience being able to witness my son becoming a father; and I felt pleased to have been asked by my daughter-in-law to be part of their special experience.
Unfortunately, this wonderful experience began more stressfully than any of us had anticipated. The child was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. Born blue and limp as a rag doll, the pediatrician immediately began to suction out her air passages. Looking across at my son, I saw that his face was devoid of all colour and he looked as ill as I felt. But thankfully, before long, we heard a soft mewing sound from the bassinet and seeing the tiny blue baby quickly turn to a bright brick red, I began to take pictures of our latest addition, a healthy little girl.
When my third son and his wife had their first baby, I was again in the delivery room. This was a very much different experience from the first birthing I attended. When my son saw his newborn child’s head emerge, tears coursed down his face. He cut the umbilical cord himself and the baby was then laid on his mother’s tummy to be admired by those waiting outside; a support team for mom and dad. In his first fifteen minutes of life, I’m sure he became one of the most photographed babies in the maternity ward.
At both times the experiences were so emotional that it was difficult to stem the flow of tears. The opportunity to see my children become parents; to watch their faces when they realize what a miracle they have created; to see the love on their faces for this new child; to be able to welcome a new little person into our family and to feel my heart swell with love not only for the new grandchild but for my children and their spouses increased my awareness of a miracle that when we’re young we tend to take for granted.
With as many grandchildren as I have children, I realize that each has been a unique experience. Although exceedingly happy with the arrival of each grandchild, my two experiences in the delivery room while witnessing the births of these grandchildren, will be moments I will remember and cherish forever.
But that isn’t the end of it. In a few weeks my second son and my daughter-in-law will be welcoming their daughter into the world and if all goes well, I will be there. Also in October, my third son and his wife will be having their second child.
June 18, 2008
A few days ago my mother was taken to the hospital by ambulance where she lay in a corridor in the emergency ward for two nights. Now on the fifth floor, she still is not in a room but has a cozy space in an alcove with a screen around her. We agreed, she and I, that it really was much nicer than a room. From her bed she can watch people coming and going, feel herself to be part of things and has a nice view of the sky and mountains down the hallway from where she lies. She also is in close proximity to the nurses’ station.
She is better today and seemed almost like her perky self. She is in the geriatric section of the hospital and although she is almost 88 years old, she seems so much younger than those around her.
As I watched her fellow patients, I was reminded of something she has often said. “There is a young girl inside of me and no one knows she’s there but me.” I wondered if everyone in the geriatric ward felt the same way.
This remembrance prompted me to write the following:
I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles the years have worn in my face, the loose skin that hangs like appendages beneath my chin and the folds of flesh surrounding my eyes. Silver hair adorns my head like an unwanted hat. The woman who stares at me from the looking glass is a stranger.
My hands, twisted with arthritis, move slowly through their tasks and my legs shuffle as I use my cane for balance. This stranger’s body has betrayed me.
But I know, though no one else does, that a young dark-haired girl continues to live within me.
That young girl can still feel the wind in her hair when she rides down Brickyard Hill on her bicycle as if it was only yesterday. Applying her brakes she comes to a screeching halt at the bottom of the hill where she quickly jumps off her bike. Although I can feel her spirit and the agility of her body as she moves, my outer shell no longer obeys my commands.
When I think of summers long past, I remember her excitement for the first baseball game of the season. While I sit with pain in my joints, I can still feel her sure-footed race around the bases. She stands ready on third base with her glove poised. I hear the ‘whack’ as the ball is hit and see it soar through the air. Her strong hands catch it and another one is out. The north island wins over the south again.
That young girl within me remembers many of the thoughts and wishes she had as she walked to school, thinking nothing of the three mile hike each way and proud of her ability to make it in under half an hour. She feels that no time has passed since she roamed the beach in search of shells, leaping confidently from boulder to boulder. It seems that it was only yesterday she sat on the rocks and watched waves lap onto the shore while she watched seagulls swoop and squawk as they grabbed morsels from the oyster catchers.
That girl is very much alive but she is locked within a body whose flesh is no longer firm or supple and whose movements are no longer quick. Her skin is smooth and her hair is shining while the stranger who is home to this girl lacks enthusiasm and exuberance. When I was busier and more able-bodied, I saw only the young girl in the mirror but she no longer looks back at me; she’s no longer seen by anyone, not even myself. But I know she’s still there; I can feel her and hear her, and her thoughts are still mine.
My own children are now getting their own wrinkles, thick waists and grey hair; they have aches and pains and health issues of their own. They spend their leisure time at the gym and take vitamins hoping to hold old age at bay. How did it happen that these children of mine look older than the girl within me feels? And my grandchildren, looking like my children did only yesterday, look at me like the stranger I am.
The very young look at the elderly in a different way I realized once I became aware of that stranger in the mirror. When their voices could no longer be heard by this stranger, they no longer spoke; making an effort to be heard was too much like hard work. When stories became repeated renditions of a long life lived, they turned away in boredom. And when steps became slow and difficult, they raced ahead anxious to get where they wanted to go.
As a young mother, I had ‘eyes in the back of my head’. The young girl within me still does. She knows when the young have no patience for the elderly. Or is it that the elderly body who has taken control only imagines what the young girl inside me can see.
Perhaps it is God’s little joke that the mind stays young while the body gets old. Or perhaps it is so that when the body doesn’t obey, we have the young girl to remind us of what our youth had been like.
June 19, 2008
Today when I went to the hospital, my mother was stronger than she had been the day before. As she told me the story about ‘Bob’, her night-time nurse, I saw the familiar twinkle in her eyes. She was again the spunky mother I remembered from my childhood. Sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, she also told me about the elderly men who were rolling around the corridor in their wheelchairs checking out the ‘new kid on the block’. It brought to mind the same spunkiness of my mother from long ago.
I remember still seeing her stand at the edge of the ditch, her fur coat dripping, her hair plastered to her face and thick with mud.
When last I had looked at her walking behind me she was dressed in her finest; a fur coat inherited from a deceased aunt, brand new rhinestone earrings and her hair newly coiffed. And because it was a rainy evening, she wore her gumboots. Anyone living on a farm knows you don’t wear your best shoes when it’s pouring cats and dogs, no matter what special event it is you are attending.
As a child of eight years old, this transformation in my mother was a shock. Walking with my head tucked into the collar of my coat, leaning into the wind, I had failed to hear her muffled calls for help.
But fortunately her friend had. “Sir,” she had called to a passing gentleman, “would you be kind enough to help my friend out of the ditch?”
Time has not dimmed the memory of that man’s expression as he looked first at my mother’s friend, then at me before his eyes finally and reluctantly looked down at the sodden spectacle in the water-filled ditch.
“How did she get there?”
I think now that it was not the first question he should have asked. But to a young child, his question was reasonable and I wanted to know also. I knew without a doubt that if I had ended up in the ditch wearing my very best clothes, I would’ve been in very big trouble and explanations would have been required to more than just this stranger.
“Will you help please, Sir?” she asked again.
Reluctantly he reached down to grab my mother’s muddy outstretched hand. I”m not sure everyone knows this but a fur coat that has been submerged in a water-filled ditch is not the easiest thing to pull up a bank, especially when it has a woman in it who is wearing gumboots filled with water.
Eventually with a lot of grunting and groaning, on the part of the stranger, the two of them managed to pull my mother to the top of the ditch.
“Thank you Sir,” my mother stammered to the man’s quickly retreating back.
Together we slogged to where the special event was going to be held and made a bee-line for the washroom. As my mother and her friend attempted to squeeze the water out of the fur coat, they began to giggle. Tears actually ran down their faces in their mirth. I couldn’t believe it. Now if I had ended up in a ditch and then giggled, I really would’ve been in big, big trouble.
My mother used paper towels in an attempt to dry her hair but the mud stayed. They emptied the gumboots of water. And still they giggled. I don’t know if anyone knows this either but wet fur coats smell like wet dogs, so while they giggled, I gagged.
“Well, we’ve got to see the show,” my mother insisted. “We’ve come all this way and we have to wait to get the bus home anyway.”
“Yes,” her friend sensibly agreed.
With a last glance in the mirror, her hair not looking a whole lot better than when she had first been dragged out of the ditch, we left the washroom.
At eight years old, I had not as yet developed any great understanding for my mother’s predicament. In fact I felt very embarrassed to be walking down the aisle behind this disheveled looking woman who people might realize was my mother.
Now as an adult, I have to give her kudos when I think of her walking to her seat with squelching gumboots, her hair still in muddy wet strings, carrying a dripping fur coat but still wearing her brand new rhinestone earrings.
My mother’s memory of that evening is somewhat different to mine.
She does not remember giggling - at all. She remembers very definitely that it was not a laughing matter. She remembers going too close to the edge of the ditch and sliding much too quickly into the freezing, muddy water. So now I finally have my answer to that stranger’s long-ago question.
She also remembers a very long evening in very wet clothes and wet feet but with a smile plastered onto her face like the mud in her hair.
The fur coat was never quite the same. It certainly was no longer wearable to special events anymore even by someone as practical as my mother.
June 30, 2008
My mother was released from hospital - far sooner than she should have been - as she is unable to look after herself at this point. The bed was needed for someone sicker than she was.
She will no longer be able to drive and now requires a walker. It has not been a slow decline. Beginning only two weeks ago when a low-life stole her purse, combined with the additional trauma of a severe urinary tract infection, with resultant fever, her life has changed, possibily forever.
Today, a beautiful summer day, we decided to take a drive through memory lane. Taking the ferry across the river, we drove to Whonock Lake. Changed from my early memories, the campsites no longer exist, the community hall has been added to and the concession stand is larger but the beauty remains. The sounds of children laughing and parents enjoying a day at the beach are the same. The ground was too uneven with tree roots and clumps of grass for my mother’s walker but we sat with our cold drinks and breathed in the essence of those long-ago memories while the sun shimmered on the water.
From there we drove past the house my father and grandfather had built and where I grew up. It also had changed - not so much the house with the exception of the colour, but the yard. Many of the trees had been removed but it was still enough the same that our feelings of nostalgia were difficult to contain.
From there we drove around the area noting changes; more changes than not; past my elementary school and into town where we met my brother for dinner.
On the ferry back across the river later that evening, my mother commented on what a good day it was and how much she had enjoyed herself. Do the elderly have a larger capacity for happiness? Are they more content with less? Could the rest of us learn from this?
July 5, 2008
My mother decided she was ready to go home yesterday. I think she heard her computer mournfully calling her name. While in hospital she had made a decision to stop gathering more information for her geneology and start organizing what she has but on the drive home she was already talking about getting back on geneology.com. So much for organization; it never has been her interest.
Someone from the hospital came and did an assessment on her living area. She told my mother that she should move some of the furniture out of the bedroom so she has room to get around with her walker. The first problem is there is nowhere to move anything and the second problem is she doesn’t want to get rid of anything. She has already lost so much in the last few weeks; at this point she doesn’t need to lose her furniture also.
She had been thinking that as she got stronger, she wouldn’t need the walker but the woman told her ‘no’ very definitely - that her walker would be her best friend for the rest of her life. I think her losses are almost as difficult for her family as they are for her.
This is the woman who rode a Harley-Davidson on her 85th birthday; who never missed a party; who attended every Red Hat event she had time for and who wanted to go down the Channel in Penticton on an inner tube this year for her 88th birthday. And this is certainly the lady I thought would be dancing well into her 90’s with the same energy and enthusiasm she has had her whole life.
Although my mother is great at putting a good face on adversity, she must be mourning the loss of her ability to drive; being relegated to a walker; the necessity for a commode and a lift on her toilet. Each of these are like neon lights flashing the fact of her loss of independence. But knowing my mother, I’m sure she’ll be bouncing back with a smile on her face.
July 7, 2008
I am fortunate to be the daughter of my parents. My mother has always been strong when it has counted and she’s definitely a fighter. My father also was a fighter but unfortunately he didn’t win his fight with cancer. My father was also very wise. He knew exactly how to handle three children.
I remember one summer when the weather had been extremely hot, my two brothers and myself, all within three years of age, had whined and begged to be able to have a big swimming pool like some distant neighbours had in their back yard.
“We don’t have enough water in the summer,” was one reason we were given. We didn’t quite understand this; after all we did have a well and we had often heard our father proudly tell people how good the water was in our well.
“How will the pool stay clean? It takes more than just a pool and water.” But we knew that pools did stay clean. We had seen clean pools. These reasons did not seem reasonable to three pool-seeking children.
“Who will build this pool” I don’t have time to do it.” My father stared down at our three earnest faces; smiling at each of us, he reluctantly agreed.
Looking at each other, we weren’t sure if we had heard correctly. He had agreed, *but* there was a condition. If *we* dug the hole for the swimming pool, we could have one. We were ecstatic. He staked off an area of about 12 foot by 12 foot where we could dig and putting some rocks at the corners of where our new pool was going to be, he handed each of us a shovel.
We happily began our project. “Look how much dirt I’ve dug.”
“You haven’t dug as much as me.”
“I wonder if we’ll have it dug by tomorrow.”
The sun beat down unmercifully on our backs and eventually tempers began to be frayed. “You’re digging too close to me.”
“No, I’m not. You’ve hardly dug anything at all.”
“If we’re not all going to dig, we can’t all swim in it the same amount of time.”
Half an hour passed and the heat didn’t let up. “I’m thirsty; I’m going to get a drink,” said the first one to lay down his shovel.
Watching him leave, we realized how thirsty we also were. “Are you going for a drink?” the second one asked the third.
“I dunno, are you?”
“If you are. We can come back and finish this as soon as we get a drink. But if he doesn’t come back, he’s not going to be able to swim in the pool.”
Our father came into the house while we were enjoying our glasses of kool aid; rivers of perspiration slid down the sides of his face. “I thought you three would be out digging your pool. You’ll never get it dug sitting here in the house.” He smiled affectionately at his three offspring.
“Can we finish it tomorrow?”
“If you like but just remember, it’s not going to dig itself. How far did you get with it?”
Looking at each other, we were embarrassed to admit how little had been dug. “How deep do you think it has to be, Dad?” the eldest asked.
“I would think it should be a least three feet - about this high - to make it worth the effort. Do you have much further to go, do you think?” I saw him glance towards my mother, a smile on his face.
“Digging a pool isn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” the youngest complained.
“Not everyone was digging as hard as they were supposed to,” the eldest glared at the youngest.
“Maybe we don’t need a pool,” the middle declared.
“Perhaps we don’t,” our father agreed as if he had just then made that decision. “I have an idea you all might like.”
We sat expectantly. We were quite open to another idea. “Will it be as hard as digging the pool?” the youngest asked.
“It’ll be winter by the time we finish digging and then we won’t need it,” the middle logically pointed out.
“What’s the idea?” the eldest asked.
“If you give your mother and me a hand doing things this afternoon, maybe we can all walk down to the creek for a swim later. How does that sound?”
Three tired heads nodded happily in unison.
Another time, during one particularly cold winter when the icicles hung thick from the roof of our house and the snow lay deep in our fields, I began to grow tired of being confined inside the house. At the tender age of six years, I already yearned for adventure. Hide’n’seek, playing with my dolls or practicing the piano as my parents suggested had long-since lost my interest. Making the decision to run away, presumably to a place where children didn’t have so many rules, I asked one brother if he would come with me.
Looking out the window at huge snow flakes falling on our already frozen landscape, he decided that he’d rather wait for summer to be an adventurer. Turning to my younger brother, I asked, “Do you want to come with me?” Smiling, he agreed to join the fun.
“You can’t go by yourself,” my mother told me when I confided my plans.
“I won’t be. Larry said he’d go with me.”
“It’s freezing out there,” she warned.
“I’ll wear my hat and mittens.”
“The snow is too deep,” she countered.
“No, it isn’t,” I argued.
“Let her go,” my father interjected. “She’ll be back before long.” Then looking at me he added sternly, “But you’ll have to dress your brother yourself. And you’ll have to make sure you’re both warm enough before you can go.”
Struggling, I got him into his snowsuit, his mittens, his scarf and his boots. He then needed to go to the bathroom. I undressed him and after he returned, excited to participate in our adventure, I proceeded to dress him again. I then got myself dressed and then my favourite doll, remembering to bring her doll bottle.
Setting off down the front steps, I held my brother’s hand. But by the time we got to the end of the driveway, tears were already beginning to fill his eyes. He wasn’t very impressed with our little adventure so far. “But it will be fun,” I tried to assure him.
Proceeding up the road, his steps gradually became slower and slower. “I want to go home,” he finally cried as the tears splashed down his rosy red cheeks.
“But you said you wanted to come with me,” I reminded him.
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this. I want to go home.”
With my own hands numb in my mittens, I reluctantly admitted to myself that it was probably time to return home. Perhaps Dennis’ idea of waiting for summer had been a good one.
Arriving back at the house I undressed my brother and myself and together we sat by the fire warming ourselves. My father had no need to say anything. He knew my lesson had been learned, the hard way.
He was a very wise man.
July 9, 2008
My father came to Canada while still in his teens not knowing if he would ever see his family again. His reason was strong for leaving his homeland of Germany. Sponsored by a church group, he came by ship with other young people to get away from Hitler’s tyranny and his attempt to control the youth and in some cases to try to turn them against their parents.
He went to work on a farm in the Peace River District so that he could repay his passage. The family had several sons and my father was fortunate in that they treated him as one of their own. After the four year period, they asked my father to stay; but because the Depression was severe at that time, he realized things were already difficult for the family without having an extra person to worry about, so he set off on his own. He now, however had the advantage over when he arrived of being able to speak English.
Work was difficult to find during the Depression and food was sometimes scarce but my father was willing to work hard. At times he was employed as a cook in logging camps; as a baker; and as an orderly in a men’s senior unit; he worked as a labouror and did other jobs and thought nothing of traveling long distances to look for work.
During the early part of the war, my father worked as a cook in a restaurant. It was here that he met my mother. She was employed as a waitress and said every time she looked up she saw big brown eyes smiling at her. Those smiling eyes could not be ignored forever and they eventually married.
Like the Japanese during World War II, my father was considered an alien in those early years of the 1940’s and he was relocated to Calgary, to be away from the coast. My mother joined him there returning sometime after the War to the Vancouver area. (During this time my mother lost her Canadian citizenship in spite of having been born in Canada). My father, upon his return to British Columbia worked as a baker until he could save enough money to buy land in the Fraser Valley. Life as a farmer had always appealed to him.
As a result, when I was a young child, my brothers and I were surrounded by goats, cows, pigs, chickens, ducks, grese, rabbits and two sheep. The two sheep were pets but it never took long for every other animal on the ‘farm’ to become a ‘pet’ also. That was my soft-hearted father’s downfall as a farmer. My mother finally decided that farming was not for him and he again became an Orderly at a men’s unit and later at Essondale. She then became the farmer in the family.
Being a newcomer to Canada during a time when the economy was so poor was difficult for a new immigrant but my father was blessed with vast inner strengths - or more likely he developed these strengths by being young in a new country. His strengths and values are what make him stand out as a special person in my memories and I believe he was a great addition to his chosen country of Canada.
He was a great parent, a loving husband, a good friend, a kind neighbour and a thoughtful co-worker. His cheerfulness and optimism were never failing as was his sense of humour. The rule he lived by was ‘giving up is never an option; you can do anything you set your mind to do’.
These early strengths helped him later in life as well when he was struck by a car and thrown fifty feet. He was told he would never walk again, but “I can’t” were not words that were part of my father’s vocabulary and as such with determination and perseverance he eventually walked first with crutches and then with a cane. He never complained. He always looked at his cup as being half full abd he never felt sorry for himself.
While still in a wheelchair he started a coffee wagon business. While one of my brothers did the driving, he prepared all the food. He believed that you can always ask for more but you have to be grateful for what you have.
Unfortunately, ten years later my wonderful father was struck with cancer and died a short time later. Although his bank account was not large, he died a far richer man than many because he lived his values, no doubt learned as a young, hardworking immigrant. He taught his family the power of love and that wishing for something won’t make it happen - you have to work for it; and the value of optimism and perseverance.
He taught each of his children that every day of our lives is a fresh page and the choice is ours how we want to live it. We can make it a good story or a bad story.
My father, and the strengths he developed as a very young immigrant those many years ago, left his family with a legacy that none of us will ever forget.
July 10, 2008
In two days grandchild No. 6 is due to make her grand entrance into the world. Her name is Lily. And we found out this week that grandchild No. 7 is also a girl. Her name is Bella. It will be nice that the two girl cousins are so close in age. The other grandchildren are spaced approximately three years apart so they didn’t have the same opportunity to be playmates in quite the same way.
Grandchild No. 5 (who will be a big brother to Bella) will be celebrating his third birthday in a little over a week. Thinking about his upcoming birthday reminded me of his birthday party last year when I didn’t remember the rules that we drum into our children’s heads just as they were drummed into ours. That is, I didn’t remember them until I was lying flat on my back on my son’s backyard sidewalk.
While admittedly taking a bigger bite than I could properly chew and talking while I had something in my mouth is not very ladylike, I did manage to land on the ground with much grace and little fanfare.
With the piece of pineapple lodged in my esophagus, I must have remembered other rules like, ‘don’t ruin a good party’ and ‘don’t make a spectacle of yourself’ because I made no comment about the explosion of pain in my chest. Waking slowly on the cold cement, I realized I had, with no prior planning involved, become the entertainment for this social occasion. I also became aware somewhat belatedly that my performance wasn’t designed for a two year olds’ birthday celebration.
Feeling better when I woke up after my bout on the ground than I had felt before my debut, I was anxious to get up. ‘Wait until the ambulance gets here’, I was told. Lying prone, I felt conspicuous as many of the party-goers focused their attention upon me. I closed my eyes and listened realizing that a party takes on a much different perspective when you are a guest in a horizontal position.
It is much like when you’re giving birth to what seems to be a twenty pound baby and the nurses are talking over your perspiring body about the dinner party they attended the previous evening. In this case, a few chatted about inconsequential subjects as if unconscious of the interruption, one cried while another comforted her; others tried to console me when all I wanted to do was get up, and small children were kept away from the upsetting vision of their Nana having an ‘unscheduled nap’ on the sidewalk.
When the event was over and I was finally led to a chair to recover from my plummeting blood pressure, the party resumed and I had time to think and reassess my deplorable eating habits. As with everything, there are always lessons to be learned.
The rules are simple. First, ‘don’t bite off more than you can chew’; rule number two is ‘don’t talk while your mouth is full’ and a lesser known rule is number three, ‘don’t try to play acrobatics with a pineapple that is in your mouth’.
I remembered the simple ‘rules’ but thought there must surely be other, more important ones that should be followed. How about, ‘cut every morsel of food into minute pieces before placing in mouth and then chew each mouthful ten times to ensure that nothing is large enough to become stuck’. This may, however, reduce your dinner invitations if you remain at the table an hour after the last person has departed. Secondly, ‘think before speaking, or as in my situation, answering - just nod your head’. You will be considered the hit of the party because of your intelligent conversational abilities. Third, ‘don’t take deep breaths while eating, only small shallow puffs’. The children will be entranced; they’ll think you’re a guppy. But probably the most important rule to remember is to say, ‘no thanks, I don’t eat pineapple’.
July 14, 2008
My sixth grandchild, a beautiful 6 lb. 10 ounce little girl, arrived on July 12th, her due date. I feel fortunate and honoured that I was able to be there for her debut. Well, almost there. Receiving a call at 3:45 a.m. on the Friday morning, I was told that the water had broken. Because I was excited, it was only with difficulty that I managed to get back to sleep. Since not too much was happening at this time, they were told when they phoned the hospital to go in about 8:00 a.m. for an assessment.
About 9:30 a.m. I received a second phone call to say that my daughter-in-law was 1 cm dilated and they were to go back again about noonish. Later we met them at the hospital about 12:30 and they were set up in the room that was to be ‘home’ for the next 24 or so hours. My son showed me where things were; i.e.: the fridge for the ice packs, where to get ice chips and the microwave for heating up the beanbag for back pain. These were in my ‘goody bag’ of things I had brought along as well as bottled water and juice boxes. The beanbag was probably the most helpful during the labour (and the ice chips). I also had some ideas for distraction which helped somewhat in the early stages of labour but later on, were more of an annoyance than a distraction. And of course I brought my camera.
The first pictures showed my daughter-in-law smiling but these were quickly followed with ones that showed, as her pain increased, that she’d had more enjoyable days. By 1:00 a.m. with only 5 cm dilation, she was finally given an epidural. After this, she was able to get some rest but the down side was that it slowed down the contractions. My son and I stayed in the room with her. None of us got much rest that night.
It was an extremely long and tiring process for my daughter-in-law but finally by 1:00 p.m. she had reached the 10 cm dilation stage and was ready to push but the baby would not proceed any further down the birth canal. Although the obstetrician planned to use forceps to try to help with the birthing process, the baby didn’t move far enough along for her to be able to do so. At this point the decision was quickly made to give her a caesarean. In minutes she was whisked from the room while my son donned surgical garb and immediately followed them into surgery. At this announcement, I felt very emotional and near tears. Although I felt some relief, I thought that perhaps the decision should possibly have been made sooner.
Born at 2:03 p.m., my son later brought the baby to the waiting room where we, my mother and another son, another daughter-in-law and my three year old grandson waited to see the new addition to our family. My son and I witnessed his little daughter’s first bath and then he was able to sit and hold her. He was quite possessive with her in those first few hours after her birth and rightly so - he has a beautiful baby.
When I remember the birth of my own babies, I find it amazing to think how much things have changed. When my three older children were born, there was a functional-only labour and delivery room which was sterile, bleak and a somewhat unfriendly and scary area where the mom laboured on her own, most often in isolation. No one was allowed into the delivery room with the mom-to-be. Nurses occasionally popped in to see how the labour was going by listening to the mom’s stomach with a stethoscope and occasionally she did an internal check to monitor the progress of the baby. Babies’ heartbeats were not monitored on a machine and nor were contractions; there was no colourful paint on the walls or flowered curtains at the windows. In fact, there were no windows. Morphine was not offered and nor was an epidural; whiffs of gas was the going fare. And good, or bad, stays in the hospital were much longer.
Babies were kept in the nursery and were only brought to the mother at feeding time. During the night they were bottle fed whether they were being breast fed or not. Breast feeding was not as popular as it now is. Fathers peered, with noses flattened against the nursery window, looking at their new babies. They were not encouraged, or expected, to take an active part in the birth or in those first few days of their new child’s life and seldom held their new offspring until they were home.
By the time I had my last two children however, things had changed somewhat. Father’s were now allowed into the delivery room - not necessarily encouraged, but allowed. Babies still weren’t monitored any more than previously though and the labour and delivery rooms were the same sterile, cold environments. Also at this time, babies could be kept in the room with the mother and fathers could hold their babies without waiting until they got home. Hospital stays by this time were about three days. There may have been epidurals but none were offered to me, or anything else for that matter; not even a passing whiff of gas.
The environment while delivering a baby and in the maternity ward is now so much more mom/baby friendly than it used to be. Not only the baby’s well-being but the new mothers’ pain levels and emotional concerns are considered more than in previous years where it seemed that the primary opinion was that the woman’s main purpose was that of being a vessel to deliver a new baby into the world.
But whether there is controlled pain or not, it is the only pain that provides a bonus at the end of it. It is a pain that can be forgotten almost as soon as your new baby is placed in your arms and you look into its sweet, little face. And it is a pain that you would willingly experience again for the same bonus.
July 17/08
My son and daughter-in-law have been blessed with a calm and good-natured baby. Although I’m not sure if blessed is the proper word. ‘Blessed’ implies that they had nothing to do with it. I have a theory that perhaps a baby’s temperament is based on those of its parents. Since both my son and daughter-in-law are calm by nature, perhaps they have passed this tendency on to their daughter.
My other son and daughter-in-law are also both calm and easy going and also were ‘blessed’ with a calm and easy-going child. They are now expecting grandchild number 7. I will believe thoroughly in my theory if they have another calm and easy-going child.
I have seen my new little grandchild every day except for one. She is beautiful as well as being good natured. It is amazing how the heart continues to expand to welcome, with so much love, each new addition into the family - first my own five children and now each of my grandchildren.
Life Is Great
As a young mother of five, I thought life was great,
Instead of joining the rat race doing work I would hate,
I stayed home with my children and taught them to be kind,
To love and to share and to care and to mind.
We went on excursions I knew they would like,
We played games, we’d cuddle and we’d hike.
Our home was a place other children came to,
And often the line-up was long at the loo.
A three-story treehouse we had high in our trees,
And one day I counted 12 boys through the leaves.
The forts that they built covered the floor,
With hardly a path there was to the door.
And when it was bedtime, we made it a game,
We’d race down the hallway; it was always the same.
They’d always beat me by a long, long mile,
But I’d give them a kiss and then I’d smile,
And say, “Next time I’ll win, you wait and see.”
They’d just grin their mischievous grins at me.
Then a grandchild I was blessed with from heaven above.
And now there are five more for me to love.
When I look into each sweet trusting face,
Holding chubby hands, I feel my heart race.
Of my flesh and blood, I swell with pride,
And with happiness, I’ve nearly cried.
July 18/08
Grandparenting Roles
Most of us approach the role of ‘grandparent’ with happiness, excitement and perhaps a little bit of trepidation. Becoming a new grandparent is somewhat like becoming a new parent; we don’t know what is expected of us. In some ways it may be more disconcerting because we are not in control; our children are. But in other ways it is less frightening because we do not have 24 hour responsibility for this new little person. And we get to sleep at night. And, in most instances, we probably get to choose what kind of grandparents we will be.
We may choose, or perhaps necessity will choose for us, to be the grandparents who drive our grandchildren to appointments, school and get to be their favourite babysitter. Or we may decide that isn’t our role and be the grandparents who attend all of their hockey and soccer games, concerts, dance lessons and school functions. Or we may decide to be the ‘fun’ grandparents taking our grandchildren to movies, Santa’s breakfast, to the beach and on picnics, to the water slides, the fair grounds and on holidays.
Or we may not have a choice because we may live too far away. This will create another type of grandparenting role while we try to stay in touch with telephone calls, birthday cards and gifts and perhaps yearly visits.
There is another kind of grandparent, a group that is becoming increasingly large, who feel that it is their time and have chosen to spend months at a time in warmer climes. They feel they have earned it; they’ve raised their children. Sometimes when this has been a choice children and grandchildren try to make them feel guilty that they’re not there to serve in the grandparent role.
Being a grandparent is often not an easy role. We may at times be required to walk a tight rope through our children’s relationships and problems while we attempt to establish and keep whatever type of role we have chosen to have as grandparents to our grandchildren.
We may also play one role with one set of grandchildren and another role with other grandchildren depending on circumstances and our relationship with both our children and their spouses. Sometimes the various roles we play, not necessarily because of our choices, can cause problems within the family structure. There may be jealousies if it is perceived that one set of grandchildren receive more attention than another set.
In my own family, I enjoy playing the role of the ‘fun’ grandparent taking them on Xmas light excursions and on the Hallowe’en and Xmas train, doing crafts, having overnights, playing games with them and all the other fun things there are to do with children. I still enjoy time spent with my grandchildren when I babysit, act as a chauffeur or help in any other way but I enjoy the role of ‘fun’ grandparent the most.
I believe that whatever role we choose as grandparents, there will hopefully be mutual satisfaction. If our children ask for more than we are prepared to give, we will not be successful in our role. On the other hand, if we become more involved in our role than our children feel comfortable with, we will not be successful either. As grandparents, we must find roles that work for each family if we wish to have close relationships with our grandchildren as well as our children.
Just when we thought we had it all figured out in the parent role, we become grandparents and realize that being a grandparent has become yet another learning experience. But I know from already being a grandparent that it’s a whole lot of fun.
July 19/08
Each day with a child and the bond becomes tighter. Does it start with the relationship you have with your own child? I believe it does depend on that relationship but also depends greatly on the relationship you have with your child’s spouse - particularly if your child is a son.
I didn’t know when I was raising my five children as a single parent that my life would lead me to the large and beautiful family I am proud to have. I traveled each day along the road not looking too far into the future and each night sent a thankful prayer for the children I had.
It was not easy being a single parent, particularly when you’re the single parent of five children. The image of single-parent families is often one of welfare, rebellious and delinquent children, school drop-outs, unhappiness and negativity. It is rare to see a good picture painted of a single-parent family but there are many, such as mine, who don’t fit into this stereotype of misery.
I realize now that being a single parent gave me the perfect opportunity to teach my children valuable lessons. By working, even at low paying jobs, I taught them that welfare was not an option. I was able to show them the importance of pulling our weight in society; of contributing to a common cause; of working together as a family; and the value of becoming a team. We may not have had what our neighbours had in many respects but in other ways, we had so much more.
One little girl in the neighbourhood told me that her mother was just like another mother in the area. When I asked her in what way, she said her mother didn’t like her to have friends over because the house got messy. I’m not afraid to admit that our house was often messy but our house was also full of children who laughed, had fun and enjoyed themselves because they were allowed to be children; they were allowed to be messy.
Single parenting is like trying to run a marathon with only one leg; although still difficult, with the help of a prosthesis, it will be doable. So also is single parenting and I discovered ways to make my job a little easier.
I took the time to talk with and have fun with my children even if it meant the floor didn’t get washed, the coffee table dusted or the laundry folded. These things don’t really matter in the big scheme of things. I tried to face the challenges of single parenting head-on one day at a time. I learned to be content and thankful for what I had, i.e.: children I loved and knowing that I was doing the best I could. I tried to role model what I expected from my children as best as I could; my children were my priority. I tried to see the humour in situations and concentrated more on the positive things than on the negatives; I tried to concentrate on what issues were the most important to me, i.e.: those relating to safety and manners, and overlooking those not considered quite as important, i.e.: a tidy bedroom. Life becomes much easier when everything isn’t a hassle. I felt it was important to enjoy my children in the short time I had them before they began to make their own way in the world.
Because the biggest difficulty of single parenting is the struggle financially, we learned as a family to be creative and resourceful. As a result my children developed excellent work ethics by having part-time jobs at young ages; they learned how to stretch a dollar; they worked towards what they wanted and never had their hand out expecting things to be handed to them. In many ways, my children were fortunate to have grown up poorer than many. They may not have agreed at the time and probably still wouldn’t but they have learned respect - for me, for what they have, for others and for the values that have been instilled in them. They never leaned too heavily on me and never asked for more than they knew I could give them.
At the beginning of my solo sojourn, I decided that I would try my best to ensure that my children didn’t become statistics to be counted in the negatives of single parenting. One way was to make my children feel no less loved than if they had two doting parents in their lives. I’ve probably been more fortunate than many in that I had great support from family and friends; they were surrounded by loving people.
We have, through working and communicating together, become an exceptionally close family. The hard work was more than worth it. I am proud of all of my children and I respect the adults they have become. The greatest thing of all is I now have five more best friends. And because of them, our family has been enhanced by their partners and the beautiful grandchildren I now have.
July 22, 2008
I read recently that the difference between perseverance and obstinancy is that one often comes from a strong will and the other comes from a strong won’t.
As a young child my parents considered me to be obstinate and stubborn and often read me a story about an obstinate little girl. I never have considered myself in those terms, however, I will admit to being persistent and determined and perhaps just a little bit tenacious.
I believe those traits have helped me through a lot of difficult times in my life. They certainly helped me as a single mother raising five children.
And they held me in good stead while I was helping Larry with his brain injury difficulties and subsequent problems. They have helped me also as I sent out articles, and although rejection slips came my way, I persevered and have had, as a result, many articles published in magazines and newspapers.
And I suspect that these same traits will help me when I market ‘A Roller Coaster Ride With Brain Injury’ when it comes out sometime in the early Fall.
I displayed these traits at quite an early age, as a small tomboy, when my mother believed a girl should look like a girl and I disagreed. There were so many maple branches to swing from, trees to climb, hollow stumps to play in and fern fields for building forts. There were also field mice to catch, creeks to explore, bike rides to take, mountains to climb and chickens to chase.
But with my skirt tied between my legs was not how my mother envisioned her only daughter. Her words, ‘young ladies don’t swing from trees’, fell on my deaf ears. She tried, with extreme effort, to make a girly-girl out of me but I strongly rebelled against ruffles and lace. Being the only girl in a neighbourhood of boys, I could hardly become a member of this elite group wearing ruffles and lace. It would have guaranteed my banishment forever.
Although I was the only girl in the group, I was accepted because I could ride a bike as well as any of them, could keep up when they hiked and I caught as many field mice as the best of them. Admittedly, I did have a little trouble trying to put a worm on my hook. Shaking slimy creatures that looked as if they had escaped from an alien world onto the ground while trying to stick the hook into them without touching their wiggling bodies was more difficult than I imagined and invariably they fell off into the quick running current of the creek. Losing a worm like that was considered unforgiveable especially when the boys remembered the fact that I had not helped dig the wiggling and squirming creatures from the mud beneath the rocks.
From my adult perspective, I feel fortunate that I was allowed to be part of this group of boys and was probably privy to more adventures than the adverage little girl has before the hormones of the teenage years change the perspective on what is fun and considered worthwhile to be doing.
However, before that gradual change took place we hung out by the river with its deadly currents and whirlpools, where we were not allowed to go; raided corn fields, which would have given our parents heart attacks had they known; climbed the tower on top of the hill which gave us a heavenly view of the valley below, after having climbed over a barbed-wire fence; and had corn roasts with flames leaping high into the late summer skies. We played in the cold creek in the summer when none of us could swim, skated on the frozen lake in the winters sometimes hearing the ice crack behind us as the weather became warmer; and explored the countryside for miles around from morning until night. We climbed our local mountain following animal trails into the dense bush and trees and investigated deserted miners’ shacks. We walked up the logging road, which was forbidden by our parents as well as by the logging company, dodging massive logging trucks as they hurtled down the mountainside weighted down by newly logged trees. We had few rules and fewer that we followed. I had more freedom than I no doubt would have had if I had not been in the company of my brothers and the other boys. My parents considered I was well protected. While it was true that they looked after me, there was no one who looked after them as we pursued one crazy idea after another.
As we grew older and the years passed, cars took the place of bicycles. We were now able to travel further afield and could drive into the big city exploring unknown territory. During this time I vaguely became aware that a change had begun to take place in how the boys treated me. Most of them, with the exception of my brothers, began not to mind if I had trouble keeping up to them; they patiently waited for me. They no longer expected me to go on corn raids but I was always invited to the corn roasts and my hook was each and every time baited for me. They began to be quieter and calmer around me, self-consciously doing little favours for me. I was now a different entity and I was no longer quite one of them.
We also began to go to drive-in movies and eventually to house parties. Around this time, I was also beginning to realize that it was no longer as much fun to be a tomboy and I didn’t want to be ‘one of the boys’ anymore. My brothers were beginning to openly resent my inclusion in activities with ‘their’ friends.
It wasn’t long before I began to be invited on my own, on a ‘date’; it was no longer always the whole group and often my brothers were not included. They were not impressed with this new status quo.
Make-up, curls and shoes with heels suddenly became very attractive; gone was the ponytail, sneakers and my brothers’ jeans. I now made an effort to cover my freckles. What had I been thinking, I wondered? I could no longer imagine not wanting to look like a girl. Walking in a lady-like fashion took the place of running, fishing lost its appeal, sitting in a tree was a thing of the past and corn roasts were for kids.
“What happened to her?” I heard my parents whisper.
I spent hours locked in the bathroom standing before the mirror curling my hair, plucking my eyebrows, worrying about zits or just looking at this girl even I hardly knew.
My brothers no longer treated me as they had previously. “What’s taking you so long?” they would yell from the other side of the bathroom door. When I’d finally emerge, they’d glare and grumble. “It took you that long to look like this? You wasted your time.”
My brothers and parents no longer seemed to be as pleasant as they once had been; they criticized and complained; their intolerance grew and their patience wore thin. It was a time of disquiet in the household. I couldn’t understand how they could all have changed so drastically.
My hormones had kicked in and my metamorphosis as a girl had begun. My parents now yearned for their tomboy and my brothers wished for another brother; anyone other than someone who spent so much time in the bathroom.
I am sure that I will continue to be persistent and determined in my life. And since it hasn’t done me any harm in the past, I suspect it will work to my benefit in the future as well.