An Early Christmas Present...

This?

Is what occurred in the food court of the Seaway mall in Welland, Ontario last week. Shoppers were given a surprise early Christmas gift, courtesy of the most awesome "Chorus Niagara".

I hope you will join me in actually ANTICIPATING the beginning of the shopping portion of the holiday season this year...

Because if magical things like this can happen in Welland, Ontario?

They can happen ANYWHERE, people.

Novembersong.

For my dearest friend, who is far away from me.
Because I'm more than just a little bit cold here without you.
xoxoxo

The Great Escape?

I raced up the stairs, unbelieving of what my little girls were claiming as truth.

"There's NO WAY Pip could be missing! Dad just gave her food and water this morning. He SAW HER."

I grasped at whatever straws I could think of.

"She's teeny-tiny, remember. She's probably just buried herself in the shavings somewhere, and is taking a little nap."

Yes, that must have been it.

These are DWARF hamsters we're talking about, here. If any of you have ever seen the size of a Canadian dollar coin (aptly called a "loonie"), then imagine that Pip could have sat herself on top of one, and the edges of the coin would still have been visible. THAT SMALL.

And yet, we combed through every, single little bit of fluff in that cage, and there was only one little brown hamster to be found.

Pip was definitely missing.

The girls were inconsolable. Grief was unleashed, and the wailing and gnashing of teeth could be heard for blocks around.

"How did you manage to LOSE HER?" I hissed at my poor husband from between clenched teeth. "Didn't I TELL you to keep the door SHUT??!!"

His claims of absolute innocence were strongly refuted by the children, who went off to find the cats and check their teeth for further evidence.

"The cats didn't get her... I SWEAR..." the husband wracked his brain for a logical explanation. "I was here the whole weekend, and I certainly would have heard the cats chasing that hamster around. I fed those two little feckers only this MORNING!! There's no WAY the cats could have gotten her..."

"You kept the door SHUT?" I arched an eyebrow at him.

"YES. The bedroom door was SHUT at all times, I promise!" he claimed.

A thought suddenly occurred to me.

"The BEDROOM door was shut... but what about the CAGE door? When you went to the bathroom to fill up the little water dish... DID YOU SHUT AND LOCK THE CAGE DOOR when you were out of the room??"

I saw a flicker of doubt in his eye, as he cast his mind back.

"Those feckers are FAST, man. They are PROGRAMMED to escape. Can you tell me that you are SURE you locked that cage door, each and every time you opened and shut it??" I demanded, every inch the prosecutor of the case, coming in for the kill.

"Well...." he wavered.

I didn't wait for an answer.

Calling the girlies, I raced down to the kitchen and began rounding up as many deep mixing bowls as I could find. They followed my orders to lock both cats in the basement, and then thundered up the stairs after me. I grabbed handfuls of paperback books off of the shelves in the upstairs hallway, and requested that the kids do the same.

What for, you ask??

Hamster Traps, of course.

If Pip had managed to make a lightning-quick escape that morning, then chances were that she was still somewhere in the vicinity of the upstairs. We placed the deep bowls on the floor, all over the bedrooms and upstairs hallway. We poured handfuls of hamster food and yogurt treats at the bottom of each bowl, and built little makeshift stair-cases of books up to the edge of each one. The idea was that Pip would smell the food, toddle up the "stairs", then slip into the bowl and be unable to get out, once she had finished packing her cheeks with the food.

After a long and exhausting evening of fruitless searching-- under furniture, in closets, pockets, and down floor air vents, the children sobbed themselves to sleep.

I, however, was completely unable to rest that night. I kept hoping that I could hear the scurry of tiny feet... Night-time would be the time for nocturnal Pip to re-appear, after all.

I spent a great deal of that night lying wide-awake in my bed, and alternatively, sitting in wait at the top of the staircase, where I had a good view of the entire hallway.

But, in spite of all of our efforts, there was no sign of Pip that night. Or the next night. Or the next.

I did everything I could to try and jolly my children along, as time passed. We made up little stories about Pip the Great Adventurer, how she had cleverly plotted her escape, and how she had discovered a secret passage to the Great Outdoors. She was, we willed ourselves to believe, now living with a gang of field mice somewhere out in our garden. In true "Country Mouse/City Mouse" tradition, we imagined her leaning on miniature mantelpieces late at night, enthralling her audience with tales of her time behind bars, and of her genius at foiling her gaolers.

Time passed. And, eventually, we all began to relax a bit about the situation. After a week of meticulous cleaning, I became fairly certain that she was no longer in the house. The complete absence of droppings led me to believe that she had, indeed, in all likelihood, managed to slip down an air vent and subsequently "met her Maker" (or, at least, the bowels of the air conditioning system).

Eventually, the deep mixing bowls were gathered up, as we began to need them for cooking and baking... The books were put back on their shelves.

And all this time, tiny Freckle, the lone Hamster In Residence, frolicked in the cage that was now ALL HERS, and didn't seem to miss her sister one. single. bit.

Life returned to some semblance of "normal". Or, as normal as it ever gets around here.

Truth be told, the "bloom was off the rose", as far as hamsters were concerned. The girls lost interest in Freckle, which is not actually in their natures... They have always been ferociously protective pet-owners, and taken their responsibility for the animals in their care very seriously. But, Freckle was living locked in the spare bedroom, in order to keep her safe from the cats. Out-of-sight can sometimes truly mean out-of-mind.

It fell to me, then (of course), to remember to tend to Freckle's teeny-tiny needs. It isn't hard, actually. She doesn't eat very much. Her water dish needed refilling only every-other-day, once Pip disappeared. And, her cage needed cleaning only once a week, which I grudgingly performed. In true Ungrateful Rodent fashion, Freckle ceremoniously took large chunks out of my fingers every, single time, which made her even less appealing to me as a pet... if that is possible.

Strangely, I was beginning to understand how my father had felt about that rabbit, all those years ago.

My sleep patterns finally fell back into their normal routine. I no longer waited up to hear the scurry of little feet, or dreaded meeting the tiny furball under the sheets of my bed. (*shudder*)

The kids were finally sleeping again, too. Child Number Two and Wee Three had just acquired a brand new bunk bed, and were delighting in their new arrangement. It took a few nights, trying to figure out who would take possession of the top bunk, and who would sleep below... but as I had originally thought, Wee Three quickly decided that being closer to the floor was the better place to be. By her own reasoning: Monsters are Big. Therefore, if Monsters were to attack in the night, they would eat the child in the top bunk first, giving the child in the lower bunk a chance to escape.

Well, hey. It worked for me. And, it worked for Charlotte and Maude the cats, who were having a perplexing time trying to navigate the bed's ladder. At least they would have ONE of their little girls to sleep with at night.

All was peaceful.

Until.

In the wee hours of a morning more than two weeks later, I heard scuffles coming from the girlies' bedroom.

Cats, I thought. Drat that ladder... Maude must be lonesome for the Monster Bait child in the upper bunk. I said a silent prayer that the flailings of a small, fat cat would not be enough to rouse the girlies from their slumber. Because, once those two little stemwinders were awake, there was no going back-- whether it was two o'clock or ten o'clock in the morning, awake meant AWAKE, and there would be no peace to be had after that.

The scuffles continued.

"Muuuuuumm?" a small, muffled wail rang out, "Maude'n'Charlotte are playing in here, and they just woke us up."

Damn.

"Never mind, sweetie. Is Maude trying to get into the top bunk? Maybe you could give her a boost, and then she'd settle down. I'll bet she just wants to snuggle with somebody. Boost her up, and go back to sleep."

The scuffles continued.

"Muuuuummm?" The child had clearly not yet roused herself from her bed. "It's Charlotte. I think she's brought a toy in here, and she's whacking it around on the floor."

Well, that explains it, I thought. I had just given the cats a fresh package of jumbo-sized pom-poms to play with on the kitchen floor the day before. They must have carried a couple of them upstairs in their mouths. Tomorrow night, I vowed, cats would be shooed into the basement for the night, toys and all.

"Don't worry," I called, not wanting to actually physically appear in the girls' bedroom, since my awake-ness would be seen as a signal that it was time to get up and start the day. "She's playing with a pom-pom. I bought them some yesterday. She'll get bored in a minute. Turn over, and go back to sleep."

There was a pause. (Which, I have learned, is usually a signal that all hell is about to break loose.)

"MUUUUUUMMMMM... Do the pom-poms you bought have little pink ears... and FEET???"

Charlotte had chosen that exact moment to pick her "new toy" up in her mouth, jumped up on Wee Three in the lower bunk, and plopped it down on my little girl's chest.

Charlotte cocked her head to one side, as if to request, "This needs new batteries???"

You can pretty much guess what happened next.

The whole wide world came tumbling down.

Charlotte and Maude went streaking from the room, as soon as the screaming started. My hapless husband was finally roused from his sleep, and went pealing into the girls' room, where he whisked the deceased corpse of Pip quickly out of sight. I was left to console... which was mightily hard to do, let me tell you, after all of the wonderful yarns we had spun about Pip the Adventurer in the Garden.

It was? not. nice.

Pip was buried under a lovely clump of lily-of-the-valley later that day. Her tiny body was perfect-- Charlotte had not acted in an even remotely Darwinian fashion. She had simply found a "new toy" that eventually ran out of energy, and died of exhaustion when the game went on for too long.

The girls have forgiven both their father and the cats. Strangely enough, though, they have had a much harder time forgiving Pip for the entire experience. They talk about Pip in heaven, and how she and George, our dearly departed ferocious monster, are likely having happy games of cat-and-mouse in the great green fields in the sky... But interestingly, they seem to have come to some sort of conclusion about the whole thing that encompasses the ideas of right, wrong, and consequence. Somehow, in their minds, they have decided that Pip plotted her escape, which was something that she should not have done. Her choice to "run wild" in the house, instead of showing up in one of our primitive hamster traps, was wrong of her... and she eventually faced her "consequence", much like a naughty child put in a (permanent!) kind of time out.

Pip has been personified to such a degree in our family, it doesn't even seem to occur to my children that she was an animal-- an extremely small-brained animal, at that-- who was simply following her most basic instinct.

I firmly believe that a there is one idea that pulsates in the mind of all hamsters.

No, not "food".

Not "water".

Not even "reproduction".

ESCAPE.

"That's what you get"

--Wee Three

The Exterminator

"What about Pip and Freckle???"

This was the question demanded of me by my two youngest daughters several weeks ago, when I announced that we would be spending a long weekend at my parents' house in Stratford.

"What about them? Dad's staying home to work, and he's going to look after the pets, " I tried to soothe my children... And yet, I was feeling a little bit nervous about leaving no fewer than ten pets in my somewhat absent-minded husband's care.

"HE'LL FORGET. The hammies will die if he forgets to fill their water bowl!!"

My little girls had a point, there... We had discovered that Pip and Freckle were so minute, they were incapable of using a regular tube-style water dispenser. Their little mouths simply couldn't budge the ball bearing in the mouthpiece, no matter how hard they tried. We had resorted to a dollhouse-sized water dish, since anything larger would have seemed like a swimming pool to them-- and given them the opportunity to drown themselves, as well.

For a few brief moments, I was highly tempted to declare a hamster road-trip weekend. But a cooler head soon prevailed, as I imagined my parents' reaction to bringing rodents into their pristine home...

Years before, my sister had brought home "vermin", in the shape of a small and extremely cute black rabbit. Sis had had the (mis)fortune of being a lab worker at her university, where she studied biology. This tiny rabbit was slated as one of the creatures that would be used for various experiments, and my highly sensitive sister simply couldn't bear the thought... On the day that she left her job, she left with a tiny, black, furry bundle under her jacket. Jazz the bunny lived very happily with her in her apartment for nearly a year... until my sister was accepted at an international university for graduate studies.

Sis managed to talk my mother into looking after Jazz for the year that she would be away. However, when my father heard about this promise, he allowed his emotions to get the better of him. Always one to take advantage of the opportunity for a good rant, my dear old dad loudly and fluently cited every reason imaginable under the sun NOT to allow vermin in the house... It would keep him and my mother from being able to travel freely. It would force them to be slave to a feeding schedule. It would need endless looking-after and coddling. It would make a mess. It would smell.

My father carried on in this manner for several weeks, driving my kind-hearted, guilt-ridden mother to distraction. However, at the same time, my father was dividing his attention between nurturing our ancient and much-beloved Little Cat, who was ailing at the time... and planning and constructing an elaborate, multi-level bunny hutch, which resembled a large chicken-wire-and-wooden palace, in the basement. He planned for that rabbit's every need: exercise, bed, and bath. Jazz would even have a good view of a television set, should he be so inclined.

My parents drove in to Toronto to pick up my sister, and mum, dad, and the bunny bade her good luck and farewell at the airport, before making the long trip home. Jazz was lovingly transferred from his travel case to his new abode, and fed gourmet greens for dinner, before it was time for everyone to retire to bed.

My mother swears that she did not have any inkling of what would happen during that night... Jazz had eaten well, been treated with the utmost TLC, and had behaved himself in a normal, bunny-type fashion.

The horror of finding Jazz stretched out on his soft, "livingroom" floor, dead as a doornail, was more than a slight shock for my mother the next morning.

There were a flurry of phonecalls, in which my mother was consoled, and my father was told in no uncertain terms that Jazz was NOT "a completely ungrateful little $#@! of a rodent".

It was decided that my sister should not be told until the stress of settling into her new life had settled down a bit...

And poor little Jazz was "put on ice" until his mistress returned for Christmas, and could be interred under the big pine tree in my parents' back garden. I will not go into further details... Except to say this: that for the next several months, whenever one of us was sent to the cellar to fetch something-or-other from the enormous deep freeze, my mother would shriek, "KEEP TO THE RIGHT-HAND-SIDE OF THE FREEZER!!!" as we tromped down the stairs, in a voice so alarming, it nearly caused us to trip up and fall the rest of the way down.

Unfortunately, this is not the only time The Angel of Death has decended upon small animals in my mother's care. Only a few months ago, my nephews left their hamster, Rosie, with my parents when they went on holiday. My mother enjoyed Rosie's company tremendously, and even my father showed a poorly-concealed enthusiasm for watching the hamster roar away in her wheel in the evenings.

The day my sister and her brood arrived home to collect the hamster, it was clear that Rosie was not long for this world. Her wheel-roaring had stopped for good, and it was determined by a vet that a resperatory virus had killed her, in only a matter of a few hours.

My sister was inconsolable, while my nephews recovered more quickly, with the purchase of their current hamster, Dots.

We were, however, beginning to wonder about my mother.

Our doubts was all but confirmed when she confessed that another hamster in her care, who belonged to a neighbour's child who had gone on holiday, had suddenly and inexplicably expired. Bob the Hamster had been elderly, it is true. Very elderly, in fact. Still...

Child Number Three put it most eloquently:

"Gramma's the EXTERMINATOR."

And so... with our weekend away looming before us, I reflected upon the track-record of hamster survival under my parents' roof. It was not that they did anything deliberate to seal the fates of their small, furry guests... but it was undeniable that they seemed to induce the "touch of death" among all who visited.

"I don't know, girls... I'm thinking that this hamster holiday thing might not be such a good idea, after all. I think Pip and Freckle might have a much better chance at surviving a weekend with your father, than a weekend at Gramma's. Don't you?"

I watched as the penny dropped for Wee Three. She turned her enormous brown eyes to me.

"I don't think I want to go to Gramma's, either."

After assuring her that it was only small ANIMALS that were at risk, not small PEOPLE, it was agreed that Pip and Freckle would remain at home, in Child Number Two's bedroom, with the door firmly CLOSED.

"KEEP THIS DOOR CLOSED" read a large sign, scrawled in orange crayon, scotch taped to the door.

"Don't ferget to giv Pip and Frekle water and CLOSE THE DOOR," read a hand-written note, left on the kitchen table.

Wee Three even insisted on telephoning her father's cell phone every half hour or so, to leave messages reminding her father of all his various weekend duties. (As well as being the Hamster Police, Wee Three also patrols the activities of Maude and Charlotte, the cats, and administers love and attention on guinea pigs Toot, Puddle and Cupcake. She's our resident Doctor Doolittle.)

We had a blissful weekend. Perfection. The weather was lovely, the theatre was in full swing, we visited all manner of toyshops, chocolate emporiums and farmer's markets. Then, as daylight faded, we lay on our backs on the grass in my mother's back garden, listening to crickets chirping, and watching shooting stars streak across the sky.

It could not have been better.

To top it off, the husband was reporting complete success on the home front: no animals had yet perished, and everyone was happy and well fed. Doors that were supposed to remain closed, remained closed. Everyone was present and accounted for.

We made our triumphant return on the Sunday evening. Husband was helping me to haul the luggage from car to back door, as the children went pealing into the house to greet their furry friends.

"Everything REALLY ok?" I asked, as we crossed the threshold.

Before my spouse could respond in the affirmative, their was a blood-curdling shreik from upstairs.

"PIP!! Mummy!!! My hamster is GOOOOONE!"

oh, God...

In which I disregard The Gospel...

"Have cats and hamsters. But not at the same time."

--The Gospel According To My Parents

We have too many pets in this house, there is simply no denying it.

And of course, by "we", I actually mean ME. Because, even though I may not actually physically be "The Hand That Feeds" in the most literal sense, I am most definitely "The Nag Who Reminds" those whose responsibilities include the duty of providing care and sustenance to the aforementioned pets.

Two kittens, three guinea pigs, one bearded dragon lizard, four guppies, numerous snails, three kids, and a husband all reside alongside me in this smouldering heap we call home.

So, why on earth I felt that it would be an even remotely tolerable idea to bring two more small, furry creatures into this house last month, I still have no idea.

I blame the dentist, actually.

The orthodontist, to be specific.

Those of you long-suffering readers who have been around the block with me will remember that there are few things that I have an abject terror of. Any sort of association with these things can cause me to act in such a manner as it would appear that I had completely taken leave of my senses.

The Dentist? Is Thing Number One on that list. The fact that The World Economic Crisis comes second gives you an idea of the scale we're talking about, here.

My eldest child has had to endure many years of dental treatment, due to an "overcrowding" issue, which, naturally, she inherited from my side of the family. Because of my own history with dentists (of which I shall spare you the gruesome details), I made every effort to spare my highly sensitive little girl from emotional suffering during this process. Many of the procedures were performed in hospital, by highly competent and capable medical professionals, under general anesthetic. We both came through these ordeals much less the worse for wear than we otherwise might have, and happily, she is now safely "embraced" for the next two years.

Her megawatt smile makes every, single minute of effort, and every ounce that our wallet was lightened in the process, absolutely worth it.

Last year, while things were so hectic and stressful on the work and school front, my children's dentist called me into her office to examine Child Number Two's latest panoramic xray. To say that the sight was mind-boggling would be an understatement. That wrap-around view of the unseen treasures stored within my second little girl's jaws resembled the mother-of-all jumble sales. There were teeth EVERYWHERE, just bustin' to make an appearance.

"YES. Well. So, you see..." began the good doctor... and I could feel the room spin a little.

Child Number Two is an entirely different creature than her older sister, however. And even though it is very true that I have long felt an unreasonable amount of anxiety about her safety and welfare, due to her dramatic entrance into this world, and her determined efforts to undertake dare-devilish feats that should surely have caused her to make an even more dramatic EXIT... I conceded that this child might be a better candidate for in-office dental procedures, with the assistance of local anesthetic and "laughing gas", rather than an operating room drama.

True to form, she has been braver and more stoic than I ever imagined she would be... And what's more, so have I, as I have stood at the bottom of the "operating chair", and gently rubbed my child's feet as each of the surgeries progressed.

Finally came the day when Child Number Two was fitted with what our orthodontist called a "twin block": upper and lower retainers, which encourage the growth of the palates and jaw, while (hopefully) providing more room for all those enormous choppers to grow in.

The retainers were no problem. She lisped a little at first, and it was a pain to remember the plastic cases every time she wanted to take them out to eat... But she's a conscientious little thing, and very independent with her oral hygiene, so things went swimmingly.

Until the headgear appeared.

The day that spacers were put between Child Number Two's back teeth, and the rather industrial looking strap-and-mouthpiece was presented to her, was a dark, dark day in this household. She was mortified... she felt beyond unattractive, and totally humiliated, in spite of all our reassurances. She would not let me help her put it on or take it off, and tried numerous ways of combing her hair over the thing, even though she was only required to wear it for twelve hours at night. You know, that time when it's dark, and everyone is supposed to be ASLEEP.

We tried everything to console her, to no avail. And eventually, she confessed that her biggest worry was having to take the dratted appliance on sleep-over visits. She was due to spend a week at her cousin's house, and simply could not face him with a "CAGE" (as she described it) over her face.

Now, my 8-year-old nephew, Iman, is Child Number Two's best friend. He's a "boy's boy", which is part of what makes him such a perfect companion for my boisterous daughter. He loves Harry Potter, Super Mario Bros., and anything with wheels, in that order. And, true to form, when he eventually got his first glimpse of headgear, he reacted as though his pal had turned into a real, live transformer. Two words said it all:

Iman: (a huge grin spreading across his face) "Woah. AWESOME."

It took many weeks of encouragement before Child Number Two dared to sport her new dental appliance in front of even the closest family members, however. Backing up the story a little, though, Child Number Two was adamant, at first, that her headgear nights would NOT START until after her week-long holiday at Iman's house was over.

Once I had my daughter's solemn promise of "NO WHINGING, NO SNIVELING" once the circled date on the calendar arrived, I agreed to the bargain.

Child Number Two had a glorious time with her cousin, and arrived home on cloud nine... They had been to art day-camp... they had eaten sushi... they had played for long hours at the water park on some death-trap called a "Slip-'n-Slide" (which sounds to ME like a pediatric orthopedic surgeon's DREAM...)

But, the most wonderful tale of all was of Iman's brand new hamster. He was a little more than a handful of white fluff, with tiny dark patches all over him. He was called "Dots", and it was clear from the way that her eyes shone, that Child Number Two had fallen in hamster-love.

I half-listened to all of my daughter's stories... to be truthful, I was dreading the evening, when all happiness and promises would be forgotten, as the headgear was strapped on for the night. And slowly, an idea began forming in my desperate, unhinged, and exhausted brain.

Why not get the little girls a hamster to keep in their bedroom? Hamsters, after all, are nocturnal creatures, and so feeding and entertaining the dear little soul would surely distract them from the headgear issue. We could get a "silent" wheel, and what the heck-- if it did turn out to make too much noise, I could always take the tiny cage down to the kitchen and put it by the guinea pig hutch during the night. Heck, they'd be company for one another, right?

The joy was truly unconfined that evening, as not one, but TWO dwarf hamsters, each about the size of a Canadian Loonie coin, took up residence in my young daughters' bedroom. Pip and Freckle seemed sweet, but soon gained a poor reputation with me, as they raced to take large chunks out of my fingers as I changed their water dish at night. We chalked it up to "new hamster jitters", as I disinfected and bandaged myself up. Mercifully, Child Number Two headgeared herself up without complaint, and we actually laughed our heads off as we learned to stretch our lips waaaaaaaay out past the little metal wire, to kiss one another goodnight.

But.

(There's ALWAYS a "but" in my stories. Just my luck.)

What I had failed to factor in... or, rather, WHO I had failed to factor into this equation, were the cats, Maude and Charlotte.

And?

Unbeknownst to any of us-- least of all HIM-- their unwitting co-conspirator:

The Hapless Husband.

(...to be continued... if you can stand it...)

The Universe and Me.

I sit here, in a QUIET house.

Too quiet.

My children-- all three of them-- are in school.

And I? Am not.

This has got to be the toughest "fall" I have ever experienced... even more so than the one when my first wee girl toddled off to her first morning of kindergarten, leaving my outstretched arms wide-empty.

Child Number One began high school last week. (I KNOW. Gaaaa.)

Child Number Two began grade four this morning.

And my baby? My Wee One? Is in grade one. That's a full day of school, people.

Here I sit. A mother with time on her hands; a teacher with no job, and no one to teach.

Woe is me?

Well, hardly, if you really want the honest truth. My husband found a job last spring, at long last, and so there is a steady (enough) paycheque coming in. We have managed to keep our house, and what snippets are left of my sanity. Since "coming home" last spring, after the ten month slog of Furthering My Education, I have enthusiastically engrossed myself in cleaning, reorganizing and generally improving our living arrangements.

That is luxury. I know it. And I am thankful for it.

Yet, perhaps foolishly, my brain yearns for more. I need work-- a classroom of my own, a LIFE of my own, to help keep me on this slow, yet steady upward path towards self-awareness and validation. I know that getting a job would mean another total family upheaval, and a mad scramble to find another Mary Poppins to step in and help me keep all the aspects of life that I constantly juggle up in the air. It would be hard as hell. And once again, time would speed up and run like sand through my fingers. My children would grow another year, almost without me.

Is that what I really want?

Yes, and no.

My girlies need me right now, to help them make these huge life transitions into their new routines. I was essentially absent for a LONG time last year. Now that I am back, their need for me is palpable during every second I spend with them, and resonates in my heart even when they are not physically with me. Right now, I am in the right place at the right time.

The unanswered questions remain, however: Where the universe will propel me next? And how? Why? Most importantly... when it does... will I choose "right"?

Announcing...

...our new additions to the household: Charlotte and Maude.

They've been settling in for awhile, and things have been so crazy around here since (waaaaay before) graduation, I've neglected to announce their arrival-- sorry, girls!

Maude arrived first: actually, just a week after the demise of our fierce, vile George. I was still in a deep funk, when a call came in on my cellphone during a prep period at school:

Child Number Two: (screeching) MAMA!! We found a new KITTY!! She's in the shelter, and she's SOOOOOOOOOOO cute!! Can we get her, Mummy, PUH-LEEEEZE, can we get her??

Me: (holding phone well away from head to prevent a rupture of my eardrum) WHAT?? Where are you, and why aren't you in school?! It's two o'clock in the afternoon!

Child Number Two: (not listening) She's white!! With patches!! Brown and black!! And guess what?? Her name's LUCKY!! Can we get her, Mum, CAN WE??

Me: (wearily) No, sweetheart. Not today. Mummy's heart still hurts for George... I can't do this right now. Where's Mary? Can you put her on the phone, please?

(Sounds of a scuffle, of Child Number Three wheedling endearments to the kitten, and then a squawk as the two sisters clash over who loves Lucky more...)

Mary Poppins: (breathlessly) Hello? Hi. We're at the shelter... I'm sorry. But the kids seemed tired, and it's Friday and everything, and I knew you wouldn't mind if I kept them home this aft. They've all got supply teachers. AGAIN.

Me: (even more wearily) No, that's fine. Absolutely fine. What I'm wondering, though, is how you wound up at the SHELTER...

Well, wouldn't you know it, it was the TORONTO animal shelter... You know, the one that was in soooooo much trouble awhile ago? I won't go into nasty details, but suffice it to say, the shelter was being shut down for a period of time while the situation was "Cleaned Up". To put it mildly. And there were literally hundreds of animals in even more desperate need of adoption than usual.

Me: (starting to break down) I hear she's pretty cute.

Mary: (cautiously) She's DARLING. And the girls just love her... But we'll understand if you think it's too soon...

Me: I KNOW it's too soon... but...

Mary: Heather? Time doesn't stand still.

And so, that was that.

Of course, I had to pull a stunt, to make the whole thing just a little more "memorable", don't you know. Evil mother that I am, I told the kids "NO!" over the phone, reasoning that I was still in mourning for the Black Monster.

Then, right after school, I drove over to the animal shelter to meet our new kitten.

The girls were right. She WAS perfect-- soft and sweet, with a playful streak. We knew the minute we set eyes on each other-- she immediately stood up in her cage and cosied right up to the bars, waiting to be taken home. She stuck both front paws as far out between the metal partitions as she could, to greet me.

Once the adoption was completed, I gently packaged her up in a cardboard carrier, and we drove home.

I called to my daughters as I came through the back door, carrier in hand, and they rushed to the door, as they always do:

Child Number Two: (skidding to an abrupt halt, eyes wide) What's THAT?

Wee Three: (claps hands over her mouth) Was' in the BOX??

Child Number One: (jumping up and down) Is it the KITTY???!!!!

And with the back door wide open, so that all of the neighbourhood could hear, my three lovely daughters began dancing around and shrieking at the tops of their lungs:

"MUM GOT LUCKY!!! MUM GOT LUCKKKYYYYY!!!!!!"

Um.

Yeah.

We changed her name pretty. damn. quick. after that.

And needless to say, I got to choose.

Maude is named for a Tennyson poem that I particularly love. She is bright and affectionate, and has helped to fill up the hole that has been left in my poor, weary old heart. She sniffed all over the house, and strangely, found all of George's favourite "spots". She immediately began sleeping on my bed at night, snuggled up behind my knees, just as George used to. I can't tell you what comfort she has brought to me.

But, while the girls and I were away at school, there was no doubt that Maude was lonely. Even when we were home and just out of eye-shot, Maude would become distressed and call to us to come and find her. The little, lonesome "Ma-ROW??? Ma-RRRRROW??" struck that ol' maternal chord in me... and I secretly began searching for a friend to keep her company.

Enter Charlotte.

Charlotte had been rescued from the streets of Northern Toronto by Animal Control, and when I discovered her in the shelter, she was a timid, sickly little thing. With the exception of her shorter fur and her bush-baby-like eyes, she could be Maude's twin. Both are dilute calicoes, and I just had a feeling that she would make a lovely, sisterly contrast to Maude's more boisterous personality. And, she looked as though she needed us.

Charlotte came to us named "Sarah", thank goodness-- if she had had a more risque moniker, I might have thought twice about her, after the "Mom Got Lucky!!" incident.

She and Maude get along famously, and she has made our household feel whole again.

The only thing about Charlotte is that catastrophe seems to follow her wherever she goes. She is not the most "co-ordinated" of animals, and so we are becoming accustomed to loud crashes in the night, alarms suddenly going off, and returning home to evidence of small explosions in the kitchen and office. Yet, there Charlotte will be, curled up in a basket with her adopted sister, looking as mild as May.

She has been more challenging to re-train from her stray, "scavenging" days: we cannot leave ANYTHING out on kitchen counters, and she has been harder to convince to use the litterbox...

But, incredibly, her sweet, affectionate nature makes up for all of this. She constantly lets us know that she is so grateful to be here, and a part of this family. She has established an especially firm friendship with Wee Three: she is very happy to be slung hap-hazardly over my little girl's left shoulder, and carted around as a playmate, joining in to a wide variety of activities. She is a darling.

We are blessed. Again. "Home is where the cat is", the old saying in my family goes, and this house feels like home once again, now that Maude'n'Charlotte are here.

We couldn't do without them.

The end of the beginning.

One week ago, I tossed my goofy cap in the air, and went tearing up a university corridor, robes streaming behind me, for the last time.

It was a long haul. And a heavy one. But, it's done.

I'm a Teacher.

Not that I wasn't one before: parents are the ultimate teachers, after all. But, it's interesting how another piece of paper with a bunch of official-looking signatures scribbled all over it becomes IMPORTANT, all of a sudden.

During all of my various teaching engagements this year, however, I am convinced that it was I who learned the most. Anyone who thinks that it is a teacher's job to simply fill up the "empty void" that lies between their students' ears is woefully misguided.

Good teachers teach because they want to learn. We want to learn more about our students, how they process information, and how we can most effectively learn together in a mutually-supportive society. The students-- both the wonderful, and especially the "not-so-wonderful" ones-- helped me to learn more in one year than I have since the birth of my first child (and whoo-nelly, what a year THAT was...)

Among the zillions of things that I could list for you...

-Organized schools are NOT the most important, nor the most effective learning environment for children. HOME is the most important learning environment for every child, and it is the duty of parents and teachers to work together and support children's educational, emotional and psychological development.

-More children do NOT have healthy home environments than do have healthy home environments. Often, it is the families who appear outwardly "perfect" that are the most troubled of all.

-It is therefore impossible to teach well, without becoming emotionally involved. And this is precisely why I love to teach. Sure, it is demanding in every way imaginable... sometimes exhausting to the point of sucking the life out of your very soul... But I'm hooked on the look on kids' faces; that look when you KNOW that the seven or eight hours they spend in your care per day are some of the best times they've had in their whole little lives. That look varies from child to child... and for this reason, it is essential to strive to know your students well. My breakthrough moment with one little girl this year was during a flood of tears, when she was finally able to confess to me that she wasn't doing her homework or paying attention in class because she was simply too exhausted. She shared a small apartment with many aunts, uncles and cousins, and could only sleep in bed when there weren't too many other people in it. This child was fighting for survival, not just her education. The look of relief and trust that flooded her face when I offered to let her put her head down in class, or stay in at recess or lunch to take a little nap, was phenomenal. There were so many other children like this... ones that needed to be provided with food for their breakfasts, lunches or snacks; children who needed warm clothes to protect them against the winter weather, ones who needed medical and psychological treatment... And I worked hard to advocate for them in the very best way I could.

I had so very many profoundly rewarding moments this year. Two of them occurred during my first session of parent-teacher interviews. While teaching grade three before Christmas last year at a wonderfully multicultural public school, it was necessary to recruit three translators to sit in and work with us in several different Chinese dialects, as well as Tamil. These translators were nothing short of magnificent in their personal and professional skills, and one was able to tell me that a smiling and tearful mother who was brand-new to Canada wanted to tell me "... that when you hug my daughter, she says that your arms feel like I am hugging her." I could not have received any higher compliment. Another gentleman, one of my students' grandfathers, shook and kissed my hand as we concluded an interview about how to best help his troubled grandchild.

There were many frustrating times, too, during which I was so grateful for the counsel and assistance of other, more experienced educators: The times when I simply could not connect with parents, to make them understand the importance of taking steps towards developing specialized education plans for their children, who were struggling. The students whose attitudes and behaviors were disturbing and destructive, and one particular "code red" incident. The times when the "red tape" seemed to gum up the whole educational process, and all the cogs and wheels screeched to a halt... sometimes falling off, altogether.

There are some battles that can be fought, and you win. And there are others where you can try all you want, and not succeed. The challenge in that case is to find a way to switch tactics... to try and discover another route to the solution... and never get so discouraged that you give up.

I'm young, but come with life experience behind me. I'm too old to put up with too much crap, but still feisty enough to go after the ideal. I'm MORE than ready to get started, and see where life takes me.

Where I live, however, there are no job vacancies anywhere. I'm looking... I'm marketing... I'm doing my very best to retain trust that there is a greater plan at work, here, and that when the time is right, I will be shown the way that I am meant to go. I'm not a "fatalist". But, I do believe that things in life happen for a reason. We have to do our best to roll with the punches, and be alert enough to pick up on the signals of better opportunities to come.

Then, we have to reach out with both hands...

And go for it.

Nearly... there...

"With ordinary talents and extraordinary perseverance,
all things are attainable."

-- Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton

Good-bye.

She was with me through thick and thin:

my longest, most unconditional, loving friendship.

"My first baby".

So long, sweet girl. Love you forever and ever.

xoxo grrpurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

The BEST of the Grammys, 2010...

Divine, Dave.

Divine.

And Now, The News.

Well, more of an update, really...

Seriously.

It's been so long since I've been a regular contributor to society, both in person and in the blog-o-sphere... people are starting to wonder if I've expired. (Although, come to think of it, something DOES smell a little funky around here...)

Bring on the bullets!

-Grade six. Is killing me, albeit slowly. The kids are WONDERFUL-- so amazingly polite, independent and intelligent beyond my expectations... but the curriculum that they are forced to study STINKS, in my humble opinion... and there's very little wiggle-room for creativity or subject integration, because of all the focus on EQAO (those are our provincial standardized tests, for those of you non-Ontari-ari-arians), which loom ahead of us like gigantic black hounds with gaping jaws. These poor kids are BORED, and quite frankly, I don't blame them. I can't wish for more hours in the day for them to be in my classroom-- I'm a firm believer that most kids are vastly over-programmed and stressed out as it is. But I DO so desperately wish that there was more scope for the imaginations... more opportunity to study things that are relevant and interesting for THEIR lives... Hell, I'd settle for just one good novel study, for crying out loud!! Instead, we are teaching them how to take multiple choice exams, it would seem. What a shame.

-I'm going to get creative in the only way I can, however: we are going to knit. All thirty of us. We are knitting squares to sew together into blankets, to send to Doctors Without Borders. I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when the first few blankets come together as a whole!! I'm hugely excited about this project.

-And of course, it now goes without saying, I'm knitting again!! The arm is improving, and my physiotherapist and doctors are pleased with my progress. I'm not lifting anything just yet, but the extension of my elbow only has about 30 degrees more to go before I'm back to "normal". I attribute all of my progress to knitting and crocheting, which has been my main method of rehabilitation, and kept me from filleting my loved ones out of frustration.

-Projects on the go: one log-cabin pattern afghan (crochet), one beautiful Cabin Fever knitted poncho (for me), one Turkish stitch scarf (also for me), one gorgeous Noro rippled-pattern hat (whoo, it's just AAAAAALLLLL about me right now, isn't it?! About time, too.)

-Schoolwork on the go: What schoolwork? Crap, you mean there's homework??! (just kidding. i'm swamped, and sinking fast.)

-Girlies are fine, although they had a terrible time returning to school after Christmas... Didn't we all??? I could have used about another month off, myself. They are, quite simply, exhausted, and so we took a Ferris Bueller day on Thursday, just to even ourselves out a little. This weekend, I think we'll throw a few clothes in a bag and head off to Stratford for a little time with The Grandparents.

-Best moment of the New Year thus far? Having my orthopedic surgeon double-check my arm last week, and confirm that all is well, and NOTHING is broken. I am so thankful, so lucky.

-Worst moment? My first grade six math lesson... I was explaining an equation on the board, when my mind suddenly got muddled and went completely BLANK... BLANK!!!! I could feel the sweat rolling down my back and into my underwear, and for a brief moment, considered resting my forehead up against the chalk dust in front of me, and just begging for mercy... Instead, I managed to pull it together, excused myself to take another look at the textbook, and confessed that I was re-learning the lesson alongside my students. It was amazing how they all rallied to my aid after that, and we figured out the problem together.

-Biggest challenge of the immediate future? Concocting my teaching resume and portfolio, in preparation to begin the long, hard slog of job applications, and (hopefully!!) interviews. As if getting the qualification wasn't hard enough...

This? Is only the beginning.

A hell right here on earth.

Today, I joined a most wonderful group:

This, dear friends, is Knitters Without Borders, a group that I read about on the blog of the absolutely fantabulous Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, known to those of us in The Knitterly 'Hood as The Yarn Harlot.

Whenever the yellow beacon blazes on Stephanie's blog, it is a "call to needles" for every knitter. And today, I did my small part to help. Because as Stephanie says, it is nothing short of incredible what can be accomplished when we ALL do our small parts, together.

The people of Haiti are living a hell right here on earth.

Please help, in any way you can.

Of pride. And prejudice.

I sh*t you not, dear readers.

Just took a peek at my online transcript, and this is what I found, as my average for the first half of this academic year.

My pride? Simply knows no bounds.

And trust me, with a past heavily steeped in all things Austen, I KNOW where pride tends to lead one.

BUT.

This old dog needs to pat herself on the back, with the one good arm she has at her disposal. Because going back to university after being at home with three children for thirteen years, and cracking past the "Aged 40" due date on my personal expiration label...

THIS?

Is a big deal for me.

Now, to set my sights towards the immediate future:

Today was my first day as a grade six teacher. Scary, seeing as my entire career experience thus far (apart from rearing my own eldest child) has been with students between the ages of two and eight. To say that this considerably more "mature" classroom (although... come to think of it, I'm not entirely certain that this is an apropriate word to describe ALL of the students I met today. But hey, it's the only the first day, and I like to give everyone the benefit of the doubt) was a bit of a shock to the ol' system is an understatement.

I am secretly panicking that these kids are going to eat me alive.

AND.

I have to teach gym. Every. Single. Day.

Gym is not my forte, to put it mildly. When it comes to sports, I am the spectator.

But, it's an experience, right? And besides, what does not kill me will make me stronger.

Or, as my darling grandmother used to say, in full-on Scottish brogue:

"It's a grrrrrreat life, i'ye dinna WEAKEN!!"

Right you are, as always, Grandma.

I'll try not to.

Freedom!! (Sort of.)

The cast is off my poor, sore right arm.

Freedom!!

(Sort of.)

The elbow joint is very stiff, and my mobility is quite limited. Maybe I should have taken this for a sign BEFORE I tried to clean up the Christmas rubble in my house, do the shopping, or drive a car.

Never mind.

I'm teaching myself to write again, with the vain hope of being able to complete a major art project for the university in two weeks... I'm typing-- and doing fairly well-- in order to get caught up on many, many emails. I can't take a steady photograph to save my LIFE, with these shaky hands of mine, and so all the Christmas photos will be quirkily blurred this year.

Most of all, I can't wait to KNIT.

For dear Father Christmas brought me exactly what I wanted, in the form of a delicious, new Noro yarn, and a beautiful book of patterns.

Is this the stuff of dreams, or what???!

The needles?

They are CALLING ME, people, after too, too many months of neglect.

I can't wait.

Now. All I need is a physiotherapist who will work during the holidays...

The Heart-in-Waiting

"Madonna and Child" by Wee Three, 2009

The Heart-in-Waiting

Jesus walked through whispering wood:
‘I am pale blossom, I am blood berry,
I am rough bark, I am sharp thorn.
This is the place where you will be born.’

Jesus went down to the skirl of the sea:
‘I am long reach, I am fierce comber,
I am keen saltspray, I am spring tide.’
He pushed the cup of the sea aside

And heard the sky which breathed-and-blew:
‘I am the firmament, I am shape-changer,
I cradle and carry and kiss and roar,
I am infinite roof and floor.’

All day he walked, he walked all night,
Then Jesus came to the heart at dawn.
‘Here and now,’ said the heart-in-waiting,
‘This is the place where you must be born.’

-KEVIN CROSSLEY-HOLLAND
from Selected Poems
Enitharmon Press 2001

A Happy Christmas to you all!

"The Candlelight Carol"

by John Rutter

and performed by The Cambridge Singers

How do you capture the wind on the water?
How do you count all the stars in the sky?
How can you measure the love of a mother,
Or how can your write down a baby's first cry?

Candlelight, angel light, firelight and star glow
Shine on his cradle till breaking of dawn,
Gloria, gloria in excelsis Deo!
Angels are singing; the Christ Child is born.

Shepherds and wise men will kneel and adore him,
Seraphim round him their vigil will keep;
Nations proclaim him their Lord and their Savior,
But Mary will hold him and sing him to sleep.

Candlelight, angel light, firelight and star glow,
Shine on his cradle till breaking of dawn,
Gloria, gloria in excelsis Deo!
Angels are singing; the Christ Child is born.

Find Him at Bethlehem laid in a manger:
Christ our Redeemer asleep in the hay.
Godhead incarnate and hope for salvation:
A child with his mother that first Christmas Day.

Candlelight, angel light, firelight and star glow,
Shine on his cradle till breaking of dawn,
Gloria, gloria in excelsis Deo!
Angels are singing; the Christ Child is born!

Wishing you and your loved ones a very happy Christmas.

Thank you for reading, thank you for listening.

With much love from, CGF xoxo

A Joyous and Blessed Christmas Eve...

Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming

performed live by the Choir of King's College, Cambridge

at the 2009 Carol Service, earlier this evening

DET är en ros utsprungen av Jesse rotoch stam.
Av fädren ren besjungen den står i tiden fram,
En blomma skär och blid,
Mitt i den kalla vinter i midnatts mörka tid.

Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung!
Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung.
It came a floweret bright amid the cold of winter,
When half spent was the night.

GERMAN TRADITIONAL
Swedish translation, THEKLA KNÖS
English translation, THEODORE BAKER
Music, MICHAEL PRAETORIUS
Arrangement, JAN SANDSTRÖM
Gerhmans Musikförlag

December 24

"The Huron Carol"
performed by The Elora Festival Singers

'Twas in the moon of wintertime
when all the birds had fled
That mighty Gitchi Manitou
sent angel choirs instead;
Before their light the stars grew dim
and wondering hunters heard the hymn:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born:
In excelsis gloria!"

Within a lodge of broken bark
the tender babe was found;
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
enwrapped his beauty round
But as the hunter braves drew nigh
the angel song rang loud and high:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born:
In excelsis gloria!"

The earliest moon of wintertime
is not so round and fair
As was the ring of glory on
the helpless infant there.
The chiefs from far before him knelt
with gifts of fox and beaver pelt:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born:
In excelsis gloria!"

O children of the forest free,
O seed of Manitou
The holy Child of earth and heaven
is born today for you.
Come kneel before the radiant boy
who brings you beauty peace and joy:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born:
In excelsis gloria!"

The words of this Christmas hymn were written in 1643, by Jean de Brébeuf, who was a Jesuit missionary at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons, near Midland, Ontario, Canada. Brébeuf wanted to tell the Christmas story in a way the Hurons could understand, so he composed this Christmas carol, using the native language of the Huron/Wendat people. The song's original Huron title is "Jesous Ahatonhia" ("Jesus, he is born"). The melody is a traditional French folk song, "Une Jeune Pucelle" ("A Young Maid"). The essential message - of the miracle and promise of new life and new hope in the midst of dark and bitter winter - was very "acceptable" to the Huron people, and is one we can all share today.

Even after Jean de Brebeuf's death in 1649 at the hands of the rival Iroquois, the destruction of the Sainte-Marie settlement, and the dispersal of the remaining Huron people, the survivors of the brutal attack still celebrated the nativity each winter and kept the carol alive through the oral tradition. Almost 100 years later, another Jesuit priest heard the carol and wrote it down. It was translated into French under the title "Jesus est ne". In 1926, poet J.E. Middleton wrote an English interpretation that is widely known today.

I highly recommend the spectacular book, "The Huron Carol", which is beautifully illustrated by Frances Tyrrell. It includes the music for The Huron Carol, the only surviving verse in the old Huron language, and two verses from the eighteenth century French translation.

December 23

"The Holy Boy"
by John Ireland
and performed by
The Cambridge Singers

December 22

"River"
by Joni Mitchell
and performed by Dianne Reeves

Because I owe you one...

"I've Lost My Mummy"

performed by Rolf Harris

(who else??? Sorry, I just can't get enough...)

Thanks to my wonderful, generous, endlessly patient brother-in-law...

I FINISHED MY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING TODAY.

All is right with the world.

Well... with my arm in this cast, all is LEFT with the world.

But it turns out, that's good enough for me.

Thanks, bro.

Best. Christmas. Gift. EVER.

xoxo

December 21

"The First Nowell"

performed by The Elora Festival Singers

December 20

"The Twelve Days of Christmas"
sung by Dame Kiri te Kanawa

Confession?

I have always HATED this song.

It's redundant, redundant, redundant. To make matters even worse, it's one of the most frequently recorded carols, and seriously overplayed.

Listening to this song in all of its nauseating varieties, in every major shopping centre from Wal Mart to Holt Renfrew, makes me feel as though my brain is going to rupture and leak out of my ears.

So imagine my shock and surprise when I discovered this particular recording, featuring the sublime New Zealand opera star, Dame Kiri te Kanawa.

This recording? Takes my breath away.

Dame Kiri is clearly in her element, and her soaring, lilting voice is full of all of the good humour required to make this song successfully engaging for the listener. Even more brilliantly, each verse has its own little musical theme which is carried along through each successive verse, and culminates into a wonderfully inspiring finale.

"The Twelve Days of Christmas" originated as a children's rhyme that was published in a book called "Mirth without Mischief " in about 1780. It was used as a memory and forfeit game, wherein each player took it in turns to say the rhyme, and more lines were added with every round. It is also rumoured to have been written as a "catechism song" to help young Catholics learn their faith. However, this would have been at a time when practicing Catholicism was discouraged in England, and there is apparently no substantive primary evidence that supports this claim.

The date of the song's first performance is not known, though it was used in European and Scandinavian traditions as early as the sixteenth century. Frederic Austin wrote an arrangement in the early twentieth century, which can be found in The New Oxford Book of Carols. He added his own melody from the verse "Five gold(en) rings" onwards, which is why the latter part of the song sounds quite different from the beginning.

The Twelve Days of Christmas, and the evenings of those twelve days ("Twelve-tide"), are the festive days beginning the evening of Christmas Day, through the morning of Epiphany (January 6). This period of time is also known as "Christmastide".

December 19

"Gabriel's Message"

performed by The Choir of King's College, Cambridge

"Enjoy your break!"

Ironically, these were the last words my professor called after me as I was leaving her class on Wednesday, having just handed in my final 75 page paper of 2009.

Little did I know that less than an hour later, I would be lying inert and stunned, flat on my back on my icy driveway. I dislocated my right elbow so completely that the medical team looking after me in Emergency obeyed my request to be knocked out, while they assessed the damage and attempted to put me back together again.

I will be spending this Christmas, and probably well into the New Year, encased in a cast from my shoulder to my wrist... no driving, no writing, no cooking, no shopping or wrapping, and most certainly NO KNITTING, for at least the next few weeks.

I am miserable, to be sure. But pain relief is abundantly available, thanks to my merciful doctors, and the comfort of family and friends means the world to me.

I am doing my best, and am making the most of the situation I have found myself in. We mothers do not have much choice, at times like these. We can choose to fight against the forces that are beyond our control... Or, we can yield: Surrender our own agenda for the time being, and trust that in time, all will work out as it should.

I have faith.

All will be well.

In time.