Strategy

 

Well, it's Hallowe'en Week, people, and the girlies are gearing up.

This year, the gang's all coming out to our place:  my girlies, my brother, sister, brother-in-law and 2 Nephews Extraordinaire.  It'll be a really full house, and to make things perfect, one of my dearest friends (who is a former make-up artist with the Vancouver Opera Company) is also going to be visiting that night.  It's going to be quite a PAR-TAY, to say the least, and with all the mischief-makers in residence, it's hard to anticipate whether there will be more TRICKS or more TREATS on the agenda.  (That thought alone is enough to boggle the mind, quite frankly.)

This morning, the topic-of-choice at the breakfast table was "Trick-or-Treat Strategy":  our small Creatures-of-the-Night spent at least half an hour on speaker-phone with their Uncle (our family's Grand Master of Hallowe'en), trying to determine how to maximize candy-intake, within the limited opportunity of one evening.

They discussed candy bag size, and whether it might be wise to stop home to empty the haul in between canvassing blocks of houses.  They noodled upon the possibility of riding their scooters, but nixed that idea when it was discovered that the youngest of the pack will be sporting a long Grim Reaper get-up, complete with gigantic scythe accessory...  They wracked their brains to remember the most generous houses from last year, and ensured that their route would be accurate and inclusive.  Then, horrified to discover that the Uncle had not yet planned his own costume, they threatened to dress him up in our finest Little Bo Peep outfit, a beautiful hand-made remnant from our dress-up box.  (He laughed heartily, and wisely changed the subject.)

Wee Three was surprisingly sedate during this conversation.  Usually the most enthusiastic of our resident junk food junkies,  I noted a nonchalance in her attitude that did not accurately reflect the usual ricocheting-off-the-wall anticipatory hyperactivity.

Me:  What's the scoop, Wee One?   You not that excited about Hallowe'en this year?

Wee Three:  (thoughtfully chewing a mouthful of cheerios)  Oh, yeah...  We'll get lots.

Me:  Well, then.  How do you plan to do that?  What's YOUR strategy for the haul?

Wee Three:  (eyes twinkling)  Same as always, mum.  It's easy:  RUN!!!

Brings new meaning to the phrase Sugar Rush, non?

My style of optimism...

Snippets from the edge.

On Wednesday of last week, I was happily teaching the last period of a grade one class.  They're not my own class, mind...  but I sure regard them as a "bonus":  After a full day of working in the Special Education Centre at my new school, I'm lucky enough to have "prep coverage" for a grade one teacher during the final forty minutes.  This means I get to do ARTS with these kids:  drama, dance, music...  and not surprisingly, it has become something I really look forward to-- my "reward" at the end of a long and challenging schedule.

We were doing a music lesson, and I had just finished teaching the kids the old camp song, "Poor Little Bug on the Wall":

Poor little bug on the wall!

Nobody loves him at all.

No one to blow his nose,

No one to tickle his toes,

Poor little bug on the wall!

One of the things I love MOST about teaching the littlest students is that when they giggle hard enough, they actually tip over, and remind me of the Weebles toys I loved to play with when I was a child.

One little girl did NOT find the lyrics amusing, however:

"That's SUCH a SAD SONG!!!"

Yes, I replied, it IS a sad song.  Cue the perfect segue for the next part of the lesson:  How many different ways can you sing the song by changing the sound of your voice?  Could you make the song SOUND really, really sad?  What does "happy" singing sound like?  (How could we cheer this song up?)  Then, what about "angry" singing?  Heck, what if different animals were to sing the song??

We had a rollicking good half-hour together.

Before the bell was to ring, I reminded the children that we would all be going on our first field trip together the next day.  They were all to remember to dress warmly (with wellies on!!) to attend the Fall Fair.

As a "ticket out the door", I said that each student would have to tell me the answer to a question, using a "complete sentence" response.  The question was:

"What are you MOST looking forward to seeing at the Fall Fair tomorrow?"

Now, some of these children are very, very young-- really, just glorified kindergarten students, and many of them are English Language Learners, as well.  So, I prompted them:

"I am MOST looking forward to seeing..."

And each kid would repeat my words, then fill in the blank.

I was slightly alarmed when answers such as "ZEBRAS!" started cropping up.

"No," I said as gently as I could, "I don't think so.  Can you think of something else???"

When the subject of "GIRAFFES!!" was broached, I couldn't take it any more.

After all, I'm a proud "farm country" girl.  I know that Farmers Feed Cities.  I shop local markets.  I know exactly where my meat comes from, and I expound on the fact that "Good Things Grow In Ontario" whenever I get the chance.

The kids patiently listened to my spiel, and didn't even seem all that disappointed by the time I was done. Once I was fully satisfied that they all understood the "No Giraffes at the Fall Fair, and Why" lecture, I allowed them to pack their little backpacks and go home.

Bright and early on Thursday morning, we all clambered onto a rickety orange bus that smelled like old cheese...  but we didn't care!  Everyone was leg-swingingly happy as we drove up the main road North, on our way to the fair grounds.

The squealing started at the first sight of the ferris wheel, and grew louder as the scent of hot buttered popcorn and spun sugar candy wafted over us through all the windows I had opened.

"NOPE," I said firmly, to groans of disappointment.  "That's not why we're here!!"

I reminded everyone of the farm animals we had listed the day before-- and what's more, the wide variety of craft competitions, the horse jumping exhibition, and the Ontario Dairy display-- they might get a chance to milk a cow!!  Excitement resumed-- amazingly, I had discovered that there was more than one child who had never clapped EYES on a cow...

We exited the bus, and made our way in a line through the throngs of other screaming children.

And you'll never GUESS what was waiting for us in the first field, smack to the right of the Main Entrance Gates...

To a multitude of the delighted screeches of "MS. BAAAAAAKER...  We thought you SAAAAAID..."

I looked over and saw:

An elephant.

May God have mercy on my poor, weary soul...

Many happy returns...

A very happy birthday to my dear old dad today.

(He's a bit of a turkey, but we couldn't love him more.)

Mistakes. Learn from them.

Notes to self, at a time of New Beginnings:

Try never to want something TOO MUCH.  Desperation often leads to wanting the wrong things, making the wrong decisions, and achieving the opposite of what you'd been hoping for all along.

More often than not, "want" and "need" are two completely separate issues.  Stop.  Think.  Figure out which is which.

Smile, and keep them waiting.  Don't rush decisions out of pressure.  If they want you badly enough, they'll let you know-- perhaps even moving mountains for you in the process.  That said, if they don't come after you, they're probably not worth it, anyway.  Some things aren't meant to be.  Inaction speaks far louder than words.

Play your cards very close to your chest, and keep them that way.

Time flies.  Even if you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, the hard parts of life will eventually pass.  That's not to say there isn't another tsunami coming, but the trick is to get better at keeping your head above the water every time one does.

Don't get stuck constantly looking in the rear-view mirror.  Remember the things the past taught you-- but make a concerted effort to release the nitty-gritty details.  Enough is enough.

Focus on the here and now, and try not to worry about the future.  Tomorrow doesn't exist yet.  All you can control is what you are choosing to do right now.

You are not your job, neither does your job does not define you.

Remember who you are.

I can see the light between me and my mind,

I can feel memories fall behind,

And the light is growing brighter now.
--Phish, "The Light"

On Losing.

Well, there's been a change in the family.

Our faithful loser cruiser has passed on, and I have to tell you, the girlies and I spent the better part of last week feeling pretty broken up about it.

As you may remember, during a rather dire moment in transit several days ago, it became apparent that the old girl's body was on its way out.  And for a change, I'm not referring to MYSELF.

The loser cruiser turned eleven this year, and in the end, she owed us precisely nothing.  She was average in many ways-- an extremely ordinary make and model, in a comforting shade of beige.  The unassuming colour hid dirt fairly nicely-- and even most of the rust that eventually began creeping out beyond the wheel wells, not to mention the crumbly lower edge of the back hatch.  It camouflaged so well, in fact, we often had a terrible time locating her in parking lots:  every damn mini van seemed to look exactly the same.

When the "panic" button on my key chain eventually conked out from over-use, we resorted to hanging a large pair of fuzzy sheep from the Loser Cruiser's rear-view mirror.  "I SEE SHEEP!!" is not usually a phrase you would imagine could bring vast feelings of relief, but it sure did to us, on many occasions.  (Although I suspect it thoroughly confounded anyone passing by us on the endless fields of asphalt).

She didn't seem to mind the indignity of being scraped down with a little wet/dry sandpaper every spring... nor the many layers of Bondo, or the Crappy Tire brand spray paint we repeatedly slathered on her problem areas.

She was also fairly co-operative and understanding when we took her to the doctor (mechanic), and negotiated about selective treatments for anything that ailed her over the years...  We carefully weighed the risks (to my bank account) with the benefits (to her happiness and longevity), and whatever the final decisions were, she cheerfully got us to wherever we needed to go.

Someone once told me that no one actually buys mini vans on purpose.  Apparently, after the third child is born, they just show up in your driveway as a public display that your life is pretty much over, for at least the next decade or two.

I would love to say that this is how our Loser Cruiser came to us, but that doesn't seem quite fair.  Because in many ways, that car saved me.

Nine years ago, I had just given birth to another tiny, perfect baby girl.  I was so proud of myself, only a few days postpartum, as I carefully strapped each little girlie into the back seat of my slightly creaky Volvo station wagon.  They were like little matryoshka dolls in a line, I thought (although each one had a different complicated and weird system to lock her safely into her respective car seat).

We had just hit the first highway en route to the grocery store, and I was feeling extremely self-congratulatory as I hummed along to Raffi's "Singable Songs" on the cd player.

Suddenly, there came an ear-splitting shriek from Child Number One, who was then seven years old:

"MUMMEEEEEE!!

SHE'S GOT HER FINGERS STUFFED UP THE NEW BABY'S NOSE!!"

I screeched over to the side of the road, leaped out of the car, and practically ripped the back door off its hinges.

Sure enough, there sat Terrible Two, then barely three years of age.  She was grinning happily, with a finger firmly jammed up each of the baby's nostrils.  Wee Three was desperately mouth-breathing for dear life, but amazingly, not making any fuss.  I think she was just as shocked as I was.

I picked up my cell phone, called the children's father, and screamed with all the self-control of a woman on the edge:

"WE.  NEED.  A.  VAN."

Suffice it to say the Loser Cruiser appeared, and once I could firmly ensconce my children out of arm's (and leg's) reach of each other, life went on.  And on.  And on.

I got my very first speeding ticket in that car:

Officer:  Morning, Ma'am.  Where are you off to in such a hurry?

Me:  (Gritting teeth and raising my voice over the intense wails coming from the rear of the interior)  I?  Am going to PRESCHOOL.

Or, alternatively, straight to Hell.  At that precise moment, I wasn't sure.

He didn't let me off-- he was clearly not a father.  But if he is now, by GOD I hope the mother of his children has taught him a few important life lessons.  

After that, the Loser Cruiser and I made a pact that if we were going to speed, we were going to have to really boot it, to ensure that we would outrun irritating police officers.

She never failed me after that.

Together, we hauled a multitude of kids, made countless grocery runs, and screeched up to emergency rooms in the nick of time.  We moved furniture, small trees, hysterical cats, and entire garden-loads of plants.  We drove-thru for gallons of coffee, for ice cream, for prescriptions and bank machines.

Her "fuel" light flashed on a fairly regular basis, but she always waited for me to be able to find a service station, rather than gasping her last in the middle of a busy intersection.  She was nothing if not polite.  She didn't want to inconvenience anybody.

She also had a great sense of fun.  One night, six children and I sneaked up on my best friend, blindfolded her, stuffed her through the back hatch of the trunk, and whisked her off to a surprise 40th birthday party, "gangster-style".  Those same six children and I also perfected a game in which we quietly waited by the side of a certain back road until the coast was clear, then revved up and barreled like maniacs over a series of large speed bumps, to a chorus of whoops and giggles.  Three of those kids eventually moved across the country, but whenever they come back to visit, one of the first things they request is always a speed-bump run.

Memorably, one year she became an impromptu Mother's Day card, when several small people (who shall not be named) sneaked out in the middle of the night and scrawled loving graffiti all over her in bathtub crayons, which rendered me speechless the next morning.  Needless to say, I got more than my usual number of perplexed stares as I proudly drove around for the next several days-- much to the children's mortification.  (That's payback, kids... I actually managed to preserve the yellow happy face drawn on my gas cap cover for months.)

She was a tough old gal, the Loser Cruiser.

We couldn't possibly have had respite away from home without her.  She got us to Stratford and back so many times, I swear, I don't even remember steering.  She always got us, and all the Stuff that went with us, where we needed to go.  My father was consistently alarmed by the sheer amount of luggage I regularly produced from the enormous trunk when we arrived.  ("Good Lord, HOW LONG ARE YOU STAYING???!")

In the summer, she was full of grass clippings and sand from bare feet.  She was caked with the salt and slush from small boots in winter.  She happily stored the kids' secret treasures in her back-seat pockets and hinged compartments, including one unpleasantly memorable container of chocolate milk that Wee Three was "saving for later"...  MUCH later.

She was the safe place where I took respite from a job I dreaded last year.  Every day at the lunchtime bell, no matter how cold or how hot the weather, I'd escape from my classroom, and drive till I found quiet parking lot away from school property.  I'd set the alarm on my phone, roll my seat back, and desperately attempt to relax.  Only then could I bear to face the afternoon.

Granadpa is quietly amused

This past summer, she made it through a mammoth journey to the place that was my childhood playground, south of the border, on the coast of Maine.  She chugged through the Green Mountains, carrying not only the girlies and me, but my parents, as well.  My dear old dad has a very bad back, and had compiled a long list of concerns about the car and the trip in general before we left.  But amazingly, throughout the journey, he pronounced our Loser Cruiser to be a resounding success, on both the comfort and reliability fronts.  (This was no small praise, I assure you.)

Our Maine Vacation turned out to be our Loser Cruiser's swan song.  Last week, emergency response to her "Check Engine!!" light resulted in a prognosis "nil".  

We returned to the dealer and settled on a rather splendid replacement, in a unique shade of grey, at a respectable price.  We were assigned a "trade-in" date...  and yet, our hearts sank.  It was quite ridiculous-- a melancholy reaction, to such a happy prospect:  hell, we hadn't been fortunate enough to be able to treat ourselves to something like this for years!

As the great day drew closer, the girlies and I were finally able to decide what was really bothering us.

We would miss her.  NOT the rust and the dangly exhaust pipe and the never-ending blinking dashboard lights, but rather, we would miss the SPIRIT of our trusty Loser Cruiser.

And this got us to thinking...  As long as we were indulging in nonsensical thoughts ANYWAY... What if we imagined our old girl to be a Buddhist?

What if our friend was just shedding her old shell, to take on the form of the new one?

It was decided.  

And once we had our story straight, we felt a whole lot better.

Last Thursday evening, as we prepared to pull out of the dealership parking lot, the girlies and I carefully hung Tony and Jude the sheep on the new rear-view mirror.

"Re-in-CAR-nation!!" proclaimed Child Number One, as we pulled out into traffic, roaring with laughter.

We may look a little different as we cruise down the street in our new ride...

But deep down, we're still happy to be Losers, and that's a fact.

Sing out loud, sing out strong.

It's Trash Tuesday again, folks.

And for the past week, I've been wracking my brain to figure out ways to simplify my little family's somewhat harried existence.  My girlies and I are working towards the idea of "stream-lining" our routines this year.

This will mean making an effort to cut out the stuff that tends to drive us crazy and gets us nowhere.

(Except the laundry, unfortunately.  Apparently, the general consensus is that we need to keep doing that.  Same goes for making supper every.  damn.  night.  **Sigh.**)

Child Number One is undoubtedly the busiest of us all, and we've been extremely careful to choose her high school courses, as well as her music activities, with extreme consideration.  Thankfully, she is now at the point in her education where the pre-requisites are behind her, and she can pick her courses based upon what she enjoys, and what she intends to pursue in university.

There has been some talk about her dropping out of her secondary school's choir.

Now, Child Number One is "Musical-with-a-capital-M", as some of you may remember.  She has never had a burning desire to sing-- the flute has become her voice, instead.  But, as many good music teachers have encouraged her, she has felt the need to TRY to sing, to help her perfect her ear training, as well as her sight reading.

Besides, singing in a group-- as opposed to having to "face the music" and sing on your OWN-- is fun.

It's good for the soul to combine your voice with others', and marvel at the beautiful sounds that can be created.  It's good to learn the music "by heart": that way, it stays there forever.

Number One had a super year singing at school last year, and made some wonderful new friends outside of the instrumental music program.  She also sang, without pressure and with joyous abandon, at the National Music Camp for several years, as a part of her orchestral training.

This year, a new music department head was announced at the school.  And this department head, although absolutely marvelous at his job, announced that he would like the members of the choir to do more solo work this year.  Starting with a recorded vocal audition.

Well, Child Number One's no stranger to auditions.  She rises to meet the challenge of all kinds of performing situations, and succeeds.

But this one made her hesitate.  It made her nervous.  She can MORE than carry a tune.  But, singing is not what she would call her forte.

She began to think...  that if she didn't continue with choir, she would not only reduce her own personal stress, but she would also lessen my weekly driving load... thus stream-lining the schedule, as we had planned.

Well, I appreciated the offer.  And I understood her feelings.  Hell, I wouldn't have wanted to sing on my own, either-- and I sang in a number of church choirs for a number of my younger years.

I was sure the teacher would understand.  I encouraged her to go and see him, and explain her reservations.

In the end, he was sympathetic and understanding, and of course would have her in choir, even if she didn't feel comfortable singing alone.  They would work it out.

So, then there was just the issue of stream-lining the schedule to consider.

We decided to sleep on it.

And after we had risen and dressed to leave the house in the wee hours this morning, I met my eldest child in the kitchen for a mini-pow-wow.

Would she stay, or would she go?

In the end, the decision was simpler than either of us would have imagined:

(Insert a loooooong moment of thoughtful silence.)

Mother:  Are you singing Rutter this year?

Child Number One:  Yes.

Mother:  Here's your lunch.  Get in the car.

Sing your heart out, kiddo.  

Here There Be Monsters...

Well, it's September, all right.

School is back in full swing, and although it's been just shy of two weeks of frantic routine, my girlies and I appear to be "running on empty" already.  I'm back at work (although, thankfully, NOT in the same ring-of-Hell position I was in last year), and the race is on to balance my life with the needs and routines of my progeny.  

Every morning, we fire out the door in three different directions.  And every afternoon, I drive my weary carcass around town, picking them all up, only to have to muster a Mario Andretti impersonation in order to get them all to their extra-curricular activities in a "punctual fashion".  Bonus points if I have remembered to remind them all to pack the appropriate accoutrements.

The worst day is Tuesday.

There is school and work.  And early band.  And then mid-afternoon band.  Then choir...  I sh*t you not, my bum doesn't leave the car seat between two forty-five, and seven thirty at night.

It's no wonder I'm out of shape--  the servers at all the drive-thru windows in town know us by name.

We call it "Trash Tuesday".

Well, this past Trash Tuesday, we hit a snag in the routine, in the form of a massive traffic jam.  The clock was ticking, but Child Number One and I were in gridlock, while Two and Three languished in their respective school pick-up zone.  Apparently, fifteen minutes in "child time" is officially an Eternity.

When we finally screeched to a halt in front of the gates, two droopy, thoroughly cheezed-off children clambered into the back seat of the Loser Cruiser (who, incidentally, was also rebelling in the form of a flashing "CHECK ENGINE" light...  Traitor.)

I endured the "How COULD YOU???!!" melodramatics for the duration of the drive to the next stop.  And as soon as I could safely unbuckle my seat belt, turn around and blast the little ingrates till their hair blew back from their foreheads, I did just that.

When I was finished, there was an uneasy silence.

That is, until Wee Three piped up:

"Oh YEAH??  

Well, it's YOUR FAULT for taking us to school this morning in the first place!!"

That's "Blame The Mother", folks.

My kids have it down to a science.

Happy Birthday!

Wee Three was watching television this morning, while I got myself ready to face the day.  It didn't take long before a small person manifested herself at my elbow, as I was applying makeup in front of the mirror.

Wee Three:  It said on the news that it's Nelson Mandela's birthday!

Me:  (trying not to poke mascara directly into an eyeball)  Yep.  He's 95 today!  It's pretty amazing!

Wee Three:  They said he was in the hospital...  I sure wouldn't want to be in the hospital for MY birthday...

Me:  Nope, that would be pretty crummy, all right.

The Wee One thought for a minute, and then looked at me with a deeply worried expression.

Wee Three:  Do you think they'll at least give him a CUPCAKE or something??!!

Oh, my dear...  that wouldn't even touch upon repaying him for all he's done for us...

Actually...  I think it was invented by the administrators.

(Because I feel exactly the same way.)

Bustin' out all over...

It's June.

And it's ME who's wanting to bust out in a great big way.

Out of SCHOOL, that is.

Man, am I tired.  My practice is failing fast, and darn it, the kids KNOW IT.  They may have challenges, but boy, they're anything but stupid, and that's a fact.

I'm feeling particularly demoralized this evening, after a long day of EQAO exams, meetings, and certain persons breathing down my neck, to the point that I sweat bullets.

So, I thought to cheer myself up, I'd share a few things that I'm looking FORWARD TO-- things that will be able to begin in exactly eighteen working days!!

1.  My girls, and undivided attention to bestow upon them!  Mainly, not having to say, "Mummy's busy" whenever one of them dares tiptoe into my office.

2.  LOCKING UP MY OFFICE for a solid month!  As much as I love my tutoring, it's time to wrap a big ol' bungee cord around the handles of the double doors for a few weeks.  I'll be singing the "NO MORE HOMEWORK, NO MORE BOOKS..." song right along with all the students, and at double the volume of  those little varmints, too.  Hell, I'll steamroll over them to get out the door first, if I have to.

3.  Getting my garden in order!  Whoo-nelly...  In ten solid years, even the WORST of those years saw me digging up a storm, and all plants divided and trimmed  by the end of May.  This year...  well...  The back garden is dug, but nothing new has gone in.  Worst of all, I started edging out a new flowerbed in the grass a few weeks ago (the lawn was pretty patchy in that area, anyway), and took a break to do a few report cards...  Suffice it to say that the break turned out to be about three weeks long.  Embarrassingly, I believe my pitchfork is still sticking out of the ground in exactly the spot where I appear to have given up.

And the front garden?

You don't want to know.  

That is another blog post all its own.  Trust.

4.  KNITTING!  My God, it's been a long time.  Ridiculously long.  Someone pointed out recently that the root of a good deal of my problem right now is that I seem to have forgotten to knit for about the past three months.  It's so bad, I hardly noticed, myself.

Holy Hannah, I need a Holiday.

(And, an enormous yarn budget.)

5.  Sleeping with cats.

Oh, do I ever miss how I used to be able to sneak over to the couch every once in awhile after a good long dig in the garden, and lay my weary bones down for a few minutes, before roaring off to pick up the kids from school.  Inevitably, one or the other furry friend would mosey over, hoist herself up onto my stomach, and purr us both to sleep.

Just ten minutes.  That's all it takes for Fuzz Therapy to work, I swear.

6.  Pinning without guilt.

Pinterest is the second biggest time vampire I've ever encountered.

(RAVELRY is the first.  Naturally.)

This year, I learned the hard way that it was necessary to crank my alarm clock back another fifteen minutes, to give myself the delectable treat of enjoying exactly that amount of time to drink my coffee while perusing the latest DIY, Crafts and Humour segments.  The reason is simple.  Promising myself Pinterest was pretty much the only way I could stomach even the mere THOUGHT of making four packed lunches at five o'clock in the morning.

Call it "time off for good behaviour".  Whatever.  It works.

Soon, I can pin to my heart's delight, at a reasonable hour of the day!

7.  MAKING SOME OF THE STUFF I'VE BEEN PINNING.

Good lord, it's amazing how the bleeding obvious is so often overlooked.  Soon, I will actually have TIME to do all that stuff...  Although, admittedly, perhaps not ALL 5693 pins in one summer...

(BUT...  I plan on having a LOT of fun trying.)

8.  Work on the family tree.

Ancestry.com = time vampire number three!

Last Christmas, I totaled over 1000 members on my family tree, and have made some fascinating discoveries and connections.  That said, I've got so many photos still to scan and write up, it's mind-boggling.  I'm also determined to sort out all those Scottish relatives...  who all lived in the same tiny towns...  and belonged to the same dratted clan...  and named all their children EXACTLY THE SAME NAMES, over and over and over again, for a couple of hundred years...

Don't get me wrong-- I love my people.  I just want to make sure that the people I love are actually my people.

9.  EXERCISE.

I feel like The Return of The Blob.

The less said about that, the better.

10.  Laughter.

I miss my friends.  It's been too long.  Good thing I've got a flat-rate long distance plan!

And, finally...

I've saved the very best for last:

Do nothing.  

THINK nothing.  

Just BE.  

I can't wait.

Children's March

"Music is only love looking for words."

--Lawrence Durrell

It's happened.

That wondrous moment when, as a parent, you take a step back, and are able to see your child for the miraculous individual that she truly is:  the person that your little one has become, the way that other people see her.

It's taken seventeen years, perhaps because most of those years were spent in such delicious closeness with my three girls, both physically and emotionally.  It was a privilege to be a stay-at-home parent, and to be so intricately intertwined with their little lives.  I thought I knew everything about them, right down to the colour of the underwear they had chosen that morning...  But what I didn't completely understand was that inside those little people, no matter what I was doing to shape and mold them into grown-up, civilized human beings, they were becoming their own people, with secret thoughts and longings completely separate from me.  Sure, the "Manners Maketh Man" and "Virtues of Modest Dress and Behaviour" lessons have stood them in very good stead.  Some of what I've taught them will (hopefully) keep them out of jail, and off the pole.  My example of parenting will give them a reference when they are raising children of their own one day, as my own mum and dad's example did for me.

This year, I've been juggling the more-than-full-time schedule of teaching a challenging classroom of troubled students, with the parenting of my own three girlies.  My attention has been diverted-- and I've had extreme difficulties with trying to divide "fairly" between the two lives I seem to be leading.  It's a challenge to find enough hours in the day to get everything done, not to mention mustering the overwhelming effort to stay AWAKE.

I've been juggling as fast as I can.  But, apparently, in spite of all good intentions, I've been dropping balls all over the place.

My girls have been maintaining a reduced schedule of extra-curricular activities out of necessity.   I'll admit that on any given day, as they all pile into the loser-cruiser at the mid-afternoon mark, I have to ask them to remind me of three things: the day of the week, which direction I should be pointing the car in, and to whom I should address the payment cheques.

Truth:  I don't know whether I'm coming or going most of the time...  but it's a pretty good bet that I'm usually going.

Child number one is now seventeen:  an age where extra-curricular activities are even more important than school and maintaining good grades.  The struggle to gain acceptance at our best universities is becoming harder, and the requirements broader.  Faculties want talented PEOPLE, thank goodness-- not just kids who can spit out facts like robots.

And so, it has been for Child Number One that we have done most of the driving and cheque-writing this year.

She is music-- always has been.  From the moment that she could sit up straight on her gramma's knee, she reached out towards the piano keys that were faithfully positioned in front of her.

She REACHED.

She was not pushed.

She has been reaching forward ever since, and has achieved a remarkable amount in her young life.

Music set her free when she emerged from elementary school, and I will be forever grateful for the wonderful  teachers who have supported, encouraged and mentored her along the way.  Her band schedule has been rigorous, and the friendships developed along the way will hopefully last her a lifetime.  I have felt secure in the fact that the pool from which she chooses her friends has sorted the "wheat" from the "chaff" in advance-- because the kids in her programs are some of the brightest, most empathetic, hard-working and talented individuals that I've ever come across in one place.

Her flute has simply become an extension of her body.  It is her voice, not just her instrument anymore.

Several weeks ago, I drove her and the young colleague who served as her accompanist to compete at one of the largest music festivals in the province.  I knew what they were playing...  I had heard them practice.

But, I'll confess, in the frenzy of daily life, I hadn't truly been listening.

My girl stood up at the front of that enormous room, calmly introduced herself to the adjudicator, and began to play.

I was overwhelmed.

Who was this incredible, self-assured beauty?  Where on earth did she come from?  How did she do it?

I sat alone for those few amazing minutes with my heart in my hands.

And then, it was over.

The adjudicator approached her, and spoke softly:

"I don't know what to say.  Except this:  
I wish more people had had the chance to hear you."

They talked for a few minutes longer about quality of tone and range, and he asked her questions about her training and plans for the future.

And then, he awarded her first class honours.

As I rose to leave, he came over to where I was seated.

"Thank you," he said.

They were the sweetest words that anyone has ever said to me; the greatest compliment I've ever been paid.

Yes, I saw my child as the person she's become, and I glimpsed the even more incredible individual that she is blossoming into last night, centre-stage, at the MacMillan Theatre in Toronto.  She was chosen to perform with the Denis Wick Canadian Wind Orchestra at MusicFest this week, and was granted the honour of "Most Promising Flutist" by the faculty.

With all of the awe I feel comes the knowledge that she'll be leaving me soon, to spread her wings wide, and embrace all that life has to offer.

I trust that she knows, no matter how high she soars, I'll be close behind, watching in wonder, and supporting her all the way.

Happy Mother's Day

Sunrise

Wishing you all a happy and blessed Easter!

xoxo CGF

Truth for today.

The stresses of daily life are proving too much.  And sometimes, it takes the almighty Karma to smack you up the side of the head, to make you take your foot off the gas.

It's time to stop thinking with my heart all the time, instead of my head.

Time to let go:  The job is just a JOB.

My LIFE is my kids, and my creativity.

It's time I got back to more of my life.

(Thanks, Karma.  I needed that.)

Be Your Own Prince Charming

Now that I'm a full-time "working mum", weekends will never be the same again.

(Not that I wasn't working every day when I was fortunate enough to be at home with my three girlies...  Those years were some of the most challenging of my life, as you may well remember.)

However, with my new teaching and tutoring schedule keeping me hopping all day and well into the evenings from Monday to Saturday, our "family day" has turned into a well-timed regimen out of sheer necessity.

As my middle child says gloomily:

"Sunday means CLEAN-UP day..."

And she's right, boy-oh-boy, because what with the four busy girls in this household, we sure don't have much time to keep up with clean-up during the week.

Today, we all pitched in with cooking, cleaning, laundry and ironing, in between bursts of homework and music practice.  Late in the afternoon, I excused the gloomy middle child to go off with a friend to watch a hockey game, and dragged Wee Three along with me on my struggle round the grocery store, so that my eldest child could study in peace.

Wee Three is a great kid to shop with, actually.  She's full of "can-do" attitude, and has a great willingness to help...  although admittedly, she DOES prove my downfall in the cookies-and-candy aisle (which is commonly known to us as "The Aisle of Tears":  To the kids, because they know that I'll say "NO".  And, to me, because I know what my backside will eventually look like if I dare give in to my children.)

We made it through with only one moment of weakness, when I bought my smallest daughter a package of her favourite Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum-- albeit with firm warnings about her tendency to park her gum in inappropriate places around the house (presumably to "save it for later").

We dragged our cart out into the slushy parking lot, heaved the lot into the trunk of the loser cruiser, and slogged home.

Once back in my own driveway, I emerged from the nice, warm car and pulled up the hood of my parka against the snow and wind.  I must confess, as I began to unload the contents of my trunk...  it was hard to resist the great temptation to wish for a nice, strong Prince Charming-type to come bounding up and relieve me of my burden.

Stephen Sondheim once wrote, "Everybody ought to have a maid..."  But, I say, to hell with that lot.  The fact is, everybody ought to have a SHERPA.  Especially mothers, at times times such as these.

It was at this precise moment that my littlest girl bounded out of the back seat, and skidded up beside me.  She took one look at my face, grinned hugely, and made me the proudest mother in the world, when she said:

"Don't worry!  WE can do it, Mum!!

GIRLS CAN DO ANYTHING!!"

How we're spending the weekend... sigh...

Now, if my Darth Vader impersonation would just work with my STUDENTS...

Cracked.

The new job has been a trial-by-fire, to put it very, very mildly.

And although the task of completely overhauling and re-inventing prescriptive, special education programs for eighteen challenging students is MORE than enough for me to adjust to...

My poor, neglected little family has had a lot to adjust to, too.

Mummy leaves the house before anyone else is up-- heck, before the SUN is up.

And, when Mummy comes to pick them up at school in the afternoon, she is, more often than not, tired, stressed, and overwhelmed by the prospect of a full night's work ahead of her.

No matter how hard I try to achieve some sort of balance in our life here at home, I always feel like I am at arm's length from my children.  If not physically (barricaded in my office, surrounded by mountains of books and a printer spitting out papers faster than I can collect them off the floor), then certainly emotionally.

For weeks, now, my new students haven't been out of my head, not even for a few minutes.  I even dream about them at night-- stress nightmares that I hope never come to full fruition.

We're scraping by.

And sadly, we seem to be eating way too much pre-made meals.  Frozen entrees from the grocery store used to be a last resort around here, and although I started out with a cheery "make-one-freeze-one!" mentality, the reality of my ridiculous schedule has gotten in the way.

Mercifully, my mother stepped in one night last week.  Not only did she bring us the most delicious almond chicken casserole...  she brought BREAD.

HOME-MADE bread.  Bread made from a recipe that originated with my great-grandfather, and handed down and perfected by his wife, his children and grandchildren.

My mother's beautiful whole-grain bread is a thing of beauty, and is good enough to bring tears to your eyes when it's lightly toasted and slathered in butter.  It's at its finest as a summertime sandwich, enclosing slices of the freshest garden tomato, still warm from the vine.

My girlies went into ecstasies over the bread that night.  (The chicken went down pretty well, too, needless to say.)

Child Number One:  (with her mouth still full)  I swear, Gramma bread has something ADDICTIVE in it.

Me:  Well, certainly.  All that whole wheat and bran...  I don't know how she crams all that good stuff in, and gets the loaves to rise up to be so LIGHT.

Child Number One:  (with a meaningful stare)  Nope.  It's not that.  I think she puts DRUGS in it, or something.  Kind of like the coffee at Tim Horton's...  Just enough to keep you wanting MORE...

Me:  (roaring)  That's hilarious.  Your gramma wouldn't have the first CLUE where to get illegal drugs to put in that bread.  Although...  it would certainly bring a new meaning to the phrase, "CRACKED WHEAT".

We chuckled until crumbs rained down onto the floor, just as Wee Three skidded into the kitchen and wanted to know what we were laughing about.

We explained in as "age-appropriate" a manner as we could.

She squinched down her eyebrows thoughtfully, and noodled for a moment, before she had her big "lightbulb moment":

Wee Three:  I KNOW WHERE GRAMMA GETS THE STUFF!!  She drives out to COUNTRY BULK!!

Crack...  WHEAT, that is.

Whatever it is that's in there, folks...  it sure is GOOD.

Knitty new year...

My only New Year's Resolution.

So many people are posting their "Best of 2012",  I felt the need to join in the game.

2012 wasn't the easiest of years for me and mine, however, so I think it best to keep the topic on one of the things I love best--  The Knitting, of course.  (What else??!)

It was a busy year, for sure, needle-wise.  Unfortunately, the Challenging Situation for teachers in Ontario meant that I was unable to teach knitting as an extra-curricular activity in school.  But, on the up-side, instead of driving between schools on a lunchtime circuit, I was able to concentrate on making a few things for myself, for a change.

Not only that, I was able to actually begin my Christmas knitting in September, which is unheard of...  Good thing, too, since the new job that I began in December nearly put the kibosh on all my out-of-school activities (like grocery shopping, cooking, and house-cleaning, for example).  I say NEARLY, because in a feat of stealth, I managed to put the final stitches in all of my presents by midnight on Christmas Eve.

Whew.

Here are a few of the things I cranked out during 2012:

A linen stitch scarf, knit from three balls of the very finest sock yarn, pattern from Churchmouse.  This one was a marathon, people...  knit length-wise, and working the delicate fringe as I went along, this scarf took me three years of on-and-off stitching to complete.  It was worth it in the end, though, as I was finally done (in more ways than one) in time for my sister's 40th birthday.  She got a very special present, and has been threatened with instantaneous death if she loses or abuses it in any way-- I don't think I'll ever have the patience to complete another one of these suckers!  You either love linen stitch or hate it, I've heard...  Although I love the way it looks, I'd much rather weave on a loom, than on my knitting needles...

After reading and watching a little too much Harry Potter this year, I developed a hero-worship of character Molly Weasley, mother of Ron, and knitter extraordinaire.  She literally DOES have magic needles, and the classic jumpers she produces for Christmas are legendary-- and maroon.  I chose this Cabin Fever pattern for a gigantic, cosy sweater of my own, knit from a beautiful tweed yarn that contains just a little bit of silk for softness.  Although I skipped the giant "H" on the front of my jumper, I love it enough to wear it at some point almost every day.

These beautiful blanket kits from Mountain Colours Yarns are such a pleasure to knit, and so interesting from start to finish, that I couldn't stop after just ONE.  The mohair and silk ribbon makes them feather-light, but divinely warm--  it's impossible for me to stay awake once I've crawled underneath my dark violet, indigo blue-and-black version.  My mother received the garnet coloured one (that you can see in the middle of the photo) for her birthday in March.  Now, if I could just figure out a good reason to knit a third one...

Another pattern I couldn't seem to quit was Lala's Shawl.  This photo is of someone else's work, as I gave the ones I made away before I thought to take pictures!  My favourite version was made out of Liberty Wool 7808 "Embers and Ash", and was made for a dear friend who had been diagnosed with cancer.  She needed an "aegis" to help her stay strong through her treatments, and is now in full remission.
 (I'd like to say something like, "Never Underestimate the Power of Knitting", but the truth is, my friend is One Tough Babe.)

I also whipped up several versions of this fantastic pattern, Runner's Watch Cap, to help her keep her head warm and cosy through the cold months last winter.  If anyone else is looking for a close-fitting cap to wear underneath other hats, or to wear to bed at night, this one is apparently the winner!  I selected the very softest sock yarns I could find...  there was plenty of lovely stuff to choose from, and we made sure the colour scheme matched the season.

A few more Churchmouse Yarns and Teas patterns, here:

This lovely wrap was completed in a gorgeous Rowan Kidsilk Haze Stripe by Kaffe Fasset, especially for my pal "Dr. Gummy" who landed herself a fabulous new job out there in the West this winter!  Hers is a beautiful combination of dark purple and mossy green, suits her to a "t", and is my substitute for a congratulatory hug, since I can't be there to give her a squeeze in person.

I'm currently making one for myself out of Debbie Bliss "Angel", in the most amazing sky-blue.  That should cheer me up until the warm weather arrives again...

This nice little "Anniversary Tea Cosy" was whipped up for my dear old Dad for Christmas-- which, as you may remember, fell just a few days after my parents' 46th.  I did mine in a very dark blue felted yarn, held double-stranded, to help keep the Brown Betty extra-warm.  I also found a beautiful hand-painted clay button to crown the top.

It has since been decided by my family that the cables I thought were so romantically symbolic actually look like strands of DNA during the metaphase of mitosis... But, they're all science-nerdy that way.

By far, my favourite Christmas gift that I made this year was inspired by this Pinterest image!  I've got to grab my version back from my sister one of these days, so I can take a picture of the oatmeal-coloured felted mittens I made.  I then bought a special kit, and needle-felted the images of two black cats wearing tiny purple collars on the back of each hand.  I'd never needle-felted anything before, and am now completely addicted.  It turns out that stabbing something repeatedly with a sharp object helps to work out a nice amount of frustration, and creates something beautiful at the same time!  More projects are definitely on the horizon.

Now.  I'll tell you something that you'll NEVER believe:

Remember the bane of my existence?  My Mother's Sweater.

Yes, folks.  I did it.  I finished it.

I had cast it into the Hades that is the bottom of my knitting basket three years ago, having discovered that I had created two large pieces in two completely different sizes.  There, it taunted me every, single time I went rummaging through The Stash.

Well, in September, in a fit of frustration, I finally ripped out those two pieces, wound the yarn around a frame and steamed the heck out of it so that it was all smooth and fluffy and ready to re-use.

Then, I took an almighty highlighter pen to the pattern, so that the blinding yellow flashing would ensure the proper sizing.  What's more, I made myself a clip-board of charts so as to follow the stitching perfectly, and rammed the whole works back into my "In-Progress" bag.

Late, late on Christmas Eve, I secured the final stitches.

Alleluia.

Talk about your Christmas Miracles.

Next time:

I've been Good, people!  Time to share all the new projects already on-the-needles!

(Because, heck.  What are January Yarn Sales for, anyway??!)

2013

Forget Santa Claus...

When the heck are the Laundry Fairy and

 the Vacuum Genie comin' to town???

December 25

Sassoferrato:  Madonna and Child with Cherubs, 1650

i thank You God for most this amazing

poem by e. e. cummings, arranged by Eric Whitacre,

and performed by The Eric Whitacre Singers 

 i thank You God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky:  and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;  this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:  and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-- lifted from the no
of all nothing-- human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)


Merry Christmas, my friends!
May you all be surrounded by those whom you love best...

xo CGF

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

For Christmas Eve

The Cradle in Bethlehem
performed by Sara Groves

Sing sweet and low your lullaby,
Till angels say Amen,
A mother tonight is rocking
A cradle in Bethlehem.

While wise men follow
Through the dark,
A star that beckons them,
A mother tonight is rocking
A cradle in Bethlehem.

"A little child will lead them,"
The prophets said of old,
In storm and tempest heed Him,
Until the bell is tolled.

Sing sweet and low your lullaby,
Till angels say Amen,
A mother tonight is rocking
A cradle in Bethlehem.

The composer of this lovely carol, Larry Stock, was born in 1896, the son of a cellist with the New York Symphony Orchestra. He began attending the Juilliard School when he was twelve years old, and studied piano. After graduating at the age of 16, he continued his studies at The City College of New York. Stock also studied piano with a then prominent teacher, Clarence Adler.

Larry Stock spent nearly a half century of writing and composing, and turned out literally scores of popular songs, including Blueberry Hill (a major hit recording for Fats Domino), Umbrella Man (which ultimately surpassed Blueberry Hill in sales, selling over 50 million records and more than a million pieces of sheet music), and the Dean Martin classic, "You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You".

He composed the music for The Cradle in Bethlehem with lyricist Alfred Bryan (who was born in Brantford, Ontario, Canada). The song was first recorded on Nat King Cole's album, "The Magic of Christmas", which was released in 1960.