This was an old post that was supposed to be published months ago...
I'm a computer programmer. I develop software. I spend my entire day emersed in a world of 1's and 0's and when I'm not programming for them, I'm fixing them. I love almost every second of it too, so believe me, I realize the irony in this statement:
I don't like technology.
I should clarify that statement. I mean most technology.
My boss joked the other day, pointing out my love of paper and pen when clearly, as an IT and programming professional, you would think I would use something electronic to track this kind of information on. I like my pen and paper. I like the feel of the pen as I write. I like the placement of the text as I write. I like the emotion that's conveyed in the formation of the letters. I like that I remember nearly everything I write because I see it and I feel it. He can joke all he wants - he's the one writing on his iPad with a stylus.
In my first year of college, I had the highest mark my Calculus teacher had ever handed out in his 20 years of teaching. He pulled me aside and very sternly said that while he realized I didn't have the ability to commit to a mathematics, computer science or computer engineer degree, he wanted me to at least meet with the head of the Computer Engineering Technology department. I politely declined. I'd rather visually create (draft) than code... or so I thought. It's always stuck with me though - that conviction in his voice. I never really understood the correlation between programming and mathematics until a much later time in my career. That's what programming is. It's one giant equation, and I'm in the middle of it.
I love efficiency. I hate redundancy. If something has to be repeated more than once in your day, there has to be a way to automate it. It's not that I'm lazy, because I'm certainly ready and willing to work very hard. My day is so jam packed with objectives, duties, and activities, that I don't want to stuff another repetitive task into it... I don't want to fill it with mindless numbing activities either. I didn't improve or hope to make something more efficient so that I can fill that saved time with some other task. I'd like to alleviate some of the feelings of "there aren't enough hours in a day", and allow someone to breath a little.
Unfortunately, that's not the direction that technology has taken us. It has freed up time, only to have that time consumed with more duties and tasks, movies and games, and social feeds. We've freed up time that we normally would have spent talking to a friend or family member to go on Facebook - 'like' a couple of statuses and leave some random comments. That's what our life is reduced to.
I went to my very first 3D movie this year. It was amazing... brilliant... the technology is unfathomable really. Pop on this pair of glasses that look perfectly normal, and suddenly the picture goes from a blurry mess to the Hulk barrelling towards me. I sat in awe for the first 30 minutes until I became bored with the movie. Graphics were great, but honestly the plot just wasn't for me. I spent 2.5 hours in a theater with people I do care about, not uttering a word. Everyone silent and consumed in the projected image before us. I would much rather have spent the time talking to these people, learning more about who they are beyond the little worker bees they become during work hours.
Put down the cell phone. Put down the iPad. Quit cramming more into your already overloaded day. Relax, slow down, and spend some time with the people you love the most, doing the activities you love to do. In the end, all you have is memories - both yours and the people you've created them with. Don't let technolgy take those away from you.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
The Value of Time
"Graysen - please get off the table," I utter. Amazingly he listens. It's taken months to get to this point. There were many moments I am sure our neighbors questioned both our parenting and our health practices. Graysen could routinely be found atop our dining room table... completely buck naked.
It's finally sinking in. Persistence to the nth degree has finally paid off. We are on the last leg of the baby stage of our life. Warily, we are moving on.
Every stage we move through is bringing a series of emotions. Worries and concerns creep in. The "unknowns" overwhelm. Options and abilities open up. Breaths of relief are sighed. Memories are all that remains.
Some of these memories are crisp, clear and vivid - others fade. I gain new perspectives on these as experience teaches me lessons... Lessons which no amount of internet research or book reading can reveal.
My lesson of the year: I am learning to value my time.
The time I spent being persistent in removing a naked child from atop my table was worth it. The time I spent rocking my child for hours in the dark nights was worth it. The time I probed my children for what's really wrong when they offered no words, was worth it. The time spent preparing meals, washing clothes, and wiping snotty noses was worth it.
I value the time of here and now, and I'm learning it has no definite length.
My own mother, for whom we knew the days were numbered, was one day gone. There is no partly gone or coming back. It's final. It's done. She's gone, and I will never in my life on earth see her, feel her, or hear her again. I still grieve that loss.
But...
My time with her was worth it. I have the most wonderful, perfect, and powerful memories to live on with.
Money can't buy you time, as it has no monetary value. Yes, you can pay for something in increments of minutes, hours, or days, but you cannot buy time itself. Its only bi-product - which has any real value - is memories.
Money may make aspects of life easier, but it complicates things.
Belongings can be treasured, but clutter spaces.
Memories are all you leave behind, and all you take with you.
Cherish today. Make today memorable. Tomorrow may never come.
Your time is valuable.
It's finally sinking in. Persistence to the nth degree has finally paid off. We are on the last leg of the baby stage of our life. Warily, we are moving on.
Every stage we move through is bringing a series of emotions. Worries and concerns creep in. The "unknowns" overwhelm. Options and abilities open up. Breaths of relief are sighed. Memories are all that remains.
Some of these memories are crisp, clear and vivid - others fade. I gain new perspectives on these as experience teaches me lessons... Lessons which no amount of internet research or book reading can reveal.
My lesson of the year: I am learning to value my time.
The time I spent being persistent in removing a naked child from atop my table was worth it. The time I spent rocking my child for hours in the dark nights was worth it. The time I probed my children for what's really wrong when they offered no words, was worth it. The time spent preparing meals, washing clothes, and wiping snotty noses was worth it.
I value the time of here and now, and I'm learning it has no definite length.
My own mother, for whom we knew the days were numbered, was one day gone. There is no partly gone or coming back. It's final. It's done. She's gone, and I will never in my life on earth see her, feel her, or hear her again. I still grieve that loss.
But...
My time with her was worth it. I have the most wonderful, perfect, and powerful memories to live on with.
Money can't buy you time, as it has no monetary value. Yes, you can pay for something in increments of minutes, hours, or days, but you cannot buy time itself. Its only bi-product - which has any real value - is memories.
Money may make aspects of life easier, but it complicates things.
Belongings can be treasured, but clutter spaces.
Memories are all you leave behind, and all you take with you.
Cherish today. Make today memorable. Tomorrow may never come.
Your time is valuable.
Monday, 7 May 2012
Worth
To seek. To search. To understand.
To awe the world from where I stand.
To grace this world with my very presence,
And give myself and life that essence –
The belief that what I do is right,
And the flow of life I shouldn’t fight.
But that my heart is worth the love
That fills it like a hand in glove
So perfect as to hold it tight
And keep it warm in the dead of night
That my soul is worth the tears
That have graced my cheeks for many years
For I am not but who I am....
Does it feel like there should be more???
I started this poem back when I was 16, and the ending has
changed many times. I’ve gone through
rebellious times where I’ve ended it with “And I am not a measly lamb”, and
religious times where, ironically, it’s been “I am just God’s precious
lamb”. Maybe the ending will come some
day, so this is where I left it – unfinished and flawed.
My mother always said growing up that I was special – that I
would do something “big” someday. I felt
it too. I beamed with pride. Not sure what big things were in my future,
but I was confident they would come. I believed in myself.
Wouldn’t it be great if you could just be? Exactly who you are is who everybody –
including yourself – expects you to be.
I realize now that those feelings - of greatness - are normal with your
children. Most parents believe that
their children are special in some way – they’ll excel in some way that will
make you proud to say “that is my son/daughter”. Somewhere along the line, I lost those
feelings for myself. I stopped believing
that I was capable of being remarkable.
Checklists began to form in my head of everything I needed to
be to please everyone. The negatives
were brought to the front and the positives began to fade. The problem was, fulfilling one person’s expectations,
usually negates someone else’s hope. My
path to greatness – which I never gave up on – seemed to be determined by the
path that is set by others. Mountains of
praise from people sat in the shadows of criticism. Some of these were perceived criticisms...
some of them real. Regardless of who it
came from, it all felt the same.
At some point, the pressure mounded, and I realized that the
old cliché was true. You can’t please everyone. I started living for my family and
myself. I started believing in
myself. I became confident that I was
capable of greatness. It’s perhaps not
the magnitude of “big things”, but I will be something... I’ll be me. I do the best that I can, and I try not to
regret that I stumble along the line.
I’ve recently been reminded that it’s a concerted effort to
do this when faced with misfortune. It’s
easy to fall down. It’s hard to get up. You have to remember you are worth it.
The ending – I’ll finish some day. For now it will sit... flawed... but that’s
OK with me.
Sunday, 22 April 2012
Letting Go
There's a crunch under my feet as I walk. It's not the typical sound I hear as I walk along the long driveway that leads to the place where I grew up - the place I called home for many years. The winding path with the mystical hill that mist rises from during spring rains has been overtaken with weeds and vegetation - the tracks hardly visible. Evidence that the road was once travelled many times in a day has been reduced to a few small rocks and a rough opening in the trees.
My feet are carrying me away as my pace progresses to a jog. My mind wanders to the moments I remember on this hill. Tobogganing in the dark winter evenings, fearing coyotes may attack at any moment, but feeling protected by my childhood dog, Jake; watching contentedly as the horses munched on the overgrown grass at the back, held captive by the electrified fence and solid metal gate; waiting at the end of the driveway in a shelter of straw bales for my school bus to arrive, passing the time by singing softly so no one could hear. Jake's long since passed, the gate no longer hangs, the wires of the electric fence dangle worthlessly to the ground, and the shelter is completely obliterated by weather and wildlife following winters of inactivity. Suddenly, my heart is sinking.
My lungs feel like they are on fire - my throat and ears itch intensely. Allergies overtake my body and I'm reminded of what held me back for so many years - asthma. I slow to a walk again, briefly pause at the end of the property and realise I need to take this walk. It's been many years since I've allowed myself to really look at what I left behind... really see what time does to something when you've put it out of your mind.
I enter the pasture through the large hole in the fence, again once guarded by a strong metal gate, and pass along between the dugout and the large wooded area of the pasture. I almost tiptoe now. The grass is long beneath my feet and makes too much noise in the silence of the day. I'm watching and waiting. For what I'm really not sure - maybe it's to catch a glimpse of wildlife taking up residence... making use of the land which sits untouched... reclaiming what was separated by 3 lines of electrified fence for so many years. I see only birds, and a lone goose on the water. I envision Lucas, our large, clumsy paint emerging from the woods - sticks poking and scratching his thick, impervious skin - arriving unharmed to visit for a moment. His soft, bristly nose reaching up to my face to touch good morning. I'd look him and the others over for any scrapes or injuries... they were my pride and joy, and I would do anything to make sure they were safe and sound.
My head snaps back at the sound of a "plop" in the dugout. Unsure what the source of the sound was, I step closer to the edge of the dugout itself. Even through the clouded, muddied waters, I can make out the its shape - unchanged. I remember hours of sliding down the sides of the dugout. Perfectly plotted paths to maximise air on hitting certain portions of the caverns and protrusions that make up its walls. I make a mental note to remember this - I'll have to take the kids next year in the winter. I'll have to show them the tricks and the trades of dugout tobogganing.
I continue on my way and reach the "new" riding arena. The new arena was developed on the far East side of the pasture - probably the largest and flattest portion of the land. I struggle to remember if we had completed the fence entirely or not... only a few fence posts remain. No wires. No fence boards. There stands a lone metal drum at the far end of the arena. Grass and weeds surround the drum, almost as if it welcomed the inorganic matter to the earth. I push on it, but it doesn't move. Gopher holes now cover the landscape. One would be hard pressed to find a path of travel deemed safe on horseback - never mind a continuous one. This arena didn't see much use. My show days were over, and my interest in arena based riding waned. I was moving on.
The crunch underfoot changes and I look for a reason why. The grass has now changed to incorporate a mixture of alfalfa - a succulent, nutrient rich plant the horses loved. Untouched it lays nearly flattened to the ground, but offers enough cushion that my step now has a spring to it. I question how any grass or plant is expected to grow through this thick layer, and wonder why no wildlife has arrived to graze on its existence. I realise the nomadic nature of the animals who would consume it would not allow for them to take up residence permanently on the land, but in my dreamy thinking, I had hoped it would.
The middle strand of wire on the back of the pasture appears to have been cut. I don't go to the end to see if that is, indeed, the case, but assume that it is. The wire is double stranded and twisted - unlikely to just break. The remainder of the wires remain intact. Perhaps we improperly secured it. In either event, the result is the same. It hangs and droops providing no method of containing livestock. I glance around to other fences, also reduced to nothing. Posts laying on the ground, broken or rotting, with the wires perilously hanging on the ground. Wooden gates tilt at odd angles with their previously healthy light brown colour, now faded. Gray. Broken. Unusable. Unrecoverable.
I make my way through the old wooden gate and stand in a large structure still standing. Its sides are made from plywood recycled from an old livestock yard. White paint still apparent, they are in surprisingly good shape. The roof, however, has not fared so well. The rafters are wet and rotting - the roof has giant gaping holes. The wind is blowing very hard, but the building stands strong - unwavering. I feel safe within the confines. My mind fills with memories of the horses escaping the summer heat and bugs. I remember the smell. Pungent, but not offencive. I can see their heads drooping... dosing in refuge... skin twitching intermittently as a fly would land. I'd run my hands over their soft skin, untangling knots in their manes, slowly working my way to the ears. The hair at the base of the ears so soft that I couldn't help but find it comforting.
This large structure sits on the Southeast corner of what we termed the "sacrifice area". Not intended as a sacrifice of life, but rather plants. It was a small pasture, used to the point that it was entirely dirt. This is where the horses were contained until they were allowed to graze on the grass. Left to their own devices, they would gorge until no grass remained and their bellies extended in all directions. The sacrifice area was the means used to balance the pasture use. It's now completely covered in weeds, and requires a significant amount of effort to navigate. I watch as spiders weave in an out of the strands of life at a speed incredible for their size. I follow one until it completely disappears, presumably returning to a virtual insect city hidden beneath the thick layer of plants.
The round corral - used to house horses when they first arrived and contain mares that were about to birth now stands in knee high weeds. I walk through the opening and into the small shelter that sits at the one end. Ironically, a small tree has taken up residence in the shelter. A long piece of bark droops over one of its branches. I look around to see the source, gradually glancing upwards. I can see the bark has fallen off of an edge of a board used for the roof of the building. The ground is littered with these small strips of bark - none as big as the one resting on the branch of the newly formed tree. I look up again, and catch sight of a large spotlight mounted up, just inside of the shelter doorway. My mind floods with memories of mares foaling. Tireless nights spent watching... waiting.. until inevitably, one night it would happen. Anxiety would overwhelm us, hands trembling, as we observed the tiny feet and nose of a brand new life making its way into the world. My heart pangs for the memories of those first precious moments between mare and foal. Now that I've had my own children, I'm confident if I were ever to witness a birth again, it would take on a much different meaning to me. I'd empathise in an entirely different way.
I make my way now to the smaller pasture that was originally designed for our sheep. Page wire rims the exterior - still standing strong. I remember hours of observation with my mom, perched behind the small boulder in the trees, armed with binoculars and a small medical bag. Any chance to watch new life was one worth waiting for. Birth never got old.
I walk along the fence, my hand lightly grasping the lines that would have carried electric voltage - now dead and limp. Wooden portions that later replaced wires for the horses are broken or barely standing. Teeth marks etch the edges that we once religiously applied copious amounts of dish soap to in an attempt to disinterest the mouths of bored horses. The now abandoned boards mark the abrupt separation from our farm.
I stand and cry. Inevitably - I knew I would. The place that housed some of the happiest moments of my life is abandoned. Weathering. Ageing. Dying. Life has gone on, and I have to let go. Returning this place to what it used to be is no longer possible. No longer tangible... but not forgotten. I wipe my tears away, and take a deep breath. I hide my sorrow, and try to remember that there are other happy moments to be had. Those were my memories. They were a part of me. It's time for me to help my children make memories of their own here, and it's obvious they won't be the same as mine.
I return to the house and sit at the table with my mom. During some small talk, a deeper conversation develops - one that's been sidestepped too many times.
"I'm glad you guys came this weekend...," her voice begins to tremble and her eyes move away from mine. "I was afraid I would die alone."
"Mom. MOM.," I say, begging for her to look me in the eyes. I reach across the table and grab her hand. She looks up at me, and the tears begin to flow. I turn to mush as emotions overwhelm me. Recollections of every time my mother stood beside me, lifted me up, guided me, and held my hand flash in an instant. I feel like I'm 10, and faced with losing someone I can't live without - my mother. "I don't want you to die."
Her eyes drop... tears stream... chin quivers... "I know, but I can't keep going - it's going to happen." She straightens up again and I see the resolve in her posture. I understand. I get it. It's not about me. The wish for a miraculous resurrection of memories past is never going to happen, and it's unfair to hold a person captive in those moments.
Letting go is a hard thing to do.
My feet are carrying me away as my pace progresses to a jog. My mind wanders to the moments I remember on this hill. Tobogganing in the dark winter evenings, fearing coyotes may attack at any moment, but feeling protected by my childhood dog, Jake; watching contentedly as the horses munched on the overgrown grass at the back, held captive by the electrified fence and solid metal gate; waiting at the end of the driveway in a shelter of straw bales for my school bus to arrive, passing the time by singing softly so no one could hear. Jake's long since passed, the gate no longer hangs, the wires of the electric fence dangle worthlessly to the ground, and the shelter is completely obliterated by weather and wildlife following winters of inactivity. Suddenly, my heart is sinking.
My lungs feel like they are on fire - my throat and ears itch intensely. Allergies overtake my body and I'm reminded of what held me back for so many years - asthma. I slow to a walk again, briefly pause at the end of the property and realise I need to take this walk. It's been many years since I've allowed myself to really look at what I left behind... really see what time does to something when you've put it out of your mind.
I enter the pasture through the large hole in the fence, again once guarded by a strong metal gate, and pass along between the dugout and the large wooded area of the pasture. I almost tiptoe now. The grass is long beneath my feet and makes too much noise in the silence of the day. I'm watching and waiting. For what I'm really not sure - maybe it's to catch a glimpse of wildlife taking up residence... making use of the land which sits untouched... reclaiming what was separated by 3 lines of electrified fence for so many years. I see only birds, and a lone goose on the water. I envision Lucas, our large, clumsy paint emerging from the woods - sticks poking and scratching his thick, impervious skin - arriving unharmed to visit for a moment. His soft, bristly nose reaching up to my face to touch good morning. I'd look him and the others over for any scrapes or injuries... they were my pride and joy, and I would do anything to make sure they were safe and sound.
My head snaps back at the sound of a "plop" in the dugout. Unsure what the source of the sound was, I step closer to the edge of the dugout itself. Even through the clouded, muddied waters, I can make out the its shape - unchanged. I remember hours of sliding down the sides of the dugout. Perfectly plotted paths to maximise air on hitting certain portions of the caverns and protrusions that make up its walls. I make a mental note to remember this - I'll have to take the kids next year in the winter. I'll have to show them the tricks and the trades of dugout tobogganing.
I continue on my way and reach the "new" riding arena. The new arena was developed on the far East side of the pasture - probably the largest and flattest portion of the land. I struggle to remember if we had completed the fence entirely or not... only a few fence posts remain. No wires. No fence boards. There stands a lone metal drum at the far end of the arena. Grass and weeds surround the drum, almost as if it welcomed the inorganic matter to the earth. I push on it, but it doesn't move. Gopher holes now cover the landscape. One would be hard pressed to find a path of travel deemed safe on horseback - never mind a continuous one. This arena didn't see much use. My show days were over, and my interest in arena based riding waned. I was moving on.
The crunch underfoot changes and I look for a reason why. The grass has now changed to incorporate a mixture of alfalfa - a succulent, nutrient rich plant the horses loved. Untouched it lays nearly flattened to the ground, but offers enough cushion that my step now has a spring to it. I question how any grass or plant is expected to grow through this thick layer, and wonder why no wildlife has arrived to graze on its existence. I realise the nomadic nature of the animals who would consume it would not allow for them to take up residence permanently on the land, but in my dreamy thinking, I had hoped it would.
The middle strand of wire on the back of the pasture appears to have been cut. I don't go to the end to see if that is, indeed, the case, but assume that it is. The wire is double stranded and twisted - unlikely to just break. The remainder of the wires remain intact. Perhaps we improperly secured it. In either event, the result is the same. It hangs and droops providing no method of containing livestock. I glance around to other fences, also reduced to nothing. Posts laying on the ground, broken or rotting, with the wires perilously hanging on the ground. Wooden gates tilt at odd angles with their previously healthy light brown colour, now faded. Gray. Broken. Unusable. Unrecoverable.
I make my way through the old wooden gate and stand in a large structure still standing. Its sides are made from plywood recycled from an old livestock yard. White paint still apparent, they are in surprisingly good shape. The roof, however, has not fared so well. The rafters are wet and rotting - the roof has giant gaping holes. The wind is blowing very hard, but the building stands strong - unwavering. I feel safe within the confines. My mind fills with memories of the horses escaping the summer heat and bugs. I remember the smell. Pungent, but not offencive. I can see their heads drooping... dosing in refuge... skin twitching intermittently as a fly would land. I'd run my hands over their soft skin, untangling knots in their manes, slowly working my way to the ears. The hair at the base of the ears so soft that I couldn't help but find it comforting.
This large structure sits on the Southeast corner of what we termed the "sacrifice area". Not intended as a sacrifice of life, but rather plants. It was a small pasture, used to the point that it was entirely dirt. This is where the horses were contained until they were allowed to graze on the grass. Left to their own devices, they would gorge until no grass remained and their bellies extended in all directions. The sacrifice area was the means used to balance the pasture use. It's now completely covered in weeds, and requires a significant amount of effort to navigate. I watch as spiders weave in an out of the strands of life at a speed incredible for their size. I follow one until it completely disappears, presumably returning to a virtual insect city hidden beneath the thick layer of plants.
The round corral - used to house horses when they first arrived and contain mares that were about to birth now stands in knee high weeds. I walk through the opening and into the small shelter that sits at the one end. Ironically, a small tree has taken up residence in the shelter. A long piece of bark droops over one of its branches. I look around to see the source, gradually glancing upwards. I can see the bark has fallen off of an edge of a board used for the roof of the building. The ground is littered with these small strips of bark - none as big as the one resting on the branch of the newly formed tree. I look up again, and catch sight of a large spotlight mounted up, just inside of the shelter doorway. My mind floods with memories of mares foaling. Tireless nights spent watching... waiting.. until inevitably, one night it would happen. Anxiety would overwhelm us, hands trembling, as we observed the tiny feet and nose of a brand new life making its way into the world. My heart pangs for the memories of those first precious moments between mare and foal. Now that I've had my own children, I'm confident if I were ever to witness a birth again, it would take on a much different meaning to me. I'd empathise in an entirely different way.
I make my way now to the smaller pasture that was originally designed for our sheep. Page wire rims the exterior - still standing strong. I remember hours of observation with my mom, perched behind the small boulder in the trees, armed with binoculars and a small medical bag. Any chance to watch new life was one worth waiting for. Birth never got old.
I walk along the fence, my hand lightly grasping the lines that would have carried electric voltage - now dead and limp. Wooden portions that later replaced wires for the horses are broken or barely standing. Teeth marks etch the edges that we once religiously applied copious amounts of dish soap to in an attempt to disinterest the mouths of bored horses. The now abandoned boards mark the abrupt separation from our farm.
I stand and cry. Inevitably - I knew I would. The place that housed some of the happiest moments of my life is abandoned. Weathering. Ageing. Dying. Life has gone on, and I have to let go. Returning this place to what it used to be is no longer possible. No longer tangible... but not forgotten. I wipe my tears away, and take a deep breath. I hide my sorrow, and try to remember that there are other happy moments to be had. Those were my memories. They were a part of me. It's time for me to help my children make memories of their own here, and it's obvious they won't be the same as mine.
I return to the house and sit at the table with my mom. During some small talk, a deeper conversation develops - one that's been sidestepped too many times.
"I'm glad you guys came this weekend...," her voice begins to tremble and her eyes move away from mine. "I was afraid I would die alone."
"Mom. MOM.," I say, begging for her to look me in the eyes. I reach across the table and grab her hand. She looks up at me, and the tears begin to flow. I turn to mush as emotions overwhelm me. Recollections of every time my mother stood beside me, lifted me up, guided me, and held my hand flash in an instant. I feel like I'm 10, and faced with losing someone I can't live without - my mother. "I don't want you to die."
Her eyes drop... tears stream... chin quivers... "I know, but I can't keep going - it's going to happen." She straightens up again and I see the resolve in her posture. I understand. I get it. It's not about me. The wish for a miraculous resurrection of memories past is never going to happen, and it's unfair to hold a person captive in those moments.
Letting go is a hard thing to do.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Hey! Remember me???!!!
So it's been a long time... a REALLY long time since I last blogged about a day in our lives that doesn't involve fundraising or diaper sewing. Life has been a little more than hectic since I have returned to work, and I've forgotten how much I enjoy writing. I'm picking up the pen, er, laptop again, and I hope to blog a bit more often.
I'll give a brief update on how everyone is doing, and I'll go oldest to youngest.
Aurora... my dear Aurora. She's approaching those preteen years, and I'm clinging to the last remaining bits of her "child" years. I'm really unsure what to call the stage she's at right now. She's still very young in some ways - still playing with dolls, tattling on her brothers, and playing with stuffed animals like they are living, breathing babies. On the other side of the spectrum, I see her starting to look at boys a little different. She's beginning to live in books. She doesn't like TV - she finds it boring, and while she claims she doesn't like video games, she certainly doesn't turn down an opportunity. And she's stubborn... so stubborn, but she's beautiful.
Now on to my darling Denali. My truth telling, super athletic boy! We've been going for walks in the evenings, enjoying our seeming lack of winter. Denali will literally run the entire time we walk, pulling Eloic on the toboggan. It's crazy to see the endurance, stamina and strength in such a thin body. I suppose now I have my answer as to how he could possibly eat as much as he does and stay so skinny! He's been really enjoying hockey/skating (what little we've been able to do with a natural ice arena this winter). I love watching his skating skills improve in leaps and bounds.
Here comes trouble! Eloic!! I suppose out of 4 kids, we ought to have one like him. He's moody, and broody, but when he's happy, his smile could melt your heart. It's a good thing God blessed him with dimples you could just lose yourself in because the number of times he's squeaked by on that smile is oustanding. I often say that although he's not the baby of the family in age, he's still the baby of the family in terms of needs. He requires a lot of attention, policing, and cuddles. I can see his toddlerhood leaving though... he doesn't want all those cuddles before bed anymore. As much as I wanted him to just go to bed, I'll be the first to admit, I'll miss those quiet minutes at the end of the day in the rocking chair.
"Graysen! Get off the table!". Oh, the number of times that phrase is repeated in or house is not quantifiable. It's far exceeded all our fingers and toes. He thoroughly enjoys climbing on anything and everything, and it's not uncommon to find him standing on the back of the couch looking out the window. I'm not afraid though - that child has the best balance I have ever seen. He's independent in playing, a great talker and eater, and he's started (only when naked) potty training. He's off the bottle and just really doesn't seem like a baby anymore. Definitely a total toddler now.
We're moving in to a different stage in our lives now, moving out of the baby and into the toddler/child phase. I'm happy to be phasing out the plastic noisy baby toys, highchairs, cribs, and ginormous contraptions that have cluttered our house for years. My pangs of "needing" that baby in my arms or in my womb have passed, and I can honestly say I'm happy to be done. Now I'm counting on my sister and brother in laws to provide me with some super cute nieces and nephews to cuddle!
As for Reno and I - we are good. I'm loving my job and working hard. Reno is slowly losing his mind with the kids, but I think he's finally starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel as Graysen starts to be slightly more independent. We are renovating the basement, putting in subfloors over our concrete, and our house is a bit of a disaster to say the least... but then again, when is it not???
That's it for now for updates! I'll be back soon... I promise :)
I'll give a brief update on how everyone is doing, and I'll go oldest to youngest.
Aurora... my dear Aurora. She's approaching those preteen years, and I'm clinging to the last remaining bits of her "child" years. I'm really unsure what to call the stage she's at right now. She's still very young in some ways - still playing with dolls, tattling on her brothers, and playing with stuffed animals like they are living, breathing babies. On the other side of the spectrum, I see her starting to look at boys a little different. She's beginning to live in books. She doesn't like TV - she finds it boring, and while she claims she doesn't like video games, she certainly doesn't turn down an opportunity. And she's stubborn... so stubborn, but she's beautiful.
Now on to my darling Denali. My truth telling, super athletic boy! We've been going for walks in the evenings, enjoying our seeming lack of winter. Denali will literally run the entire time we walk, pulling Eloic on the toboggan. It's crazy to see the endurance, stamina and strength in such a thin body. I suppose now I have my answer as to how he could possibly eat as much as he does and stay so skinny! He's been really enjoying hockey/skating (what little we've been able to do with a natural ice arena this winter). I love watching his skating skills improve in leaps and bounds.
Here comes trouble! Eloic!! I suppose out of 4 kids, we ought to have one like him. He's moody, and broody, but when he's happy, his smile could melt your heart. It's a good thing God blessed him with dimples you could just lose yourself in because the number of times he's squeaked by on that smile is oustanding. I often say that although he's not the baby of the family in age, he's still the baby of the family in terms of needs. He requires a lot of attention, policing, and cuddles. I can see his toddlerhood leaving though... he doesn't want all those cuddles before bed anymore. As much as I wanted him to just go to bed, I'll be the first to admit, I'll miss those quiet minutes at the end of the day in the rocking chair.
"Graysen! Get off the table!". Oh, the number of times that phrase is repeated in or house is not quantifiable. It's far exceeded all our fingers and toes. He thoroughly enjoys climbing on anything and everything, and it's not uncommon to find him standing on the back of the couch looking out the window. I'm not afraid though - that child has the best balance I have ever seen. He's independent in playing, a great talker and eater, and he's started (only when naked) potty training. He's off the bottle and just really doesn't seem like a baby anymore. Definitely a total toddler now.
We're moving in to a different stage in our lives now, moving out of the baby and into the toddler/child phase. I'm happy to be phasing out the plastic noisy baby toys, highchairs, cribs, and ginormous contraptions that have cluttered our house for years. My pangs of "needing" that baby in my arms or in my womb have passed, and I can honestly say I'm happy to be done. Now I'm counting on my sister and brother in laws to provide me with some super cute nieces and nephews to cuddle!
As for Reno and I - we are good. I'm loving my job and working hard. Reno is slowly losing his mind with the kids, but I think he's finally starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel as Graysen starts to be slightly more independent. We are renovating the basement, putting in subfloors over our concrete, and our house is a bit of a disaster to say the least... but then again, when is it not???
That's it for now for updates! I'll be back soon... I promise :)
Thursday, 22 September 2011
Motivation
I've started about a bigillion posts in the last couple of weeks months, but this one, I'm bound and determined to finish.
I'm participating in a Walk for the Cure in Saskatoon on October 2nd. I've posted numerous times on Facebook and only have 2 VERY generous donations. That's it. I'm thinking maybe I just need to provide more motivation. Maybe I need to go door to door. Maybe I need to pledge to run it instead of walk. Maybe I just need to tell the story.
My mother is a very strong and courageous woman. She's one of the kindest and most giving people I have ever known in my life, and yet she's had to go through more shit than anyone should ever have to. I'm not going to apologize for the language. To call it anything less than that would be an understatement.
My mother is my best friend, and I will be her biggest advocate. To be completely honest, she hasn't the foggiest clue I'm doing this for her.
For years while I was growing up, mom complained about being in pain. Pain in her joints. Pain in her body. No doctors could ever help her. She repeatedly visited family doctors; switched doctors, and left doctors. Not once did they have an answer for her that they divulged. Come to find out all too late that one doctor did. One doctor knew that she had a disease that was killing her liver. That one doctor never told her.
In 2001/2002, she was officially diagnosed with both diabetes and liver disease... severe liver disease. In 2002, she unsuccessfully underwent an experimental treatment for the liver disease. They said she had 6 months or so to live. She's gone through numerous treatments, management plans, changes in lifestyle, etc. to keep on living. She's a fighter, thru and thru, and today she still lives! It's amazing, and a blessing, but we are all aware that things can take a turn for the worst at any time, and it did.
Suddenly, in 2010, she began to lose massive amounts of weight. We all knew the liver disease was taking a toll on her. We all knew the diabetes was causing problems. BUT we all knew there was something else that was wrong.
And we were right.
In the spring of 2011, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Fortunately for my mother, the type of cancer she has/had is usually of the non-metastasizing type, meaning it usually doesn't spread. It does, however, grow at a very fast rate. This particular type of cancer is not treatable through chemo or radiation, but is through surgery. Shortly after receiving the diagnosis, she was under the knife.
Talking to her following the surgery, she kept saying she could "feel" it was still there. She *knew* they didn't get it all. Secretly, I brushed it off. Thought they knew what they were doing... thought she couldn't feel that. Unfortunately for my mother, the surgeons did not take all of the cancerous tissue out. The margins surrounding the tumor removed still contained cancerous tissue. It's a wait and watch. Not sure what we are waiting for... not sure what we are watching for, but we are pretty sure someday we'll see. She continues to lose the weight and is increasingly weaker.
I look at my mother these days, and I don't see the same woman. She was always very vibrant looking. Bright, big blue eyes; full flushed red cheeks. So beautiful. Today, she's so frail and thin, pale and weak. Still beautiful, as always, but you look in her eyes and you see she is hurting. I used to get lost in her arms when she would hug me. Now I'm afraid to hug too hard. She sleeps probably 16 hours a day, and has difficulty managing solid food. She's in constant pain.
What are the odds that someone facing impossible odds at surviving life would be dealt a devastating blow of breast cancer? Apparently just the same as you or I... 1 in 4. I, now having it in my family history, have a higher rate than that. So does my daughter, Aurora.
There are many times she's contemplated giving up the fight and never did. I'm not sure what keeps her going, but somewhere in there is a determination that I wish you could harness. Maybe somewhere in there is a little hope too.
This isn't an attempt at a sob story. This is my mother's life. A life that rests in the hands of the medical community on a daily basis. We know that curing breast cancer will not save her life, but we also know it could prolong it. Be aware that your story could be mine, or my mothers... 1 in 4 is a staggering statistic. Every penny that you donate goes to finding a cure and a treatment - even better yet - a method of prevention.
Please, please donate... even $5. It all adds up. http://www.runforthecure.com/site/TR/RunfortheCure2012/PrairiesNWT?px=1884672&pg=personal&fr_id=1299
And in case you need to put a face to the name, here she is (taken in summer 2010).
MY mother.
If you read this, love you mom.
I'm participating in a Walk for the Cure in Saskatoon on October 2nd. I've posted numerous times on Facebook and only have 2 VERY generous donations. That's it. I'm thinking maybe I just need to provide more motivation. Maybe I need to go door to door. Maybe I need to pledge to run it instead of walk. Maybe I just need to tell the story.
My mother is a very strong and courageous woman. She's one of the kindest and most giving people I have ever known in my life, and yet she's had to go through more shit than anyone should ever have to. I'm not going to apologize for the language. To call it anything less than that would be an understatement.
My mother is my best friend, and I will be her biggest advocate. To be completely honest, she hasn't the foggiest clue I'm doing this for her.
For years while I was growing up, mom complained about being in pain. Pain in her joints. Pain in her body. No doctors could ever help her. She repeatedly visited family doctors; switched doctors, and left doctors. Not once did they have an answer for her that they divulged. Come to find out all too late that one doctor did. One doctor knew that she had a disease that was killing her liver. That one doctor never told her.
In 2001/2002, she was officially diagnosed with both diabetes and liver disease... severe liver disease. In 2002, she unsuccessfully underwent an experimental treatment for the liver disease. They said she had 6 months or so to live. She's gone through numerous treatments, management plans, changes in lifestyle, etc. to keep on living. She's a fighter, thru and thru, and today she still lives! It's amazing, and a blessing, but we are all aware that things can take a turn for the worst at any time, and it did.
Suddenly, in 2010, she began to lose massive amounts of weight. We all knew the liver disease was taking a toll on her. We all knew the diabetes was causing problems. BUT we all knew there was something else that was wrong.
And we were right.
In the spring of 2011, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Fortunately for my mother, the type of cancer she has/had is usually of the non-metastasizing type, meaning it usually doesn't spread. It does, however, grow at a very fast rate. This particular type of cancer is not treatable through chemo or radiation, but is through surgery. Shortly after receiving the diagnosis, she was under the knife.
Talking to her following the surgery, she kept saying she could "feel" it was still there. She *knew* they didn't get it all. Secretly, I brushed it off. Thought they knew what they were doing... thought she couldn't feel that. Unfortunately for my mother, the surgeons did not take all of the cancerous tissue out. The margins surrounding the tumor removed still contained cancerous tissue. It's a wait and watch. Not sure what we are waiting for... not sure what we are watching for, but we are pretty sure someday we'll see. She continues to lose the weight and is increasingly weaker.
I look at my mother these days, and I don't see the same woman. She was always very vibrant looking. Bright, big blue eyes; full flushed red cheeks. So beautiful. Today, she's so frail and thin, pale and weak. Still beautiful, as always, but you look in her eyes and you see she is hurting. I used to get lost in her arms when she would hug me. Now I'm afraid to hug too hard. She sleeps probably 16 hours a day, and has difficulty managing solid food. She's in constant pain.
What are the odds that someone facing impossible odds at surviving life would be dealt a devastating blow of breast cancer? Apparently just the same as you or I... 1 in 4. I, now having it in my family history, have a higher rate than that. So does my daughter, Aurora.
There are many times she's contemplated giving up the fight and never did. I'm not sure what keeps her going, but somewhere in there is a determination that I wish you could harness. Maybe somewhere in there is a little hope too.
This isn't an attempt at a sob story. This is my mother's life. A life that rests in the hands of the medical community on a daily basis. We know that curing breast cancer will not save her life, but we also know it could prolong it. Be aware that your story could be mine, or my mothers... 1 in 4 is a staggering statistic. Every penny that you donate goes to finding a cure and a treatment - even better yet - a method of prevention.
Please, please donate... even $5. It all adds up. http://www.runforthecure.com/site/TR/RunfortheCure2012/PrairiesNWT?px=1884672&pg=personal&fr_id=1299
And in case you need to put a face to the name, here she is (taken in summer 2010).
MY mother.
If you read this, love you mom.
Friday, 26 August 2011
A Whole Lot of Updates
I'm going to be writing an update for everyone in the family this weekend, so stay tuned! I'd do it all tonight, but I think sleep is a bit more deserving of my time ;)
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