I was 17 when I met the man who would become my husband. Seventeen! Today that seems ridiculously young and yet, somehow, perfect timing. I love the fact that we grew up, in many ways, together. Yes, we had a steep learning curve in having fallen in love before the realities of mortgages and careers set in, but we climbed those hills hand in hand. Not always gracefully, mind you. But as a team, nonetheless.
For nearly half of my life, I’ve been a mother. It’s one of my primary roles; it’s the one many people associate me with most, I think. Of course, I am also a wife. That’s probably my defining hat, if you were to really get down to it.
But the title I’ve held longest? Daughter.
It’s amazing — but not surprising — how much birthdays change as you get older. Continue reading
The birth certificate arrived.
My husband turned 45 recently. Forty-five. Once upon a time, that was old. Now it’s who we are, and suddenly we’re looking at the Oxford definition of “middle age” and thinking, “Nah. Not us.”
Lovely Facebook reminded me last week of a picture I took with my wife two years earlier while waiting in the Vancouver airport to board our plane to Nepal. And, surprisingly, it stung.
I didn’t see it coming. But two years after moving to — and leaving so shortly thereafter — Nepal, there are still parts of my heart that clearly need healing.
I used to have a rock-solid list of “nevers.” Most of them revolved around parenting my as-yet-to-have-been-conceived perfectly matched set of two children. You know the list, right? “I’ll never spank my kids.” “I’ll never give my kids junk food.” “I’ll never say it’s bedtime at 6 p.m. just so I can get two hours of peace before I fall asleep on the couch.”
I wonder, sometimes, what it’s like to live in Phin’s head. Life often seems big and overwhelming for Phineas, who floats through his days with us as his anchor, telling him what’s to come, and how to stay safe, and when to come to the table for meals. Life with a cognitive impairment means, for my precious boy, that every morning could be Christmas, and every tried-and-true routine is fresh and potentially has a different outcome.
I am sitting outside trying to prepare my lesson for tomorrow’s online French class that I teach (check out CBB+ if you’re interested!), but it’s been tough.
Not only is it a cool, lazy morning, but I am too busy watching my younger school-aged children sketch in their nature journals the feather of a hawk that is likely from the impudent rascal who flew off with one of our chicks earlier in the week. Continue reading
I went out this morning to check the garden boxes and quickly noticed that what is supposed to be lettuce is now overrun with weeds. I don’t think our lettuce is going to make it.