9 months

My dad died.

There. I said it. I wrote it. Right there in black letters.

My dad died. And I cannot wrap my brain around those 3 words.

9 months to the day that my mom passed away, we said goodbye to Dad. Taken from us after an incredibly short and mind boggling bout with cancer.

In 9 short months, cancer took both my parents and my brain cannot take it in. Grieving is different this time around. Different from grieving The Husband's dad. Different than grieving my mom. It's like my brain has locked the door and won't let me go inside that place. That place where you're sad and angry and missing the person who's gone. My brain won't let me inside there. I wonder if I should knock...ring the doorbell. But, no. I don't think I'm ready to go in to that place anyways, so I'll just sit here down on the corner and wait to get up my courage at some point in the near future.

When my mom died, I wanted to look at pictures of her. See video footage of her. Think of happy memories and was desperate to remember so I wouldn't forget. And now I catch a glimpse of my dad's picture and I have to look away. I have to make myself picture my parents together again and then move on to something else. Anything that is not thinking about the fact that there is only a teaspoon of raspberry jam left in the fridge. A solitary teaspoon of raspberry jam that Dad made with the raspberries Mom picked with my kids in their garden last summer.

I don't want this to be real. How can this be real? No. It's too much.

It's just too much.

Yet Another Side Road

Enough.

There's something about laying on a paper sheet in the doctor's office getting 24 staples removed from your tender abdomen that gets a person to thinking.

I think I've had enough.

Enough pain. Enough whining. Enough dark side roads.

I find myself yet again writing about one more event that I need to purge from my mind. Put aside, let go and move on.

Not that I'm done dealing with this latest side road...it'll be the middle of May before I'm allowed to go back to work, several weeks at least until I can pick anything up and dear god if this house doesn't up and crawl away in disgust at the level of filth that currently resides here, it will truly be yet another miracle for this Mahoney household.

Of course, I can't come here and whine about some exotic illness either. If something's going to go wrong with me it'll be with my bowel. Yes. I'm going to write on a public forum about my intestines.

God my life is so awesome.

And of course if I'm going to go and get a twisted bowel and need emergency surgery, I'll do that when The Husband is away. In another province, two airplanes away. But hey! The Eldest can drive so that saved me the ambulance cost.

Just looking for the positives. It's all I've got.

I found myself laying in the ER at 3 o'clock in the morning, begging God to just make the pain stop and saying the rosary at super sonic speed over and over and over again while breaking The Eldest's hand in a death grip. Two x-rays later and voila: twisted bowel. Which explained the pain worse than childbirth. And all my yelling. Plus the vomit. Oh and there may have been some accusations that the doctor wasn't getting to me soon enough. It's a bit foggy.

God was watching over me and my Mom was organizing a speedy solution to my predicament. There was a free operating room and the surgeon was able to come in right away. By 9 am I was saying good bye to about a foot of my intestines. I woke up to a 7 inch incision down my abdomen, 24 staples holding it closed, 7 days in the hospital, 8 weeks of not lifting anything and many days of lounging around looking at the dog hair accumulate on the carpet.

Laying in a hospital bed unable to move without crying despite the epidural in one's back plus a morphine drip, gives a person a lot of time to think. A lot of time to think about life changing in an instant, being blindsided when you already feel like life has kicked the crap out of you. You have morphine hallucinations about demons and fire and brimstone. You replay talking to your husband on the phone before surgery, telling him you love him, please don't come home, you'll be fine, his work up there is important for our family, but every fibre of your being wants him there with you. You think about telling your Eldest child goodbye and that you love her, everything was going to be fine as they wheel you off to surgery, but the inner you is freaking out and you just want your mommy there to say get ahold of yourself. You're not going to die for crying out loud, it'll all be ok.

Yep. A lot of time to think.

Most fortunately for me, my big sister pinch hit for her and called and talked me off the ledge. Then Nurse Sandy was sent directly from heaven to hold my hand and be just about the best nurse on the planet. Nurse Sandy didn't have to hold my hand and let me ramble on in my morphine fog about my mom and my life and how grief over The Husband's dad was a different life experience then grieving over my mom.

Yes. Nurse Sandy was awesome. I am also hoping I never have the need for the use of strong narcotics in my life again. Even while having those conversations with the nurse there was part of my brain yelling, "What the hell are you blathering about? You are freaking stoned. Shut up. Crap. Is that a demon behind her? Why is this hospital so full of people turning into demons?"

As I relived all those moments in my head, I was able to start sorting everything out and stop being such an idiot. Count my blessings, so to speak. My awesome family rallied once again. Our Eldest, my dad, my siblings...all super duper troopers. My dearest Husband got an early flight home. I get to take 8 unpaid weeks off of work.

Plus I didn't die, I lost 10 pounds and Extra Strength Tylenol does not make me see demons.

Perspective. It's a wonderful thing.

3 months

I was talking with my sister today. Lots of ranting about life and stuff. Then the inevitable pause in the conversation.

"So. How are you doing?"

Just a few simple words. But we each knew what we were asking.

We're really asking how the grieving is going. How are you holding up? Are you still in disbelief, do you still think about calling her on the phone and then realize she gone, do you still cry at odd times...the waves crashing over your soul, making you feel like you're drowning in your tears and you can't catch a breath.

"How are you doing?"

I think I'm doing ok. Most of the time. It's been two weeks since I sobbed on my bed for 15 minutes then picked up the broken pieces of my tear stained heart and shoved them back into my aching chest.

It's been three months. I like to think my Mom is getting settled up there in heaven and is putting her final touches on a new job for The Husband, amongst a bunch of other stuff. Don't get me wrong. I know God has it all organized but if you knew my Mom, you'd know that she's already attended several meetings about the whole issue, come up with a few choice soundbites that succinctly put it all into perspective and then pushed the start date up about 2 months.

It's how she rolls.

Anywhoo, in talking with my sister today it made me realize that I'm doing ok. There's a lot of stuff in my life I'm dealing with but when it comes to Mom...well, I think I'm where I'm suppose to be. Grieving, but slowly moving through this whole process of saying good bye to a beloved person.

Will I ever stop missing her? No. I don't want to ever get to that place. Do I want my heart to heal? Yes, but I want those scars to remain on my heart forever. They mean she was loved, always missed, never forgotten. But I have to wake up every day and carry on. Boy would she be pissed if I didn't do that. If every person that ever loved her didn't do that.

And so we get up every morning and brush our teeth, pluck the new grey hairs out of our eyebrows and make a pot of coffee. We carry on.

Part of the grieving for me has been a desperate need to remember my mom as she was before the cancer entered her brain. Before the chemo. Before she found a lump in her breast. It was so difficult right after she died to remember her as she truly was for most of her life, before the cancer slowly stole her away. And it was so difficult to retrieve any positive pictures in my mind.

I started to dream about my mom shortly after she passed away. Most of them were foggy, bits and pieces that I would try desperately to put back together in my mind when I awoke. They were moments of her as she used to be, not wasting away, but vibrantly alive...but they were like viewing snapshots of faded pictures when I awoke and I couldn't cling to their images, no matter how hard I tried.

But one night about a month after she died, I entered a garden in my dream. There was a patio, and a white trellis. The sun was shining but there was cool shade on the other side of the trellis...trees and flowers, white chairs in a big semi circle on the grass.

I walked out into the garden and saw people sitting in the chairs. I knew there was a person sitting in a chair just on the other side of the trellis and I was drawn to that spot. I walked to it, turned and looked. Mom was sitting in the chair, smiling, radiant, so happy.

"MOM. MOM! What are you doing here??? You're suppose to be dead. You died."

I know. Even in my dreams I ooze poetic verse.

Mom stood up. Smiling. So so smiling.

"The doctors were wrong! The cancer's gone. I'm empty of cancer! They did tests. It's gone."

Smiling smiling smiling.

And I hugged her fiercely. And we hugged and hugged and hugged and I didn't let go. And she didn't let go. I was hugging my Mom in the garden, surrounded by summer trees, sun and the flowers that she so loved. There were other people, all sitting in the chairs, watching us. I didn't see their faces but I knew they were loved ones. In her favourite place to be. The garden. Loved ones. Flowers.

I felt the need to write this down tonight. To remember. Because I'm learning that part of grieving is remembering. Remembering that it's ok to smile at the good thoughts, important to think about the happy times, let go of the "why's" and "it's not fair" and focus on the carrying on.

Do I still cry? Yes. But not as often.

Do I still miss her? Oh, yes, but I'm learning to accept this new normal.

Am I still angry? No. And I can't tell you how grateful I am to have moved past that. I am so grateful that I don't feel like putting my fist through the wall or breaking every plate in my cupboard anymore.

Do I still feel disbelief? This has all of a sudden gone away. It was strange to have gone through the last few months of her life, knowing she was dying, care for her, be there when she passed away, see her in her coffin, and then be driving down the road two months later and be hit with a huge wave of shock with the realization that she was gone. She was really gone. For good. For ever.

(For the record..if you were driving on the #1 Hwy from Chilliwack about a month ago and saw a deranged lady in a white minivan crying like a banshee? Ya. That was me.)

Have I stopped reliving my Mom's last moments over and over in my head? Yes. And I'm ok with that. Because I'm also learning that in order for grieving to happen, to keep moving through this whole process, I have to let them happen. Not fight it. Not perseverate on it. I know I was having issues with those last few hours...why didn't I realize sooner, why didn't I call the siblings that weren't there, what should I have done differently, but also just desperate to NOT forget those last few hours and moments.

Writing them down gave me permission to stop thinking about it over and over. I know I can go back and read it if I feel like I'm forgetting. That's what I felt drawn to do tonight. Write down my dream. I won't forget.

And that is comforting. It's not a hug from Mom, but it's comforting.

Reboot

It's been a rough stretch in The Mahoney family.

The loss of The Husband's Dad.

The Husband's job.

My Mom.

Every door that opened seemed to bring fresh tears, new frustrations, more worry and endless sadness.

And every new hurt brought us further and further down a dark and unknown road with no light at the end. And we don't own a GPS. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down and started to write in this little blog of mine. There were so many things I wanted to say. So many things I wanted to write about. But the hurt was too much and I couldn't get it out. My mom kept telling me to get back at it and write, but what I needed to write about I couldn't let her read.

Despair. Pain. Disbelief. Anger. A lot of swear words.

She wouldn't have approved.

And now she's gone. I stood beside my mom and told her to go. I told my mom it was ok to go, we would all be ok. My heart was screaming don't go, please...I haven't told you I love you enough, you have to see my kids grow up, I still need to talk to you everyday on the phone, don't leave us. I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go.

But I told her it was ok to go. She looked at me, nodded her head and left us. 2 1/2 years battling breast cancer like a warrior, staying with us days longer than medically made any sense.

And I couldn't find it in me to write.

Seriously pathetic.

So I'm giving myself a reboot. Rebooting my blog. Calling a mulligan. A do over. New opportunities for The Husband and our family are on the near horizon and it's going to be all sunshine and double rainbows around this joint. Double fricking rainbows.

Or quite possibly some aurora borealis. And I've always wanted to see me some of that.

I'm back, baby. I'm back.

Farewell To Our Popeye

In the early morning hours of January 12th, 2010, a soul took flight.

It was to be one of thousands that day.

But for our family, this one particular soul's departure brought us to our knees.

Tuesday morning and a ringing phone at 7:19 am meant we would never hear The Monkey scream with happiness, "POPEYE!!" as The Husband's dad walked through our door.

At 7:19, we found out The Eldest would never hear, "There's my Little Chickadee!" again.

A ringing phone meant The Boy had lost a kindred spirit. The Princess would not receive the perfectly picked out birthday card next month, addressed to his Little Peanut.

7:19 brought our souls to the depths of despair, at the realization of all we had lost.

Golf trips. Dinners. Christmases. Birthdays. Stories. They all must happen without Popeye now.

Grieving wife. Grieving sons and daughters. Grieving grandkids. Grieving sister. Grieving family. Grieving friends.

But at 7:19 am, on January 12th, 2010, that solitary soul, one of thousands that day, was not grieving.

He was rejoicing.

By 7:19 am, he was in Jesus' loving embrace. He was being wrapped in his mother's arms. He was being hugged fiercely by his father. And his brother. And brother-in-law. And being greeted by other family and friends. He was celebrating.

And had probably already scheduled in a tee time.

So we are left to mourn. Left to remember. Tell stories. Laugh. Cry. Hug. Get angry at him. Get angry at ourselves. Hit a wall. Tell Mom you'll fix that. Smell his shirts. Wear his hoodie. Sit on his bed and sob. Fiddle with his glasses that sit on the desk. Smile at a memory. Answer the phone. Not sleep. Comfort someone. Be comforted. Answer questions. Ask questions. Make tea. Reminisce. Pass around the Tylenol. Be amazed at the thoughtfulness of friends.

Desperately miss him. Wish it was still Monday, January 11th, 2010.

And yet, in all of that, remember that Dad is already off golfing, with a big smile on his face and in very good company.

Sláinte mhaith, Dad. God speed.

The Boy and Halloween

We made The Boy accompany the family to the local pumpkin patch.



He was thrilled.

So thrilled, he wanted me to take the sibling picture again. Just to make sure I captured the perfect moment in time.




Picking the right pumpkin was remarkably easy. He found the perfect pumpkin almost immediately. It was so perfect that he wanted to leave right away.



See? Perfect pumpkin. He was so eager to show it to me that he covered up his face accidentally.



The Boy. 15 and not too cool to hang out with the family in public.

I'm so blessed.

A Monumental Day

My baby graduated from high school yesterday.

The 8 pound 3 ounce bundle that arrived after 26 hours of labour and made The Husband and me parents. That was just last year, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

Wasn't it just 6 months ago that I left her sitting on the floor in her new kindergarten room? Was it not yesterday we dropped her off in front of her new high school, scared out of her mind at starting a new school and not knowing a soul.

And yesterday, I watched my baby walk into her school gymnasium donned in cap and gown. I watched her receive the "Excellence in Textiles" award, a $1,000 scholarship, and of course her high school diploma.

Yes. I cried.

The Eldest and The Boyfriend. The future is theirs.

And here are the proud parents. See? I think I hid my 'holy crap I am not old enough to have a high school graduate' feelings fairly well.

The afternoon was spent getting hair and make up done by my brother's girlfriend. She did an incredible job.

And here is the result:

That's my little girl there....looking like a woman.

Yes, I course I cried. I'm not made of stone.

All in all, it was a great day. A very busy day. The Husband got to dance with his little princess at her prom (then they kicked all the parents out). We drove home and talked about how the day had been a whirlwind of activity and monumental moments.

When we got home, I asked The Boy if he thought his grad in 3 years would be such a production. His eyerolls lead me to believe it won't if he has anything to do with it.

Since I had volunteered The Husband to deal poker all night at the grad's dry grad (which took place back at their school after their dinner/dance), he decided to go have a nap. When I went to wake him up, this is what I found:


Apparently, the day was exhausting for everyone.

This morning, I woke up to The Princess asking if she could go downstairs. I looked at the clock and couldn't believe the time. "Wow," I thought. "We were all wiped! The Baby never sleeps this late."

No. The Baby really never sleeps in late.

Can you guess what this is?

Here are the mug shots.

My Baby with a mullet. Nice.

We're off to the hairdresser's today. Apparently.

Tomorrow she turns 3. Everyone can use a new birthday 'do, right?

I'm Thinking of Packing This Family Off to a Third World Country

Mornings are pretty hectic around my neck of the woods. Not as busy as they used to be when I worked for a pay cheque (those mornings would be labeled 'insanity at its finest') but then again, there's The Baby added to the mix and now two teenagers instead of one.

This morning's routine was the usual. Make coffee, make breakfast for the younger girls, make 4 lunches, supervise clothing choices, ensure breakfasts are being consumed, make Husband's coffee to go, brush hair, order teeth to be brushed, find stuff in fridge for males in the family, empty dishwasher, trip over the dog, ask who's turn it is to take out dog, ensure assorted items needed for school are in backpack, spray aloe vera onto The Eldest's back that she sunburned 5 days before wearing a strapless graduation dress. Just what millions of other moms in our glorious country of freedom and clean water do every day. Getting their families ready for another day of learning and work.

This morning's whining and complaining coming from my assorted children about how unjust and unfair their lives are living under my regime started to get on my nerves. Actually, it got on my last nerve and snapped it in half. The complaints were about everything from having to walk to school to how unfair it was that I was MAKING a child eat peanut butter on her toast instead of getting cinnamon and sugar. No amount of calm and rational explanations on my part was getting through their thick skulls.

Ok. It all started out calm and rational on my part and ended with the statement, "I think I should ship the lot of you off to India for a month! Then you'd see how lucky you've got it!"

Ugh.

Much as I'd like to blame some flaming PMS on that statement, I think it may have been my subconscious creeping out into the light and pointing its finger at me. I get mad at my kids for not recognising how good they've got it. Do I recognise how good I've got it?

I think I mostly do. Most days. Then the neighbour went and rebuilt her already beautiful deck in a short 3 days and when I looked out at it this morning at her perfect backyard with her green patio set I felt nothing but pure envy. ENVY. It's not fair. I want our backyard finished. I want a green patio set. I want to plant pretty flowers. I want. I want. I want.

*smack upside the head*

I live in a house. No, a home. I have a husband who works hard for our family every day. My neighbour with the beautiful deck does not. I have four healthy children. I have friends who have spent weeks in the hospital with their child and may have to do again in the future. I have food in the house to make all those breakfasts and pack all those lunches everyday. Many families in our own community, never mind India, rely on food banks and have sent their children to school hungry and are worried about what they are going to feed them for dinner.

My family has so much. Are we rich? No. Do we struggle to pay all the bills every month? Yes. Do we have cable and cell phones? Yes. Do my kids know how lucky they are? No. I don't think they do.

"Why do I have to walk to school? It's not fair! I can't walk fast! I'll be late. It's not my turn to take out the dog. It's hard to walk to school because I have so much to carry. I don't want peanut butter. I want cinnamon and sugar. It's not fair!!!!!!"

"Why do I have to make all these lunches? Why did you have to step in that pile of dirt....I just swept that! Why can't you kids see how good you've got it???"

Maybe what I meant to say this morning is that our whole family needs to be shipped to India for a month. And not wealthy India. Third world India. Or perhaps a walk through the downtown Vancouver Eastside, or visit the Salvation Army's homeless shelter in our very own community.

At least, an attitude change by me.

I'm grateful for a husband who is too tired to finish the backyard because he works so hard everyday and many times into the weekend for our family.

I'm grateful that The Eldest is graduating this weekend because it means she's had the opportunity to get an education and that she will be heading to university in the fall. How many women in the world can say that?

I'm grateful that The Boy is eating us out of house and home. It means he is healthy and growing and on his way to being a man.

I'm grateful that The Princess was sick last week. It meant I could take her to the doctor and use our pretty awesome health care system. How many people in the world have access to health care, let alone universal access to health care?

I'm grateful I have to watch The Baby every second. I'm grateful that she's so busy and curious. It means I have the opportunity to stop and look at bugs and sticks and butterflies and rocks and 'find the quiet' in days full of stuff to do.

Today I am choosing to be grateful.

How about you?

Numbers and Rates and Graphs, Oh My!

I had another epiphany.

I know. After sharing my last epiphany my readership fell about 10%. I realize I'm taking my chances here.

As much as I love being at home full time, I miss work. I miss earning money. I miss time away from my children to go hang out with other people's children. Which is kind of ironic. Alannis Morrisette ironic, at any rate. Stay with me, I'm heading somewhere with this.

Besides for missing working with some really cool kids, I miss the numbers and graphs and concrete evidence all rolled up in a lovely package of a binder or clipboard or a pocket PC. I loved being able to see that what I was doing was making a difference, and it all being confirmed with numbers and climbing graphs. Or on the flip side, seeing what wasn't working and figuring out how to change our teaching strategy. And it occurred to me in the wee hours of the night that perhaps that is why I have become obsessed with Google Analytics.

Google Analytics has graphs. Lots of graphs.

There are numbers. Percentages, rates, averages, and oh my gosh, overviews, and my goodness gracious, there are lots of graphs.

I love being a mom, but let's face it, there's not a lot of immediate feedback on whether I'm screwing things up....I mean, other than the fact that they're all still alive and I haven't had to visit the principal's office this week. Some days feel like I'm coasting through this role, hoping I'm not messing up too badly.

And I love writing, but it's a lonely place. But I've discovered that blogging gives me immediate feedback on what I'm doing. Kinda like work. The epiphany that Google Analytics is filling in for my work high is really not that surprising.

A thought has occurred to me. Maybe I should start keeping data and graphing my mothering successes and failures.

No. Just the successes.

I'll have to start small. I most certainly want to build success into my new system.

I'll start with some basics.

• The number of consecutive hours I go without swearing under my breath.
• How many loads of laundry I do each day and an analysis of the correlation between the day of the week and the number of missing socks.
• Tally the number of minutes preparing meals per week. Make sure to post this one on the fridge. Include highlighting and a really fancy graph. In red.
• Keep track of kilometers driven in the new van and gasoline purchases and figure out gas mileage (kilometerage?). Use this as direct evidence when explaining to teenagers in the house the reason why you won't drive to Tim Horton's to get them a double double.

Well. That's a good start.

Tune in next week when I analyse the direct correlation between my mood and the number of chocolate eggs I haven't eaten.

And please tell me you obsess over Google Analytics, too.

Ode to Bear Dog

When the Husband and I had been married for a brief 5 years and we were a month away from completing the gestation of the Boy, a small ball of brown fluff joined our little family.

The puppy was christened, "Teddy Bear" by the almost 3 year old Eldest daughter. He did look like a teddy bear as a puppy. But the name was soon shortened. To Bear. All 7 pounds of him.

Bear had a few names. Bear dog, Beary.....one of the Husband's friends affectionately called him 'Punt' and bugged Hubby about getting a real dog one day. And my 6' 1" Husband called the dog Buddy and Buddy Boy. Only the Husband called him that.

For 14 and a half years, Bear worshipped the hallowed ground that the Husband walked upon. 14 and a half years of greeting the Husband as he walked in the door after a long day at work. 14 and a half years of the Husband letting him out to pee just before heading to bed. Years of cuddling on laps, dancing for treats, play wrestling with the cat, throwing up in car rides that were longer than 10 minutes, and carrying around a stuffed animal that was half his size.

As the years passed, Bear became the part of the family that seemed like it had always been there. Been there through moves, family additions, sadness, happiness, holidays, and trips to Grandma's house. As time moved on, and Bear grew older, he became the dog who was curled up by the fire, or under the table in the living room, or curled up by the door, waiting for the Husband to return home.

The past few weeks, he became the dog who was curled up under our bed, sleeping most of the day away. But no matter where he slept, he was still in the kitchen at the first sound of a plate being scraped or the pantry door being opened because that's where his cookies were kept. He still had it in him to steal the 90 pound dog's bones. And Bryn, the massive black dog would stand there, towering over Bear, looking forlornly at her bone as that 7 pound dog tried to chew on it with his last few teeth.

On Friday, I cooked up some bits of chicken for the Bear to eat. When he walked away from his little food dish, chicken untouched, I knew the day was near.

On Saturday, when he wouldn't come out from under our bed, I called for the Husband. And the Husband lovingly brought him out and we bathed that little dog who was too tired to get up to go outside to go to the bathroom. We put him in his bed by the fire and blow dried his hair till he was warm and dry.

Saturday night was a night for 'last time's. His last cuddle on the Husband's lap. His last sleep by the fire, his last drinks of water through a plastic syringe because he was too weary to drink from a bowl brought to his lips. It was a night of the Husband lying next to him by the fire, with the Bear dog lying there and looking lovingly at the Husband who was his best buddy in the world. And the Eldest and I sitting close by, petting him at times and letting him know it was ok to go to sleep.

And in the wee hours of Sunday morning, he passed away. A life well lived. And our family feels different.

A little dog who's bark was as irritating as nails down a chalk board. A dog who had horrible breath. A dog who looked like a little old man, liver spots showing through his patchy hair, his nails clicking on the linoleum as he walked through the kitchen. A little dog who I had to let out 30 times a day and who's yap had grown so high pitched it hurt your ears when it went off at the sound of any bump or thump in a 2 mile radius. A little dog who was becoming incontinent. A little dog who used to lick the Husband's feet. As soon as the Husband would take off his socks, that dog would be over there like a shot and his pink tongue would be jutting out between the Husband's toes.....to everyone's disgust but the Husband's. A little dog who still enjoyed life's simple pleasure of toe jam.

A little dog who helped teach my children about life's circle. Of life and death. Of grieving and remembering. Of life continuing on, despite the little hole that is now there.

We buried Bear in my parent's back yard, among other loved family pets. As the Husband shoveled dirt back into the hole, the Baby stood close by, waving at the hole and said, "Bye Bear! Bye Bear!" The Princess stood there with tears streaming down her face, and I stood there, my arms around the Boy and the Eldest.

The sun was shining brightly. Ribbons of clouds brushed against the blue sky as we said goodbye and the Princess told Bear to have lots of fun in Heaven.

Bye, Bear dog, you will be missed.

A Little Family Update

The Youngest, who is now almost 2 and a half years old, is a busy child. She figured out how to open the doors with the childproof locks on the handles yesterday.

The Princess, who is 6 and three quarters, was told by yet another boy in her class that he loves her.

The Boy, who is 14, sent me on a wild goose chase on October 31st to find a Halloween mask. I found one. He decided to stay in and play video games last night.

The Eldest, who turns 17 this month, went to a Halloween party last night with her boyfriend. She goes for her driver's test in 10 days. She's starting a new job tonight. She is growing up way too fast.

The Husband, who is way older than me, found his lost wedding ring. In his workout bag. That we had torn apart looking for. It had been missing for 4 months. We had already purchased a new one.

And me, I am wearing the Husband's old wedding ring on a chain and diving into Christmas preparations. But first, I will be cleaning off 6 year old height level lipstick kisses that cover the front hall mirror. And researching girls only boarding schools.

A Trip to Ikea, Mahoney Style

Kaitlyn is in the midst of decorating her room, which of course means a trip to Ikea.

We decided to meet Heath there after work, and have a family dinner out. Where else can you feed children for $1.99 and get free childminding? Those Swedes really know how to bring in customers.

Being a family of 6, it is a rarity to eat out. And eating in a restaurant with a very busy 2 year old is not on my "Top Ten List of Fun Things To Do". It is on my "Top Ten List of Things That Are More Fun To Do Than a Root Canal", but I digress.

So there we were, sitting with 4 kids in the middle of the Ikea 'restaurant'. And things were going fairly smoothly. Yes, my leg and foot were coated with a greasy film of Ikea "gravy" that some child who didn't belong to me happened to drop all down my leg and onto my foot as we waited in line....I digress again....but overall, none of my children had managed to spill anything or hit someone or complain about why we spend our summer vacations in Ikea while their cousins go to Disneyland.

As we were finishing up, an elderly lady came up to our table. She apologised for interrupting us. She then went on to say how she had been sitting at her table drinking her tea and was just so taken with how lovely our children and family were. She gushed about how nice it was to see a family enjoying each other's company and kept repeating what a loving family we had. I thanked her profusely, and Heath sat there beaming like only a proud daddy can.

Fast forward 30 minutes.

Eilidh had a meltdown in the checkout line-up such as I have never seen before. SHE didn't get anything at Ikea. It wasn't fair. She wanted something. KAITLYN was getting something (paid for with her own money), KEELEY was getting something (oooh....a 3 dollar potty chair), and then great stomping of the feet ensued. We carted her off to the van, screaming and stomping her feet, and with Keeley demanding to get out of the stroller.

Heath was trying to get Keeley in the van and I was trying to get Eilidh to stop screaming. Toys were falling out of the van. Patrick was arguing with Heath as to why he had to phone his friend RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT and not when we got home. Kaitlyn was trying to load her breakable purchases into the van without all the recycling that I forgot to take back rolling out onto the vast Ikea parking lot.....a fair bit of it being beer bottles. They breed. I swear.

And amidst all this chaos, I looked up, and there was that little old lady who couldn't stop gushing about my wonderful family, looking gobsmacked. Out of that entire vast parking lot of Ikea, she had to be parked IMMEDIATELY in front of our van and getting into her car at the exact moment we were.

She just stood there. Watching the insanity. She wasn't smiling. I avoided eye contact.

I had a cider when we got home and took comfort in the fact that for a brief moment in time, my family was loving. And lovely. I'll take what I can get.

My Mom

My Mom has breast cancer.

There. I said it. I've written about the fact that someone close to me has cancer, but wasn't able to say who it was because...well....she has a public type job and it wasn't my place to put it out there on a public forum such as this.

But the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, and I have to say that there's relief in it. So many friends and acquaintances have emailed and contacted me in the last day to let me know they and their families are praying for my Mom, it's mind boggling. And wonderful. And comforting.

It is amazing to read and hear about other moms who have fought this disease and WON. It helps so much to remember to focus on the positive, trust in God, and be reminded that He is still in control.

I love my mom. I know she can win this fight. It's wonderful to have the support of prayers from so many people.

Thanks.

Birthday!

Keeley's officially 2. The cake, the kids, the chaos. It was a great day.

Having our entire extended family over is wonderful. (Although it makes me long for a finished basement and deck.) We have a lot of family. And that makes for a perfect party for Keeley. She's the quintessential 4th child. Loves a crowd. The more the merrier, as long as she's in the middle of it. She was in her glory...balloons, family everywhere, a bowl of cheesies within her reach and a mom too busy to stop her from eating as many as she pleases.

The only problem with the day is that I was so busy doing 'stuff'' it was a bit of a blurr. But I'm a lucky lady. My brother Bill has a camera attached to each hip (I think he takes them off to shower). So my 2 year old's perfect day was completely chronicled with a picture diary courtesy of Bill (and to be fair, my sister Elizabeth stole his camera and took some pics too).

At one point, I was preparing food in the kitchen and looked over to see Bill taking a picture of the birthday cake. I thought, "Geez, that's a good idea." Oddly enough, I think I have 14 pictures of Kaitlyn's 2nd birthday cake that I personally took...but she's a first child. Things were different back then. And I found Bill gave me a funny look when I asked if he was able to take some pics of Keeley blowing out the birthday candles. He didn't say anything but I think he was thinking, "I've been taking documentation of all family events for the past, oh, 6 years. I think I have a pretty good understanding of the importance of taking a picture or two of a two year old spitting on her birthday cake." I could be wrong.

So...all in all, a great day, great pictures with speedy service (Bill uploaded the pics within 4 hours of leaving my house) and no invoice in the mail for photography services rendered.

I love family.

Turning Two

Keeley is my baby.

My baby is turning two on Sunday. In a blink of an eye she's gone from this:

To this:

She loves stickers.

She loves her Daddy.

She loves her Eilidh, Katie and Patrick.

She loves going for walks that have no destination but the discovery of an ant, a rock or a slug.

She loves cuddles and kisses and giving spontaneous leg hugs.

She loves life.

We're so blessed.