wordless Wednesday

felted wool Easter eggs

For the last few years, the kids and I have been making felted wool eggs and chicks to give for gifts at Easter time. As a gift to anyone who has wondered how to make these little sugar-free Eastery-goodness, I've decided to do a bit of a tutorial on them. (I say 'bit of a tutorial' as I am sure that after I have written it out, I will realize that there is some bit of information lacking....If not or if you have questions, please don't hestitate to leave a comment mentioning what I have left out. I'll try to fill in any blanks!)

****Although they are relatively easy to make, kids do need help and supervision as you will be dealing with HOT water for the wet felting of the eggs and sharp needles when we get to the creation of chicks/ducklings****

Materials

• 30 cm (12") Wool roving (in the desired colour for your egg shell)


• Plastic egg (We use refillable 8cm tall plastic ones from the dollar store taped closed)





Hot water (large bowl or sink full)


Cold Water (large bowl or sink full)


Dish Soap


Rubber Gloves (These are to allow you to handle the hot water more easily without burning yourself)


Xacto knife or rotary cutter

Fill one sink/bowl with very hot water and one with cold water.

Put on rubber gloves.

Wrap the wool roving around the plastic egg.

Holding the wool wrapped egg firmly to prevent the wool from slipping off, generously squirt dish soap onto the wool/egg.

Gently dip the wool covered egg in the hot water to dampen it and bring it back out of the water.

Start squeezing the water/soap into the wool. Turn the egg as you go, but be careful to not 'slide' the wool around on the egg or allow it to fall off.

Dip the egg in the hot water occasionally to keep it hot enough to shrink while you squeeze.

The wool should start to tight-up and hold it's place on the egg. As it does, you can add some more soap to make it 'slippy'.

As long as the wool has begun to hold its' shape, you can start rubbing the egg gently (rather than squeezing) in small circular motions.

Alternate between the hot and cold water as you rub to add in the constriction of the wool.

When the wool is suitable hard and tight against the egg, rinse out as much soap as you can by dipping in fresh water.

When rinsed, squeeze out the excess water and let it dry. (You can also use a towel to blot out water to aid in the drying.)

After a few hours, use the Xacto knife or rotary cutter to carefully cut a zig-zag line in the side of the egg. Only cut this line 2/3 around the egg as the intact portion will act as a 'hinge'.
Yahoo!!!!! A wool egg!!!! I'll do the chick/duckling in another post.....

fantabulous phrases

Unfortunately, there are times that my children's words and questions could drive me to force my pale blue 'mommy-van' off the road and over some fabulously steep cliff. As I am forced to listen to the halting and wordy speech of my children, I occasionally fantasize about raising my arms above my head, grabbing fistfuls of my PTA-mom 'do and tearing it out while singing the theme song to the "Smurfs" at the top of my lungs in an opera singer's voice. When having to hear the full and extended play-by-play of some seemingly small encounter of my daughter's replete with a variety of sighs, huge pauses and extremely intricate detail, I dissect my day, make plans and could quite possibly invent a cure for the common wart.

Although most often, I adore the conversations we have and find them endlessly thought provoking and entertaining, there are times that it is too much. Too much noise. Too much thought. Too many questions.

I need to remind myself that all too soon my sweet, loquacious little ones who are so full of wonder and amazement with the world around them will be transformed into sullen and all-knowing teenagers who quite possibly despise my very existence. They'll angrily stare out the window of my horribly uncool 'van of mininess' and attempt to devise a believeable story with which to convince their uber-hip friends that they were hatched from an egg and were, in fact, no relation of mine. Brooding over their wrathful amazement that a creature of such extreme coolness such as themselves could have been created within the walls of my loser-ish uterus, they will cease to converse with me.

So, in an attempt to remind myself of the need to enjoy the voices of my spawn, I have created a list. A list of all my favourite and loved phrases and questions that my children utter on a regular basis. When my little ones are older and hyper aware of my shortcoming as a parent/woman/human, I will refer to this list and think with fondness of the tales they once told me, the questions they asked me (when I still knew a thing or two) and the love they expressed.

• "You're the BEST mama ever." I am aware that this is a lie, but it still feels DAMN good to hear.....



• "I love you, Mama/Olivia/Briar." It goes without saying that I have a fondness for hearing that my children hold me in high regard. But I adore hearing my kids express their love of one another....I am hoping that this love will continue throughout their lives and that I will never watch helplessly as Liv chases Briar down the street wielding a paring knife...



• "Can I go outside and play?" Anytime my children express a desire to be out of doors, I feel the need to do a jaunty little jig. In my mind, kids belong outside - getting mucky, playing with sticks, throwing rocks (when I'm not looking), carting around poultry, riding bikes, doing cartwheels, creating forts and fairy houses, etc.





• "Why do _____ ?" When questioned by my kiddos about some scientific phenomenon, math equation, reading rule, etc., I am filled with joy for their desire to learn and be inquisitive. As they grow, not only do they learn and mature, so do I. It is a symbiotic relationship. Things I would have never questioned or conceived are examined and dissected. Their joy in the thrill of life around is contagious and I adore watching as they are filled with this zest for knowledge and understanding.








"Did you know that ____?" Like the phrase above, I enjoy hearing what the kids have learned or experienced when they are without me. I feel joy in knowing that they trust me to listen passively and fully to their observations. To find interest in their experiences. To join in their curiousity.




"No cake/candy/pop for me, please." Ahhhhh. I feel success in hearing my children know their limits and ability to listen to their body's signals. I am often unable to do this myself (I am known for eating an entire bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips in an evening), so it is especially amazing to see my children decipher their own feelings of wellness and health.





"Can we have a family day today?" Yay!!!! For now, they still want to be in my presence!!!! I'll soak it up for now and hope for the best in the future....Maybe my coolness quotient will grow or they will be nerds themselves and will find all things 'dork' to be comforting and fabulous? A mother can dream, right????

I'll attempt to hold off on the self-induced alopecia, the operatic theme song singing and the cliff diving for now and enjoy all the longggggg and little things they have to tell me. For I may have many years to ruminate in silence in the future.....
P.S. Much of what I have written here is tongue-in-cheek....;)

here chick chick

We've started another batch of incubated eggs. One dozen. From previous experience I've realized that a dozen eggs could potentially make twelve chicks, but it is DECIDEDLY unlikely.
In the past, our incubator has only produced a very small flock of birds that have lived beyond their first breaths and an even smaller percentage that have remained with us here on the "Chandler Chicken Farm". Many began to 'cock-a-doodle' rather than 'cluck'. (In fact, out of 13 chicks that we have either hatched out or bought as day-olds, 9 have been roosters!!!!! My math isn't great but that does not seem to be 50/50....) The poor little chicks/ducklings that have not made it after their daylong struggle to free themselves from the confines of their little eggs, have suffered between the overly eager jaws of Fuckles Freckles in a scene that is what I would imagine could be witnessed in a poultry horror movie.
This time, we're hoping to hatch out some Barred Plymouth Rock Bantams like our dearly departed Sarah.
My obsession with all things poultry and my absolute inability to maintain any amount of willpower make it close to impossible to stop myself from candling the eggs even now - five days after the eggs have been placed into the 'bator. The kids and I become obsessed with catching glimpses of our little chicks through the egg with a bright light, but each time the eggs are removed from the incubator, it lessens the likelihood of a great hatch.
So today, Liv and I found a fabulous site that gives us a look into what should be going on in our little eggs. Right now, our babies look like this:

Photo by Chicken Embryo Development

And even though only five days have gone by, the chicks have been hard at work growing a nervous system, a tongue, sex organs, etc. In only sixteen days, we will HOPEFULLY have a few little fluff balls to check out and marvel at the amazing work that Mother Nature is capable of doing! Follow along! We'll let you know if Fuckles another avian massacre....

Jeff, his Boy and his Bean

deux ans

Photo by My Own Worst Nightmare

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Deux ans. Two anniversaries of the day I lost my huge, hairy and hilarious husband.
I've learned so very much in these two short years. A lifetime of lessons. Lessons I didn't really want to know.
I now know that although I did not think in those first few hours, days and months, that I would survive, I did. I breathed each breath with a sob. I grudgingly ate each meal. Each movement was filled with melancholy and loss. So the first 11 months, I call 'survival'.
The first anniversary of Jeff's death was painful, exhausting and anticlimatic. I had hoped that once I had conquered this date that things would be easier. But although I had lost the hollow and vacant stare and I could remember to feed myself, I could not for the life of me figure out how I was going to live again. But I shuffled forward. The first year was about 'coping'.
Now, as I enter my second year alone, I realize that although life continues to be different and harder than it was before Jeff's body ceased to exist, it is easier than the first anniversary. The mourning is less new and raw. I am stronger, more capable and so able to laugh.
So although this new year may be only about 'hoping', it is a big step. A colossal step towards the time when I can start 'living' again.

this day

Two years ago, this day was a Tuesday.

For the morning, I was married.

Well before noon, my kids had two parents.

But by 10:30 am, life as we knew it was shattered. Broken and irrepairable.

I will never know again life as it was before this day two years ago...And I will forever be scarred and lost without the love of my life.

I miss you, my Baby Pumpkin. I miss you. No words seem sufficient in describing the void that has been left since you've gone. So, I miss you and hope that somewhere out there, you know....and you miss me right back.

I love you the whole pie for eternity.....

tiny bubbles of bliss

The warm sun shining on the kitchen floor. A radiant rainbow glowing on the wall. The first ladybug I've seen this Spring. The chickens industriously scratching in the garden alongside me. Glorious fresh air in the kids hair. Listening to them giggle as they play in the mud in barefeet.

There are times that these things mean nothing. Times that I could pass these moments without notice. Without a glance or a grin.

But today, I felt joy. Luxurious and silly bubbles of happiness as I pondered the rainbow in the hall, walked away and returned with my camera to document this moment of bliss.

This week is not one that I will enjoy for the rest of my life. First Jeff's birthday, then the day he died only nine days after. But, strangely, and almost guiltily, I felt happiness today. It surged through me and brought peace. I felt quiet. I felt full.

So this week, as the loss of my love is felt so strongly, I may have to pull out the pictures of these pockets of pleasure and be reminded that there is still joy, wonder and love....It's just not always where I expect it to be.

signs of Spring

Since Liv attended preschool at the age of three with our beloved Marylou, she is always on the hunt for "Signs of Spring". She has given many a child grief for destroying or harming a perceived 'sign'. Consequently, I too am always on the look-out for things that are Spring-like to show my little Bean. I can't wait to show her this tomorrow morning!!

which way did he go?

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Jeff's birthday was on the 16th. The kids and I performed our birthday tradition of making him a blueberry pie. As per Liv and Briar's directions, we lit a candle and stood on the back deck waiting for him (aka the wind) to blow it out. After a few minutes, the kids 'helped' him and blew it out themselves.
It broke my heart to watch them standing there expectantly cheering him on. "Come on, Daddy! You can do it! Blow it out!"
It's moments like this that I so wish that there was a manual to which I could refer. I don't know if I should just follow their lead with their beliefs surrounding death or if I should guide them to some more socially acceptable (and adult) way of dealing with their daddy's loss.
They find comfort in their beliefs. They seem to 'know' what happened to him....moreso than I do. It is with such conviction that Liv believes he is always with us. Always here to share our joy, our pain, our experiences. With staunch stubbornness, Briar declares that Jeff found some joke hilarious or some movement amazing. He tells us amazing tales of the adventures that Jeff has now been on, where his boat has sailed and who worked as crew aboard.
I have become accustomed to their stories of the life that Jeff is now leading without his physical body. I, too, find some amount of comfort in hearing that he is still 'out there'.
But to others less versed in "Death according to Two Small Children", I wonder if they find these declarations shocking or, even, blasphemous.
Until I find the answers to my own questions or until I know which way to guide them, I don't think I'm in the position to be able to 'tell' anyone where we go after our bodies cease to function. So, the three of us will just follow where this journey leads us....and in the end, we'll know who was 'right'....

s'more....

I've added a few dresses to my shop! I have some more on the sewing table ready to be put together. I am LOVING the bright colours and patterns of some of the fabrics I've found hidden in my stash...I'm trying to prevent myself from buying anymore fabric until I've used up a sizeable portion of my fabric horde.
Next up, will be some short-sleeved Spring dresses....

life in the snowglobe

Do you ever feel that you and your family are little statuettes frozen in some preposterously joyous pose in a liquid filled orb? You look gleeful and happy with snow resting at your feet....Then some ass comes along and shakes the bloody thing up for the thrill it gives them of seeing you obliterated by pseudo-snow....

Then, just as calm is restored and happiness begins to infuse itself into the world again, that inconsiderate ass-face does it again!

I am sure that many people feel this way. That life is not all sunshine and rainbows. Jujubes and jellybeans. It's chaotic and crazy and filled with fake white stuff.

But I think I live my life waiting for a lull. A calm to infuse itself into my everyday. A relaxation that marks the beginning of my 'life'.

But until the shaker of the snowglobe gets better cable tv or finds itself with a new hobby, I must inevitably come to terms with the fact that imitation blizzards are a part of everyone's life....even the households that look as if Spring and Summer follow their every move and that their snowglobe has been hidden in a box in the back of a closet.

*Thank you, Hayley, for the metaphor!!!! xox

scented squishiness!

Over the years of our homeschooling adventure, we've bought our toys, educational items and craft supplies from a variety of sources. One of our absolute favourites has been Natural Pod. The kids and I LOVE this online store!

Recently, Bridgitte from Natural Pod gave us a complimentary set of their newest product - Mama K's Play Clay, to try out. This natural and even gluten-free dough is filled with the scent of AMAZING essential oils:

lavender - to soothe

bergamot - for tension

sweet orange - to uplift

geranium - to balance

lemongrass - to inspire

Liv favourite was the lavender. I adored the lemongrass (if truth be told, I would have loved to create two little nostril shaped balls to hold in my nose all day long....Odd, yes, but it smells divine!!....Although the green colour may have not been very attractive for nasal embellishment!) When asked which was Briar's favourite, he declared that each one in turn was his chosen....They are just all so good!

Anyhow, we spent a good portion of the afternoon creating....First, boats with toothpick masts, a variety of food shapes and then for the piece de resistance, we created a rainbow-hued family of slugs (of which the 'directions' Liv is hoping to post on her blog - Stay tuned!)

I loved how soft the dough stayed all afternoon. My hands felt smooth, moisturized and smell STELLAR after we had retired our new favourite molding material.

Thanks so much, Bridgitte and Natural Pod, for the afternoon of heavenly scented, gastropod shaped fun!!!!

the little things

Also posted on Widow's Voice

It's the 'little things' can that drive you mad or madly in love.
The way his jaw clicks when he chews. Or the way he tucks your hair behind you ear as he assures you that it will be okay.
The way he feels compelled to tell you how to solve a problem when you're venting. Or the way he stares at you from across the room with a smile touching his lips and you know without words that he loves you.
It's those little things that hold you together - a pair. The little secrets. The little stories. The little comforts.
When your love is gone, dead but certainly not forgotten, those 'little things' sometimes remain.
Today, I found one of those little things....tucked into one of my books. One of the hidden messages that we'd hide for each other to be found at some unknown later date.
And it reminds me that it's the little things that can soothe a soul. Mend a heart. Dry a tear.
So today, I'll do some little thing. And maybe it'll make a difference...to someone some time.

you were mine

You were mine.
I am yours.

Until this body,
marked by the love you laid upon it,
In every fold,
The softened belly,
Stretched skin,
Withers,
and in this frailty
Falls and follows you.

Only then,
no longer will I be...yours.
It will be past.
But with you,
In you,
Through you,
I’ll be.

I’ll wait.
A shadow.
Your shadow.
I’ll trail behind you.
A dark ribbon.

But you were mine.
And I am yours.

computer woes and wonders

I strongly dislike (I'd say HATE but I am trying to get out of the habit...) Webkinz, Disney Fairies and all things computer that seem to zap child's wonderful imaginations all in the name of profit. I do think that Webkinz are marketing genius and that the makers must be millionaires. I think I would be less offended if they would just sell the bloody little code that goes along with the petroleum laden stuffie instead of attaching it to this dust collecting, mess inducing, piece of 'stuff'.

Anyhow, I prefer my children to hand THEIR dog some kibble than to feed some strangely awkard moving virtual dog that pants more than it should. I would rather that they create a little wee folk fairy out of pipe cleaners and wool felt than moving these disturbingly posed fairies through some cyber forest. I'd rather they create a wonderful and imaginative story of their own than follow along with some prescribed plot-line made by some balding adult in a suit driving a Beemer while trying to decide how best to hook little girls to their product.

But sometimes, my kids like to create and use their own imaginations and sense of wonder on this machine that I use far too often. Without this chunk of plastic, electronic devices and software, they would be unable to know all the wonders of space travel, worm reproduction and taste buds so quickly and easily...before the interest has waned. They would end up taking up space standing in the line at the bank far more often than they do. We wouldn't know of the most recent tour of the museum and the exhibit that is offered.

So although I will continue to despise the time Liv spends consorting with a middle-aged marketing man's version of what fairies look like, or moving the cyber replica of the stuffie that seems overly prone to hold onto the scent of last night's dinner, I will take the good with the bad and enjoy the adventures we embark upon while 'surfing' the net. I will giggle at the creations she 'draws' on Paint and read the stories she creates on Word with wonder. The good with the bad. The woes with the wonder.

the bomb

Image from Heberger

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Occasionally, I will meet a stranger in a line-up or a clerk at the store who notices my oft-perceived masculine purchase of a hammer, a litre of oil or a case of beer. Sometimes, people standing closeby will make a comment about my husband and how lucky he is that I'm buying him this case of beer, picking up the oil or replacing this hammer.

When Jeff first died, these comments hurt. They broke me. They reminded me, as if I needed it, that he was gone. Dead. And I was alone.

I felt hurt and angered at these people. I wanted to scream at them that they were not only sexist but insensitive and nosy. So I'd just simply say, "My husband is dead."

They'd stare at me in shock and search my face for signs of jest. I'd stare back with tears streaming down my face wishing they could understand and hating them for not.

Now, I actually find some form of morbid humour in shaming these people into submission. I find it amusing to watch the horror, embarassment and guilt cross their face. I know I shouldn't enjoy it. But it is kind of....funny.

I don't wear my black veil and dark clothing. I think my eyes have mostly lost their hollow depths. To anyone looking at me, I look like one of them. The 'normal' ones. The intact ones. The married ones. There are no markers to alert someone of the bomb that I carry around. The thing that most people don't want to talk about. Death. Grief. Mourning.

Many people shy from these topics. Steer around these landmines. Avoid discussion of this eventuality.

So when it enters a conversation so abruptly and without forewarning, it's sudden unexpected elephant in the room and no one knows how to remove it.

I find that use of this giant pachydrem to chase away masogynist and preconceived notions is endlessly entertaining.

"What did you do to upset your dog so much that he's on antidepressants? Ha ha ha"

"My husband died."

"Hey Sweetcheeks! Can I buy you a drink?"

"My husband died."

"I am sure your husband will be able to unplug the toilet with this snake in no time flat."

"My husband died."

Dropping the 'bomb' has its' uses and I am finding it so....perfectly perfect that Jeff is still providing laughter and protection to me in death. (Although I realize that this is most likely a cruel and immature way to get my kicks)... Honey, you the BOMB!

Moi

Do you know who you are?

When I was a teenager, a friend and I would make lists of things we liked and didn't like. It gave us immense pleasure to see in concrete whispers of who we were. Lately, I have begun playing with this pasttime, but in my mind as I drive, have a shower, make scrambled eggs. My new list is slightly different than the lists of old, but equally as fun.

• I like the sound that the computer makes when I 'empty' the recycle bin.



• I take a certain amount of joy in working my way up to fully hot water in the shower - No cold.



• I rescue earthworms...since I was a kid.



• I sometimes pretend I'm a spy. I don't do it as often anymore as my kids would blow the cover I REALLY was a spy making my fantasy less realistic.



• My hands are really vein-y.



• If I could get away with it, I would only eat the icing from a cake. It sents a bad example for other children, though.



• If you were to see the record of all the books I get out of the library, you'd think I was extremely well-read and knowledgeable. Unfortunately, I have to return the vast majority of them before I have even opened them. This does not stop me from taking more out.



• I am paranoid about consumerism, marketing and advertising. I hate that our brains are constantly being told and sold a line of crap. We are 'sheeple'.



• I sometimes pass roadkill and worry that I will be compelled by some unknown force to lick the carcass. Then I wonder what sort of ailments I would then possess.



• I dislike it when cats stare into my eyes. I like cats. I like my eyes. I just hate the two together. Creepy.



• The idea of 'space' and the universe freak me out. Too big. Too empty or full.



• Melons and cucumbers have a similar 'watery grass' flavour to me. I don't like them much.



• I adore chopping wood.
• Once I find something I like, including toothpaste, I will stick with it until it is discontinued.
• I have eaten dogfood. As an adult. To freak out my kids.
• I have a thing with numbers. It there is any sort of pattern, I will remember your phone number until the end of time.
• I don't think of myself as supersticious but if we get five eggs in one day, I believe it will be a good day.
• I love thick socks. Even better are brightly coloured thick socks.
• I like it when my nose whistle or my kids talk in their sleep.

fill the void?

Photo by Always be Cool

Also posted on Widow's Voice

The thought occasionally enters my mind now and then that maybe I should date. I'm lonely. I want someone to talk to. Someone to spend time with. Someone to care about and have care about me. But then, I wonder, am I just looking for Jeff? No one is EVER going to measure up to him. No one is ever going to have his sense of humour, his sexiness, his strength, his gentleness. I don't want to replace him. I know that would never be even remotely possible. And I worry that anyone I find would be exposed as glaringly lacking compared to the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.


But I'd love to have someone to hold my hand. Am I too damaged now? How do you date one person when you're still in love with someone else? Would anyone even want to have anything to do with me when I would obviously leave them in a nanosecond if it were possible for my love to return to me? I don't think I would want to be with someone under those circumstances.


I don't think Jeff would want me to live in loneliness for the rest of my life. But what WOULD he want? What is best for the kids? Should I stay solely a mommy and a widow for the rest of my existence...or do I allow myself to feel the comfort of another person. Does this mean that I am less of a wife to Jeff? Does this mean that I am a bad person?


I stare at his picture and weep. I listen to his voice on his messages and attempt to cling to the moment he left it and feel that he would know what I should do. But, it's messed. It's wrong. It's a strange and foreign concept. How do you ask your husband if you should date again?

welcome home Nula

We've acquired a new chicken .... actually we got her a couple of weeks ago. Her name is 'Nula' which is an Irish name meaning "white shoulder or neck". She is a Transylvanian Naked Neck AKA a Turken.
Although I am SO excited to have such a ugly different looking chicken, I am worried what will happen with me beloved little flock of hens when our home sells. Oh, how I'll miss having my girls to gaze at! Chickens are such good therapy!!
So the house is not on the market yet. The landlady still has to get a realtor in. She just wanted to give me the heads up. It sounds as if she'll list it in June or October. I am hoping for October so I can still get my garden in a grow part of a crop....
I am hoping for a miracle. Maybe I'll win the lottery before the house goes up. Maybe someone will want to invest some money into a rental property with an absolutely fabulous tenant. Who knows?
I am now over the shock somewhat. All I can do is prepare. I am starting to think about which things are unnecessary and don't need to be moved to another home. I am hoping to fill five boxes every week with items for the Sally Ann....But what do I do with Jeff's stuff? I can't let go yet. I am trying. But I am not yet ready. Maybe by June....or October.

stinking flowers

Also posted on Widow's Voice

When people die, no one really knows what to do. Call? Visit? Send cards, casseroles or flowers?
I can personally say, that most of the above were very much appreciated. In the fog of grief, many of these overtures were not remembered, unfortunately. So, please, don't be offended if the thank-you card never arrives.
The sympathy cards were kind reminders that other people loved Jeff and missed him too. That we were not alone in our grief and that our family and friends were thinking of us.
The food was a lifesaver. My children were fed. There were all sorts of snacks for visitors to graze on. I never once felt the need to go to the store (even if I hadn't been on sedatives to prevent me from having the energy to scream obscenities into the void).
I found it hard after Jeff died to be at the centre of such hubbub and pain. I had difficulty feeling that I was needed to alleviate other's pain and suffering.
Talking on the phone was unbearable. Speaking face to face was often worse.
I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to communicate. I couldn't get out what I needed/wanted to say. And most often, I didn't want to say anything.
But the flowers were lovely....initially. They were thoughtful and generous. The sentiment was kind.
Then I had to water them. It was more than I could remember and wrap my head around. One more thing I had to accomplish with the energy that I didn't have. I'd sit in the chair by the window staring at the flowers that had adorned the church during his funeral. The happy pinks and purples with the vibrant greens. They seemed futile, smug and ridiculous. They screamed at me, "Life goes forward. We are happy, happy, happy flowers." I wanted to yell at them, "Fuck you, you preppy little losers. I hate you." Instead, I threw wadded up wet tissues at them with the vigor of one who despises something so intensely that thought may just blow it to pieces.
Then they began to wilt. And they reminded me that 'everything dies'. They rubbed my nose in the lesson that I had just learned so painfully. Everything is fleeting. Nothing lasts.
I watched as their once oh-so-smug petals fell to the floor. As their leaves turned transparent and brown.
I felt strangely pleased by their deaths. They deserved it for being so fucking joyful. They knew nothing about life and sadness. Had they even been picked yet when Jeff died? Did they even know what pain was?
But then, I eventually got around to feeling that I should clean them up. And I couldn't do it.
Putting away the vases and throwing out the flowers meant that his funeral had happened and he was indeed dead. That time was still marching on. That I was removing the last vestiges marking the loss of his life from our home.
So those bloody flowers stayed for a long time past their past due date....Always reminding me that Jeff was dead. And that things die. And that life sucks.
I eventually threw the flowers in the composter hoping that this would make me feel that they would be reborn in some other fabulous growing green thing. The vases (aka white cheesy grecian vases adorned with fake plastic ribbons) I held onto until last week. I thought I'd feel guilty releasing these icons of his death. But I didn't. He had never seen them....and it was my last 'screw you' to those stupidly joyous giddy buds.
I will never give flowers to someone mourning again. The care, the upkeep, the reminder and the in-your-face optimism is too much for a person in pain.
Instead, I will send a fabulous casserole with no return address so they don't feel that they need to send a bloody thank-you card for something they would have preferred didn't happen.
(Sorry if I sound ungrateful.....just wondering at the reasoning behind this tradition)

bloody hellllllll

I got a phonecall from the landlord today. She's selling the house.
We moved in here when Liv was four months old. It's our HOME. I can't imagine living elsewhere or having someone else enjoying the basement that Jeff finished or the carport that he closed in.
I am heartbroken. I am terrified. I have no idea where we'll go for such low rent...and how do you rent with a dog, a cat and seven chickens?
Home has been our one constant. Our one security. Now it will be gone. Another connection to Jeff gone. Another tie cut.
I am at a loss. I am so lonely and fearful right now.

fear of losing more

Also posted on Widow's Voice

Jeff's gone. I know that. The kids know that. But he is still such an enormous part of every day, every moment, every breath.
He is thought of constantly. Cherished. Missed.
We talk about him multiple times everyday. To feel close to him. To ensure that my children who were so young when their daddy died, exercise those memories so that they are not lost. So that they can remember who their daddy really was....to them.
But I worry about forgetting. In the days after Jeff died, I made pages of 'Jeff'. This list contained everything from his righthandedness, to his favourite beer, to what he wanted to name our babies. These items were concrete. Firm. Easy to sum up.

How do I write lists including the joy with which he would dance or sing, the way his breath on the back of my neck would comfort me or how he made me feel when he held my hand? These things are sensed. Felt.
I wish that they would know the smell of their father. I always told him that he smelled of wood. Or that they could see the ease with which he shovelled ice on the boat.
I am afraid that they will lose him again....or more, if I don't cling to these memories and relive them over and over.
I want them to know him. I want them to remember his love and devotion to them. I want them to feel his strength, joy and kindness within themselves...because he was a truly great man. And he would be so proud of them. As I was of him.

linking ears

My poor little man has a ruptured eardrum. He didn't seem horribly ill. We were preparing for my sister's wedding so maybe I was too busy to notice. I feel rather guilty that it burst before I realized the extent of his earache.
I have had countless issues with my ears - 15 ruptured eardrums, 9 myringotomy and rather dulled hearing as a result. I remember that my mom has said that she could tell if we were getting sick as children by our breath. Now, as a mom, I agree.
The signs that show up for me with my kiddos are:

• stinky breath
• increased water consumption
• faster breathing
• crankiness

He's now on antibiotics. I am wondering about the causes of frequent ear infections. I know that I have been told that I have short eustachian tubes which cause pressure to build up behind the eardrum more quickly than if I had more space. I am assuming that Briar has the same thing going on behind his little eardrums. But I am also wondering if lactose-intolerance plays a part? Or some allergy? I'd like to prevent him from having scarred eardrums and the terrible pain associated with earinfections and rupture.

Poor, little monkey.....