Breathe.

We sit in a circle, listening to stories, singing songs, and reciting the words of the liturgy.  It's the last gathering of our weekend at the spring retreat for our church community.

At my feet and to my right sits a young man with eyes that sparkle and a half-smile on his face.  At his feet lays a black lab named Charlie, who brings a calming and soothing presence to his companion who happens to be profoundly autistic.

His hands are busy, brushing over and over his i-pad; zooming in and out and changing color.  Deliberate motions and changes that are done with intention and purpose.  He is leaning back on his mom's legs.  Every so often she leans down to reassuringly rub his shoulders or kiss the top of his head.  He is over 6 feet, but he needs his mom to be close.   Every so often, his low voice, sounding more and more like that of a man, repeats the same word, over  and over, while using his fingers to tap his chest in tandem....

"Breathe.  Breathe.   Breathe."

He looks up at his mom and she says, "yes, breathe", and so he does.

In a few minutes, he repeats the word and the tapping again, and then again.  On it goes as the morning goes, and his voice saying the word, together with the sound of his fingers tapping his chest take up residence in my memory.  I can hear him now, as I sit at my keyboard, in the quiet of a house that sleeps.

When the bread comes around, I break off a piece and place it in his hands, and he takes it.
"The body of Christ, broken for you."

The wine comes next, and I help tip it back for him as he takes a generous gulp.
"The blood of Christ, shed for you."

His eyes hardly leave his i-pad as his images zoom in and out, and the tap tap tap of his fingers on his chest begin again as he repeats the word.   "Breathe.  Breathe.   Breathe."

It's like a soundtrack that doesn't stop, and as it's repeated over and over again, most people don't even hear it.

And in the midst of all of the words of the weekend, spoken, shared, and sung, it's that one word from his mouth that stays with me.  I can't shake it, because it has gone to my core.

"Breathe".

When his anxiety rises, he tells himself to breathe.  He taps his chest to remind him, to make a physical action to connect the dots and get his body to fall into step with the word his voice knows so well.

When my anxiety rises,  I don't usually breathe.  My fists clench, my shoulders rise, my chest tightens.  How much better would it be to just breathe?  To connect with the rising tension, inhale, and exhale the tightness and discomfort that wants to take up space where it doesn't belong...

So this week I will remember the word, and the voice that spoke it.
The tap, tap tap of fingers on a chest that has learned to breathe.

Who Ellie Is, Now That She's Eleven

She is getting longer and taller with legs that seem to go on forever.
She still has scrumptious squishy cheeks that she lets me sink my whole face into when I kiss her goodnight.
She still wants to sit on my lap and lets me wrap my arms all around her and squeeze her tight.
She actually craves moments like that.
The space around her is never quiet.
She is always singing.  Her mantra seems to be, "If you're going to sing, sing so the whole world can hear you".
She still doesn't really like reading very much... except books that involve people dying.  I don't get it, but as long as a book is open on her lap, I don't ask too many questions.
She dances three times a week and loves every minute of it.
Her heart is still so very soft.  A word with even a hint of harshness will disolve her.
She does amazing accents.  She spent 2 straight hours on Sunday working with Mike on her Science Fair project, talking like a southern belle.  She's convincing too.
There are moments I catch a glimpse of teenager in her and I want to hold it back.
She loves guacamole, samosas with tamarind sauce, and pad thai.
Most days, she'd rather stay home than go to school.  She's been this way since Kindergarten.
There is nothing she likes more than a Saturday morning snuggled up with Sasha watching bad TV.
I wish she could see how captivating she is.
She is the comic relief in a household full of high-strung and somewhat tightly tightly wound females.
She really wanted a onesie for her birthday.
When she put on the fleece one she got, and I hugged her, she felt like a great big stuffie.
She is learning how she fits in between two sisters who are so different from her.
She fills a space in our family that was made just for her.

Nine

She's nine today, that baby of mine.

Sasha loves to hear the story of when she came to be.  How we were only at the hospital for a very short time when she arrived - all pink and beautiful,  with a perfectly round face and lips like tiny rosebuds.

Sasha is the baby and she always will be.  She is growing up with her older sisters going ahead of her to navigate some of the twists and turns to make things a little easier for her.  But so much of her life is far from what her sisters have choosen for themselves.   While they have loved dance and a little bit of bling, Sasha throws a mean spiral and loves her Jets jersey.  They have wanted long hair to braid and curl and Sasha wants hers short to stay out of her way when she's on the basketball court.  They don't tend to enjoy "constructive criticism" while Sasha spends hours taking guidance from Mike and perfecting her throw or her shot, without even a hint of frustration.

She might be a mean competitor on the court or the field, but there is nothing she likes more than a warm arm around her snuggled right around her body as she falls asleep.  After we've chatted and prayed, and the last kiss is planted, she almost always says, "stay with me a little longer", and I almost always do, because requests like that don't last forever.

She is serious and deliberate.
Disciplined and stubborn.
Always the baby.

And today she is nine.

A Tale of Two Teams

Two teams met on a basketball court on Saturday.  They converged to play at a suburban private school which looked more like a convention centre with an upscale coffee shop.

One team had moms and dads and little brothers or sisters lining the court in soft cushy chairs.    Their entourage fueled them up with good food, handed them their freshly washed uniforms, and drove them to the game on time.  They cheered wildly for them when their team scored, and shouted out, "good try" when the other team did.  One team was comprised of mostly blond ponytails, and wearing brand-name basketball shoes.  Their coaches cheer them on.  One even sits with them during breaks in the tournament and chats about all of the things that matter.  When they're hungry, they grab the ziplock bags stuffed with cash that their moms gave them at the start, and wander over to the canteen to go and pick whatever they want.  They are kind, polite, and respectful.  They play hard, and want to win.

The other team walks in alone.  There are no parents cheering from the sidelines for them.  Many of their parents don't even know where they are.  They piled into a few vans to make the trek to the part of the city most of them have never been to before.  There is so much empty space here, so unlike their neighborhood.   No one has blond hair on their team.  Some of them wear tight braids, one of them, a hijab.  They've got one coach who threw their team together.  When they walk through the school that the tournament is in they shake their heads.   "This is a school?", they wonder.   Their tummies grumble in between but they just keep playing.  They're used to fending for themselves.  No one is gushing over their play or making sure they are ready for the next game.  They are tough, independent, jaded, and have seen it all.  More than kids should.  They play hard and want to win.

Both teams arrive at the game ready to play.  It starts well with basketball as the focus.  Soon things unravel.  The other team starts scratching and pushing.  There are gasps from the one team's parents and looks to the refs.  Not much is done.  Then it escalates.  There is shoving, arms around necks, and tugs to the ground.  It's disconcerting to the one team.  They aren't used to this.  They fight for the ball the way they were taught because it's the way they were taught.  That's how you do it - the way you were taught, or so it seems.  The one team beats the other team, and the lines are made to file by and shake hands.  Some on the other team refuse.  One of them punches a member of one team in the stomach as she walks by.  There is anger from losing, and maybe anger for more.

At lunch, I talk to the girls from the one team as they stop to try to make sense of the aggressive and vicious play they experienced.  I try to put things into context.  "These girls are from a different world.  They live in the inner-city.  They are from worn-torn countries and have seen more than you can imagine.  They are used to fighting and battling, and clawing away to get everything they have.  It's what they have to do.  It's the way they were taught.  It's their survival instinct."

I wonder, later, how the other team felt walking through the wide spacious hallways and lobby of the big suburban private school.  How they makes sense of the blond pony-tails and the sidelines full of parents cheering and supporting while they play for no one but themselves.  How much of that makes them want to push and shove and hit and scratch the ones around them who appear to have everything?

Sometimes basketball is more than just playing a game.

It's Off to Work I Go

Today was my first day of work at my new job.

It was a strange feeling getting up this morning to get ready for work (and make lunches and pack bags, and drive kids to school... cause that's what us momma's do!).  I didn't feel nervous, I felt excited.  I felt like I was about to walk in to what I'd been waiting for.  I packed my own lunch, grabbed my things and drove off to an actual workplace to which I was expected.  It felt good.  It felt like it was my time.

Let me tell you about my job.  My official title is Child and Youth Counsellor.  I get to have this awesome role to play at Alpha House, which is an amazing project that provides transitional second-stage housing for women and their kids who have left abusive situations.  This means I get to spend twenty hours a week counselling kids and teenagers who are in the midst of transition and are recovering from the trauma of leaving an abuser and are learning skills and new ways of being and relating in healthy relationships.  Not only that, I get to meet with each of their moms one on one every week to talk about parenting, being a positive force in their kid's lives, and all of the other things that come along with the experience of leaving an abusive partner and starting again.

I am so grateful for this chance to practice the therapeutic skill set I've been developing.  I am so thankful to get to do it in a place that allows me the freedom and space to try new things and do it "my way".  I am in awe of the fact that I get to work with some of the strongest and bravest women who want to do better for their kids.  I am overwhelmed with the amazing reality that I get to help let some light in to the dark places in kid's hearts and minds every single day that I go to work.

Mike asked me at the end of the day how it all went.  I said, "it was good".  But if he asked me now I'd say it was "good and exciting, and scary, and overwhelming and hard, and inspiring and interesting, and challenging, and captivating".  (Plus a lot more things that I can't put into words tonight.)

In the midst of all the excitement of a first day, there was a wrench in the plan, as there so often is.  Ellie had to be taken to see a pediatric orthopedic specialist today to cast her broken wrist.  Usually that's my job to do.  I take the girls to every appointment and every check-up and make sure it all gets done.  But today was Mike's day.  He took Ellie to work with him, then to her appointment and off to school.  I was the one getting the texts from the Dr's office and he was the one holding her hand.  It felt so different to be the one who wasn't there.  Part of me felt that it wasn't right.  But the other part knew that today was a great gift.  I had to be at work, but Mike got to be the one right by Ellie's side.  They have their own chapter of the story from today, and it's just theirs.   They got to tell me all about it when I got home, and it was good.

Tomorrow I get to do it all over again.  I get to run a parenting support group right off the hop, first thing in the morning.  I am looking forward to walking through the doors and knowing the women's stories, feeling connected with their kids, and comfortable in my space.  That will take awhile, but I'm looking forward to getting there.  And that feels pretty great.

Fourteen

Ten minutes and fourteen years ago, Hannah Elizabeth came into the world and made me a mom for the first time.     Way back then, fourteen years seemed like a lifetime away, and now it's today.  

Hannah is the guinea-pig.  We practice and hone all of our parenting skills on her first before we get to try them out on her younger sisters.  She's had to endure a lot on our journey around the learning-curve, and most times it feels as though we're in this together, figuring it all out as we go.

The greatest reward of parenting is seeing your child from afar and genuinely liking who they are.  It's watching from a distance and thinking that you'd gravitate to them if you were a stranger.  It's wondering what's in their head and how much you'd like to know more.  It's the wonder and the mystery of anticipating who they'll become, but savouring the little glimpses you get to unfold as they grow.

That's not to say that we don't have our share of slamming doors or moments of impasse with a healthy dose of exasperation.   We do.  We have lots.  But I still really like her and I'm pretty sure that most of the time she likes me.   

Her feet are bigger than mine now, and she's officially taller.  

I catch myself, increasingly more frequently, aware that there are many areas in life in which she is smarter and more aware than I am.  She laps up knowledge and stores it away in her encyclopedia-like brain ready to pull out at a moment's notice.  Just this morning as I was making her crepes for her birthday brunch, she remarked on the number of countries that England hasn't invaded.   She doesn't just know the fact, she knows the context, and why it's important.  I can't believe I scored a kid who wants to know the big picture of this crazy world, and approaches it all with curiosity and openness.

She likes Sharpies and sketch books and is often on her tummy on her bed making magic on blank white pages that point to who she is.

She has surrounded herself with good people.  Friends who make her believe she is good and valuable, and I can see that she does the same.  Friends who make me laugh out loud, and stop to think as they tell me some of their secrets and I get a glimpse into the fourteen year old heart and mind.

She still reads as though her life depends on it, and nothing makes me more full than having her bound towards me and shove a book into my hands and insist that I read it.  Those words are game-changers for her, and she wants me to know why and experience for myself.  She may not tell me everything that goes on in her heart and her head, but she sets her book in my hands and opens the pages for me so I can uncover some of the mystery for myself.

She listens to good music, scrawling out the words to the lyrics of Canadian Indie bands, and acquiring a collection of thoughtful and dense music.  She doesn't care what everyone else is listening to, she knows what she likes, and she makes it her own.

She may be quiet, but she is loved by kids and when their parents leave the house she comes alive with their little ones.  They want her to come back because she is kind and knows how to play.  Two of the most important skills in this life.

And so, you see that I like her.  There is lots to like.
And more to discover, all of which I am looking forward to.

These are the days of head shaking and eye-rolling, stomping away, short fuses, and academy-award caliber dramatic responses.  But within and around are these amazing moments of knowing.... and liking.

Fourteen years has come and gone in the blink of an eye.

Well Worn Path

I learned this week that it's truly possible to feel two intense emotions at the very same time about the exact same situation.  All week I had a lingering sense of sadness, which grew each day closer to today.    Peppering the sadness were feelings of gratitude and joy which made it all more bearable.  It was a week of change and transition, and a week to savour relationship.

This morning a big moving truck pulled onto our crescent onto our neighbor's driveway, and began to be filled.  After it was full, it was driven only a few minutes away to be emptied out, all into a beautiful house full of possibility.   I couldn't bear to see the truck get filled up this morning.  I stayed inside.  It was too much for me, so I sent Mike to capture the moment in time, because it tells a story.

The story goes back to early summer of 2001.  That summer our family moved on to Robertson Crescent.  We had an eighteen month old toddler and were excited about the space and the change we had found.  Just around the corner from our house, with one in between, another family moved in the same summer.  They had not one, but two daughters just a few months younger than Hannah!  We couldn't believe our fortune!

In the years that have past, there is a well-worn path that passes from the front of our house to the front door of theirs.   There have been countless trips, back and forth.  Trips for eggs, oil, yeast, ketchup, chickpeas, Parmesan cheese, sour cream, and brown sugar.    Other trips haven't collected things of the edible variety.  We've also taken propane tanks, had pictures and homework printed and collected, and picked up emergency clothing items.  There was the time I frantically delivered Hannah and Ellie in a wagon on a Saturday afternoon while I blubbered something about Mike nearly cutting off his finger with the hedge trimmer and needing to take him to the ER.  We have walked over to meet a new puppy, and they have walked here to meet a new baby or two.  We have sent girls over just to "see what Kiera and Thea are doing" when our house seemed small and moments seemed long.   There have been countless hours of playing outside, swinging on swings, celebrating first rides on two wheelers on the street, pushing babies in strollers, allowing independence in allowing the girls to venture out to the school ground alone, walks and runs, sharing beers and BBQ'd feasts,  calling over the fence, watching feet and bodies grow, telling stories and making memories.

I don't like change.  If my world were perfect, things would stay the same.  People in houses right where you want them, just as they've always been.  But change comes and people grow and families move.  

The family at the other end of the well-worn path moved today and things won't be the same.

Adrian likes to tell us that "if you walk it, we're only one kilometer away".  And he's right, that's true.  One kilometer isn't far, and my guess is that a new path will be worn in and we will find ourselves on the other end, long and often.  But one kilometer is further than 100 steps.  (And that will take some getting used to when I just need to borrow an egg.)

There is joy today too.  Expectation for beginnings for old friends who get to create something new in a beautiful space.  New space is full of possibility and room for new memories.  This is the good stuff I am thinking about - the stuff that allows the sadness to not sit as heavy or as hard.  

I wonder how long it will take for the grass on that path to grow in as full and as thick as the area around it?  How long until I remember that I can't just get what I need with one phone call and a pint-sized courier?  How long until that house is no longer "theirs" and again becomes just another house once again?

I'm glad the snow is covering up the path and hiding it.  By the time spring comes, maybe that one kilometer path will have begun to look used, and not seem so far away.