I see your ______!!!!

Happy Mother’s Day. Gather round. It’s story time:

My kids have had a deeply ingrained sense of modesty around their parents for a while now regarding basic nudity. No one has been purposely naked in front of each other for a very long time… well, with the exception of two people in my family *wink wink nudge nudge*. Nudity within a family is a funny thing, one that is clearly defined within the four walls that encompass every manner of family. It is measured within each person’s level of comfort and casual allowance. To each their own, I guess. As it should be.

Anyways, there was a casual approach to nudity in our family. We raised our kids with the subtle message that everyone has a body and it’s no big deal. But that all changed for us as our kids grew up a bit.

New rule: Absolutely no naked ick around!! That is the RULE. Parents are GROSS! They have BODIES! EW!!!

We all then began the purposeful knocking on doors, the respecting privacy, following the no nudity rule etc etc.

It was inevitable (obviously) that one day, I would open the bathroom door, positive that I was alone, to walk the four feet to my bedroom, sans towel or robe, only to see that lo and, yes, behold, there stood my unfortunate teenage son. I did the old “Oh My God, I’ve been seen naked pose” -  arms clasped in such a manner across my chest and inner thighs so to desperately deflect any visual awareness that yes, indeed I was NAKED. This was to no avail.

The thing about me is, though, that I see humour in almost everything in my life. I couldn’t help but take in the horrified expression on his face as he realized his worst nightmare had come true. There, in front of him was his mother, in all her birthday suit glory, naked as the day she was born. His jaw dropped open as if the gates of hell opened in front of him. He covered his eyes with his hands and shrieked a bit. As the horror slowly sank into him, I grabbed the towel, covering myself as the giggles hit. I started to for real LMAO  as he ran into his room, and I, doubled over maniacally howling, trying to wrap myself up…..

“My eyes” he yelled, as he lay prone on his bed, his face buried into his pillow. “MY EYES!!!”

I, laughing still, grabbed my robe and made myself decent before going to see him.

I could tell it was not only a horrific experience for him; he also, like his mom, thought it was kind of funny. Funny in a terrifying ironic kind of way. He informed me he needed some bleach to pour in his eyes just get that image out of his mind. I think I told him then that what was seen can never be unseen. And then we laughed.…. That, my friends, was oddly (and on the self-deprecating side) one of the best laughs I have shared with him yet.

May you Mothers out there always find the humour and laughter in the most mundane or insane moments of your life, as you raise your own unique gifts to this world. I love you all!

Best one yet.

I’ve never felt that I’m capable of the level of commitment of a bumper sticker. I mean, you’re putting some pretty personal opinion/political stance/religious view on your car that you may or may not trade in or sell one day. And we all know that those stickers are a real mother to remove….

I did put an OM symbol on my rear window once, but it peeled off years ago and left the ghostly remnant of my love for yoga. Every time I look in my rear view mirror I’m reminded of my perpetual laziness at getting around to remove that sticky stuff with a little bit elbow grease mixed with Goof-off or WD-40.

I do love reading bumper stickers. I find most of them funny, whether I agree with their sentiment or not. Living around Nelson offers a wide variety of opinions, many steeped in the love of the ganja, some in defiance in the face of capitalism and many setting that stage for education of the masses on better ways to live.

These are some of my favourites that I’ve seen around town, sported on every vehicle from old hippy vans to brand new SUVs… :

“My karma ran over your dogma.”

“My other car is a bicycle.”

“My other car is a pair of boots.”

“When Hell freezes over, we’ll ski there too.”

“Healthcare before Olympics.” (This one gets me every time I see it…. just for the whole relevance issue…. And I see it on a lot of vehicles around these parts. Dude…. The Olympics were 3 years ago… time to get off your ass and remove that sticker.. .oh, wait… never mind….)

“Live simply so others may simply live.”

“Envision whirled peas.”

So as I commute on a regular basis, I have come to enjoy the thoughtful ponderings and chuckles these little stickers of wisdom and humour offer me. I LOVE to imagine whirled peas. And I’ll definitely ski in hell when it freezes over.

But yesterday I saw one that, even though it could be perceived as rude or shocking or inappropriate, was concise and to the point. And, quite simply very, very true.

All it said was “Unfuck the world.”

And I thought to myself  Yes!! Let’s all do this!! We can all work together to unfuck this world. Whatever you do, however you do it. I’d like to see our Earth as unfucked as much as possible.

Unfuck the world indeed.

 

 

 

To beard or not to beard.

Sitting in the pub the other night, I noticed a hairy phenomena unheard of when I haunted the bars every weekend back in the days of yore… back in the days of my youth.

Many of the young men these days are proudly sporting facial hair: cultivated goatees, haphazard 5 o’clock shadows, brazen muttonchops.

Many of my girlfriends vocalized their dislike of this trend. Not me, though. I’ve always liked a good looking man with a beard.

But before I go on, let’s clarify.

 

This?

 

Nope. Not good.

This?

 

 

 

No. For the love of all that is good in the world, NO.

 

This?

Well, this is just a sad case of denied sexuality.

 

However, this on the other hand….

Yes.

This?

 

God, yes.

 

This?

Sweet Jesus… I … I have no words….

 

You see, a good beard makes my inner cave girl quiver. It suggest strength, protection and a manliness that makes my heart flutter. The rough texture against my cheek (or any other body part *wink wink*) brings me to my knees.

I like it. I like it a lot.

Now, I am not one to try to change anyone’s mind. I can completely understand how a well-kept shaved man can make any woman swoon.

But the rugged manly touch of facial hair brings out the beast in me.

Final case in point:

You can all leave me be now… I’ll just be here…. gazing at this (yes, yes, I know… IMAGINARY… but full-on masculine) hunk of hairy manhood.

 

Fate.

Impromptu drinks last night at a dear friend’s house was just what I needed. We sat around enjoying lychee margaritas (Mmmmm… YUMMY, I’ve never had lychee before….). There were three women there I had never met before but that didn’t stop any of us from jumping into the conversation and sharing like only women can do.

Obviously when mothers get together kids and the epic hilarity that motherhood induces was the main topic. We shared goofy stories around the table: life lessons imbued with laughter.

One of the women had us in tears, sharing a tale of rushing from the bathroom mid-tampon insertion to stop her precocious toddler from falling off the kitchen island. The honesty of the situation only made it funnier. “You see,” she said, giggling, “my younger son can’t talk, so I had to ask my older son what was happening…” She went on to shyly admit he was in speech therapy.

I asked her who she was seeing, telling her that my son once worked with a speech pathologist for years.

Naturally, it was the same therapist.

And of course, as fate works in its most magical and needful way, her son has the same diagnosis as mine.

There we were, two women who had never met, on either side of this mothering spectrum, walking along the exact same path in life, brought together by a mutual friend and drinks. It is always amazing, the way fate dances in our lives.

And so her need to talk about her worry and devotion and struggle with her child came out. She is where I was 12 years ago. Her fears of his uncertain future were as tangible as mine once were.

And I realized that I was there to help her. What a profound moment in my life. I was able to gift this young mother something I wish could have been gifted to me long long ago.

I was able to assure her that her son was going to be okay. I was able to tell her that my son, who once wasn’t able to say anything other than mama and dada now talks my ear off. I was able to comfort her with my own son’s progress that belied my own buried fears of him never being able to speak and be part of any sort of quality life. I too was once terrified that my child would never be able to talk “normally”, that he would skirt the edges of society, that he would be eternally picked on, excluded, that his suffering would be larger than he would ever, ever be able to contend with.

Her eyes filled with tears at my insistent assurance. Yes, it is a tough road to walk, this therapy, sign language and struggle. There will be days that you will feel frustrated, progress is slow and sometimes nonexistent with speech therapy. Yes, the arm chair critics who offer cutting words of negative judgement and unneeded opinions will be maddening at times and yes, deeply hurtful. Tears will need to be shed, prayers offered, hands held, support sought. But through all of this, that light at the end of the tunnel is bright and beckoning. Every word learned, every sign dropped, every little milestone will make that light shine a little bit more until one day you realize you are no longer walking towards it, but rather you are immersed in all of its dazzling glory.

For my son.

In some ways, the memory of the birth of my firstborn child is so fresh it hurts. And in other ways it is so foreign and removed and so long ago that it is like a story I am telling that isn’t really mine, as if I am recounting a movie plot or a book I read.

Did I really do that? Grow a child and give birth, primal and bloody? Did I actually nurse him and marvel day in and day out at his emerging chubbiness and funny faces? Was his hand actually able to fit in the palm of mine? Was his first utterance of  “mama” as full of love and sweetness and breathtaking innocence as I imagine it was?

He is turning 14 in two days. He is now two inches taller than me. He gives me the side eye when I go for a fist bump. We laugh a lot, we drive one another crazy. He is a true teenager in all his loud music and sarcasm and angst and moodiness, but still with a surprising need for heartfelt mothering every now and then. He creates his art with subtle ease, sketches of dragons appearing on the paper like medieval dreams poured from his soul. He is nothing like I expected he would be and everything I wanted but never knew I did.

With all the days gone by now swept into the recesses of my mind, I find myself not regretting the passage of time with too much bitterness. Rather I find myself feeling lucky and joyous that I was privileged enough to experience all of this. All of this: the  joy and precious moments and frustration and exuberant kisses and true deep love. And what keeps me grounded and not frivolous in my sadness of time gone by is that no matter what, I will always get to be his mother. It will never be taken from me. My baby will forever be mine in my heart. And I can only hope that the experience of being his mother will be mine for years and years to come. So that I can witness his growth into whoever he may become.

And that will always be enough for me.

Happy birthday Nick.

The marriage of sun and cold

The light was shining on the peaks of White Queen but as we rounded the corner, we see Ymir Bowl still in the shadows of a low rising winter sun. The snow was lit up from within, beaming white and golden, proudly showing off those back country ski swoops down chutes and bowls. From a distance, these tracks are effortless, lazy and undulating in their pattern, belying the efforts of the skiers who hiked up the mountains  to carve them. Offset by a winter sky, a pure blue surrounds the mountains, a blue that evokes distant memories of me as a child laying on my back looking up into the endless sky never caring how cold it was.

Oh, it was cold today. -17. That kind of cold that cuts into your lungs, frosts up your eyelashes and numbs your toes instantly. Yet we found ourselves seeking the sunshine in spite of the cold. Wiggling our toes and fingers on the lifts to bask in the winter beams. Solar therapy.

The crystals rise up and swirl and hover, sparkling in the light. Between each snow-cloaked tree, untouched powder begs to be skied upon, as our breath fogs away from us, asking the crystal snowflakes to dance. The cold sucks all moisture away, creating a dry snow that puffs away from our skis. We float on the powder, we ski on clouds.

Our toes cry for mercy, thumbs go numb. Cheeks and noses are rosy. Hot chocolate and tea are mandatory supplies these cold ski days.

Still, we see smiles, hear laughter. Off in the glades, unseen, we hear hoots and hollers of utter joy. The cold doesn’t stop any of us, here on the hill.

The sunshine makes its way down along the slopes, buttering up the snow, gently warming it in slight tones. The packed powder runs are softened up. There is no sound as we ski. Only our breath in our ears.

It is heaven on Earth, it is the never-ending quest of pure joy. It is burning thighs and happy hearts and cold, cold snow.

Wanton indulgence

The curse of Woman is not the monstruating nightmare that happens monthly. It is guilt, the rampant guilt stomping around our brains, yelling at us if we dare to put ourselves first, that keeps many of us from self-indulgent activities.

The lure of divine chocolate dancing on our tongues is met with internal scorn of a caloric measure. A hot bubble bath ten minutes past the usual length leads to curious knocking on the door and inquiries of your possible death by bubbles. Sleeping in on a Saturday? Tsk tsk. Aren’t we meant to be frying up bacon and eggs for the others in our home? Heaven forbid we put ourselves first, and though we try, many of us are met with our own inner judgement.

It’s a true melting pot of cause and effect.

I admit I am my own worst enemy. When I sit to write, I fret about the laundry. When I sit to read, I worry what my husband will say if he sees me idle and not working around the home.

Try and let that guilt go I say to myself! But it isn’t that easy. I have children, a part time job, a busy husband, a house to upkeep, food to cook, gardens to weed, my body to exercise. And there is nothing wrong with my “duties” in my life. But I feel sapped and drained if I don’t feed my soul with my own wanton desires of indulgences.

And so today I dedicated my day to ME. I *gasp* had a bath and then went back to bed after my kids and husband left for the day. At first I felt squirmy and out of sorts, the guilt rising in me about the endless multitudes of things I could be doing. But the lure of my book and my (sorry) epic cramps begged me to give in. I did. I fought the guilt and gave in to my desire to do nothing.

And it felt so damn good.