I try to raise my children to mirror this as best they can.

One thing, however, I will not abide by ever is rampant racism or homophobia. These are two things that appall me beyond measure.

I have consistently taught both my son and my daughter that race, colour of skin, religious belief and sexuality have absolutely nothing to do with how you should treat them. I want and demand that they are open-hearted and kind to everyone, no matter what.

I strongly believe that ANYONE and EVERYONE should be allowed to get married. Girls and Guys, Guys and Guys, Girls and Girls….. Apart from Ye Olde Joke that everyone deserves the equal right and opportunity to be miserable (HA!!) or that old argument that the “sanctity” of marriage is consistently threatened by the eternal sham of marriage amongst the Hollywood elite and so forth (Kim Kardashian, for lack of a better example), the plain reality is that if it doesn’t affect YOU, than why should you make a big issue out of it? If Sally and Lucy are married and they raise their kids in a loving home and their children grow to be successful participants in society, why should there be an argument against that? It just boggles my mind.

Anyway, my lovely daughter, wise beyond her years and truthful to her own curiosity asked me a question the other day. I loved that she felt at ease in coming to me to ask, knowing I would give her a truthful and honest answer.

She wondered if two gay people who adopt a child would “make” that child gay.

What a delight it was to tell her no. That we are who we are the second we are born. We do not choose our preferences for anything, let alone sexuality. What a joy it was to my heart to teach my child what I so deeply believe is the truth.

No, darling, I said. No one makes us who we are. We are who we are, no matter what.

I thought so, she said. And away she went… my open-hearted wonderful daughter, brimming with acceptance and love.

My heart was definitely full that day.

Then he raised his right arm and leaned in towards me. I reacted in kind, thinking he was going for a hug, which was odd, but hey, I live in the Koots and hug pretty much everyone I know on a regular basis.

I went in for the hug with both arms as he slowly patted my back and turned away.

At that point, time slowed down, and with a sickening feeling I realized I had no choice. I was going in, the momentum was too much and I had to complete the Awkward Social Hug, in which I sort of hugged his arm and ended up with my head against the back of his shoulder. My own right arm floundered in space. I swear the man next to him grimaced.

Then there was that weird, awkward moment where you both feel like complete assholes. That second lasted a very long time to me. Thank God the light turned and we could both cross the street, making light-hearted polite conversation, in some sort of attempt to pretend that the Hug never happened.

I shuddered inwardly. It was worse than going for a handshake and getting a fist-bump instead. I can equate it with giving someone a kiss on the cheek, but inadvertently smooching someone on the lips due to a rogue head-turn. The only thing I can think of that is definitely worse is accidentally grabbing someone’s junk in an inept attempt to shake hands. (Yes. That happened to me. Really.)

I hope he felt just as awkward as I did, since, really, it was all his fault….

Don’t get me wrong. I have days when I want to stab bunnies. When I am overwhelmed with the redundancy of life’s annoyances. Laundry, dinner, arguments with my husband. Kids picking at each other when I am in the throes of PMS. Oh, yes. There are days, my lovelies, when I want to run screaming from my house. Days when I fantasize about living on a beach in Thailand ALL BY MY SELF. Days when I’d rather pluck pubic hairs out one by one than deal with life’s meaningless bullshit.

But thank the Goddess, those days are far and few between.

I know amongst us there are those who suffer from depression and despondency. Those who cannot summon the energy to brush their teeth, let alone shake the sadness from their soul to function in regular life. It makes my heart hurt for them.

I know, because once upon a time I was depressed too. I had sunk into a mired-down pit of anxiety, suffering daily pain from a chronic illness and also blindness to my own mental health to my situation.

Fortunately, there was one person who took control and told me to my face what she thought. My mom. She was brave enough to say those words out loud. She was the impetus for me to seek help. She got all up in my face about it, and I am so very glad.

This was years ago. I went on my “happy pills” for a year and a half. I achieved a balanced state, through Western medicine, my beloved yoga practice, meditation, a better diet and complete awareness. I wanted to live a full and rewarding life and these were my tools to achieve that. I eventually weaned myself off the anti-depressants and have been fairly balanced since.

Oh, my beautiful life. I am so thankful for you and all your gifts I receive daily. The laughter and lessons, the gifts and giggles.

If you think you’re suffering from depression, do NOT be ashamed or afraid. Talk to someone. There is help out there, from whatever path you choose to seek it from.

Oh and thanks Mom. I love you!

Blessings. Love. Laughter. Life.

My pants are a tad difficult to button up right now.

I have hardly done anything in the exercise realm. Due to being sick, even being in Downward Dog invoked horrific coughing spasms where I was terribly afraid I would pee on my mat.

Thus, I feel flabby and gross.

New Year’s always brings the resolutions…. of which most fail miserably. Apart from my own failed attempt to quit swearing, I hardly ever make promises to myself that I know I will give up on.

For me though, the dawning of 2012 gives me respite from shortbread and too much wine. I always get excited in January. The days are getting longer, spring is on that far-off horizon, and I feel so much better when I get out and RUN. And I have promised a new dedication to my treasured yoga practice that has slowly slid from me in the last little while.

Also? No sugar, no alcohol, no junk. A 30 day “cleanse” of sorts is my plan.

I’m looking forward to bringing health back into my body and life. This last month has driven me nuckin’ futs. I cannot take laying around and feeling flabby.

I’m eagerly anticipating January 1. A New Year and the old me.

If I had been born a decade later, I might be someone who sports a sleeve. But meh, I’m too old for that shit now.

However, tattoos are more than a fad; it has become so mainstream that when I see someone not inked in some form, it seems weird. (Still, two of my besties are not inked… Neither is my husband.) Tattoo culture has lost that certain shock value, considering that a good majority of people have them. I’d even dare to go out on a limb here and state that not having a tattoo is the rebellious move nowadays.

Face tattoos, on the other hand, are just wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong.

Look, unless you belong to a tribe in Africa or are an ancient Hindu mystic sitting on the mountaintop doling out spiritual pearls of wisdom, never, ever get a tattoo on your face.

It’s just stupid. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

My son has perfected the skill of reiteration, much to the endless annoyance of pretty much everyone in the family. When my nephew was told to smarten up, Nicholas thought it necessary to reiterate the sentiments of the adults with a mocking “Yeah, Nathaniel, stop doing that.”

To which Nathaniel, full of rage, yelled “Shut up you bloody bastard!”

Naturally, both kids got into trouble.

The next morning, Kim overheard Nathaniel apologizing to Nick for calling him a bad word.

“That’s OK, Nathaniel,” Nick replied. “Technically, I AM a bastard!”

(If y’all didn’t know, he was born out of wedlock……)

I logged on under an internet name, adopted an internet “personality” and became friends with some of the others that commented frequently. We all began to forge a unique (but in this day and age, not that unusual. I mean, hey, remember when pen pals were the thing to have??) friendship with several people.

For awhile, we played around on this one site but found that we enjoyed one another’s online personalities too much and created our own personal chatroom/blog/website, dubbed the Cave and then later, the Center of the Earth.

Slowly we shed our online personas and morphed into actually knowing one another. Then the chatroom became no more and facebook took over. Some members of our group faded away, but there remained a core group of us who connected daily. We had ongoing messaging threads. We’ve chatted regularly for six years. A lucky few of us actually got to physically meet. But most of us never have.

One of us died the other day.

In our communal grief, we realized that friendship doesn’t always equate physical contact. Does that make sense? Our group, vast and far-flung across two countries, various in age, married and not; some parents, some not; living our lives and being true-blue friends with one another, found that love of friends means so much more. These people know me on levels that some do not. I know things about these people that may shock their loved ones. We are more real and gritty with each other, we fight and make up, we care deeply.

So what if I’ve never met any of them? I know them all so well, and they me.

This woman who passed away was really funny. Her spirit was immense in her caring. She shone in her thoughtfulness and was constant in her caring for every one of us. She was one of my dearest friends and was taken away too damn soon. She battled a horrible illness and health issues which ultimately took her away.

We’ve rallied around her family, we the ones who knew her online. We will gather all together, in cyberspace, on Saturday to say farewell to our Angela. We will honour her and pay tribute to her and this unique and wonderful friendship that we are so lucky enough to share.

Angela, you will never be forgotten. You are a light in my heart, a smile upon your daughter’s lips, the sunbeam on a cloudy day, a kindness shown to another person. I know in my heart how much you cared for us. I know you know how much we love you too.

Surround us with your love as we surround you with ours.

Thank you for being a part of our lives. We love you so very much.

Peace be with you in the light.

How long have you been doing this? Since you were 20? 15? 10?

When did you make that conscious choice to LOVE your body no matter what? Or have you not done that yet?

Tonight, I talked my daughter through her tears of self-hatred and bitterness when she weighed herself. That silly and meaningless number on the scale reared its head and slashed her spirit. Her words were like poison darts. “I’m fat. I hate myself!”

I hugged her so hard. I wiped away her tears, only to have new ones eagerly replacing the ones I dried away. Her face was resolute in her disgust. She crumpled internally, her heart already recognizing that, for some, her only worth to others is how she looks and how much she weighs.

I stood, fists clenched against the world and told her “NO! You are NOT fat! You are STRONG and HEALTHY and LOVELY!  You are more than those numbers. You are caring and sweet and funny and smart and lively and witty and because of all that, you are beautiful.”

How I wish my heart could imprint this into hers so that she never knows how to despise her body. I wish that she could wear her body proudly, loving it as deeply as I do. Admiring all that her body does – her beating heart, her intricate brain, her resilient skin. All these parts fall into place as perfection. If she is over or under weight is a moot point. It does not matter. I only wish for her to love her SELF so that she can march forward into her life, proudly declaring THIS IS ME AND WHO I AM. I AM NOT JUST THIS BODY YOU SEE AND THE FACE YOU COVET OR DESPISE. I WILL NOT CARE IF YOU DO NOT LOVE ME FOR I LOVE MY SELF.

If I could do one thing for the world, it would be this for all these women yet to be. I would gift them admiration of their bodies – the miraculous way they move and thrive, give life, nurture, create, strive, love, laugh, struggle, breathe, cultivate and cry and I would take away their hatred and loathing, their resoluteness of secondary worth, their despondent lack of hope and brilliance.

I would stomp away all their feelings of no self-worth. I would build their trust and inspire their own truth. I would whisper in their ear: You are worthy. You are WORTHY. I would whisper it until their souls listened.

Oh, and I would throw away every scale known to man. I think I’ll start with mine.

This summer, at my cousin’s wedding, my other cousin was proposed to during the evening. (Now, now, don’t fret. Mike totally asked the bride’s permission before he stole any thunder…) We had been watching everyone dance when my husband leaned over to me and whispered that Mike was proposing to Jessica.

Well. By my hollering, you would have thought it was me being proposed to. I yelled and hooted and jumped out and down and basically looked (and sounded) like a complete dork. I blame the bottle glass of wine I was drinking. It was so freakin’ cool. I have never witnessed a proposal before. Truly, it was something special to behold.

My own little proposal would never warrant a million hits on YouTube. I was about four months pregnant with our first child (totally planned, y’all). We never were that type to do things in the traditional manner. Then again, nowadays, what the hell is traditional? For me, being married was important. Getting married wasn’t.

My darling came home that afternoon from a day of fishing with his buddy. He knelt down on one knee, rubbed my tummy and asked me if I would do him the honour of being his wife.

My response was to ask him if he had been drinking.

“Of course,” he replied. “I needed a little liquid courage in me to ask you!” to which we both laughed.

I said yes, obviously. We got married the following year, surprising our families at a birthday barbeque. No one knew what we were up to that day until we handed out “invitations” when the marriage commissioner showed up. My bouquet was my deliciously chubby baby boy. We stood by my sister-in-law’s pond, surrounded by immediate family all clad in beach wear, flip-flops and shorts.

Still, regardless of the lack of a fancy white dress, tuxedos, bridesmaids and groomsmen, flowers and oodles of money spent on our day, those words we vowed to one another over twelve years ago were still as sweet and true as anyone’s.

I wore that skirt a lot. I loved it.

Until one day when my English/writing/western civilization teacher, whom the majority of us dubbed “Piggy”, for obvious reasons yet to be explained, asked me if I could, and I quote, “Do a cartwheel in front of him.”

In retrospect, I think that was just a tad bit DISGUSTING.