Overheard

Over spring break we went back to the island to visit. We thought we'd check out the Royal BC Museum and be tourists, and they happened to have a special exhibit on Terry Fox. For any Americans reading this blog, Terry Fox is revered in Canada as a hero. He was diagnosed with cancer  in his leg in the late 70's and had to have it amputated. In 1980 he decided to attempt to run across Canada to raise money for cancer research. He made it from Newfoundland to Thunder Bay Ontario, where he had to stop as the cancer had returned. He died in 1981.

I explained all of this to Adam, who is too young to have learned about him in school. Adam went through the exhibit enthralled by the different things to see, but most especially by Terry's prosthetic leg.

Adam is always inquisitive, always thinking, and sometimes a little bit phallic. At the end he looked at me and asked "mom, what if Terry had had Cancer in his penis?". I told him that that doesn't happen very often and luckily he didn't. His response "yeah. Otherwise he would have had to have a METAL PENIS".

Thanks heavens it never came to that.

Musings on Grief

It's been an interesting little while.

Grief isn't something I've been called to much in the last little while. But my grandfather, one of my life's hero's and most favourite people, passed away rather suddenly a few weeks ago.

Death isn't often a happy story, and this is no exception. But the story is as good as one can hope for I think. He was a regular smoker who had been smoking since his early teens.  After a stroke when I was about seven years old he was told that if he didn't quit, he wasn't likely to last more than five more years. About twenty-three years later, at the ripe young age of 80, cancer finally took him. He had been diagnosed with stage 4 about a month prior and given 6-12 months to live. He made it a little over a month. Processing these feelings has been a bit of a ride. A significant portion of my prayers since as early as I can remember has been dedicated to pleading God to help him quit smoking. For whatever reason, that never happened, but I will be eternally grateful that his life, and quality of it, lasted as long as it did.

Life can be so interesting. In so many ways it feels like he couldn't possibly be gone, and yet the fact remains that he is. His life was, I'm sure to an outside observer, unremarkable in many ways. Born in the backwoods of Muskoka (long before Toronto's rich and made it posh and desirable), a factory worker, smoker, and father of four, he tended to stick to what he liked and knew (scratching bingo cards and drinking coffee. I suspect he kept more than a few convenience stores in business), didn't tend to travel far from home (unless it was to visit family), and was known to have a wry and wicked sense of humour.

And yet for those of us who knew and loved him, he was a great man. He spent his life quietly serving, without ever asking for any kind of recognition or compensation. Despite the fact that he had never been an active member of the LDS church, he funded more than a few missions, contributed to many more, and gave wherever he could. He and my grandmother had been separated for a few years before she died suddenly from a car accident in 1999. The story goes that while taking care of her affairs after her death, someone checked her answering machine. On it, was a message from him telling her he'd managed to pay her credit card before she could get to it, and that her medication had been paid for. Even though she had left him, he still insisted on caring for her. He lived frugally, but enjoyed taking us out for dinners and breakfasts, a rarity in our home as a child. Once in first grade, my little sister was talking to some of her friends and they were discussing all the best things about their grandparents, and the gifts that they would get when grandma and grandpa visited. Gumpo was never the most conventional of grandparents but my sister was sure she topped them all when she said "when my grandpa comes, he takes us out for breakfast and dinner!". I don't think it came off as impressive as she knew it was.

Despite the fact that he was a decided homebody as his grandchildren we knew that we could count on an annual visit from him. There were no exceptions to this. He came to find us wherever we lived, including when we lived in Italy. For most, a trip to Italy is a highlight of a lifetime. For him, he took the trip out of a grudging necessity to see his grandchildren, and delighted in calling it "wopy town". On his visits he demonstrated zero appreciation for the food, culture, or language. He never gave up hope he might find some place that would serve him pork chops and potatoes. Cultured, he may not have been. But we didn't care one bit.

My sister snapped this shot of him last summer at our family reunion. He had had always been gruff with a soft interior, but the softer side had become more apparent in his later years. She gave my the framed photo for Christmas, long before we knew he was sick, and I sobbed like a baby when I opened it. It captures who he was to me.  Two weeks before he died I called him to check in. He sounded so much better than the last time I had heard from him. I told him he sounded great, and he replied "I feel great! You want to go dancing? I think the last time I danced was at your wedding". It was all I could do to hold it together. And so I anxiously wait for when I can take him up on his offer, but until then, I comfort myself with this photo of him dancing with my baby.

I can still see his favourite ball cap that said "don't steal, the government hates competition". I can still see his mischievous smile. I can still hear his laugh, and I can still, feel what it felt like to hug him. I'm glad I can, but it hurts to think that someday these memories won't be so fresh. So immediate. So real.

Grief is such an odd thing. There's no right or wrong way of going about it. How can such sadness be accompanied by something that was so wonderful? Because it was. Having him was such a gift. And it's the loss if it that feels so...empty. But what a beautiful life. What a beautiful man. What a beautiful gift.

Overheard

Adam is learning to wipe his bum after he goes #2. It's a regular battle of him saying "no YOU do it" and me replying "you have to at least try!".

The other day he had gone and the battle had commenced. I said "Adam, I'm serious, you have to at least try before I help you". His response: "you're not serious! You're just lazy!"

Also

While discussing what we wanted to plant in our garden this year we ran the usual gamut of peas, carrots, tomatoes, zucchini. So I was more than a little surprised when Adam piped in "and burgers!". I queried him as to what made him think burgers grew in gardens. His quick response "the seeds on the buns mom! We can grow them!". Oh son. Would that that were possible. Also, you're flat out brilliant.

Heavenly Sleep

Adam likes to have someone lay down with him to sleep. We are putz's as parents (and he otherwise isn't huge on physical contact unless it's wrestling) so it's become part of the bedtime routine.

While drifting off tonight "mom, let's cuddle", as he gingerly throws his arm over my neck and I nuzzle into his little chest.

There are more moments during a day than I can count that I am *this* close to losing my cool, but Dear God in Heaven, please freeze these moments for me. I never want to forget them.

Overheard

While discussing with Adam the impending start of pre-school for him (yes it's late. Long story), of which he's a little nervous

Adam: But I like to stay with you mom. Because...you're beautiful!

This kid has my whole heart.

Olympic Musings

Unless you live under a rock, I'm sure that we are all aware the Olympics are currently underway in Rio. The olympics are awesome for a myriad of reasons. They bring the world together, they allow us to witness great victories, and crushing defeats. For two weeks, we are all united in a form of patriotism that truly seems unique to the Olympics. It's also some flat out good entertainment.

I was an athlete once. And so the Olympics hold some special weight and meaning for me. Not because I really think I could have made it there (although my mom still holds out some hope. Sorry mom, but that ship really has sailed), but because...I have dozens of friends, former teammates, rivals, and acquaintances there. For years I played part of a breeding ground designed to feed into the greatest of all athletic pursuits. In many ways, despite having been retired since 2009 (can you call it retirement when only your parents really paid attention?) and officially checked out, I am still invested. I can't seem to help it.

This morning I tuned in to the rowing events. And my heart both soared, and broke, for the people I know who successfully progressed, and for those who weren't so fortunate. Rowing is unlike any other sport, and you have to be a glutton for punishment to really engage. Elite athletes at the olympic level generally train 3 times a day, 6 days a week, often receiving little or no funding, and the only time the world really pays attention is at the olympics. It takes a special athlete, as well as the ability to be selfish. Selfish about your needs, your caloric intake, your rest. To be successful, it is imperative to take care of yourself. And so today, I was surprised at the emotions I felt as I watched races play out on the Lagoa, naively thinking that I was now far enough removed to be able to watch as a particularly well informed spectator.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't nostalgic, and maybe even a touch jealous. Could it have been me? Probably not But could I have been on the cusp? Maybe. And yet...as I watched with my two little ones cheering and playing next to me, I couldn't help but draw parallels. I can't be selfish in the way I once was. Teething babies at night are not conducive to 6 am practices that require your best. Nap times aren't scheduled around practices. And in the end...I chose this life. And I chose it willingly. And I wouldn't change it.

Rowing is a sport of intensity and miles. Truly countless hours and practices that feed into one race that, boat and conditions depending, will last between 5-9 minutes. The investment is staggering, all for several minutes to prove yourself. But each practice, each mile, each blister, each race, build on each other. And even then, even when you've done everything right leading up, the wind, an injury, or a rogue wave can ruin it.

I may not be an elite athlete anymore. These days I'm lucky if I fit in most of my training workouts for my upcoming half marathon. But each day I'm investing. It may be in other ways, but it's still an investment. I'm investing in my marriage when I choose kind words over snarky sarcasm. I'm investing in my children with each kiss, each late night feeding, each afternoon at the park, and each tantrum that I don't lose my cool over. I have my own victories, and my own defeats. Nine months of pregnancy, extended breastfeeding, sleepless nights, vomit, and homemade meals don't look anything like a boat down a race course. But it is an investment of my choice all the same. And EVEN THEN, even though I have given my everything to this extended process of child rearing (quadrennial my a**), there is no guarantee that it will go perfectly, or even how I want. A frightening world, wars, temptations and vice are all real threats that could throw THIS race sideways. But that doesn't mean I give up. It doesn't mean I expect defeat. It doesn't mean I don't work like a dog for the best possible outcome.

My mom has always called me her "reluctant athlete". I fell in love with a sport that turned me into one. And one I eventually had to walk away from. But maybe, those aspects of athleticism are still deeply engrained. Maybe, there's an olympian in every parent. Maybe. I like to think so.

Overheard

Adam and Jim were wrestling, far and away Adam's favourite thing to do.

Jim: Adam, I'm gonna put you in the python!

Adam: Daddy, I'm gonna put you in the BUM!!!

I prefer not to try and imagine just what that wrestling move might look like.