I’m tired
And some days I need to rest
Cheer you on from the sidelines
Turn when you say “Look mama!”
Give you juice and gentle hugs
But on others
When I can
I’ll be your lift off
Hold you up by my feet so you’re flying
Tumble on the soft grass
Fling these bones into cartwheels and handstands
Chase you into giggles
Do it all again
Jump for Joy is a series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life.
My girls and I moved into our home 4 years and 7 months ago, and tomorrow (or later today, I should say) we move out and on to a new life in a new home. I'm too tired to find the words for everything I want to say about what this home has meant to us, but it's too momentous an occasion to let it slip by without some acknowledgment.
When we moved in, I was a wreck. My relationship of 16 years had ended and for the first time in my adult life, I was alone. Or not quite. Alone with my daughters - 2 and 5 years old - who depended on me to figure this new life out, which seemed a tall order when I had no idea who I even was anymore.
The first night I moved in was New Year's Eve and, with the girls at their father's as it was 'his' night (a bizarre concept then and even now), I felt truly alone. At midnight, I took off my wedding ring and told myself in my bravest voice that I was going to be okay, not really believing it but knowing that those two little girls needed me to try. I recently came across a piece I wrote a few years ago about that turning point in my life and moving into this home. In it I wrote: "I found a new, ghost-less home, warm and bright with a playground nearby. It would do. The walls looked thick enough to withstand my heartbreak and its alt-folk soundtrack."
I wrote not too long ago about how much has changed for me since that time, so I won't repeat myself here. I am leaving this home a different woman, and a very grateful one. I'm grateful for so many blessings in my life, not the least of which has been this home that has been my sanctuary.
Tonight at midnight, I took a moment to say thank you. I even left a note. Several months, perhaps a year or so, after I moved in, I decided to paint my bedroom and in doing so came across a note that someone had written on the wall inside the closet, up above the closet door. It is faint and difficult to decipher in the photo. It reads: "My 2 beautiful babies have blessed this home, and have created so many wonderful memories for me within its walls. Me. 10/21/03". I painted around it, and later discovered that there were dates and names - presumably those of her (I'm assuming "her") children - written on the walls inside the closets of the other two bedrooms. It continues to fill me with such warmth to know that they loved this home, too.
So tonight, before they went to bed, my girls scrawled their names and the date inside their closets, right beside "Sydni" and "Noah". And at midnight, I climbed up on a chair and added my note to the wall in my closet, soon to belong to someone else. I didn't have time to think ahead about what to write, to plan things out as I always like to. I just went with what came from my heart in the moment: "This has been our home for 4 1/2 years. It is where I healed, and where my daughters and I have grown. It has been full of love, and we are leaving with so many happy memories that we made here within these walls. This is a special place, and it will always hold a special place in my heart. Kirsi July 29/17".
As I sit here tonight, in this home for the last time, I am thinking about those happy memories. My girls are now 7 and 9. They've grown so much here. And they can't wait for the new bunkbed in the new room they'll be sleeping in tomorrow night and the big back yard and mostly the cat that they think we are getting soon (that yes, we are probably getting soon). But I know that they will remember this place as fondly as I will, and we will go on to make new memories in our new home.
The tenants moving in after us are a mother and child. I hope some day they come across our notes and the ones from before us, and they add their own and speak of the love and joy they found here, too. There's plenty of room for more love and joy and gratitude.
I'm pretty straight-laced. A rule follower. A good girl. If you were to ask around about me, I imagine that you would hear that I'm pretty quiet and by the book and I tend to stay in line.
I generally do what is expected of me. Except for when I don't.
I'm pretty content being the good girl most of the time, but I have a strong-willed, rebellious side that likes to shake things up. I've always, even at my most straight-laced, had the capacity to say Yes to things that scare me, to listen to my gut and go against the grain, if need be, to take leaps of faith. It's one of the things I like best about myself.
This is the side of me that ran for student council in grade 9, which required that I stand up in front of the entire grade 9 class and risk social suicide, in the armour of my Northern Reflections t-shirt, promises of commitment and change on my Bonne Bell-glossed lips. I lost. I was mildly annoyed to have received fewer votes than the girl whose speech amounted to "Hey, what's up, guys?" but psssshh. Whatever. I had stood up there. Don't you know you're supposed to keep your head down?
This is the side of me that takes chances on connections and relationships that, from the outside looking in, seem absolutely crazy-town. It's the side of me that got married when I was 20. Don't you know that you're supposed to finish school and build your career and date for years before you get married? Don't you know you're supposed to follow the script?
This is the side of me that doesn't know how to make it to point B but gets in the car and drives anyway and assumes I'll be able to figure it out along the way. This is the side of me that trusts I am capable and that, if nothing else, I'll at least learn something in the process.
Don't you know you might get lost? Don't you know you might end up right back where you started?
This is the side of me that, a year ago, chose to leave a job, with a pension and benefits and at least a semblance of security, to be an unemployed single mother. At least, that's one way of looking at it. Another version of that story is that a year ago, I chose to leave a job that took away more than it gave to focus on what matters most to me.
It was one of the best decisions of my life.
I left my job to focus on three things: my daughters, my writing and my health.
I was home with my kids last summer. Some of the time anyway. The rest of the time, we were off having adventures. Exploring museums, building sandcastles, wandering the farmers market, and testing out the city's playgrounds, before returning back home to living room sleepovers and library book readathons and quiet cuddles in the big bed. I have, for this past year, met my kids off the school bus every day at 4:00, greeted most often by "I'm hungry" rather than "Hi Mama", mind you, but they're there and I'm there with them. This year of focused family time has immeasurably strengthened the bond that I share with my girls and I wouldn't take back a second of it.
I'm a writer. I can say that now with confidence. A year ago, I would have said that I wanted to be a writer, and I'd downplay my efforts. Over the course of this past year, I completed my first picture book manuscript and sent it off to publishers, and as soon as it was in the mail, I got started on the next. I'm currently working on two manuscripts and I have generated dozens of other ideas that are waiting in the wings. Since leaving my job, I've written over 20 essays for this website, writing that I'm very proud of. And my writing has become better, my instincts more sharply refined. I used to be afraid to write, hesitant to use up an idea in case another one wasn't forthcoming, and unwilling to cut or change anything too much lest I lose my way. Now, I slash and banish my precious words like a heartless dictator, and I use the good china - pulling every idea out of the cupboard - knowing, trusting, that the cupboard will never be bare.
I wrote last year about my rheumatoid arthritis, about wanting to use my able body while I have it, in case the day when I no longer can comes sooner than expected. In this past year, I've only had one major flare-up (and that was because I had foolishly taken my medication two days late). This is a vast improvement from the previous year. Turns out, unemployment has some benefits of its own. And I have put my healthy body to use playing with the kids and hiking and traveling to amazing places. I'm not, as yet, as strong and toned and healthy as I would like to be but I am getting there.
The truth though is that when I was talking about wanting to take time off to care for my health, I wasn't really referring to a desire to do more aerobics classes and squats. The truth is that a year ago, I knew that if I didn't take some time off and get some help, I would likely kill myself in the next month or two.
That's a hard thing to read and, believe me, a hard thing to write. But that's the truth. When I wrote about "a feeling that whispered quietly at first but recently it has been singing in every cell in my body", I was writing about the growing feeling that I was edging closer to the brink, and that my decision was really one between life and death. (The inevitable question comes: "Why didn't you take a medical leave?" Let's just say that as open as I am about my depression, the stigma against mental illness is powerful and that time, it won.)
Since leaving my job, I've been asked many times if I have any regrets. Not a single one. Not for a moment. Because I'm here where I maybe wouldn't have been. And, while I still have a long way to go and my depression still dogs me - as I'm sure it will the rest of my life - I'm a stronger, happier person than I have ever been.
Despite the many uncertainties I still face, I've never regretted my decision to leave my job. I've never regretted any of my leaps of faith. Because with each leap, I was following my intuition and my heart, and each leap brought me closer to my true self and the life I want. Going with your gut and taking a leap: it's setting out without a map but with the world before you, trusting that your inner compass will guide you in the right direction.
Don't you know you might get lost? Don't you know you might end up right back where you started?
Yes, I know that. So what?
On Monday morning, I decided to resist the day for a few extra minutes, linger over my tea and crack open a library book. I had just picked up A Short Guide to a Happy Life by Anna Quindlen - because, yes please, any help I can get - and I thought I'd just read a few pages before getting on with my day. Well, I read the whole thing. In about 15 minutes. It really is a short guide. Much of it espouses the message you might expect: "Life is short. Enjoy it, and be grateful." Fairly cliché, I suppose, although it's a cliché because it's true, and it's a reminder that I imagine most of us could use on a regular basis. I was finding it to be a nice, little read - a little obvious, but nice - and then I reached the final anecdote, and something in me shifted.
Over the last two short pages (spoiler alert), Quindlen shares a story about meeting a homeless man on the boardwalk at Coney Island. As they sit by the sea, legs dangling over the side of the boardwalk, he tells her about his life: panhandling on the boulevard, hiding from the police amid the carnival rides, sleeping in a church on cold nights. But most of the time, he explains, he spends his days sitting on the boardwalk, even in the cold. "Why?" Quindlen asks. Staring out at the ocean, he replies: "Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view."
I sat on my couch in silence, legs dangling over the side, and looked at the view. A view I've seen a thousand times but on that morning, it looked different.
The laundry that needs to be folded. Light bulbs that need changed. My silly-eyed banister. How lucky I am to have laundry to fold and light bulbs to change. How lucky I am to have little people to make giggle with silly eyes.
The beautiful little table that was in our dining room growing up. The ballot box my eldest daughter set up so we can nominate others for their good deeds and kindnesses. Photos of my girls when they were babies. Beauty and love to greet all who arrive.
The green couch and chair my ex-husband and I bought 15 years ago, our first real adult purchase. I was 23 and he was 24 and we were over the moon to have just bought a house, and that couch and chair were the only real grown-up furniture in it. I've been longing to get rid of that old couch but that morning, I thought about that exciting time in our lives, and the hours I later spent sitting on that couch nursing my babies. I thought of the moments when they learned how to climb up on to that couch. I'm not so eager to get rid of it anymore.
And the blanket over top of it, crocheted by my mom. Hours of love knotted together.
The paintings my daughters made the other week and more photos of their beautiful smiles. The antique wooden box with the hearts, the only thing I've ever purchased at an auction. I outbid a fancy old lady and it was empowering. The lantern from my grandparents' farmhouse, and the weird metal object with the balancing acrobats that was the only thing of my grandmother's that I wanted when she passed. We used to play with it every time we went to her house as kids. I think of her every time I see it. Or do I? I fear that on too many days I don't see the view and this love and beauty and these stories are just another part of the landscape, a backdrop to preoccupations.
Over the last few days, this new mantra has stayed with me: "Look at the view."
Navigating snowy streets: Look at the view. Look at the road, but also the view. I have a reliable vehicle to take me home. I can afford gas. I move through this city alone and feel safe. And to top it all off, I have a button in my car that operates technology the sole purpose of which is to keep my bum warm.
Waiting for a medical appointment: Look at the view. I'm fortunate to have medical care. I'm fortunate that I'm not so sick that I need to be rushed in. How grateful I should be for the good fortune to wait.
My snot-nosed daughter climbs into my bed at 3 a.m.: Look at the view. It's not pretty but it's beautiful. My child reaching for me, wanting my comfort. That's better than any dream. That is the dream.
It's sometimes hard to see the forest for the trees. Life gets busy and a home is a place to be cleaned, the drive and the waiting room just irritating interludes between point A and point B. And the snot-nosed kid is wiping her face on your pillow and disrupting a glorious night's sleep. But take a moment today to look at the view. Because my god, the forest is beautiful.
From my spot on the saggy green couch, I see the coffee table that my sister and I would hide under and dance on top of as kids, a stage that now belongs to two other wee sisters. The TV table that my father-in-law made, which has scratches on top, fossils from a plastic dinosaur party. The cushions my girls leaned against the other week, reading stories to each other. The stained carpet that ordinarily makes me cringe...but I have a home to live in, and money for food, and tiny grubby feet to trample it.
And I see the sunshine. I woke up to another day. Another beautiful day.
Every year for her birthday, I draw Isla a picture of that number of animals in the shape of that number. I was sure she'd tell me to stop by now. She told me recently that I have to keep doing this until she's 26. Game on.
We celebrated my daughter Isla's 8th birthday at the end of October. This seems preposterous. She was a baby just yesterday, I'm sure of it. But alas, it is true. My 57-pound bundle of joy barely fits on my lap these days, and more and more I can see the young woman she is becoming behind those beautiful eyes that still light up at the thought of the tooth fairy visiting. We talk about how she saw Santa downtown last month, "the real Santa, Mum," and then we discuss profit margins and marketing strategies for the bakery she wants to own some day. It's beautiful, baring witness to this time in her life, this in-between. I want to hold fast to my baby and keep her little just awhile longer, but I also can't wait to meet this young woman and see her take on this life.
I started to draft a post about the 8 most important lessons I want to teach her as she grows up, but as I began to brainstorm my list, I realized that she came into this world with an awe-inspiring wisdom and spirit all her own, and she has already learned so much in her 8 years here. And all this while, it turns out, she has been the one teaching me. These are just 8 of the most important lessons I have learned from her, so far:
1) Monkey Bars or Bust
This past summer, my daughter's one goal was to master the monkey bars. When she started out, she could barely reach them. Every ounce of her little body strained for her fingertips to grip the paint-flaked metal. Every bit of her strength rallied to pull those little toes off the ground. She'd take one swing, grasping for the next rung, and fall. She'd get back up. She'd try again. When her palms got sweaty and slippery, she would dust them with the wood shavings underneath the playground, like a rock climber chalking her hands. She'd get frustrated, and I'd ask her now and then if she wanted to take a break, go down the slide, play tag. "No," she'd say defiantly. It was monkey bars or bust, and by the end of the summer, she could make it across and back, go backwards, skip rungs. Let me tell you: that first time she made it across, the joy on her face...that's what we live for as parents and that's what we should live for as people lucky enough to have a chance on this planet. And so she has taught me to persevere: to get back up, dust my hands, and try and try again until I've made it across.
2) One Box of Smarties = Six Months of Delight
My step-dad, Frank, came into our lives at the same time that Isla did; in fact, I first met him in the hospital waiting room, my daughter in my arms. It took awhile for us to all get to know each other, but in time he became not only a father figure to me, but a grandfather to my children. And like any grandfather, he liked to spoil his grandkids. Nearly every time he came to visit, he would arrive with a box of Smarties tucked in his shirt pocket. This gift of his was so reliable that Isla called them "Frank treats" and she looooved her Frank treats. She would carefully choose just the right one, hold it in her tiny fingers, and lick it, enjoying it little by little, making it last (literally) hours. She continues to do this with any treat or luxury: she thoroughly enjoys it, lives in the moment, and makes it last.
We lost Frank two years ago but every time I see a box of "Frank treats" I think of him and the love and little candy-coated hours of happiness he shared with the girls.
3) Hearts are Made for Loving
A card from Isla with a picture of her giving me the same card. Whoa.
Isla is the most loving, compassionate person I've ever met. She walks into every situation, every relationship, with the question: What can I do to make their day a little brighter? I've come to realize that this website would be entirely unnecessary if I just turned the spotlight on her. She can show us how to find joy. It's simple: you find joy for yourself by giving it to others. I wake up to her beaming smile, so excited to lead me to the breakfast she made especially for me ("No peeking, Mum!"). She tells me that there's a new kid in her class, who she introduced herself to at recess and invited to play. It is difficult to leave our house without some sort of card or drawing or craft in your pocket, or a loving hug wrapped around your waist. She gives with her whole heart, without expecting anything in return.
4) Fun is Fun!
Isla is also the silliest person I've ever met. And like any properly silly person, she is a natural connoisseur of the ridiculous. Like her mother, Isla has never met a pun she didn't like, and jokes of any kind (but particularly of the knock-knock variety) are hilarious and to be encouraged with booming belly laughs. I have learned that when I want to make her day a little brighter, I need only walk into the room with something on my head or crawling on all fours like a bear. I once found a lone sock on the floor and picked it up and pretended it was my baby, rocking it in my arms and trying to soothe its sock-baby cries. Isla lit up and ran over with the other sock to match. "Twins!" I shouted with glee, and that kid absolutely squealed with delight, more than I think I have ever experienced in my life. She reminds me all the time that fun is meant to be fun, that this life is here to be lived and enjoyed, and that swimsuits double as perfectly suitable pyjamas.
5) Go with your Gut
My daughter's best friend's grandmother (stay with me here) lives three doors down, which means that her best friend is around a lot and there is often a gaggle of giggly girls running back and forth between our two houses. One afternoon a few months ago, Isla came in to let me know that her friend wanted them to go play in a neighbour's front yard, the yard of the man who lives next door to her friend's grandmother. The friend and her family know him very well but my girls and I do not. Before I could say anything, though, Isla told me that she was not comfortable playing there. The yard is visible from my window and so I would have been okay with them playing there (they cross over his lawn all the time) but I told her that she was right to listen to her instincts, and that she didn't, and doesn't ever, have to go anywhere that she is not comfortable going. I was amazed by her, and continue to be amazed and grateful that she will listen to her gut and speak up. I hope it continues. And I hope I can do a little better at it myself.
6) Hair Shmair
About a year or so ago, Isla decided, seemingly on a whim, that she wanted to cut off all of her hair. I was taking her for what I thought would be just a trim, just an inch or two off the bottom of her past-the-shoulders hair. But no, she informed me that she wanted it short. Like short short. Like pixie short. I asked her if she was sure. She said she was. I asked her again, about twelve more times. She was really, really sure. And in the end, despite my misgivings, I understood that it was her hair and therefore it was her choice. So the hair came off. And damned if it didn't look incredible, and she absolutely adored it. For awhile, anyway. It wasn't long before she wanted to grow it back out. But she didn't regret her decision. Hair grows back. She taught me that it's okay to take a leap and try something new. And that sometimes, it's best not to listen to your mother.
7) Who Needs Tiffany's When You Have Michael's?
How can this kid get more fabulous? Well, she also happens to be incredibly creative and resourceful. When she turned 7, I told Isla that she could get her ears pierced if she wished, but she has decided that for the time being, the pain is not worth the gain. Does that stop her from accessorizing? No way. One day I looked over and she had gemstones on her ears, or at least it appeared that way. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that they were faux rhinestone stickers that she had found in the craft supplies. Brilliant. You can have what you want; sometimes, you just have to use your imagination to find another way.
We had a little talk about rule #2: "Do not touch unless your told to". She was concerned about everyone's safety, but conceded that maybe members could make some decisions for themselves. She chose to delete that rule.
8) Be the Change
As you might expect, my daughter is a very well-liked kid who gets along with most everyone. There have, however, already been times in her short 8 years here that she has been treated unfairly and left out of the group. Last year, a group of girls who had been her very closest friends suddenly turned on her, and wouldn't let her be a part of their recess Fairy Club. The problem, as I understood it, was that Isla didn't believe in fairies, and they wouldn't let her play unless she said she did.
Despite the fact that she dearly wanted to play with her friends, LOVED to play fairies and make up stories and scenarios, she stood her ground: she wouldn't say something she didn't believe. And so, they continued to leave her out.
She cried, and I did my best to explain something that is pretty inexplicable. She cried some more. And then she got angry. And then she got calm. And then one day she come home and told me that she had started her own club, a Nature Club, and she had already recruited a few kids to join her. I think my jaw may have actually dropped. Together, we researched games and activities for her club, and she came up with a list of rules. She told me, though, that one of the rules was unwritten: everyone was allowed to join.
Nature Club caught on for a few weeks, but then her friends missed her and invited her back to play. She was pleased as punch, but since then she has insisted that they always include anyone else who wishes to join them.
I feel immensely proud of this young woman every day, and when I feel like I don't know where I'm going, I look to her. It's a funny thing, this parenthood. Here I thought I was supposed to be a role model for her, and it's the other way around.
I expect that she has more to teach me. You can bet that I have my notepad ready.
Home sweet home
My dad built this dollhouse for my sister and I back in 1983. It's a pretty impressive little place. In addition to six fabulous rooms, the home features an elevator, a stained glass window, and a rooftop terrace, and it's lit by Christmas lights which also serve as the "fire" in the brick fireplace at the center of the living room. We played with the house a ton growing up until some point when I guess we played with it for the last time and, after gathering some dust, it was quietly stored away.
My mom took it with her when my parents split, my sister and I already adults by that point but with no children of our own quite yet. She carried it with her through several moves, tucking it in basements and sheds, until it finally made its way to my home. I hid it away in the crawlspace under the stairs, draped in an old duvet cover, waiting for the time when I could give it some TLC.
A grand piano, even. Fancy.
I pulled it out of hiding this fall to survey the damage, on a day when my kids weren't around. The carpet was mouldy. Some of the wallpaper was peeling. There were chips in the wood. One of the support beams holding the elevator was long lost. But the bones were good. It was solid. And so the renovations began. On kid-free weekends, I lugged it out of the crawlspace, pulled out the carpet, washed it down. My father-in-law fixed the elevator. And in the final weeks before Christmas, I put on the final touches. I sewed tiny pillows and blankets and searched high and low for mini-Christmas lights to replace the 30-year-old ones that were a guaranteed electrocution hazard (those mini-lights were everywhere in early December, I swear, but a few days before Christmas, they were SO hard to find. Thanks for coming through, Napanee Walmart!).
I gave it to my daughters on Christmas Eve, lights a-flashing, and their eyes lit up in turn. Numerous domestic dramas have already taken place within its walls, and there has been a lot of tucking in of all of the dolls into all of the beds, usually after they've been sent sliding down the roof one by one to the sound of wild giggling. I remember my sister and I doing the exact same thing.
Check out these sweet bunk beds
I love that the dollhouse is now a hodgepodge of old and new: The brick of the fireplace is the same brick from the fireplace in my childhood home, the flowery blue wallpaper in the bedroom the same as that in our old dining room. The grey paint I used to touch up various walls is the same grey I painted the bedroom in my current home. Some of the furniture is the same my sister and I played with 30 years ago; other pieces are brand new, lovingly crafted by my friend Dan (who needs a website promoting the new dollhouse-furniture-making venture I am insisting he embark upon). The new "hard wood" laminate I put down in the living room is a remnant from my in-laws' place. The elevator is made using picture frames, leftovers from my dad's framing business, I'm sure.
When I set out on this renovation project, I didn't anticipate that the process would also lead me to reconcile some things from my past. As I pulled up old carpet, I pulled up old feelings, some happy and others not as much. I chose to welcome them all the same, and sit with them awhile. And then I put them to bed.
Chillin' on the terrace in the cutest chairs ever.
And as I worked to clean up and refresh each room, I also found myself thinking about how I could improve the rooms of my own home in this coming year, not so much my physical home as the relationships and values that are my home base. The living room reminded me to spend more quality time with my family. The kitchen: To better nourish my body, and take time for more kitchen dance parties. While wallpapering the bedroom with the contact paper that covers the surface of my dresser, I thought about how I wanted to make my own bedroom a sanctuary and get more rest, and perhaps do more of that other thing that happens in bedrooms (reading, Mom, I'm talking about reading). Setting the tiny Adirondack chairs on the terrace made me daydream about sitting in the sun, and I resolved to spend more time outside. I lifted the garage door so the tiny people could take a road trip, and thought about how I want to go on more adventures, and leave my comfort zone once in awhile.
This little home. It's so much more than a play thing. I look at it and I see both my past and my present. I see my sister and remember the fierce sisterly love that echoed in those little rooms, that same love that I hear on the phone line these days as we discuss relationships and careers and laugh over our stupid inside jokes. That same love I see between my own girls as they send one doll up the elevator, another down the roof, with peels of laughter.
And I wonder if one day one of my girls will fix up the dollhouse for her own children, make her own changes, remember that same grey in her mom's old bedroom, marvel at the blue fleece blankets she once wrapped around little wooden limbs. I hope she will. I'll store it away someday when they've left the dolls tucked in one last time, and I'll take it with me, and it will be waiting.