LM's Eyes
It’s been a while since I sat down to write.
It’s been a while since I put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, and created something meaningful.
It’s been a while since I allowed myself to explore my thoughts and emotions in a way that allows me to collect them, understand them, and send them out into the world, to share with anyone who cares to read.
Today is the day. read more »
Good-bye, Punxsutawney Phil
By Heather Von St. James, Guest Blogger
Throughout my life, I have been called an eternal optimist. I have always believed that the glass is half full, not half empty. I am blessed with the ability to see the best in any situation. But my optimism was sorely tested on November 21, 2005, when I heard the three words that no one ever wants to hear: You have cancer. I was diagnosed with mesothelioma, a life-threatening form of cancer, just three-and-a-half months after the birth of my precious baby girl. I was only 36 years old.
When you are diagnosed with cancer, you have two choices. You can curse God, ask “Why me?”, and spend your time immersed in bitterness and self-pity, or, you can choose to accept the diagnosis and get ready for the fight for your life. I chose the second option, and I have never looked back. I was determined to make the best of this situation, to fight as hard as I could, both for myself and for my child, and to use my positivity to help others along the way.
In the hazy remnants of the dark of night, in the final moments before dawn when even the birds have yet to open their eyes to sing the world awake, I jolt upright in bed. My husband is out-of-town and I’m alone, save for the two cats that slunk, with the stealth of cat burglars, to settle beside me during the night. They are disturbed by my sudden movement and, with haughty indignity and a disgusted chorus of “Meows”, they saunter away to rest without further disruption. I cannot. Something unsettling has been unearthed. Unacknowledged in the light of day, it was dredged from the shadows of my subconscious and presented to me in vivid, HD imagery, while I slept. Something difficult. Something inevitable. Something that my tense chest and weighted sighs indicate I would prefer remain concealed.
“Moooommm…”
The call slithers towards me down the long corridor between where I sit and my daughter’s bedroom. It starts quietly, softly, a nighttime whisper hissed from the shadows of the retreating day.
Before I can respond, it comes again. “Mooommmmmmm…” A little louder this time.
I have just, not more than ten minutes ago, tucked my 12 year-old Little Miss in for the night and retreated to the sanctity of our living room. Enveloped by the golden hues of the streetlamp just outside our window, I’m ready to relax, a good book held in one hand, a soothing cup of Zen herbal tea in the other, and the companionable silence of my husband working on his lap top beside me while our two cats sleep the deep, deep sleep of lazy felines. Ah, the end of a long day.
But I know this call. I’ve heard it before. In the quiet, lonely darkness of her room her mind races. The challenges of twelve-year-old-life loom large when illuminated by moonlight and Little Miss needs to talk. It is confession time.
What? It doesn’t have to be perfect? This is news to me. And while my twelve year-old Little Miss seems quite comfortable with this notion, it is one that I have yet to fully embrace. Over the past weekend I was twice, quite correctly, singled out as a “Perfectionist.” Who knew, after all this time, that I don’t have to be? Bear with me while I tell my little tale. It goes like this…
Just last weekend, my husband, Little Miss and I were visiting family friends at their lovely lake-front summer home in the interior of B.C. Our hostess, an out-going, welcoming, vivacious blonde, with an eye for designer fashions but an easy, friendly nature that makes them seem irrelevant, had gone to a great deal of effort on our behalf. Among other obvious preparations, she had baked. When it became apparent that not all of it would be eaten right away, the simple task of wrapping the banana loaf for freezing fell to me.
The sun was high in the June sky despite the early morning hour the day we saw it. It was perched precariously atop our car antenna and neither of us—my husband, my daughter nor I—was sure what it was. The consensus: Garbage. In the midst of grabbing a tissue to swipe it away, with my stomach in turmoil and my nose upturned, it moved. It was subtle at first but unmistakable, and the motion increased with the intensity of our stares. It was an egg sack. It was small and silken and perfectly shaped, and in the nascent stages of presenting to the world its swarming contents. As we stood transfixed, thousands of minuscule golden spiders wriggled their way free, crawling over each other in mayhem, uncertain as to what to do next with no mother near-by to guide their way. But quickly, like a scene from the ending of Charlotte’s Web, instinct trumped chaos and they departed, en masse, floating away on the ends of fine, glossy filaments to face the world alone.
Guess who just got published? Me! Please enjoy this short little piece, posted today, June 10, 2010, on the Sweet Mama Guest Blogger web site:
http://www.sweetspot.ca/SweetMama/guest_blogger/19275/starbucks_should_be_licensed/
I woke up this morning with the early light of dawn. Awake at 5:00 a.m. and out of bed before 5:30, on a Saturday. I have never been one to sleep-in. Early morning has always been my very favourite time of day, especially on days like this, when my Little Miss is sleeping soundly (The Phantom in the Other Room has recently been visiting but seems to be packing his bags for a hasty departure), and my husband, who just last night returned from another week away on business, still rests peacefully in our bed with Mikey-the-cat nestled at his side. With coffee in hand, a good book beside me, a little time to write and my family near-by, life is good. The serenity of this morning is perfect, and even the grey outside my window feels comforting, like an old wool blanket wrapped around my mood to keep it warm and content. Until my morning reverie is torn to shreds by this headline: Gossip Guy Chace Crawford Busted for Pot (http://ca.eonline.com/uberblog/detail.jsp?contentId=184326).
No, I am not a close personal friend of Chace Crawford’s. I am not even a fan. It is drugs that bother me, pure and simple.
…or, Life Lessons from my 12 Year-Old
…or, Patience, Thy Name is Christie….NOT!
I am not a patient person. I know this about myself. Lately, I have been less patient than I care to admit. My husband is away every week; my work obligations are soaring; my Little Miss’ year-end school commitments and activities are peaking in a flurry of assignments, dress rehearsals, recitals and concerts; and a beloved family pet passed on after a sad week peppered with multiple trips to the vet. I am frazzled. Case in point: Me, at the end of last week, attempting to fulfill the school-day-mom routine I preform Monday through Friday, September through June, in order to get my Little Miss out the door on time.
It went like this:
Me: Please hurry.
LM: I’m hurrying.
5 minutes later…
Me: Are you ready? Are you hurrying?
LM: Yes Mom, I said I’m hurrying.
2 minutes later…
Me: Is your bed made? Have you finished breakfast? Where are your shoes? Are you watching the time? We only have 5 minutes!
LM: (With a heavy sigh for dramatic effect) No Mom. Not yet. On my feet. Yes. I know!
Me: (Not listening) You know you need to make your bed and we have to leave and you’re not hurrying!
LM: Mom…I-AM-HURRYING!
From iStock Photo
This morning, as we prepared for our morning walk to school, I stood side-by-side with my daughter at our bathroom vanity. She fiddled with her hair, brushed her teeth and applied (with some need for re-work) her mascara. There she was, unaware of the scrutiny from my side-ways gaze and completely un-self-conscious. I was struck. The mirror reflection that I saw—not the one directly in front of me, but the one two feet to my right—was of a ghost from days gone by. There I stood, a young girl replete with newness, fresh and un-jaded, innocent of what lay in wait: challenges to be conquered, dreams to come true and expectations left unfulfilled.
In an instant decades long, I saw it all: Her future, my past, our present life together. The face of the young woman she will be, vaguely veiled behind the features of the child slipping away. I suddenly longed for the days of bed-time stories, bath-time frolics and hand-holding as we crossed the street. Approaching her thirteenth birthday, she reads herself to sleep, would rather die than have me anywhere near her bath and has crossed the street on her own for quite some time, thank you very much.
