Posts tagged ‘daughters’

January 10th, 2013

The Know It All Yogini and Other Stuff

This is not much of a post folks, it’s really just a few quick updates. First of all, I am adding a new section to The Know It All Mom site called Just Breathe, chronicling my life as viewed from the yoga mat and my pending quest to complete yoga teacher training in the year 2013. Stay tuned. Yoga has a way of making me think differently…who knows what might come out! In the meantime, take a quick glance at http://theknowitallmom.com/just-breathe/ and about some of my past yogic revelations.

Second, I am still accepting guest blog posts. If you have an article or an idea you’d like to publish, let’s chat. Contact me: tkiam@theknowitallmom.com. I am nice. I want your stuff. I promise to be kind.

Finally, I would love your feedback. The Know It All Mom is being revamped, enhanced, updated, etc. Your suggestions are welcome. Let me know what you think. :)

February 28th, 2012

It’s been a while since I wrote about Little Miss…

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 »

January 10th, 2012

Saying Good-Bye to Punxsutawney Phil

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.

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August 31st, 2010

The Fire Thrower

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.

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August 17th, 2010

Confession Time

“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.

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July 28th, 2010

It Doesn’t Have to be Perfect, Mom!

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.

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June 14th, 2010

The Mother Spider’s Reward

http://headacheandmigrainenews.com/news-images/the-spider-web.jpgThe 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.

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June 10th, 2010

Starbucks Should Be Licensed

Please enjoy this short little piece, posted today, June 10, 2010, on the Sweet Mama Guest Blogger web site.

“I’m gonna need a more complicated drink,” exclaims my 12-year-old daughter, her Grande, non-fat, Chai-tea latte with just a hint of cinnamon clasped carefully in both hands. I look sheepishly at my own Grande dark roast, black, clearly far too simplistic to meet her standards, and wonder what the heck she means.

Sensing my consternation, she sighs heavily in the manner instinctive to pre-teens who are just now realizing, to their dismay, that their parents don’t know everything, and she attempts to clear the fog.

“You know, for when I’m an adult.”

No, I don’t know, but my interest is certainly piqued.

A combination double-sigh-with-an-eye-roll follows, a move she has just recently mastered and which deserves a perfect ten, both technically and artistically. Exasperated, she continues: “For when I’m one of those ladies dressed in a nice, black trench-coat, with big, Jackie-O sunglasses, good hair and great shoes, always sipping from a Starbucks cup. I’m gonna need a fancier drink.”

In an instant, her vision of her future is clear. She sees herself out in the world, a successful, confident, stylish woman, with my penchant for shoes and a potentially hazardous addiction to caffeine. She already has the glasses. But I am not ready. I have not allowed myself to look that far ahead.

And so, with the April sunshine casting a golden halo around the face of the daughter I have spent the last twelve years adoring, I am forced to see her changing before my eyes. Until now, I have chosen to see what has come before. The hours of story telling and handholding, school concerts and field trips, birthday parties and bedtime cuddles. But with a moustache of cappuccino-coloured foam settled on her upper lip, I cosmic zoom fifteen years into the future and come face-to-face with her adult avatar. She is growing up. Her childhood is slipping away. It’s going take something a lot stronger than Starbucks to get me through this.

May 26th, 2010

Expand the Harmonious

…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!

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May 13th, 2010

Reflections in My Bathroom Mirror

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.

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