It makes my head spin. I weep often, especially when stories are about tragedies involving children.
For many years I worked as a daily reporter covering hard news. I often did my job without digesting what hard news actually meant a lot of the time — emotionally impalpable happenings.
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Our home is filled with many frightening things. There are monsters, big and small, and apparently many ghosts. I am not sure exactly when they all got here — maybe they’ve always been here — but suddenly they are everywhere. That is, according to our two-and-a-half year-old son.
Lately the monsters and ghosts have been jolting our little guy awake in the middle of the night. At about 3 a.m. we hear him calling for us.
Some things are inherently creepy about the myth of Santa Claus.
As an adult, I can see this.
The line, “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake,” in the beloved Christmas tune, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, gives me the willies.
For many years I have moved it from one rental house to the next, accepting the extra costs of hiring special piano movers. It’s a beautiful bulky piece of furniture, and in Toronto-sized rentals, it never really fit in. But, throughout the years of enduring small spaces, my piano survived — including one very close call.
From the bedroom I hear an assault of gunfire, insane car chases, and the mighty growl of motorcycle engines.
I hear the zombies, too. They are the most terrifying; there is nothing more unsettling than the sound of a man’s desperate screams as he is being torn apart by a pack full of bloodthirsty zombies.
After a few fun zombie attacks, courtesy of The Walking Dead, or a violent action flick, my husband is ready for sleep.
With the arrival of a baby, you can expect to receive mountain loads of teeny, tiny onesies and seemingly nifty gadgets that too often end up collecting dust. When I was expecting our son almost two years ago now, my heart melted over the many cute little things kindly given to us from friends and family, but as time moved on, I realized how unnecessary many of these baby goodies proved to be. Some of them were hardly used, others remained unused.
What I really want to do is talk to my mom. You’d think by now I would be used to it, the not calling or talking, the not eating meals together.
But I am never quite there. Never quite over it.
Distraction has settled into my days recently. It was there last night, too, in the middle of it. It isn’t omnipresent, though it is persistent and appears whenever life is weighing heavily on my mind.
And I realize what is troubling me as I sit down unable to write what I am meant to write—I need to talk to my mom.
We can’t please toddlers for a pretty simple reason: they can be impossible to please.
At just two years old, our son is a mighty force to be reckoned with. He is sweet, so, so sweet, and loving, and kind. He is generous with hugs (I want a big hug, mommy, he frequently asks), and he has me wrapped around his soft little finger.
I am silly putty, molding clay, Play-Doh, a pliable form that bends to the will of this boy of mine with the bright, energetic eyes and the dimpled cheeks I kiss dozens of times daily. He too is an irrational beast of a thing.
Jittery with bitten nails, a jumpy heart rate and too many coffee refills, I knew there was only one way out of this state — yoga.
Must do yoga.
It was this thought that prompted me to race around the house one recent morning to try and make a 9:15 class (even though exercising at my own pace on my own schedule is much preferred).
There was just enough time to get there, though it required skipping that next cup of coffee, which wasn’t a strong selling point for getting out the door.
One recent night, I had trouble sleeping. A butterfly was keeping me awake. It was flapping its long, elegant wings against the sides of a small glass jar that had tiny punctured holes in the lid.
For two days, the large Swallowtail had been fluttering about the playground at my son’s daycare until somebody thought to capture it in order to give the toddlers a closer look.
Let’s see if any of this sounds familiar—you once rocked heels fiercer than Beyoncé and could swap a demure, daytime walk for a sassy nighttime strut in a snap. You had your choice of several snazzy purses, which you matched to your accessory stash like a pro.
It’s a chaotic scene — a flurry of fun and sun and heartbreak. There is wonderment and wandering and heart-wrenching moments of uncertainty and bewilderment.
Travel, I couldn’t get enough of it, along with noisy bars, booze, bad boyfriends, live music, and adrenaline-igniting adventures, such as glacier climbing, scaling rock faces, and jumping out of airplanes, for instance.
Johnny Cash has saved me on more than one occasion.
The beauty of Johnny Cash is that his music is timeless, as is the infectious, knee-slapping reaction we have to it. His songs continue, posthumously, to lift us up when life kicks us down.
Things I Wish I Had Known When My Mother Died
