But it is Christmas . . .

When the move to “Happy holidays” first began, I was on board. I thought it was an inclusive way to share the holidays among different traditions and different faiths. I held Christmas in my heart, and celebrated it with no less gusto. I genuinely do hope people have happy holidays, whatever form those holidays may take. I didn’t balk either at receiving those same wishes. Who doesn’t like to be wished happiness? I quite honestly liked that there was a way to broadly share the season that overcame the great perceived  divides of culture and religion.

But this year, I feel that there’s a campaign to erase Christmas afoot that troubles me a great deal.

I celebrate Christmas. I celebrate Christmas as the birth of Christ. For me, it is a deeply religious holiday that marks the birth of the person I believe is the Son of God. Does my celebration include the regular secular trappings? Absolutely. But before one gift is opened I gather with my family in our place of worship and we get down on our knees and thank God for the gift of his Son that has so transformed my life and the world. What I celebrate at Christmas is the awesomeness of a gift I still don’t — and probably never will — fully understand, but that I believe has transformed my heart and life and soul. Humility and grace and sacrament mark my celebration of the Christmas feast day. Every year, it is a beautiful and good celebration; I hope others experience their own traditions and faith just as beautifully and  profoundly.

What I don’t understand is why we want to white wash the holidays so they are completely devoid of faith traditions. Last week, my 4 year old daughter told me her favourite part of Christmas was the menorah. It was a terrific opportunity to talk with her about how different people celebrate the season and the traditions that make those celebrations so rich and meaningful.

I don’t need the masses to celebrate or condone my faith. In fact, for me, faith is intensely personal. I go about the business of my faith within my own life and need neither acknowledgment nor public cheerleading. But I do want to be able to celebrate in a world that values the rich tapestry of diversity and isn’t actively trying to deny Christmas. For Christians around the world, this is when it happens and Christ is why it came to be. Why does that have to be controversial? Why does the celebration of the King of Peace have to be marred by hate and marking territory and angst around what you do or don’t say?

People who know me largely understand the role my faith plays in my life and I hope my faith is conveyed through my actions. I believe, and hope, my life is my greatest testament to what I believe and the God I honour. I teach my children the same principles of good person-ness that I grew up with, and I do that as an active Roman Catholic. I make no apologies for that.

I believe the world is a better place for the existence of my God. I also believe it is a better place for the existence of the millions of good people who don’t believe in that same God. But can’t we come together, not afraid of celebrating our individual faiths, so ignoring them, but rather out of a respect for those differences, and a hunger to find the very best in each of those traditions?

I believe the Child Jesus would open His arms and bring us all to Him. Maybe if we shut our mouths and opened our arms a little more, we’d see a better world.

So, Merry Christmas. I hope your holidays are happy.

What is wrong with people?

This post has been bubbling in my head for some time. Last week, a third person was accused of faking cancer and defrauding his supporters out of thousands of dollars.

What is wrong with people? Are you that desperate for attention/money/infamy that you will stoop to pretending to have a disease that continues to ravage the lives of thousands of Canadians and their families every day?

I’ve had cancer and news flash: you don’t want it.

You know what you were pretending, Mr. Oh So Clever Schemer?

You were pretending you walked into the doctor’s office one day and in one fell swoop the wind was knocked out of you and that you were now in for the fight of your life.

You were pretending that everything you love was potentially going to be taken away from you and, unless the miracles of science and God were on your side, there was nothing you could do about it.

You were pretending that the future you can imagine goes not one step further then the end of some hellish treatment, where you will wait again to hear where the journey will take you next.

You were pretending that you spent hours being infused with drugs the nurses won’t touch. Yeah, that’s right, they won’t touch them without gloves but they’re going to infuse them into your veins hoping that it will be enough.

You were pretending that it doesn’t matter that your hair fell out and that you were trying to be brave when you suddenly found yourself standing in a pile of it one morning after what should have been just a regular shower.

You were pretending that there will be other Christmases to make up for the one you missed throwing up after your last round of chemo.

You were pretending that you have one friggin’ clue about what you’re talking about and what it means to fight this bastard of a disease.

You were pretending you have a soul; cuz frankly, if you are capable of this, I highly doubt it.

I don’t even wish cancer on you cuz it sucks that much. How dare you.

Robert Munsch

Robert Munsch has been on my mind.

Like many of you I’m sure, I was a bit startled by his revelations related to his struggles with bipolar disorder, cocaine addiction and alcohol abuse. I was more startled, however, by some of the reactions I saw.

I was on a plane a few days after the news broke, reading the paper (I wish I could remember which one) and taking in one woman’s letter to the editor. She in no uncertain terms said they would no longer sing the praises of Mr. Munsch in their home and while she was sad to remove him (or, more accurately, his books) from her children’s lives, she felt she had no choice. There was no room for this kind of flawed hero in her rearing of her children.

Really?!?

I’m not a doctor, but I know enough about mental illness to know that it is not a choice and it is more often than not a long and horrendous road. It is also not a personal failing of the person who is ill. 

I also don’t know enough about Mr. Munsch’s specific case to know the details of his behaviour and choices. What I do know, however, is that this could be an important teaching moment. I believe that situations like this, while perhaps disheartening, are opportunities to talk about things like compassion and empathy and the recognition that we are all imperfect beings.

My kids are too little to register any of this. What they know, thanks to Mr. Munsch, is that the Paper Bag Princess ultimately stood up for herself. They know Prince Ronald is a bum because he didn’t value courage and intelligence above clothes and appearances. They know they can outwit dragons. I might not condone some of the choices Mr. Munsch has made, but there will always be room in our lives for the magic of his storytelling and hopefully, when my kids are a little older, there will also be room for us to appreciate how even when we are not perfect we can bring joy and laughter and magic to the world.

Maybe I’ll get it together next time

I had to do a bit of scrambling to make it to today’s Mother’s Day Tea at K’s nursery school. I was busy congratulating myself on having pulled it off when I realized I had arrived at the aforementioned tea party without . . . a tea cup.

All the other moms had their tea cups.

K was not impressed.

Sigh. Maybe next year.

All a matter of perspective

What you need to know to appreciate the following exchange with my daughter:

1. My daughter is three. Well, three and a half.

2. She has a best friend.

3. Her best friend’s name is Rachel.

4. Rachel switched nursery school classes a few months ago, so hasn’t been in Keelan’s class for quite some time.

Setting: Family dinner table, last night, pre-puking (whole other story)

Me: Keelan, how was school today?

Keelan: I miss Rachel.

Me: What do you miss most about Rachel?

Keelan: She knows me better than anyone in the universe.

Huh.

I thought I didn’t talk about it a lot . . .

It’s funny, if you have read more than a few posts on this blog, you know that I am a cancer survivor. I had cancer in my early/mid 20s, which means I have been cancer free for just over 15 years.  And I had the impression that I didn’t really talk about it a lot. But, just three posts ago, there it is. Granted, that post was over a year ago, but still, maybe I’m like this little Pig Pen sorta character and cancer is my cloud that travels with me.

I was aware of this possibility this week during a creative brainstorm at work. We were talking about a cancer drug and I was irrationally engaged. I was aggressive and overly emphatic and probably offensive. But the topic just struck such a chord with me that it wasn’t until it was almost over that I had to ask myself how much of that experience do I still carry?

I guess what also brought it up was a blog I came across this morning from a young mother with metastatic cancer. She died this week. And the one thing I know I carry is the fear that my cancer will come back (which is more than kinda dumb because statistically I have the same chances at this point of getting cancer as any of you) and I will have to leave my family.

When we decided to have children, we talked about the possibility because I needed to know that Dean would be okay alone. We have had many conversations over the years, none of which he wants to have, but discussions I feel I need to have to keep the fear at bay. There are days, though, where I hold my kids tighter and longer than they want because I want them to be able to remember.

Which is morbid and strange and so overly dramatic, I actually am annoying myself as I type this. But it’s there. So be it. Take it or leave it, that’s my story.

A gift from a stranger

I am just back from a fundraiser for a local nursery school. The evening began with a short presentation from Louise Kent of Free the Children. I have to admit to a good dose of skepticism when she started — really, who is that bubbly late on a Friday in the bowels of a local church? But then she sang a song about courage, from the perspective of small and not-so-small kids, and I was sold. It was a wonderful tribute to what it takes for a child to understand not only that positive change is possible in the world, but they can be the instrument of that change.

The key note speaker was Barbara Coloroso, a renowned parenting consultant. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what I experienced was exhilarating. It was in fact a gift of energy and excitement and motivation from a complete stranger.

Barbara talked for two hours and in each minute I found another reason to be excited and reenergized about being a parent. She offered a no-nonsense approach to parenting, but more than that she focused on things like basic dignity and what it takes to raise an ethical human being — a human being that has compassion and deep kindness. She talked about three critical life lessons: 1. I like myself, 2. I can think for myself, and 3. there is no problem that is too big to bring home.

She talked about the difference between punishment and discipline; about asking children to own a problem and helping them learn to find solutions; about increasing choices and responsibilities as they grow so that by the time they leave home, they are making their own decisions as a productive and positive member of their community.

What stuck with me most though is her philosophy that good deeds/kindness should be reward in itself; that we as a society are so prone to providing incentives for good deeds e.g. rewards for fundraising that we negate the internal motivations that are innate to most of us; that we essentially teach our kids out of just being kind and good for kindness and goodness sake, not because it will get them something.

I am tired now, but ina  good information-overload sort of way. I think I’ll come back to this tomorrow, but for now I’ll just say if you ever have the chance to hear Barbara, take it. She will renew your faith in what can be and how we can make the difference in the lives of the children we know and love.

I’m back

Wow. Almost a year, huh? So many reasons for the hiatus, but none terribly interesting. My husband and I have been busy raising our son and daughter. I have recently gone back to work. We are still finding our groove. I have just been too tired.

I have also struggled. Motherhood is tough for me. I love my kids more than I could ever express in written word, but they challenge me every day. Mostly, just to get over myself.

I think part of my silence is that I didn’t want anyone to know. It was bad enough I had to fess up to some serious baby blues the first time around — who wants to think I couldn’t get it together for round two?

But, I’ve decided that that’s part of the problem. Closing off and being silent. It means I’m alone and it means I might be leaving others out there alone. That’s not fair. Cuz my greatest relief comes from sharing war stories with people who are honest and — miraculously — can relate. Turns out, I’m not a monster, just a mom.

So, I’m back. The kids are great, Dean is wonderful, and my life is so much more than I deserve.

I’m an ungrateful shrew

So I was sitting in our family room last night, feeding my month-old son. An ad for The Ride to Conquer Cancer came on, narrated by a genlteman named Mike Lane. Mike was explaining that he was riding in memory of his sister,  Stephanie.  At that point, I looked up at the television and my heart caught in my throat. Stephanie was a friend of mine in university. And she had been diagnosed with a brain tumour shortly after I received my own cancer diagnosis in 1995. Stephanie died three years ago. I am sitting in my family room, with my husband and two young children.

And I was rocked first by Stephanie’s death (she was a glowing, wonderful person), but also by the realization that I can’t remember the last time I threw myself down on my knees and thanked God for every day, every moment, and every breath. I am embarrassed by my arrogance. I am mortified by my complacency.

My best friend pointed out the other day that I have now everything I ever said I wanted.  And I let that comment just roll off me, without really thinking too much about it. And who the hell am I to do that? She’s right. Thanks to the miracle of science and the grace of God I do have a wonderful life. Hell, I have LIFE. But I’d forgotten how close I came to not having it.

I am humbled to look at my husband and my children and realize they all came after the cancer.

Thank you Mike, and thank you Stephanie, for reminding me that my day, every day, should be about celebration. You should be able to find me figuratively and literally on my knees with prayers of thanks. I can only hope my life and my second chance is a song of praise. A song of thanks. I will work harder to do and be just that.

November

Who can believe it’s already November? Crap, it’s already mid-November. Where does the year go? In my case, much of it’s been spent preparing for the arrival of our second child.  So, the rumours are true: we’re expecting a little boy in February.

If you had read the last iteration of this blog, you would know that I was diligent (well, relatively diligent) in documenting the ups and downs of my first pregnancy. This time? Not so much. I wonder why.

One major reason is definitely that I now drive to work. Laugh if you will, but the subway is ripe with pregnant woman blog fodder. My own car? Again, not so much.

My doctor said to me yesterday, though, that second children are pretty much neglected as of conception. And as I bristled defensively, I wondered if she was right. Case in point? I had to really think about how much movement I felt and when when she asked me — with Kee, I had probably kept some sort of anal retentive journal documenting each jab to my belly/bladder/etc. I was also at that appointment alone. Last time, it was all I could do to assure my husband that it was routine and that he didn’t need to take time off to be there. But there he was more times than not.

Not to say we aren’t excitedly preparing for his arrival, and aren’t happily anticipating him, but it’s different. There’s that pesky two year old to keep up with for starters. How humbling to realize that she is oblivious to my plights of puking and epic exhaustion.

And yet, as I write that, I realize that the key is that it is different. Not better or worse, just different. There were scary days at the outset of this pregnancy when we worried about whether or not it would ultimately be okay. Since then, I’ve felt a strong bond with my unborn son, a bond that came much later with my first. I can’t explain it other than to say that I feel we have been brought together in prayer and sheer force of will — and I have been challenged to really take the time to appreciate the fragility of life and the miracle of this whole process.

So, has he already been neglected? Some days, I fear yes. Others, I simply see he is being born into the reality of a busy and bustling and loving family. And a family that is eager to meet him.

I know he’ll find his place.