The last time great news about this space came to me, I was looking for something in the plumbing aisle at the hardware store. This time, I was cooking dinner while watching the kids chase bubbles in the backyard.
My first reaction was to look out the window, where I fully expected to see Sharon blowing bubbles with the kids. Then I noticed the link.
And there I found my own little square.
First, I took a big gulp of air.
Second, I cried.
Third, I stirred the pasta.
Finally, I tweeted Sharon repeatedly to make sure it wasn't a mistake. And she made me cry some more.
Take a look at this picture.
Do you see the same beautiful story quilt I do?
Each square telling its own story.
Each square holding memories, joy, sadness, laughter, hope.
Each square carefully chosen and stitched together by a group of women who understand that we're all in this together.
Thank you for placing me here.
Thank you for giving me something to wrap myself up in when I'm feeling unsure.
Thank you for making me part of a beautiful story.
Writing about our efforts to build a garden each summer with our children might come across as many things: ambitious, goody-two-shoes, cute.
But for us it's about remembering a teacher our children were too young or didn't have the chance to know. It's planting and growing the lessons she gave her children to give their children.
And this weekend, as we celebrate Mother's Day, we'll do just that.
Sometimes what I need is a good swift kick in my parenting behind; a new perspective.
Today, I got one.
And the giver of that kick has no idea what he's given, because as much as he deserves to have a poor me approach to life, he never does. Telling a story about his childhood is never meant to be a comparison or a lesson, but somehow it always is.
First, a confession. I don't particularly enjoy the process of teaching my kids to ride a two-wheeler. I've always found it tedious and frustrating. And though I do my best to apply patience, I often fail.
My dad was raised with the support of extended family members. But the constant and unconditional love of a parent? That's something he has never known. Due in part to their youth, the two people who held that role left before it even started: a hurt for my dad I cannot begin to imagine.
When I met him over a cup of tea this morning, he asked about our plans for the sunny afternoon ahead. I said we were going to work on two-wheeled bike riding with our son.
He told me the story of learning to ride the bicycle he found on his aunt's farm when he was a young boy. He spent his summers there. There wasn't anyone to teach him, so he set out on his own. He folded up a burlap sack from the barn and fashioned a seat on one of the lower crossbars of the adult-sized bike. His feet straddled and ran alongside the wheels hour upon hour until he felt like he could balance.
And then, like so many other times in his childhood, he pulled himself up to the place where only grown ups should be and he rode all on his own.
"It was the most amazing thing, realizing I could fly," he told me.
Not a trace of bitterness in his voice, even though there wasn't anyone there to clap and shout for him as he sped towards the horizon. I drove away from our morning chat remembering the feeling of my dad's hand on the back of my bike as he ran up and down our street until I felt ready to fly.
And this afternoon, I'll remember it again as I run alongside my son. And I will take in the sight of my husband and daughters as we cheer him on. And when he finally succeeds in taking flight, I'll try and capture the moment to give to my dad.
Because the smile that will break across my little boy's face when he feels like he's flying?
There's been discussion in my mom-posse about why a certain book (yes, I've read it) is being called mommy porn (shudder) and what that classification even means.
Sure, there are props and passages that lend themselves to certain descriptions, but I think we're reading this book because it revisits a time of lust without consequence.
You know what I mean. And you would agree it's nice to remember, right?
At a recent performance by one of my favourite singer-songwriters, Sarah Slean, the audience was treated to the back story of one of her gorgeous songs.
Picture it: Midnight in Paris, a cocktail party of poets and artists. Her eyes meet those of a handsome stranger's across the room. Later, she escapes to a balcony and feels a presence. It's him. He approaches. He takes her in his arms and kisses her passionately under the stars. Fireworks.
Just like that. Really. My heart was pounding with the thought of it while she sang. Her joy in telling the story, the fact that it moved her, and stayed with her: a beautiful recollection that released a memory of my own.
Picture it: A shy girl meets up with her high school friends in a grungy dance bar while home from university for the weekend. On the dance floor, her eyes meet those of a handsome (but so-out-of-her-league) kind of guy. She blushes and looks away. Later, they bump into one another as they dance. Later still, he takes her by the hand and leads her to a dark and quiet corner. Without saying a word, he gently tilts her chin and kisses her with such passion that years later she finds it impossible to forget. Just like that.
We exchanged less than a 100 words and never saw each other again.
A moment of lust without consequence.
It didn't matter who he was or whether I thought he would call. It didn't matter that, up until then, I'd never kissed a boy I didn't care about.
Fireworks.
And they changed me.
I didn't open myself to anyone who saw me without knowing me. I hid behind my fear of being a disappointment. That night my fear was pushed out of the way; maybe forever.
And when the time came that I was ready for lust and love with all its consequences, the right one was there. And I knew the difference.
Call it porn, if you will. I call it a visit to a time worth remembering.
Why in heaven's name is there a stork in a nest on top of a street-meat stand, you ask? Because the proprietor of that cart happens to be known for his ability to predict the gender of babies in utero, of course! For the record, I resisted those cravings until the third trimester and he guessed right one out of two times.
