Insecurity in Marriage

I trust him with my life. I have no doubt in his skill behind the wheel, or the concern he takes in preparing chicken properly. My children are safe within his care and I have never feared that a raised voice might turn to something worse.

He is my best friend. I trust him with my life.

But I do not trust him with my heart. There are many childhood traumas I may attribute to this - divorce and custody battles, lawyers and bitter words - a thousand different reasons that explains why I shy away from handing him my heart and trusting that he'll keep it. Trust is a difficult thing to cultivate within a person whose seen it so mishandled.

Maybe it started when I was five. When my father crashed through the front door of our house onto the front lawn, looking wild and out of control, this was not unusual but still alarming. He dropped to his knees before my brothers and I, his voice choked with emotion as he whispered, "Your mother doesn't love me anymore". At five years old I could not understand how this might be true. Love can't stop, can it?

Yes. It can.

Truth be told my marriage is nothing like theirs. Theirs was young and hot and burned itself out long before that summer of '88. My marriage is stable, beautiful, full of give and take and we do not let the hurts fester. We communicate. My parents only yelled and screamed and shouted their own perceived injustices - never truly listening to each other - both wanting nothing more than to be right.

We are nothing like them.  Still...I wonder.

Hockey game or mistress? Email or secret rendezvous? Consistent overtime or a prelude to separation?

Love or convenience?

My mind runs rampant. Accusations fly and he rolls his eyes and he asks why he would leave when he has everything? And I stutter and choke and think that sometimes it happens. Sometimes love stops. "Your mother doesn't love me anymore"...And I want to prevent it.

I'm afraid to admit that I grovel sometimes. Better housekeeping? Better sex? Better looking? Just don't go. In this culture of divorce, in the statistics of police marriages, I flounder.

My insecurity runs deeps. And I do my best, everyday, to vanquish it. It is the remnants of a heart that's been broken once too much by a couple whose love not only died but imploded - sucking my brothers and I down into the ether with them. And I linger in the dark while my husband insists I turn on the light. My hand quivers on the switch. What if I do what he asks and his voice was only illusion and I have to venture back - back into the dark?

I trust him with my life - maybe one day I'll trust him with my heart.

Blogger Award!

My humble blog was recently (yesterday) awarded a "One Lovely Blog Award" from Renn over at The Big C and Me. I was touched to say the least and really surprised. Thanks Renn :)

So there are certain rules when accepting a blog award. The first is to link back to the person who awarded you (Done!). The second rule for this particular award is to name seven tidbits about yourself...see list below. And the third is to nominate 15 (newly discovered) blogs to also receive the award. So lets start with the second rule first as I love to talk about myself! ;)

Tidbits of Truth

1. I'm currently working on a supernatural thriller. Apparently it takes six fully completed novels before you get published so I'm sure this attempt will go nowhere but the very act of writing and completing a novel is fulfilling! I can't wait until I'm editing my completed work and then shelving my book away to never see the light of day again. :)

2.  I'm a homebody. Three kids definitely doesn't help my social deficiencies but I was socially deficient before they came along. If I had the option between going out for drinks with my friends or watching a scary movie alone...9 times out of 10 I would have picked the movie...

3. I have three tattoos that are perfectly meaningless to me...I was a bit impulsive in my younger days. I have two tribal tattoos (inner groan) and a butterfly on my lower back (insert embarrassed eye roll here). I plan on having them changed to incorporate my kids names and or symbols of their person hood.

4. I went to college for a diploma in Criminal Justice...I didn't complete my diploma because Math is not my strong suit and the Statistics course - required for the diploma - I failed miserably.

5. I met my husband on "Plenty of Fish.com"

6. I have bruises all over me because my kids favourite game is "monster" where I end up being a lunatic who chases them all over the house (sometimes on my hands and knees) and when I've captured them I pretend to eat them which is usually rewarded with laughter and a knee or two in the head from flailing lower extremities.

7. I don't have a driver's license. My fear of driving is all consuming and probably never going to be overcome. Of course it doesn't help that my husband is a police officer and regales me with horror from the crash scenes he attends. Seriously? He's lucky I get in a car at all at this point.


Now I have to name 15 newly discovered blogs. I don't think I'll be able to name 15 blogs as I'm as deficient with socializing in the blog world as I am in real life. So for seven tidbits I give you seven great bloggers. In no particular order here they are....

1. Stephanie who writes Clay Baboons. Her blog is unique and hilarious and it never fails to amuse me. Check it out, you won't be disappointed!

2. Tom over at 20 Prospect who writes on a wide range of different topics from touching memoir style prose to fascinating historical pieces. He's a very talented writer.

3. Brahm at Alfred Lives Here whose a fellow Canadian and writes about (as his blog states) Pop culture, Gay life, and the World cutest canine. Check him out - he's a pretty smart guy and I love his movie reviews!

4. Dot over at Busted Button. Her artwork is insanely good and you'll be wildly entertained by the things she can do with buttons. She's also wonderfully sarcastic so don't pass up on looking in on her!

5. Alice who writes Alice in Diaperland. She used to blog about the frustrations and heartbreak of infertility now she blogs about her new beautiful baby girl. Check her out!

6. Jen O. over at My Tornado Alley. She blogs about motherhood and her words often make me laugh out loud or nod my head in agreement. Go ahead, click on the link, you won't regret it.

7. Paris (last name) who writes Thoughts From Paris is a blogger I just started to read. I found him through twitter and have not be disappointed in his amusing material. Read his post about pooping in his pants. Seriously funny.

So there you have it. A blog award received and given all in one post. I hope you enjoy the blogs I linked to as they are some of the best I have discovered and the bloggers I enjoy the most.

BENIGN

                                   B9



The lump was irregular shaped (looked like a four leaf clover) because of lactational changes. I'm ridiculously happy. I don't think I realized how stressed out I was until I wasn't anymore. My husband was stressed out to the max too. He's decided to take a two week vacation in May to recuperate...and he's a cop! Poor guy.

Well thanks everyone for your support while I wondered, worried and waited. And special thanks to Renn whose just such a great bloggess (http://thebigcandme.blogspot.ca/) and made me feel better through her comments and her well written blog. Which by the way (although obviously focus' on breast cancer) is a great blog for insights into life.


WOOHOO! Benign!!!

I want to capture it all.

I sit at the kitchen table listening to a terrible racket. My kids have pulled out every cake pan I have and are currently pounding the living crap out of them with whatever utensil they can find. My ears scream in pain and the headache I'm sporting is not being helped by their "music". But I don't have have the heart to stop their play. I want them to have these memories. I want them to know that although I don't abide any violence, and time outs are a commonality in our house - so is being a kid.

I wish I could capture it all and the passing of time would never erode the edges of memory. Every new thing they learn, every thought  and experience somehow always accessible to me and to them.  In this day in age with cell phone cameras and digital wonders and the art of online journaling this is closer to being possible than ever before. Still, I feel its woefully inadequate to describe the wonders that are my children.

I wish I could capture it all.

 The smell of Gabe's blanket, or the way Edie's hair curls after a bath, or Preston's mischievous personality punctuated often with screams of satisfaction and giggles of delight. Every nuance, every look, every eager and explosive shout when they receive something unexpected - recorded. Every moral, and snippet of character, every added piece of personality...all of it is a testament to their independence and a honest mirror, held up boldly to me, of my parenthood. And even in the moments where I have failed miserably, where a bad day has turned worse and I struggle not to scream until im hoarse, even in the moments where shame fills me up and I can't look them in the eye...

I wish  I could capture it all.

Because it is my life and my lesson and they change me. I appreciate more. I recognize that I can do better, and be better. I see in them the potential that lives in me...Gabe walks on his tiptoes as though always looking for something just out of reach - a challenge to keep him occupied. Edie loves to draw and color and can do so for hours at a time - the test of a true artist. Preston loves without condition - our new dog can testify to this. They are unique, individual, and a true reflection of my successes and failures as a parent. I'm far from perfect, just a mother trying to get through a day that sometimes seems too long, or too hard, or too exhausting. Sometimes I'm just so caught up in my own worries, so obsessed with a bill that's due, or a breast tumour that's concerning, or a husband whose acting moody that I forget the miracles that make up their person hood.

and so...I wish I could capture it all.

And I wish I could somehow capture my love for them. I would stick it in a box and wrap it with pretty paper and giant bows, and every day they would open it and know what I wish - what I envision...They would see and understand that I want moments...and time - so much time to be the mother they deserve. I want to always crush them to my breast and run my fingers through their hair. I want to dance with them in the kitchen, and play hide and seek in a living room with only two hiding spots. I want to soothe every hurt and whisper "it's okay". I want to spend countless mornings getting up too early, and countless nights going to bed too late. I want family vacations, and happy holidays, and many many birthdays.

I just want what every parents wants...

I want to capture it all.

An intense discussion about the merits of sugared cereal

Spring with Marjorie.

The breeze is refreshing as it curls it's fingers through my hair and lets loose it's breath upon my neck. The sun is warm and invigorating against my face and I'm surprised to discover I missed it during the long winter months. I close my eyes and toss my head backwards and let all the scents of spring blanket me with soothing recollections. Gossamer thin the laughter from my children, who play free and uninhibited in the yard, teases a long lost memory from a past that is bittersweet.

I think I must be eight years old. My grandmother's hand wrapped tightly around my own is as smooth and soft as a petal from a rose. She speaks with a slight English accent and points out all the beauty in the world as we slowly travel the paths in Beacon Hill Park. She hands me a few bread crusts and I tear them up for the ducks. I'm in awe of every wonder she brings to my attention, and without my consent I fall head over heals for Spring.

This day is ours and ours alone, a rarity shared together but tinged with the slightest hint of guilt because fairness seeks to even the odds...my brothers, you see, love her just as much as I...

She states without hesitation, however, that I'm special - the first born grandchild - and what I hear is love. Love that's deep and unconditional - something I craved desperately. Time with her was never enough, it was always too short and I cried every time I had to leave her. She created 16 years of memories with me...if only the last ones hadn't been so hard...

In a moment of despair, when her lovely existence had been in winter too long, she left me. Her life and all the beauty in it was murdered by her own hand - a bottle of empty pills found by her bedside - a note that asked for a reprieve from this place... words that demanded something better...something more. My confusion knew no bounds. The world she'd shown me as a little girl was too exquisite for such ugliness.

Spring lost its appeal...

I was angry at her for a long time. Angry that she could take herself away from me, angry that she would never see the person I'd become, angry that my children would not experience the soft touch of her hand as it grasped theirs... Time passed quickly and she faded into the background of memories I dare not touch. I did not ache for her, I did not long for her, I refused to remember her. She was lost.

When my son shattered my thoughts and asked me what I was doing - my body reclined upon the back deck, my mind a swirl in the past - I answered, "creating happy memories I hope". I joined them in the yard where airplane spins and dizzy laughter married with the scents of fresh cut grass and the slightest hint of rain. And like a flower sprouting from the thaw spring was mine again.

I was pleased to discover that she had come back to me... floating on a breeze that curled its fingers within my hair and let loose it's breath upon my neck...and while I recalled the moments I should have never forgotten, I did my best to create new moments my children would always remember.

Breast Healing.

The one and half cm incision carefully created by my surgeon is straight and now visible to me through the clear steristrips that were once hidden by a water proof bandage I removed yesterday (as per doctors orders). The wound doesn't look like much in the mirror, small and inconsequential, I have had very little pain. I am bruised a mean and ugly yellow and the stitches are small and slowly dissolving.

The site is itchy though and this is probably the most irritating physical aspect of this "breast lump" stuff. A part of me has brushed this entire experience off as a minor inconvenience; an unfortunate side effect of being a woman. Still another part of me is frustrated and a little freaked out by the whole thing. I'm not scared per say; the truth is I haven't felt much in the way of fear since facing my worst one last year (Preston, heart defect, possible death of a child, Ahhhhh) but this whole lump thing has definitely thrown me for a loop.

That being said the two journey's couldn't be more different. Last year there was this sense of impending doom, a suffocating, gag inducing, constant rock in the pit of my stomach kind of dread. I begged God (or whoever may be out there) to save my son at any cost. ANY COST. When it's your baby I can't stress enough how much you fervently mean this ( I would have insisted on anyone to take his place - the exception, of course, were my other children). In the end I made a less morally suspect deal. Me for him.

Of course God doesn't work this way (even if I did find a suspicious lump in my breast after Preston was "miraculously" no longer in need of heart surgery). I truly don't think God made any deal with me. I believe in fate. I am very much a fatalist and completely believe that the huge events in your life are preordained. But I digress...

This new health crud is an unfortunate pain in my ass but it doesn't suck nearly as bad as Preston's health stuff did. It's all about perspective I suppose, and thanks to my son, the scope of my perspective is now like a wide angle lens.

So that's where I'm at mentally over this whole fudging thing. I want answers even if the answers are bad because they couldn't possibly scare me any more than I already have been...



and there's some sort of comfort in this thought...however ridiculous that may seem...

Forgive My Post About Boobs

Today I received my excisional breast biopsy despite being sick as a dog. I think I hid it fairly well though. I didn't lie, I said I had a cold; I just didn't embellish and mention it was the worst cold of my life. Even after the nurse took my temperature three times and asked if I normally run warm...um yes? I know. What idiot doesn't admit to being really sick to their breast surgeon? A person whose been waiting for their biopsy for well over three months! That's who. A person who knows the Anaesthesiologists are about to strike. A person who is weighing the chance of cancer against the whole "Oh I have a cold, woe is me". It's A COLD. Anyway. Now that I have defended myself to all those imaginary critics out there I have to say it went nicely.

I didn't cough at all despite really wanting to (Don't you HATE that feeling?) I fell asleep quickly under their general anesthetic and despite being nauseous when I woke up and annoyed that my mouth and throat were numb things were cool. The incision still doesn't hurt and I have my next appointment for followup and path reports on the 24th.

The only thing I'm confused about is the possibility of turning blue. The nurses told me that it might happen? I was too out of it to really ask why that was. I assumed it was from the marker they used to write on me, but the farther out I get from the anaesthetic the more I think this doesn't make much sense at all?!

So I guess I can look forward to the whites of my eyes being blue and some of the lighter skin around my face?! Weird. Just call me smurf.

That's all Peeps.

Hope your day was filled with less knives then mine.

Five things you may not have known about toddlers...Well, at least MY toddlers.

Before I had kids I knew that I would face an uphill battle with certain things. I would lose sleep. Breast feeding would be difficult. I would have little time to myself. And discipline would be the hardest thing to learn how to do. All of these things were true. Truer than I could have imagined back then... But there are a few things I could not have prepared myself for. I'm going to stick to a short list because I know peoples attention spans are horrendous now-a-days...what was I saying? Just kidding. Onwards!

1. Kids have no sense of tact.
-I have a four year old who likes to tell friends, family and strangers alike everything about our lives. I have to be really careful about what I say and do around him for fear it will be repeated or acted out in some horrifically traumatic, embarrassing nightmare. Like the time we were at the bank and my son had a candid conversation with the clerk about my hemorrhoids. My knee jerk reaction was to cover his mouth with my hand all the while looking non-chalant and totally cool. But this could be misconstrued as child abuse so instead I turned beat red and got the eff out of there.

2. Kids have no idea that words can sting.
-My eldest children - the ones capable of full sentences - have begun to notice and verbalize things that I wish they wouldn't. So far their unfortunate comments have only been directed towards their father and I, but I know that one day they will make some stranger feel like total crap too; until that fateful day I seem to be the prime target. I came downstairs a few months back without makeup ( I had recently stopped breastfeeding and an imbalance in hormones caused some acne) when my oldest son looks up at me startled and asks, "Mom, what happened to your face?!"
Thanks. That didn't sting at all...

3. Kids are disgusting.
- After becoming a parent I anticipated having to clean up poopy diapers and wiping runny noses, I also assumed I'd have to clean up vomit and various potty accidents. I did not anticipate the toddler poop fetish. My daughter is no longer allowed to use the toilet by herself because once too often I have found her handling her own feces like it were some new artistic tool! Also, why do kids eat their own boogers? Furthermore, why do my kids feed each other their gross nose nuggets! Is it all kids who are this gross or just my own? I sincerely hope I am not the only parent suffering through such gag inducing disgustingness and I quite selfishly wish this on every parent in the world today. Take that "perfect" parents.

4. Kids have no sense of modesty.
- My kids hang around my house sans clothes much too much. I understand that being naked has it's perks, but must they be naked so often that it seems as though they don't own clothes at all? It is a constant battle to get clothes on them and to keep clothes on them. I swear most of my day is comprised of demanding, requesting, and bribing them into putting their pants back on.

5. There is no nice way to say this...kids play with themselves...a lot.
-Since we all now know that kids prefer to be naked (mine at least) it is now essential to know that they will touch themselves constantly. Most times they have no idea they are even doing it. My son is now an expert at penis puppetry and I've become an expert at saying "Can you please put some clothes on". When does this stage end? Never you say. Probably, but at some point they will be embarrassed to do it in front of me, and I will cherish that day, I will rejoice in it!

Now that I've thoroughly terrified any expectant parents out there don't worry, I assume all these stages end eventually. Please God, hear my prayer.

Mmmm Messy

Playing with my lipstick...and yes, she's a nudie!

Zebras be damned

His body double overs and he retches the little bit of water I've fed him. I do my damnedest to keep him from tossing his empty stomach contents all over his clothes but I seem to fail at this duty quite consistently. For the umpteenth time I change his clothes and cleanup his vomit (whatever hasn't been lapped up by the dog that is). I rub his back as he whines pathetically and I whisper, "it's alright" more times than I can count.

In the thick of it I don't have time to worry. But when he finally collapses, in a deep but restless sleep, from exhaustion and slight dehydration I sit worriedly watching over his quivering frame. Instinctively I count his breaths per minute; a habit born from his sickest moments when his little heart held us all captive. His breathing is fine and so I think I must be able to rule out any involvement with the heart. Surely this illness is the flu - not endocarditis - not anything that could be fatal if treatment is delayed.

I pull up Google and type in his symptoms - never a good idea (unless you fluke out and actually diagnosis something that needs immediate attention - like, oh I don't know - a heart defect!) Meningitis comes up and I am alarmed anew. His neck isn't stiff though, and he's not screaming in pain! Surely then I can rule this out as well? I Google symptoms for endocarditis and I curse how vague all these diseases are. How can anyone be expected to figure this stuff out? How long should I wait before rushing him to the hospital? Do I wait?

I fret. I count his breaths once more. Still fine, still normal, still "healthy"...

I slam my laptop shut and I stop searching for Zebras.

I decide that the flu seems the most likely culprit and so I decide to sleep next to him in the living room. I wake up four or five times in the night to feed him water, to rub his back and whisper lame assurances.

The morning breaks and he's still sick but not dangerously so. I want to laugh at myself, shake my head at my paranoid worries, but my humour seems to have died during the night - right around the eighth clothing change.

I will always worry about him. Always baby him a little more. Always wonder if I'm doomed somehow to spiral back towards the days when I questioned if he would survive. I think it's the one fear I'll never shake. The dark brooding eyes of death and all that it did to make it's presence known to me is a mark that cannot be scrubbed clean. Some days this is a blessing. I appreciate everything a little more; but there are moments when it's a curse - moments where I have to ask if I'm as lucky as I think I am? Hell, maybe I'm just a fool. A fool to believe I could have it all; miracles and life, love and hope.

And time....

Of course we're all fools to believe in such a thing. There's never enough to go around and inversely, sometimes too damn much of it. Time is a fickle beast and you never know what side of the two faced bitch you'll land on. The gift of it or the curse; the moments that were awarded to you, or stolen from you.

But it's just the flu - just the flu - and so I am still counting and living with all the time I have been given. Its gift to me - at least for now.

And for now, it is enough. Zebras be damned.