Dear Proctor and Gamble...

Dear Proctor and Gamble,

I am writing to congratulate and thank you for creating a well-designed and easily-used product: the  Always "Ultra Thin" maxi pad (with wings).

Earlier this evening, I was happily cruising home from running errands with my youngest son, Luke, strapped into his car seat behind me. We were singing.

Mid-warble, a quiet voice came from the back seat: "Uh, Mummy?"

"Hmmmm?"

"I'm bleeding."

I grabbed the rear view mirror and yanked it down - sure enough, blood was gushing from Luke's nose with alarming speed. While I cast frantic eyes around the car for a tissue, newspaper, ANYTHING, Luke sat quite calmly, watching blood pool into his cupped hands.

"Did you pick your nose, Luke?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, dear."


Luke began practicing the art of nose-picking early on...

"Luke, I'm sorry. I don't have a tissue. Let me see if I've got some scrap paper in my purse..."

Digging down (while driving) I felt my hand close around a familiar product: a tampon. Grimaced at the thought of being stopped at a light and having other drivers see me toting a kid with a tampon sticking out his nose and then rummaged for the next best thing: an Always "Ultra Thin" maxi pad (with wings).

Expertly, I tore it from its pretty green wrapping and handed it back to Luke, who snort-laughed out his nose, spraying blood everywhere. Then he shrugged and jammed the pad on his nose, twisting the sticky side around so that the whole thing stuck to his face.

"OK, Luke?"

"OK, Mummy. There's a lot of blood in my nose."

"Sure seems like it. Keep that pad on your nose, OK?"

"OK. Is this for girls to use on their 'ginas?"

"Yep."

"It's sort of gross that it's on my nose, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily. It's stopping the blood from going all over your clothes, right?"

"I guess. LOOK! The blood's getting sucked inside the pad. That's  so cool!"

Indeed, it was.

So there you have it, Proctor and Gamble:

"Maxi pads (with wings) - not just for girls, not just for periods!"

With sincere thanks,
Luke's Mum

Moe is 40!

She was the "new girl" at my high school. Pretty, blond, quiet. I think we might have chatted a time or two during Family Studies class, but I didn't know her, as a friend, when we were paired up for a project.

Our task - at the age of 16, in 1991 - was to visit a group in Toronto (the "BIG city" then, to my small-town, teenaged mind) that supported women seeking an abortion. Tentatively, as we made our plans and got permission from our parents to drive to Toronto, we became closer; chatting on the phone, spending time during the lunch hour hanging out by my locker.

Her name was Tracy, but I called her Moe. Still do. In fact, for years and years, my parents had no idea of her real name, assuming it was Maureen.



Me, Jen, Moe and Mel: Prom. Happy. Young.
Holy crap, look how YOUNG we were!

Anyway, in Toronto one Spring morning, we found the building, the floor, the people we needed to speak with. Armed with spiral notebooks, questions and nerves, we sat down with the staff, prepared to learn how to best support a woman who had made a difficult decision.

Suddenly, Moe shot up out of her seat and fled the room. I blinked in surprise and turned wide eyes to the women gathered near. "Uh....I don't know what she's doing. Sorry. I'll just ask her questions, OK?"

Even as I stammered through and tried to focus on the answers, I wondered where she'd gone, worried that she had. Began to feel sweat trickling down my back and then suddenly, I couldn't see. The room narrowed and then pitched and I knew that I HAD to leave. I tossed a quick "Thanks so much for your time!" at the bewildered staff and staggered from the office, blindly.

Felt along the cool wall of the hallway, knowing that an elevator waited nearby. All I could think was, "If I can just get outside, I'll be OK."

"Moe?" I croaked, pressing my face to the wall, sinking to the blessedly hard floor, terrified that I was having some kind of seizure, maybe a stroke.

"Here," she whispered, mere feet from me, huddled on the floor, too.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know. I just had to get out. I can't see!"

"Me neither!"

And we burst out laughing, groped for each other and held on tight. Eventually, my sight returned and hers did, too. Weak-kneed and trembling we made our way to the elevator, for all the world looking like two drunken tarts leaving a bar at last call.

Back on the street, we gulped in as much fresh air as we could, still clinging to one another and giggling.

19, at the airport, waiting to board my plane west...
 

Today, my Moe turns 40. Almost 25 years later, we still cling to each other and laugh like crazy - at stuff that's funny, at stuff that really isn't, except to us:

Between us, we've loved the same boy (that was awkward, but it's funny now) had four children, a few broken hearts, some husbands, some weddings, lost our minds, ourselves, each other. Her son was born on my wedding anniversary, my son was born on hers.



Me and Moe, October 4th, 2003

We've driven miles to hang out for a few hours, spent countless more on the phone, laughing inappropriately. We have cried, we have fought, sobbed with and for, hugged, fed, snuggled and propped each other up. She is my touchstone, in almost every memory I have and the keeper of my deepest, most delicious secrets.














Moe,

All these years, you've had my back, even when - perhaps especially when - I didn't have yours. You are loyal and kind and funny as hell. How I love that you have known me for all the person(s) I've been and that I have known you for the same. This friendship took root when we were mere children and I am so lucky to say that it has grown - as we have - into a wondrous, rich and layered one. 

That our children will know and discover the world together - as we did - makes my heart happy. Thank you, for all of it: the past, the present, the future.

Mostly, thank you for and long drives to nowhere and the journey to here. For calling me, for taking my call even when you're mad, for making me laugh so hard I stop breathing. For snuggling with me, pouring me baths, sending me your book drafts, trusting me with your heart, your fears, your dreams.

You are my Moe-Moe. You are 40. You are fabulous.

And I love you.


Lizzie-Girl

On Being Raised by The Reds....

There are days when parenting is easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

There are days when parenting honks.

Some days, I am a good mother.

Some days, I honk.

Today, parenting honked, honked some more and then...it didn't.

Today, I honked as a mother...until I didn't.

Allow me to confess brag explain:

Matthew and I began our day hollering. Rather, I hollered, he attempted to and then gave up to  burst into tears. I stormed upstairs in anger and to give myself a chance to calm down. Once I had, I was overcome with shame and remorse: he'd been right, I so very, very wrong.

I apologized profusely and then saw him off at the school gate, guilt clawing at my heart, eyes welling.

All the way home, I berated myself. Counted the hours until I could cover his face in kisses and be thankful for another chance to be the mother he deserves.

On the way home, I whispered, "I've been thinking about you all day. Will you forgive me for being so mean this morning?"

Matthew smiled: "I forgive you times three."

* * *

The Reds are tired. And when they're tired, they fight. After supper they argued with the boy next door, the girls down the street and finally, each other. And it was ugly. Ugly and nasty and it took all my waning patience NOT to knock their heads together.

Instead, I sent the other kids home, ushered the Reds inside and  quietly, but firmly ordered them upstairs: pyjamas on, teeth brushed, in bed. NOW.

I raised an eyebrow and pointed a finger for good measure.

Up they went, but not before some shoves on the stairs and punch in the hallway. In the end, I told them they'd have their say once they were in bed. If they spoke ONE WORD before that happened they'd have to go to bed at 6 tomorrow night, too.

Silently, they obeyed, so I sat back and gestured for Matthew to speak first.

"I don't want Luke to sleep in my bed until May 2nd." He crossed angry arms and glared at no one in particular.

"That seems fair."

Luke wailed and carried on, beating his blankets even as he pulled them up as he climbed into his own bed for the first time in a month. Finally, he too crossed his arms and arranged his face into "mad":

"Matthew can't touch ANY of my stuff ever. Never ever, ever."

"Okey-dokey. It's your stuff. He won't touch it."

I kissed them, told them I love them and closed the door, only to stand outside of it, holding my breath.

Two long, silent minutes passed and then:

"Hey, Luke?"
"What?"
"Do you wanna be friends again?"
"No. I wanna be brothers AND friends."
"OK."

Another pause.

"Wanna come sleep up here?"
"OK."
"Can I touch your stuff sometimes?"
"Yeah. I was only gonna make that rule until you're 10, anyways."


I guess this parenting thing doesn't honk after all.

Well, not today.

DSW Class of 2013

Tomorrow is my last day of school. Tomorrow I will no longer be a Developmental Services Worker student.

As of tomorrow, I can proudly say, "I am a Developmental Services Worker. How can I help you live your best life?"

Because in the end, that will be my job - to help those I support achieve the good things of life that we all strive for: friends, relationships, jobs, a sense of belonging.

Along the path to here, I have been blessed to share it with some incredible people: my classmates and my professors, all of whom brought their own kind of magic to my life and all of whom will hold a special place in my heart, for always.

Without their passion and their fire, I wouldn't be half as fierce about becoming an advocate for others.

Without their support and their wisdom, I might not have the strength to stand up for those I will support in the future.

Without their humour and their willingness to help, I might never have made it through finals, this blog post and placement days that found me sobbing and bereft.

These people - profs and classmates alike - oh, they make me proud. Proud to know them, learned from them, proud to have watched them grow into themselves, proud to be among them, growing too.

And they make me laugh.

Even when they're laughing at ME:

So, in this, my final post as a DSW student from Loyalist College in Belleville, I offer my thanks and my love. To all of you who've shared my journey and who will carry our lessons under your heart:

Two years ago, we pledged to change the world. In doing so, we've discovered that WE must be that change first. I think it's safe to say that we are indeed, the change we want to see in the world.

Leigh-Ann, Renee, Kris, Lisha, Brittany, Adriana, Lauren, Stephanie B, Krimin, Monique, Lydnsay, Bev, Switch, Emilee, Nicole, Ashley G, Cynthia, Katelynn, Ashley S, Tiffany, Sarah S, Cathy, Vaibhavi, Laura, Stephanie D, Danielle, Pam, Pam, Jeremy, Holly, Jessica, Mandy, Riddhi, Raj, Bibin, Brittany C, Rebekah, Sarah P as well as amazing teachers Lisa, Erica, Jane, Colleen, Gord, Julie, Kelly, Bryan, Jacquie and all those we supported during three placements:

Thank you for changing my world - my life's path -  in ways I'd never imagined.

Love,
Liz

A Brighter Light

Today is a special day here at the House of Leprechauns.

Today marks the last day of Mark's training: tomorrow, he will officially be a nuclear operator at OPG .

To say that I am proud of him would be an understatement. He has worked so hard since last September: studying, commuting, being tested - in so many ways - again and again.

And here he is - here we all are - at the end of one journey and the beginning of the next.

I am grateful to him for all of his efforts and for keeping the faith. The road to here has not been easy, on him or on our family. But it has all been worth it.

Congratulations, Husband! May the coming years be all that you'd imagined.

For Mark

 

When we married, pledging to love and honour for all the rest of our days, we had no idea what we were getting into. All these years later, knowing, it makes me laugh a little, at all we did not know.

 

Today, I know this:

 

I am proud of you.

I am proud of the courage you show every day and that you took a leap of faith.

I know that change is not easy, for any of us, but especially you.

But despite that discomfort, you took a deep breath and pushed on.

Pushed through.

 

And here you are, poised on the edge of  a bright, bright future. Go, you!

 

I know it has not been an easy journey to here, love.

For you, for me, for us.

And yet...we have fumbled through and you have carried the weight all this time, mostly without complaint.

 

For all of it, I am grateful. Know that.

 

Know too that, as our lives shift and change once again, I love you.

Despite the storm that is sometimes "us", I will always love you.

 

And I've got your back. As you have always had mine.

 

That's another thing we didn't know, then:

 

That we would still be here, in spite of ourselves.

 

I am so happy to be here, to see you shine.

 

Always,

Liz