Charlotte and I have a little game. She asks "Where we goween?" and I say "CRAZY!" and wave my arms around my head like a maniac and sometimes I add a little chase in for good measure. She shrieks as she runs away on her sturdy little legs, hair flying, giggles and shouts trailing her. She could play this game over and over and over, amused by the attention of my response to her query and the potential for a chase as only a child can be.
The game came about honestly enough, as one of Charlotte favorite questions is "Where we goween?". We don't actually have to be getting ready to head out the door for her to ask, she just wonders this aloud a few times a day. Perhaps she is destined to be a philosopher.
One day, when I was tired and feeling a bit frustrated she came up to me and asked in her sweet 2 1/2 year old's voice, eyes wide with love, trust and wonder, "Where we goween?" I looked at her and said with a sigh, "Crazy". She laughed her head off, thinking that my feeling sorry for myself was just a hoot and a half. Her laughter lightened my mood, her smile like helium, raising my spirits. So, when she asked again in a teasing tone, I said "CRAZY!" like a euphoric nutcase and waving my arms all about, I chased her around the living room, hooting all the way. Thus, a tradition was born.
Happily, Charlotte will never be aware of the melancholy that gave rise to her treasured game. All she will remember will be her kooky mommy, chasing her around the house, laughing along with her own squeals of delight. That is as it should be.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Grandma Gearey
When I was young my grandma moved "out west" with my uncle, aunt and their 4 children. I use the expression "out west" as everyone did back then. I had no idea where this place was, but it sounded romantic and dramatic. I imagined Little House on The Prairie and the old Westerns I had seen on television.
They actually moved to Calgary, I learned when I was older, but as a 10 year old, all I knew was "out west" and so, after they moved away, when grandma wrote to ask me what I might like for my birthday, I asked for a tumbleweed. I was secretly envious of my cousins, who had the opportunity to go "out west" and live with cowboys, and I thought a tumbleweed might bring me a sense of that adventure.
The first package that arrived from grandma came with a letter apologizing for not sending me a tumbleweed, as she had not come across one yet. I was shocked and saddened to learn that grandma was living in a normal looking city, not a town with wooden homes and boardwalks and a mercantile like the Olsen's.
Grandma sent me lots of packages over the years. Sweaters she knit, despite her arthritic fingers, lovely ceramic horses and unique stuffed animals (a few of which my daughters now have as I could not part with them). Grandma always sent me a silver dollar from the Stampede every year without fail. I never did get that tumbleweed but each package from "out west" came with a small gift and a letter and a whole lotta love.
They actually moved to Calgary, I learned when I was older, but as a 10 year old, all I knew was "out west" and so, after they moved away, when grandma wrote to ask me what I might like for my birthday, I asked for a tumbleweed. I was secretly envious of my cousins, who had the opportunity to go "out west" and live with cowboys, and I thought a tumbleweed might bring me a sense of that adventure.
The first package that arrived from grandma came with a letter apologizing for not sending me a tumbleweed, as she had not come across one yet. I was shocked and saddened to learn that grandma was living in a normal looking city, not a town with wooden homes and boardwalks and a mercantile like the Olsen's.
Grandma sent me lots of packages over the years. Sweaters she knit, despite her arthritic fingers, lovely ceramic horses and unique stuffed animals (a few of which my daughters now have as I could not part with them). Grandma always sent me a silver dollar from the Stampede every year without fail. I never did get that tumbleweed but each package from "out west" came with a small gift and a letter and a whole lotta love.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Modern Party Planning
A while back my older sister turned 50 years old. My brother-in-law planned a surprise party for her and my mom, brother, sister-in-law and I travelled the 7 hour drive to the party to join my sister's friends and in-laws in the revelry. My sister was genuinely surprised and we all had a great time reminiscing and celebrating her life so far.
While I don't consider myself to be pushing 50, it will be the next birthday of significance, so my sister's party made me think ahead to the possibility, however remote, of my husband planning such a fete for me. While we share a large group of friends, there are a slew of friends that I am quite close to who he has never met. How would he know to contact them and invite them to celebrate my big 5-0?
Two days before I drove down the highway to my sister's party my husband and I attended the funeral of an acquaintance from church. Our little chapel was packed with family friends and acquaintances of the deceased. loving and honest words were shared about his life and his faith. His children talked about the dad they would miss and his ex-wife spoke of the man she had married and the friend she had always cherished. Attending funerals usually makes one think about ones own mortality. Funerals make me want to pre-plan my own service so that everything goes just-so. This time around, as I looked at all the people gathered together to say farewell to out acquaintance, I thought about the people I would want to attend my own funeral.
I have realized that my potential surprise birthday party and my inevitable funeral both pose the same dilemma - how will my husband know who and how to get the people I want at the event? How will all my different groups of friends find out about the celebration - of my ongoing life or of the end thereof? We're still too young to have a lot of friends who regularly check out the obituary pages and most of my friends are not listed in our address book.
I have decided that the solution to my problem is quite simple. I will have to give my husband my Facebook password. In the event of my death, he can just go into my account and change my status to: "Claudine Dionne is dead. Please see Facebook page "Claudine's Funeral: Be there or be Square". Then, someone will have to call up all the friends in the address book, much like we did when each of our children were born...only, hopefully the news will be greeted with less joy and enthusiasm. Between Facebook, the phone calls and a nicely worded obit the church should be filled to the rafters. maybe the wake could be held somewhere with an alcohol license. I'd like for everyone to toast my life and sip away their sorrow until the wee hours. really, I'd like a sort of Irish wake, where people could feel free to laugh and have some fun for my sake.
My brother says I should just have a party now. He suggested I change my Facebook status to "Claudine Dionne is not dead yet. So let's party!" Maybe he has a point. So, what are you doing 2 Saturdays from now?
While I don't consider myself to be pushing 50, it will be the next birthday of significance, so my sister's party made me think ahead to the possibility, however remote, of my husband planning such a fete for me. While we share a large group of friends, there are a slew of friends that I am quite close to who he has never met. How would he know to contact them and invite them to celebrate my big 5-0?
Two days before I drove down the highway to my sister's party my husband and I attended the funeral of an acquaintance from church. Our little chapel was packed with family friends and acquaintances of the deceased. loving and honest words were shared about his life and his faith. His children talked about the dad they would miss and his ex-wife spoke of the man she had married and the friend she had always cherished. Attending funerals usually makes one think about ones own mortality. Funerals make me want to pre-plan my own service so that everything goes just-so. This time around, as I looked at all the people gathered together to say farewell to out acquaintance, I thought about the people I would want to attend my own funeral.
I have realized that my potential surprise birthday party and my inevitable funeral both pose the same dilemma - how will my husband know who and how to get the people I want at the event? How will all my different groups of friends find out about the celebration - of my ongoing life or of the end thereof? We're still too young to have a lot of friends who regularly check out the obituary pages and most of my friends are not listed in our address book.
I have decided that the solution to my problem is quite simple. I will have to give my husband my Facebook password. In the event of my death, he can just go into my account and change my status to: "Claudine Dionne is dead. Please see Facebook page "Claudine's Funeral: Be there or be Square". Then, someone will have to call up all the friends in the address book, much like we did when each of our children were born...only, hopefully the news will be greeted with less joy and enthusiasm. Between Facebook, the phone calls and a nicely worded obit the church should be filled to the rafters. maybe the wake could be held somewhere with an alcohol license. I'd like for everyone to toast my life and sip away their sorrow until the wee hours. really, I'd like a sort of Irish wake, where people could feel free to laugh and have some fun for my sake.
My brother says I should just have a party now. He suggested I change my Facebook status to "Claudine Dionne is not dead yet. So let's party!" Maybe he has a point. So, what are you doing 2 Saturdays from now?
Play Pretend
Charotte calls out "Come pyay!" and I come, unable to resist her beautiful eyes, joyful smile, her loving 2 year old's heart. We play "Chase Me", we play Hide & Seek", we play with the little toy animals. Zoe usually asks me to come play Candy Land or Buckaroo or Play Doh. Faith is fond of Peek-a-Boo and when I pretend to throw her onto the couch or at her sisters.
What do I like to play? Is napping a game? Apparently it is at my house. Lay down on the couch for a rest and you've given an open invitation for wrestlemania. I like to play pretend. Pretend I am 50 pounds lighter, pretend I am well rested, pretend the house is larger and clean, pretend someone else will make dinner, pretend my babies will never grow into pre-teens, teens, young adults with families of their own and elderly parents who will eventually need their care. Parents who will not call out come play but rather, come help.
Help me out, help me up. Help.
What do I like to play? Is napping a game? Apparently it is at my house. Lay down on the couch for a rest and you've given an open invitation for wrestlemania. I like to play pretend. Pretend I am 50 pounds lighter, pretend I am well rested, pretend the house is larger and clean, pretend someone else will make dinner, pretend my babies will never grow into pre-teens, teens, young adults with families of their own and elderly parents who will eventually need their care. Parents who will not call out come play but rather, come help.
Help me out, help me up. Help.
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