How do you do?

Picture this:

A circle of moms chatting outside the school doors after the classes have filed in.  Aidan marches into the circle and proceeds to shake hands with each mom.  Insert a cute little chuckle attached to a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sweetie boy.  He knew he was being charming. 

Aidan's accomplishment?  Wrapping my friends around his little finger right along with me.

(BTW - the photo is an old one - but I love it!)

Kinder visit

Aidan and I are venturing into unknown waters next Friday.  He will have his first day of kindergarten at the same school his big brothers attend, and I will be off to teach my first class at the university.  It is truly fitting that we are sharing our first big day, as he was born on my birthday - and has truly become my sidekick over the past five years. 

On Thursday we went to visit with the kindergarten teacher, and I just wanted to highlight a few of the beautiful things she did to welcome Aidan (and me) into her classroom.  Why do I want to do this?   Because we (parents) often express what teachers are NOT doing right (me included). . . rarely do we shout their praises - and I think it's important that we have a model of excellence out there in the blog world.

One.  Mrs. F. greeted Aidan and got down to his level (which he promptly copied and crouched down too).

Two.  Mrs. F. said how excited she was to have Aidan in her class, and how she was busy preparing her classroom with things that would be developmentally appropriate for him.  She showed us a few of the items and Aidan had an opportunity to engage with them.

Three.  She had a gift for him wrapped in red tissue paper.  Not that I believe teachers need to give gifts to their students, but the way she gave it was really nice.  It was a gift for him to open and keep at the classroom.  Something to share with the other students.  BTW - Aidan played with the paper, shredding it and throwing it in the air.  He couldn't have been happier.

Four.  Mrs. F. asked me how I was feeling about Aidan starting school.  She reassured me that he was going to be very loved, and that he already was loved by her.  She shared a story of her own attachment to her daughter, now in her twenties, and of her own feelings of separation.

Five.  She told me that if I ever saw something that she was missing in her teaching of Aidan to let her know. 

Blue ink on a white page

Today I am a tired mother who wants to be a writer.  Is it really a bad thing that I want to go away for a while to find my writing? I dream of a place where nobody claims a piece of me.  A place that inspires, but doesn't overwhelm.  A nurturing sort of place.

Does such a place exist for a mother of three?

This morning I tried to find a piece I'd written a while ago about my three months in Istanbul.  I thought about reworking it for a literary journal,  but now I can't remember where I placed it.  In the deep dark murky space that is my brain, I picture it written in my lousy handwriting with blue ink on a white page. 

Almost all of my scribbles are written with blue ink on a white page. 

I just went through an entire journal - and stumbled on pieces of writing I'd completely forgotten about - including the beginning of a YA novel that has promise.  Now I will go search through other journals looking for the Istanbul story - though I fear finding other pieces I've forgotten about that will plunge me further into longing for a space to get my act together.

My heart goes out to the people of Norway.

I am so sorry.

How do you do it?

When people see my paintings, they ask, "how do you find the time?"

My answer, "I don't do dishes."
Or, "I leave the dusting."
Or, "My respite worker, Elmo, takes over for a bit." (I'm a bad mom, aren't I?).

The truth is, I often have to snatch small moments. Five minutes for a tree trunk here. Three minutes to browse the books there. One minute to add some highlights.

You get the picture.

It's like the time I was trying to write a novel, and I took my notebook everywhere with me and jotted down little bits whenever I could. (Did you see the lady at the gym that day scribbling in her book, but not exercising much? That was me.) There's almost always a sense of "I've got a small window of opportunity and I must make the most of it."

That's how I do it.

Painting the Lemonade Stand for Superheroes

I recently finished this painting, which I'd been wanting to do for some time:

For me painting becomes an act of meditation - or reflection.  It's not like I sit down and think, "today I am going to consider __________ ."  It doesn't work like that.  I paint, and I let my mind wander off in any direction it chooses.  Sometimes I'm surprised by where my mind takes me....but most often it is a memory from my childhood that I ponder while I paint. 

When I painted the Lemonade Stand for Superheroes I was remembering something my high school art teacher used to say to me.

"Stop being so cute."
"But drawing cute things makes me happy."
"Yes, but these things are cliches - you could do better."

Huh? 

Oh, well.  I knew I wasn't going to be Robert Bateman painting each fine hair on a bear, or feather on a blue heron.  Fine detail made my head spin.  I had a deep respect for my classmates who could concentrate over fine lines, and careful shading - but that wasn't me. 

Today I paint what makes me happy.  Little characters I think are cute - or seaside views like a rustic lighthouse - or my grandmother's cottage. 

I wonder what my art teacher would say?

I Dream of Old Brick Houses

When I was home this Spring, I took a drive over to Wiarton and knocked at the door of this old brick house. I told the young woman who answered that my Grandparents used to live there, and would she mind very much if I took a picture? 

This house has haunted my dreams for over twenty years. My grandmother's house, and the place where much of my childhood roamings took place.

On the side porch were two things that held my young attention.  First, the piano: an old upright Gerard Heintzman.   I would sit and lose myself in made-up melodies (really bad ones, I should add - I didn't know how to play).   I never knew anyone who played it during my time except my sister and me, but I recently learned that before my grandfather passed away, my Aunt Margery would play Christmas songs, and my Grandpa would sing.  Apparently he had a great singing voice.

The other thing that captivated me for hours of childhood was a white cupboard that held my Grandpa's medical equipment.  Gosh, I just imagined opening the cupboard and the old smell (not an unpleasant one) just came back to me.  Memories are incredibly powerful, aren't they?

The cupboard held the most interesting things - glass needles, sutures, cotton swabs, forceps, a glass eye-wash thingy, tongue depressors, and a multitude of other medical stuff.  Funny that his stethoscope wasn't in the cupboard - instead it was in the toy box in the big old kitchen.  I wish I had a photograph of that cupboard, but I never knew then that it wouldn't be there forever. . . such is the life of a child - we don't understand what old poets already know, that nothing gold can stay.



In this room we spent hours making up dances as we watched The Irish Rovers.  Another thing I don't have a photograph of - so this one of Bev (my big sister) and my Dad will have to do.