Crying as Therapy

My family are not criers; I am not a crier. Once when I was at work a person upset me so much that when I ran into a good, kind colleague a few minutes later I actually began crying and then apologized “for losing my composure”. I did the same thing when I was in the hospital two years ago when I suddenly lost my Scandinavia phlegm and began crying because of more negative news about my condition and then I apologized to the nurse who was so kindly holding my hand. She condoled with me, telling me that I had every right to cry.

I am not a crier about myself or my plight. I will, however, sob unashamedly over a movie, even a commercial can bring tears to my eyes but that isn’t real “crying”, in my view.

Last night my mother came into my room and hugged me and held my hand and choked out her words to me because I had to lie down in order for her to give me my blood thinner shot. I have been in so much pain the last two weeks whenever I stand or walk for only a minute or so and it is becoming almost too much to bear. She said she wished she could do something to help me. Then she began to cry.

“Oh Mummy, don’t cry. I am alright. I will be alright. Don’t cry Mummy, you do everything for me. You are the best mother in the world.” I condoled with her but I know she went back in her room and cried some more.

We are not a family of criers but in our hearts, we cry just like everyone else.

The Loveliest Mother

Where would I be without my mother? I shudder to think what my life would have been like these past two years without her unwavering support. At night when we watch our soaps or one of our favorite shows I will reach out my hand to touch her rheumatic one and just look at her and say “I love you”. Sometimes it is the other way around and she is the one who reaches out first but always we are in sync with each other. 

Well, now, that isn’t quite true! It’s lovely to be sentimental but when it comes to certain topics we can be at odds with each other. I can get quite severe with her and my siblings will sometimes admonish me for being too hard on her but I tell them “no, she is perfectly compus mentus and I won’t let her get away with thinking that she can say such things”.  In her old age she has become very territorial and protective of her native land and her sister can wind her up pretty good by retelling news stories about the abuse of refugees in the country. I can listen to them once or twice but not 50 times at which point I get snarky and tell her “Mom, you aren’t living in Denmark, you are in Canada and it isn’t relevant to us”.

Of course I know it is but I have to tone her down some way. But she is feisty. She will begin again the next day, and the next, and . . . .  Mothers, what can you do with them but love them?

My Dad

Today is my father’s birthday and even after 18 years since his passing I miss him very much. In many ways he was my true north, the compass by which I lived my values and the only person I truly looked up to for his knowledge of the world, his values and morals and last but not least his truly magnificent sense of humour.

I remember when Dad first started telling us about John Steinbeck’s various books and how he described Danny’s exploits in Tortilla Flat. Many years later in our book club a friend said she had a hard time finding it funny to read about drunks. I took up the book and read a paragraph or two and the friend laughed and said “well, when you read it like that I can see the humour”. Sometimes we just have to think a little outside our comfort zones to see another side to the story.

Dad had flaws like any human being but one thing is certain, he was a great father and I count myself lucky that I had two outstanding parents who gave us their all. I think one of the most remarkable things about my dad (and I know I have written about this before) but he was very forward thinking when it came to women’s rights and from a very young age, about 7, Dad said to me that I shouldn’t look at “women’s jobs” such as nursing or a teacher – I had what it took to be a “professional” such as a doctor, lawyer or engineer. In those days women were only very, very slowly getting into those careers. I’m talking the late ‘50’s.

Another thing he didn’t actually talk about but our family seemed unconsciously imbued with a very Danish sense of everyone being equal. I can truly say that I have never felt inferior because I was an immigrant or female. Some of that may simply be due to my first language, Danish. Linguistists may support my opinion that language bears a part in creating who we are and Dad made sure that we always spoke Danish in the home.

I just want to celebrate the wonderful father my Daddy was. I miss you so much!

A Beloved Grandmother

Today was my maternal grandmother’s birthday, 121 years ago.  It hardly seems possible that she was born that many years ago and only one generation separates the two of us.  I have to blink several times to remind myself that I am no spring chicken myself and yet . . .

Time is sneaky.  Day to day we question “what time is it” or “what day is it” and as Christmas comes upon us we start asking “I can’t believe another year has gone by”.  Sneaky little dickens, Mr. Time.  Time may be manmade but whatever we want to call it, it marches on without missing a beat and with no consideration towards the frailties of mankind.  A split second can make all the difference in an Olympic athlete’s life and a human life time can disappear before we can turn around.  That’s time and that’s life.

My grandmother was given the name Erla Algunda, Gunda for short and she was the second youngest in the family.  She was a beauty and also blessed with intelligence.  Oddly enough she did not marry young, as her sisters did, but instead had a career as a nanny that took her to Copenhagen.  At one point she was on the brink of immigrating to Australia to join an uncle and cousin but then she was called back to Fredrikshavn to care for her sister’s brother-in-law’s children.  He had become a widower and had 4 young children.  She knew him very well and the next thing she knew she was married to him. 

That’s how two sisters married two brothers and how my mother had three female cousins who were double first cousins.  My great aunt Olivia and great uncle Julius were my mother’s favorite relatives and she would holiday with them every year. Olivia was 10 years older than Gunda but they were very close as sisters.  Within a few years my grandparents moved to Aalborg but the family ties were strong and visits to each other’s homes were frequent.

Even though my grandmother married quite late in life, she was in her late 30’s, there was genuine love and sympathy between the couple as well as a shared sense of humour.  My mother tells many stories of how they would prank each other and tease each other and really the only noise in the house was their laughter and the clatter of children’s feet.  There was never any yelling or quarrelling.  Mom can only remember one time when her dad let out some swear words, that was the day when he set off to work after his breakfast, opened the door, exclaimed “For Fanden!” and slammed the door.  He went back to the kitchen table and poured another cup of coffee while the kids and Gunda asked why he wasn’t going to work.  “You won’t be going anywhere today.”  He said.  They all ran to the window.  Snow had come down overnight and was now knee deep after a wonderful spring Sunday the day before.  Mom said it was the only day in her working career where she was late to work.

I can just picture such a family scene.  Because of Gunda og Johs my mother’s demeanor has always mirrored their quiet way of being and our own home was likewise strife free.  Love and admiration go out to my beloved grandmother on this day, her birthday.

Feminism & Sports

A couple of weeks ago I was somewhat surprised by a discussion on the show “To The Contrary” where even the host Bonnie Erbe got her two cents in the discussion.  My first and lasting thought was simply “are these topics mutually exclusive?”  To put the discussion in context the question arose out of the ongoing controversy with famous sports figures getting into trouble over sexual abuse and violence against women, including their wives coupled with frat party rapes on and off campus.

I don’t know very much about what goes on in training of sports but I would be really surprised to learn that because you train as a quarterback you are taught that all women are yours for the taking or anything remotely connected with women and sex.  The discussion at one point veered to “we should do a better job of raising our boys” which again I thought was being very exclusive.  Are parents doing a better job raising girls than boys? 

We have here several different discussions but just to scrap the first one out of the way I believe any woman can enjoy sports of any kind and still be a feminist.  You can take feminism as having a number of different definitions including and excluding various areas of humanism.  That’s for another discussion.  In this context I am taking it that feminism means women who believe in equal rights for women.  One of those rights would be going to a football game, for goodness sakes!

With regard to how we raise our children I would hope that the majority of parents would raise their sons and daughters to respect each other and abjure violence towards anyone.  If I child is going on to college I would hope, for heavens sakes, that there would be enough intelligence in that boy’s noggin to realize that rape is wrong.  The fault, one would assume, lies not in the parenting but in the culture in the college.  I was going to add “and in the game” however I don’t think that is quite right either.  Whether it is hockey, football, basketball or javelin throwing sports are about excellence.  The sport itself is not wrong but the culture which may grow up around certain teams (professional or college) and the sort of mob mentality that can arise at any time (not just when young people are in college and perceived to be more impressionable). 

What do I mean?  I mean that there are certain people of all ages who are influenced by others very easily.  As well there are certain people who seem to enjoy violence of any type whether it be in a sport or an accident on the road.  Some people are like that, rubbernecking their way through life.  In preparing our children for life, not just college, we should prepare them as strong and independent individuals who do not rely on the approval of others in order to exist.  Too often it seems teenagers of 17 or 18 head off to college without ever having been away from home before and consequently they do not know how to handle their “freedom” in an adult way.  Peer pressure is alive and sick in colleges around the world so instead of being a helicopter parent give your child the tools he or she needs to become independence.

       

Mornings with Dad

The other day I was lying in bed, reading my book, eating my toast and observing my cats who were l curled up at my feet and winking at me every once in a while.  It made me suddenly thinking about my childhood and a weekend tradition that we kids adored but I am sure my parents had ambivalent feelings about it.

The thing was that our dad worked very long hours, leaving the house around 5 a.m. and returning sometimes after 8 p.m.  Often we never saw my dad until the weekend so early on Saturday mornings we would knock and go into our parents’ bedroom.  Usually Mom was already up and making coffee and sandwiches for both of them which would be served in bed.  I should perhaps mention here that my father was served breakfast in bed every day of his married life (they do not make wives like my mother anymore, or perhaps ever before).  We would sit on the edge of Dad’s bed and tell him all about our week (this is where I usually mentioned the latest ghost story I had written for composition).  Pretty soon Dad would ease us every so skillfully over to Mom’s side of the bed where we would still sit on the edge, talk over her while more and more wildly jiggle the bed.  Mom endured everything patiently for a really long time where Dad had us on his side for maybe ten minutes, tops.

I was usually the first one up and about in the mornings so as I grew a little older I often got a lot of “advance” information from Dad.  One memorable Saturday morning I recall flipping through Dad’s “Hvem, Hvad, Hvor” (which is the Danish Annual Almanac) and coming upon a picture of a wild looking man with a peculiar mustache I asked him “whose that” whereupon Dad replied “the devil”.  My eyes flew first to the picture and then to Dad and asked “what”!  He then explained to me who Adolf Hitler was and what he had done to the world.  I was 8 years old and I don’t think I will ever forget that history lesson.

Shortly after I would enter the bedroom my sister would come in, then the boys all at once but just as steadily the younger ones would soon go out to the kitchen for breakfast.  Mom would get up to feed them and then it would just be my sister or oldest brother remaining.  Pretty soon it would just be me.  Dad and I could talk for hours about so many things although most of the time Dad did the talking but that is how I learned to be such a good listener.  I may not be a very patient person when it comes to being in a lineup but I can be very patient waiting for my turn to talk!

I really miss him.

Octogenarian Mischief

Just to take some focus off the princess here I thought I should write something about my mother whose birthday it is today.  I told her that I hadn’t bought her a present yet but thought that the gift of me should be enough.  She laughed.

I’ve frequently written about all the wonderful qualities my mother has but she also is endowed with a number of idiosyncrasies that are coming to the fore as she ages.  One of the things that she has started which confounds the family is suddenly commencing a Danish dialogue where she throws in a whole lot of words that we’ve never heard before.  For example yesterday as we were going for a drive she used a word that I ultimately discovered meant “livestock”.  I am still not sure what the word actually was but it sounded sort of like a misfiring spark plug (remember Danish is a Germanic language).  I looked at her sideways and said “Mom, why have you decided to use these words when we are all elderly people?” to which she responded that she thought we ought to know them.  Now?  Just before we enter the grave? I’m going to need to know the Danish word for livestock?  Oh that’s right, the Lord is my Shepherd.

Most of the time we can jump into the new scenario she brings up but every once in a while we are confounded.  We sort of know her routine when a road, bus, pothole, school, politician or the like is mentioned.  We can even jump light-years into the conversation when something segues from greenhouse gas to bowel movements but when we go from designer clothes to a man carrying a wheelbarrow full of bricks we get a little lost along the way.  It’s not that she is evenly remotely gaga but she will decide she doesn’t want to talk about A-line skirts versus a flute style and will just change the subject willy-nilly.  

Every once in a while she will tell a story on herself that puts another light on a person we’ve always thought was perfect and sweet.  For instance she retold a story about a time she and dad drove to Lethbridge when a snowstorm suddenly came up.  This time she happened to mention that all along she was noticing that there was steam coming out of the engine but she never said anything to dad. So he drove along until at last the car died (and as it turned out, the motor had burned out).  She admitted that she just wanted to get home so she thought she’d just “wait and see what happened”.  There we are, all 4 of us sitting there with our mouths open, shocked.  She just laughed.  

So this morning I had been sweating up a storm on the treadmill and was finishing off with my crunches when I heard the phone ring for the second time.  I thought by now she remembers that it’s her birthday and surely she will pick up the phone.  No, she doesn’t.  She waits for me to stop what I am doing, run to the phone only to hear a click on the other end.  Passive aggressive behaviour?  Taunting the retiree?  Deaf?  Because it’s her birthday I will give her the benefit of the doubt, but this octogenarian bears watching. 

Pain and Strength

For the last 9 months I have been suffering terribly with a knee injury without much relief.  I experience twinges and outright pain in other joints as a consequence and oftentimes it is agonizing.  I do not handle it all that well when I compare myself to my valiant 80 year old mother.  While I may not be crying or moaning I find myself wondering at the level of pain my mother has been suffering with her rheumatoid arthritis for the past 20 years.  Here is an example of fortitude that is hard to imitate let alone match.  It is seldom, I could almost say never, that I hear Mom even say she is in pain.  She quietly goes about her tasks, her knitting and sometimes I will see her take an aspirin for the pain but never does she say “oiy, oiy, oiy, I have a pain”. 

Yesterday I wrote about character, I wrote about life lessons and how I had learned a lot about living a life within one’s means.  Today I simply want to attest to the fine character of my mother as she tolerates unbelievable pain on a daily basis with a grace and dignity that is truly commendable.  When she quietly asks if I can help her open up a new jar of jam, or wrestle with the milk container I take it from her and chide her “you are getting to be very high maintenance, Mom” and she grins and says “I know”.  Her sense of humour is unimpaired as is her sense of the ridiculous.  We go together down to the Palais Poulet to usher the girls into it for the night and chuckle at their antics.  She admonishes herself as she spills some coffee while carrying it to one or other of her children and says “I’ll never be a waitress” and we tell her that’s what she’s been for the last 60 years when she's catered to a husband and 6 children.

This may not be Mother’s Day but I feel moved to write that I have the most admirable mother in the world and maybe someday I can be like her.

Funny Parents

It has really been a delight and a revelation to live with my mother over these last 2 years.  Growing up my father was such a large personality that my mother really lived in his shadow to the point that she almost disappeared.  At the same time all of us children relied on Mom for everything and if she wasn’t home when we got home it was terribly traumatic.  If we needed something done, if we wanted something found, it was to Mom we would go.   

But at the dinner table it was Father who had centre stage and we would hang on his every word as high entertainment.  While it isn’t a surprise to see my mother’s sense of humour, it is surprising to find her laughing at herself over all her silly mistakes and quirks which are definitely developing rapidly in her old age.  Reflecting again about yesterday and her crazy mistake at identifying an apple core as a candle I chuckle.  Back in the day I am not really sure she would have laughed although I do remember her taking it with good humour when we all laughed at her for bundling up, putting on skates for the first time and then skating on an ice patch the size of a quarter, all the time holding a broom to keep her balance.  After all the time it took her to get dressed and out the door, she was on the ice a matter of 12 seconds.  We laughed for days at that one.

Reflecting on my parents and the way I was raised truly makes me appreciate my childhood.  I have so many good memories of my parents that I feel truly blessed.  Even the spankings have their humorous side after Mom admitted she would stand at the closed door after a spanking and listen to my sister and I giggle as we asked “did it hurt”?  The truth is my mother wouldn’t hurt a fly much less her children.

I hope you had a similar childhood that can make you smile.

Mother, My Mother

I watch my mother as she crosses the room, climbs the 3 steps into the kitchen area and proceeds to bustle about making coffee for our “Aften’s Kaffe” (evening coffee) while we watch a favorite program.  No longer is she upright with the proud Jacobsen Princess bearing; instead she is rather leaning forward as she takes hesitant steps across the room.  She is not nimble going up the stairs but takes them clumsily and one at a time.  Sometimes it is rather painful to wonder where my beautiful, energetic mother has gone while in her place is this tiny little old woman.

       I know I am not alone when I worry about my aging parent.  So far she is still quite capable of carrying on with her kitchen duties.  She is still the most wonderful cook in the world and she still diligently cleans up the kitchen afterwards with pride and skill.  She dusts the living room, she does laundry.  But there are signs that she is not the same woman she used to be.  She cannot get out into the garden to rake leaves or pull weeds.  She can barely haul the water hose around.  She can still knit but she only takes on small projects which take longer than usual to complete.  Instead of taking her a couple of hours to make a pair of socks it will take 2 or 3 days.  She used to be a skilled seamstress but now she only hems up pants or skirts and not if they are black as she cannot see the dark thread against the material, she of the eagle eyes of yore.

       But then she comes out and stands at the top of the stairs holding out my coffee cup and a plate of “contraband” and she smiles her own sweet smile as her blue eyes twinkle brightly.  She says “I baked a cake” and so now I fall off the wagon as I eat the so-called contraband guiltily.  Her sense of humour is intact.

 

 

Mother Gets a Makeover

The first thing we do is cut back on the daily news hour programs.  Then I tell her to focus on the positive side of any story she reads in the mini-newspaper she gets during the week.  I bring home educational magazines and leave them strategically around the house so that she might venture to pick them up despite not being 20 year old Danish magazines.  I venture to mention some of the nuggets that I have found inspirational in various books, shows and magazines. 

       Giving my mother a positive makeover is a super challenge since she can get stubborn all of a sudden.  One minute she is a compliant little girl and the next WHAM! baby monster is born again.  Last night we were talking about religion and being sensibly philosophical when suddenly she had me giggling and then roaring with laughter.  As we talked about life after death she reminded me about an event that occurred some years ago.  She woke up very suddenly to feel absolutely ice cold with her teeth chattering so hard they were almost breaking.  She looked me in the eye and said very matter of factly “I may have been dead”.  Like this happens to her every day.  I nearly choked on my meat and then couldn’t stop laughing. 

       I can be as philosophical or as dogmatic as I like but the truth is my mother continues to amaze me.  No matter how pessimistic she might be she still has a great sense of humour.  If you have humour you really do see the bright side of things.

A mediocre person tells. A good person explains. A superior person demonstrates. A great person inspires others to see for themselves."
Harvey Mackay

Rock n Roll - Good Times

When I was a youngster I used to see my mother doing the housework to good old rock n roll music.  By the time I was a teenager I was enlisted as Mom’s DJ and would stack the record player with her favorite songs while she went at her daily chores.  She loved Elvis but she also liked some more edgy songs of the day such as “The Night Chicago Died”, “Another Saturday Night” and “Magnet and Steel”.  We edged her into the BeeGees, Donna Summers, ABBA, The Guess Who and even the Rolling Stones. 

       Reflecting back on those days I realize that our house was always full of sound, whether it was with talk or with music or the louder voices of kids fighting.  Yet it wasn’t filled with tension or stress, despite the noise it was still a very tranquil household.  The might sound a little odd, that there could be tranquility in the midst of noise but it’s actually true.  There were 8 of us in the house, there was music, television, younger kids playing and running around, my mother working away in the kitchen, setting the table and cooking supper.  When Dad got home there was always a lot of kids running to greet him and with his big voice filling the house there was little silence until he settled down to his newspaper.  The house seemed to have a certain tempo.

       Nostalgia?  Selective memory?  Perhaps, but I can say this with certainty.  Never in all my growing up did I hear my parents’ quarrel.  Never did I hear them discuss money or financial concerns.  We were sheltered from that type of insecurity.  Any stress we experienced was of our own making.  We were very blessed.

Challenging Mom

It’s so much easier to challenge others than oneself.  Last night I asked Mom what she had learned that day and she said “nothing” so I told her she had to learn something new today.  When I got home I got more than I bargained for as she stood waiting on the steps in great agitation.  She began by asking me to look at her neck.  Naturally I did so but with growing trepidation as I am not the fearless Nurse Annie type.  Her neck did look a little red but I was distracted by her telling me the story of her day.  First she went to the pharmacist and showed her neck and then she came home and then she went back to the doctor’s who proceeded to tell her not to take any more of her pills.   This set up a whole new wave of alarm for me since she has a whole pharmacy of pills that she takes religiously every morning.  Was I going to have a walking zombie in the house in a couple of days?  Then she tells me, in amongst the continuing story of not taking the pills, that the doctor says allergies can spring from anywhere at any time of life.  This I already knew but I was still harking back to the “no pills” part of the story.  She was thinking of not taking her sleeping pills?  I’ve lived with her not getting a good nights sleep and I am seriously worried.  Somehow I feel it’s essential for her to have a good night’s sleep in order for me to have a good night’s sleep.

       By the time I had everything sorted out I was able to look at her neck and yes, see that it was covered with a rash.  So I asked her the same questions that my sister, my brother, the pharmacist and the doctor asked her.  No, she hadn’t eaten anything different, she hadn’t used anything different, nothing was different.  Then where the heck did hte rash come from?  Both of us are now looking suspiciously at the flies swarming around us, fruit flies as we thought.  They’ve been around the house for a few weeks now.

       But are they fruit flies?????

       Oh, and as I finished my supper Mom said in triumph “You said I had to do three new things today well I’ve done a lot more than that what with going back and forth to town and then washing every stitch of clothing in my room.”  I couldn’t help but laugh.

To Spank or Not to Spank

There was an interesting article in this evening’s paper discussing the Canadian Medical Association Journal’s push to have spanking outlawed.  Section 43 of the Criminal Code was upheld by the Supreme Court in 2004 ruling that the provision did not infringe on a child’s right to security under the Charter of Rights & Freedoms.  But the CMA feels that it is archaic and inhumane to spank a child.

       I can see it all now, a five year old termagant secures a lawyer and sues his mother for spanking him after he screamed the house down because he didn’t want to eat his turnips or go to bed at bedtime.  Yes, yes, let’s just talk some sense into the child, give him a timeout somewhere (but not too isolated because that could also be considered cruel and unusual punishment – though in a practical sense I’d be wanting to keep my eye on the termagant in case he decided to scrawl on the walls with his . . . you know).

       I am certainly not opposed to teaching parents how to handle children, and I understand why Dr. Phil wouldn’t publicly advocate spanking but even Dr. Spock lived to publicly regret saying spanking didn’t have a part to play in parenting (look it up, it’s true). 

       Here are my thoughts, spanking may be a tool like any other tool in teaching and raising children.  Not every child requires spanking, a word or a look is all that child may need to get her attention.  However some children simply cannot focus no matter how much you may strain yourself to explain the reason for the no.  If a parent must resort to spanking, it should be done in a restrained manner, on the soft spot of the derriere and with a reasoned admonition before, during and afterwards.  Too often an adult may lose their temper and simply hit the child which is wrong.  Of course it is wrong.  But if the adult has said no and the child continues with the bad behaviour to the point of being unmanageable (if you have never dealt with such a child, God bless you), a smack on the bottom, an explanation of why and the resultant escort to bed has always worked for me.

       In a perfect world there would be no physical punishment.  In a perfect world there wouldn’t be lunatic speedsters on the highway either.

       I’m just saying.

Father's Day

I don’t think much about Father’s Day since my father passed away 11 years ago.  Rather I think about my father a lot, in fact it is a rare day when I don’t have some fleeting thought of him.  My father was an ebullient personality who really bubbled over with life and happiness.  As kids we looked forward to his homecoming every evening because he would always have some story to tell us about what happened at work.  He could make the worst disasters sound hilarious, such as the time his factory had a slight problem with their beef stew spilling over and running into the sewers.  They cleaned up the place but it all went into the sewer which ended up backing up into the Indian carpet store behind them, which they didn’t know about for a day or so.  When Dad discovered the problem he went over to the store owner to apologize (even though it really wasn’t their fault, it was the city sewer after all).  But when Dad offered to buy one of the carpets, cheap, the store manager practically ran him out of the store.  Only my dad would have the brass to do something like that!

       Another time my dad was strolling back from his lunch with one of his colleagues when they came across a hat shop.  There was a big sale going on so in they went to see what kind of deal they could make.  A particularly nice hat was lying in the pile of $5.00 hats.  Dad recognized it as a Borsalino and wondered if he would be able to get it for the $5.00.  he took it up to the counter and asked if it was $5.00 as it was in the bin.  The man said yes, Dad popped it on his head and even though it came down to his eyes he said “sold”.  His friend asked “what are you going to do with a hat two sizes too big?”  Dad said he didn’t know but he couldn’t leave a Borsalino in the bin! 

As chance would have it one of his partners showed up that afternoon and as he was a big fellow Dad handed him the hat and said “Happy Birthday”.  John said “How did you know it was my birthday?”  Well, Dad hadn’t known it was his birthday; it was just his way of handing him a present.  Tears rolled down his cheeks and then he got all upset as Dad took the hat away from him and began rolling it up, stamping on it and whacking it around.   Then the hat popped right back into shape.  Dad said “It’s a Borsalino, you can’t hurt it no matter what you do to it”.  Well, the poor old man was in heaven.  We laughed so hard at the story, picturing the poor man crying over his ruined hat.

Yes, I sure miss my dad, he was something else.

Thoughts on Mothers

If a person is fortunate enough to have a good mother I think you must agree that her life is not easy.  From the minute you are born she worries about you; are you normal, are you sick (when you cry), do you have enough to eat, why aren’t you sleeping long enough.  These are all questions that go through her mind day after day until you learn to babble something or other.  It must be nerve wracking to say the least.  I remember babysitting for my sister once while she flew off to Hawaii.  My niece felt warm and I was in a panic lest she go into some type of shock.  I called my parents for advice, soaked her gently with a wet clothe and the following day smacked her for banging my head into the house thermostat because she was in a tantrum because I said no to her skating outside.  Didn’t she realize, I asked, that she had nearly died the night before and I wasn’t taking any chances with her playing outside when she had fever?  She said she wasn’t dying now so she should go skating.

      What do you do with a child like that?  Give her back to her mother, that’s what!

      But real mothers can’t do that.  They are stuck for a good 18 years with their child and the miracle is that they put up with us.  They put up with our crankiness, our vomit, our dirtiness, countless illnesses, demanding teachers, PMS, our broken teenage hearts, our hatred for tyrannical dads, our despair over our clothes, our figures, our hair, sibling rivalry and heaven only knows what else.  What do they get in return?  Pretty much nadda, zilch, ingratitude and an occasional remembrance on Mother’s Day.

      Well, that’s not really true.  While we may not appreciate our mothers very much while we are children, except when we are in the throes of truly hideous mumps, we recognize her worth almost immediately upon turning 18.  Suddenly we are emancipated from childhood and all we really want is for our mothers to take us back and pamper us with chicken soup and platitudes.

      Mothers really are the best human beings on the planet.

Celebrating My Mother

Well she's all you'd ever want,
She's the kind they'd like to flaunt and take to dinner.
Well she always knows her place.
She's got style, she's got grace, She's a winner.
She's a Lady.

When I think of my mother I think of her like that “she’s a lady”.  When she was younger men would ogle her in the grocery store, that’s how lovely she was.  When she walked about on the ship we sailed on coming to Canada people thought she was one of the Danish princesses, she walked with such style and grace.

                My mother has a quiet dignity about her but at the same time she has a fabulous sense of humour and can really enjoy a joke, especially when it is on her.  Recently we went together into the Staples shop to buy something for my camera and as we were leaving my mother saw some balls in one of the aisle baskets.  She picked it up and before I could say anything she attempted to bounce it to the floor to see how good it would bounce.  As it turned out it was a calculator shaped like a rubber ball which I had seen but she didn’t realize it until it made a terrible whack on the floor.  She looked at me, aghast, and I looked at her and we both ended up with a laughing fit that didn’t stop all the way across the parking lot.  I couldn’t catch my breath because every time I tried to tell her what I thought I would picture her face and go into another peal of laughter.

                What struck me as so hilarious was all the times she had told me not to touch anything, not to bounce any balls, not to even dream of picking one up and here she was destroying property at her ripe old age.  She could see the irony herself and went into more laughter.  It was one of the funniest shopping trips I’d ever had with my mother.  When I was little my mother was the main disciplinarian in the house because my father worked such long hours and she was so strict.  Many is the times I’ve gone to bed with a warm bum from a paddle with the wooden spoon although more often my sister and I would yell like banshees so Mom would stop quickly and once she left the room we would ask each other if we got hurt.  No, we would say and then giggle.  Little did we know that Mom stood on the other side of the door listening and she would be chuckling away at our shenanigans. 

                I am lucky to have had her as my Mom.

First photo is Mom with our cousins and her sister; bottom with me and Charlotte

Vegging Out with My Mom

This week has been a weird one for Mom and I.  When I come home I just want to be a couch potato (nothing new there) but my Mom declares she is tired also.  We were supposed to collaborate on a training program but instead we are tired and brain dead.   This has got to stop.

       The number one key to longevity is a joy of life but if a person becomes a permanent couch potato I cannot see much joy in that.  So here I go, developing another famous Plan.  This morning I have been sitting in front of the computer petting one of the cats, drinking coffee and allowing my mind to roam the universe of possibilities.  Surely there is something that will give us the impetus to get going.

       Meanwhile I think that it is nice to just sit with my Mom and hold her hand as we talk during commercials.  I feel pampered when she asks me “what would you like for supper tomorrow night?” even as my tummy is full of the nice dinner I just consumed and internally I think “not now, I only want crackers tomorrow”.  I believe I am well suited to having my mother around because I have never gotten out of my habit of coming directly home from school (I mean work).  Mom knows that I am as dependable as clockwork when it comes to punctuality and habits.  She tells me she hasn’t got the kitchen down pat so the food isn’t on the table immediately when I get in the door. 

       “Mom” I say “I don’t expect to come into the house and gobble down food immediately!  I need to wind down for 10 minutes or so at least before I have to eat”.

       “I’m used to being able to have it done to the minute when your father came home.”

       At work yesterday we went out for lunch and one of the ladies said that lunch would also be her supper and I piped up “I gave my mother slash cook the night off” which was meant as a joke but after Mom’s comment I felt like I was being a task master and I can see that it will be all too easy to become a tyrant.

       Having a roommate is an adjustment.