Overheard in Buses #1: Teenage Bullies Attack

The bus is packed and at least 20 of us are standing in the aisle. A teenage couple is standing near the door, shooting dirty looks about. A man in his 50s, balding, fat and wearing glasses, is standing nearby.

Boy to Man: What are you looking at?

Man, taken aback: What? You mean me?

Girl: Yeah, you, what are are looking at? Are you looking at us?

Man, flabbergasted: What? I wasn't looking at you.

Girl: See this bus, it's full of windows for you to look out. So look out there, don't look at us.

Boy: Yeah, stop looking at us.

Man, looking nervous: Listen, I wasn't looking at you. I wasn't.

Boy and girl share the triumphant glance of successful bullies. I resolve to speak up at the next exchange, but the man turns his back on the kids and spends the rest of the bus ride trying his hardest not to look at them. I spend the rest of the ride wondering why a grown man allowed two children 40 years younger than he to bully him, and why I allowed it to happen.

True writer's block

I've hit another blogging drought. I have lots to write about, but a certain reticence to put it here. It's all so raw, and some of it is just not pretty, and lots of it is not happy.

I am generally a very happy person, and I am happy right now in my life, but my writing is always a little darker than who I am. I think I need a fresh start for this Year of the Ox.

I will soon start two new series of posts; one is called "Overheard in Buses," which is inspired by the amazing "Overheard in Cabs" by NWT blogger Mongoose over at Trucks and the City.

The second series will be called "Journalism Heroes," looking at some famous and obscure reporters I admire, and why.

So stick around -- there's more than pictures of adorable Navy brats and me in my PJs on this site, I promise.

Christmas in the infirmary... I mean our house

So A. and I were sick Christmas Day, and Hubby and Big I. were sick just before New Year's. And that's why I haven't posted Christmas pictures.

So here are a few for you to enjoy, at the end of the Christmas season.

More Christmas pics

Even more Christmas pictures

Happy birthday, Super A.!

Super A. is seven years old. SEVEN.

I've been a mother for seven years. Wow.

Happy birthday, my awesome big dude!

Happy Christmas!

Happy birthday, my little newborn Lord! (Thank you, Mother.)

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Little L.

Because of my work with the HER Foundation, I know a lot of women across North America I have never met in real life, and I "know" their babies and children.

One of those women, the brave and tenacious C., lost her two-month-old daughter today.

L. was diagnosed in utero with a serious heart condition. C., ill with hyperemesis gravidarum, continued to fight for her baby, planning for delivery in a children's hospital where doctors operated on L.'s tiny heart right away.

After multiple surgeries, L. was transferred to her home town children's hospital, then released and sent home with her overjoyed family. She was doing well, growing, blooming. She was beautiful.

She was readmitted a few days ago, and died suddenly today.

I have no words for how sorry I am, and for how utterly devastating this must be for C. and her family. How do we understand the death of an innocent child?

The thing I am struggling with the most tonight is this: My God, don't HGers give enough? After such horrific, sometimes life-threatening, isolating and frightening pregnancies, don't all of my HG sisters deserve to go home with a healthy baby? A live baby? A baby who learns to crawl and walk and dance and sing?

The author Anne Rice, after her reconversion to Catholicism from atheism, was once asked by an interviewer if her husband's death from cancer made her wonder why God took him. She shrugged and said, "I never look at it that way. I think God was just as sorry it happened as I was, and he cried along with me."

Her thought gives me some small comfort tonight. Until I think of my unmet friend and her enormous grief.

I know life isn't fair, I know that. But sometimes its cruelty is breathtaking.

Second Week of Advent

During Advent, I often think about Mary nine months pregnant. Those feelings of expectation and fear and just being ready to no longer be pregnant, added to the enormous responsibility of being the mother of the Son of the Most High.

At no more than 14 or 15 years old.

Little Mother, pray for us.

O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us

People often misunderstand Catholic devotion to Mary. I am no theologian, but here's my attempt to explain why we hold her in reverence.

Notice I didn't use the word worship. Mary is simply a woman; however, we believe since she was given the singular gift of being the Mother of God, that God made her a little bit different from the rest of us. The Holy of Holies couldn't reside in a womb with a stain, not for His own sake, but for the protection of the one who carried Him. So God preserved Mary from that touch of darkness the rest of us have, what Christians call original sin, right from the moment of her conception. And that's what we celebrate today, on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

A very good priest once explained to me every baptized person has original sin removed from their souls from the moment of baptism (after that it's our own mistakes that muck us up.) So, in essence, all Christians are like Mary after baptism, which means Mary could have sinned if she so chose.

Catholics believe she did not. So it is not only her spotless nature we revere; it's her choices. Mary chose to refuse sin. Mary chose to accept her unexpected, virgin and potentially dangerous pregnancy. She chose to give us our Saviour. Her choices are why she is the mother of all Christians.

I have also had some profound religious experiences involving Mary, before I ever "got" her. She was an enormous source of help and comfort during my last two pregnancies. I wear a Miraculous Medal around my neck every day in honour of her help during my pregnancy with Toddler N. -- a medal, strangely enough, my Anglican mom picked out for my birthday that year, thinking I would like it because it had Mary on it and was beautiful, not knowing its full meaning and purpose.

Both of my mothers take very good care of me. I love you both.

Happy feast day, readers!

First week of Advent

O come, thou Dayspring.

Saint Edith Stein, pray for us.

Saint Maximillian Kolbe, pray for us.

Remember what the Lord's first Chosen People, the Jews, have suffered for their faith, and what all the Christian martyrs have suffered for theirs. Let's hold onto ours.

Blessed Advent, everyone.

The Self-Portrat Challenge: Writer's Block

Amy over at ...on the present moment is running a self-portrait challenge. Now, I'm not usually one to do these sorts of contests, especially if the contest involves David Hasselhoff ; however, Amy's looked like a creative challenge, and also a way to avoid working on my book.

Here's my entry, a triptych I call "Writer's Block."

Work in progress: writing playlist

So Stephenie Meyer gave me a good idea. She uses playlists as inspiration while writing her books. And while I don't think Ms. Meyer is the best author I've read, she has sold five novels which I find quite enjoyable to read.

So, like any good author, I'm stealing her idea. (Actually, Stephenie shares writing tips sometimes, and this is one of them -- set your writing mood.)

Here is a very partial, only-just-begun playlist for the novel I'm trying to write. Does this give you any ideas about my mood for this book?

"But I am the Chosen One..." (THWAP!)

Eight months until the next installment of Pottermania!

In one piece

The Hubby was in a (thankfully) minor motorcycle accident this week. A driver performed an illegal lane change and forced him to "ditch" his bike. It was either that or hit the car.

He has a few scratches and scrapes, and some sore muscles, but that's it. His bike, on the other hand, may be a write-off, a month after purchase.

Hubby, this is for you. Thanks for not dying.

Remembrance Day, toddler-style

We have lost 97 Canadians in Afghanistan. Hundreds have been wounded. My next-door neighbour just came back. Two of Super A.'s classmates have daddies there.

Remember the veterans and fallen of our own generation, and remember their families.

To all Canadian veterans of all conflicts: Thanks. I know this little girl above is one of the reasons you fought and are fighting now. Her mother appreciates it very, very much.

This blog is being neglected...

...so I can actually work on writing my book.

There. I typed it out loud. I am committed. I am writing a novel.

I must be insane.

More posts this week, I promise.

The wasp

I have a terrible, reason-numbing fear of stinging insects. I never liked bees and wasps very much, but my fear became a phobia when my brother, father and I were swarmed by a nest of black wasps at Mary Ann Falls in the Cape Breton Highlands when I was 13.

When wasps surround our backyard barbecue or the church picnic, I have one reaction: scoop up the kids and run.

I've been fighting my flight instincts this summer, trying to be a better role model for the kids, because Victoria is full of wasps. It's as if a cloud of yellow and black terror appears whenever I step outside in the late summer and early fall. I don't want the kids to inherit this irrational fear, so I've been trying to push myself. I try to flinch when I usually run, and swat when I usually flinch.

The children and I were at a birthday party today. Afterwards, while I was loading them into the minivan, a wasp flew in the open window.

I encouraged it to fly back out the window. It kept inside the van. I tried shooing it out. It would fly out the window, then right back in. I tried swatting at it. It headed back towards the kids, then straight at me.

It landed on the windshield. I snatched up a napkin from the car console, and stared down my adversary.

"Mom, are you going to kill it?" Big. I. asked.

"Yes," I said, steeling myself. "I love you guys enough to kill a wasp."

I slammed the napkin down over the wasp. Ha! Got it!

The black and yellow nemesis walked out from underneath it and down towards my hand. Arrggghhh.

I moved the napkin, trapped the bug under it, and brought my other hand over it with a slam.

Squish. Adversary defeated.

I might be a world-class chicken, but my kids make me brave enough to face some fears, wasps included.

On unseen friends

This Thursday was the Feast of the Guardian Angels in Catholic Christendom. I try to remember this feast day ever year; some years I plan an entire dinner and crafts for the kids. We used to do this with our friends G and G, and their children. Some years (like this week's feast) I remember to bring home dessert, and then discuss guardian angels with the kids.

I know many people think of guardian angels as cute, naked babies. I don't. The picture above is is more what comes to mind when I think of them.

Guardian angels are powerful protectors of what's most important: our souls. It bothers me when people focus on how they can save us physically; while I think they can and do try to keep us generally safe, and may have some ability to help us heal, their power is spiritual, not physical. I'm never going to expect the children's guardian angels to scoop them out of the path of a truck, and I've told them point-blank their angels will not protect their bodies if they do something extremely dangerous, such as run into the road. We have free will, after all, and God has created this world so that actions have consequences. Running in front of a truck usually nets you the consequence of injury or death.

I do think guardian angels can influence us, if we're willing to be open to that. And I know they pray for us unceasingly.

My dad and lots of other readers are going to think this is a lot of tosh, and that's fine. But let me tell you, I firmly believe Toddler N. would not have survived my pregnancy if it wasn't for the influence of her guardian angel -- over me. Whenever I seriously considered aborting due to my illness, it was only a prayer to Toddler N.'s guardian angel that could push that thought away.

I also think my grandmother has the toughest guardian angel in the business, and when she finally decides to head up to God's neighbourhood, I almost envy the zygote that's going to get next dibs.

Super A. has a vivid imagination, so discussion of angels always fascinate him. He told me a few months ago his guardian angel is his big sister Hope -- the baby I lost to miscarriage in my first pregnancy eight years ago. No matter how many times we explain angel duties are not given to human souls, he insists. It's so indicative of A. -- wanting a special relationship, a loving and protective one, with this sister he never met. A chance to not be the biggest, but to be a little brother in need of help.

If you're looking for a way to introduce guardian angels to your little ones, I heartily recommend "Angel in the Waters" by Regina Doman.

Dear guardian angel, pray for me. And N.'s guardian angel: once again, thanks so much, my friend.

For Mom

In the spirit of ma-na-ma-nah.

Love you, Mom.