She Brings Me Wildflowers

http://www.dennisflood.com/photos/get/2777/irish_wildflowers

About a month ago, Amira started doing the most curious – and beautiful – thing.  She started bringing me flowers.

Often, she and Stu will go out for a quick jaunt around the neighbourhood in the morning.  One morning, I took a call while they were gone.  I was up in the office with the door closed, and I heard them come in, and Amira saying over and over again, “Mummy!  Mummy!”

Stu told me later that this is what happened:

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Lightness and Smileyness

My quest for connections continues, and so it went when I found myself at the mall on Friday afternoon.

I had a lovely chat with one person in particular that left me smiling big.

As I walked in to the store, I knew I was out of my element.  My jeans read Old Navy on the tag, not Mavi, but I wanted a jean jacket, and hey, this was Jean Machine.  So in I went, hoping that I wouldn’t seem like an old fuddy-duddy mom in a store where the music pumping at decibels that made it clear that their target demographic was a good 15 years younger than I am.

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Craving Connections – An Experiment In Being Open

http://hello-son.blogspot.ca/2011/01/call-113-simple-equation.html

I had this idea, and I’m going to do it.  Actually, I’m already doing it.

I live in a fairly big city with over 2.5million other people.  I go out in this city pretty much every single day, and see some of these people, but I rarely speak to any of them, and when I do, our interactions are transactional.  It’s all Tall skim latte, please and Would you like anything else?

Well, as a matter of fact, I would like something else.  I’d like to talk to someone.  I’d like to connect.  Is that crazy?  Why don’t people talk to each other anymore?  Did they ever?  Maybe they do elsewhere, but not in Toronto.  Or maybe people in Toronto do talk to each other, but no one talks to me.

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I look for helpers

Another day, another reminder of our humanity, with all its beauty and its brutality.

This time, two detonated bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.

I’m a runner.  I’ve run races.  Long races.  I’ve pounded my feet on that pavement, the will to keep going barely stronger than the pain in my legs.  I’ve seen that finish line, felt the elation grow as I got closer, and never, ever, in my wildest dreams, did I ever consider anything waiting at the finish line besides a foil blanket, a finishers medal and a high-five.  But now, the end of every race I ever run will always have an ellipsis after that high-five, and the race will inevitably end with…Could it happen here?

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I’m worth it

A couple of days ago, our little family was on our way out for a walk when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and had to stop to take in what I was seeing.  I was wearing a sweater, jeans, and running shoes.  That’s right, running shoes.  And not the cool, Skechers kind of running shoes, but actual, white, running shoes. Like, for running.

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Her word is Feisty.

A few weeks ago, I had a friend over for lunch.  She came with her beautiful baby girl, Lucy.  Though Lucy and Amira are exactly the same age, they couldn’t be more different.

Lucy’s mom said to me, “Her word is ‘Placid’.  As long as she is fed, she is perfectly content to just sit there and be happy.”  And it was true.  Lucy wasn’t up for crawling or rolling around or getting to things.  She was beautiful and happy, just sitting in one spot, laughing and playing with whatever was rolled her way.

We pondered over a word for Amira.  We threw around spunky, spirited and vivacious, but none of those really felt right to me.

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We still have a million amazing moments every day.

Image

Remember back in September when all I had all that breastfeeding drama?  Well, it didn’t end there.  I took the herbal supplements, I took the prescription drugs, I pumped, I gave Amira my stockpile till it was gone, and I never made enough breast milk to keep up with her demands.  The drama went on and on, and I persisted in giving her breast milk any way I could for as long as I could, but I couldn’t do it as long as I wanted.  So after 8 months of martyring myself to give her all that I could, it’s done.

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100 Moments of Gratitude

Centenarian birthday candles spell out '100'

WordPress is telling me that this is my 100th post.  In almost five years, I’ve managed to sit down and write something on this blog 10o times.  For some people, that won’t seem like a lot. But for me, it is.  It could have been more.  It could have been less.  But I made it to 100.  Each word I put down here has been one less word, one less worry, one less burden to carry on my own.  Here, I can lay them down and let them be.  I can come back to them if I need to, but the words, the worries, the burdens, aren’t mine to carry alone anymore.

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