I never imagined that dirty windows could save lives. Now, had I known this...
If you know our place, you know that we live in a bit of a fishbowl. Big windows all over our house - living room, dining room, family room, office. I love our windows. But I hate the fact that they really need to be washed at least three times a year for me to feel good about looking through them.
It's a really big job, washing windows. Especially the second floor windows. It involves leaning extension ladders at precarious angles. And serious scrubbing at unheavenly heights. It's a bit of a death wish.
OK, yes, that is slightly melodramatic, but it's enough of an ordeal that we routinely procrastinate and put off the job.
Two days ago, I invested in the best little invention ever. A squeegee. With an extention handle. And I can't believe this thing. I was skeptical that this would actually do a good job, but I was pleasantly shocked at how effective it was, how easy it was to use, and how much reach it had. I am so pleased with my clean windows. And even more pleased with how effortless a job it was to get done. I am a squeegee convert.
The three exterior walls of my office are windows. I love this room, especially in fall when the golden leaves still clinging to the trees contrast with the crystal blue of the September skies. Clean windows revealing the neighbourhood drama of prowling cats and foraging squirrels with a clarity that I hadn't anticipated. I rejoice.
Unintended consequences, however, are often a byproduct of positive intentions.
The death toll is already at 5. And counting. Poor little things. Sparrows, chickadees who would normally sense the grime on the glass, see nothing now. Pronounced dead on impact.
Every time I hear the crash, I say a little prayer for the little innocent bird. I'm sorry, I say aloud to the poor, dead thing. I didn't want that to happen to you.
Later, when I go outside to take care of the little feathery corpse, I discover it's gone. And I hope that maybe it's somehow miraculously recovered. But, sadly, more likely it's the consequence of our clean windows, rather than the clean windows themselves, that has me noticing all the cats in our yard lately.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The river
I realize, in hindsight, that it's fortunate I don't notice it's 2:45 pm when I look out my office window at the beautiful fall afternoon, then over at the stack of out-going mail on my desk, and decide to go for a little stroll.
When I get to the mailbox a few blocks away, I check the time. 2:55. I grumble internally, wishing I would have checked before I left because then I wouldn't have bothered to come now. I have to pick up the boys from school at 3:20. And there's really not enough time to head back to my desk and get anything productive done.
I stand at the red mailbox on the corner for a few moments, weighing my options. And I feel the wind on my face and the warmth of the sun in my hair.
I walk down to the river.
I love this river. I regularly come here to walk along it. But I have never come here to sit.
Today this is what I do. I has been the most productive afternoon I've had for ages.
When I get to the mailbox a few blocks away, I check the time. 2:55. I grumble internally, wishing I would have checked before I left because then I wouldn't have bothered to come now. I have to pick up the boys from school at 3:20. And there's really not enough time to head back to my desk and get anything productive done.
I stand at the red mailbox on the corner for a few moments, weighing my options. And I feel the wind on my face and the warmth of the sun in my hair.
I walk down to the river.
I love this river. I regularly come here to walk along it. But I have never come here to sit.
Today this is what I do. I has been the most productive afternoon I've had for ages.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The poet
The dictionary defines the word "expectation": A strong belief that something will happen or be the case in the future; A belief that someone will or should achieve something.
We all have expectations of each other. Every relationship is built on assumptions and expectations that are developed over time. Bumps occur when someone does something (or doesn't do something) that is contrary to what you expected of them. Learning how to manage these inevitable moments is basic conflict resolution 101.
All the conflict theory in the world, though, has not taught me a single thing about how to manage my own inner voices when it comes to dealing with others' expectations of me and my own perceptions of whether or not I meet these expectations. And, to be honest, whether or not my perceptions of these expectations are even real.
Maybe it was growing up in the context of a large extended family. Maybe it was being raised in a fairly conservative faith community. Maybe it's partly fear based. Maybe it's all of that, and more.
True confessions: I am a people-pleaser. In the last 18 months, this is something that has become increasingly clear to me. And I'm not very happy about it.
I prefer to see myself as strong, independent, clear-minded. I know I am these things sometimes. But in honesty, I also am very affiliating, afraid of criticism, and desperate for the approval of others. Like every other human person, I make mistakes and I fail to meet expectations. And I kick myself around the block for it.
On a beautiful golden Sunday, I read Mary Oliver and know she is writing to me.
The Poet with his Face in his Hands
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.
So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
We all have expectations of each other. Every relationship is built on assumptions and expectations that are developed over time. Bumps occur when someone does something (or doesn't do something) that is contrary to what you expected of them. Learning how to manage these inevitable moments is basic conflict resolution 101.
All the conflict theory in the world, though, has not taught me a single thing about how to manage my own inner voices when it comes to dealing with others' expectations of me and my own perceptions of whether or not I meet these expectations. And, to be honest, whether or not my perceptions of these expectations are even real.
Maybe it was growing up in the context of a large extended family. Maybe it was being raised in a fairly conservative faith community. Maybe it's partly fear based. Maybe it's all of that, and more.
True confessions: I am a people-pleaser. In the last 18 months, this is something that has become increasingly clear to me. And I'm not very happy about it.
I prefer to see myself as strong, independent, clear-minded. I know I am these things sometimes. But in honesty, I also am very affiliating, afraid of criticism, and desperate for the approval of others. Like every other human person, I make mistakes and I fail to meet expectations. And I kick myself around the block for it.
On a beautiful golden Sunday, I read Mary Oliver and know she is writing to me.
The Poet with his Face in his Hands
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.
So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The never ending journey
I suppose that I've always been a product-oriented, task-oriented person, gleaning gratification from acknowledging the tangible outcomes of whatever efforts I have afforded. Some people find joy in the process, the journey, the getting there, rather than the destination. Not me.
I think I've always been like this. Tell me what I need to do so I can do it and then it will be done. (Ironic, in some ways, that I've chosen a profession that is almost ALL about process. But more on that another time.) My greatest satisfactions come from closing the file (literally or figuratively) on any particular project, feeling good about a job well done and basking in the moment of relegating said file to it's alphabetical resting place in my filing cabinet. Done and dusted.
This is perhaps why I hate laundry.
Laundry is never done. Even when it is, it isn't. The next day there are another four sets of smelly socks, 2 pairs of grass stained jeans, t-shirts with ketchup drips...
I'm not sure why I feel so regularly defeated by the laundry. It's sad but it's a battle that I often lose, watching, hopeless with surrender, at the growing mountain that sits there taunting me. Only to realize that upon conquering that particular summit there is a lifetime of mountain ranges beyond it. Give me help.
I know that a big part of my life's work is to grow to love the journey, wherever it leads. Even if it happens to be the eternal trek that takes me from washer to dryer to back again.
Cheers to the road.
I think I've always been like this. Tell me what I need to do so I can do it and then it will be done. (Ironic, in some ways, that I've chosen a profession that is almost ALL about process. But more on that another time.) My greatest satisfactions come from closing the file (literally or figuratively) on any particular project, feeling good about a job well done and basking in the moment of relegating said file to it's alphabetical resting place in my filing cabinet. Done and dusted.
This is perhaps why I hate laundry.
Laundry is never done. Even when it is, it isn't. The next day there are another four sets of smelly socks, 2 pairs of grass stained jeans, t-shirts with ketchup drips...
I'm not sure why I feel so regularly defeated by the laundry. It's sad but it's a battle that I often lose, watching, hopeless with surrender, at the growing mountain that sits there taunting me. Only to realize that upon conquering that particular summit there is a lifetime of mountain ranges beyond it. Give me help.
I know that a big part of my life's work is to grow to love the journey, wherever it leads. Even if it happens to be the eternal trek that takes me from washer to dryer to back again.
Cheers to the road.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
On praise
A lot has been said about how recent adult generations are wrecking the capacity of the younger ones to deal with criticism, pain and basic life in the real world. And I don't totally disagree. The pendulum swing on this issue has indeed taken its course as the generations (mine included) that have wrestled with chronic low self esteem over-correct, heaping boatloads of unearned accolades on their children in a well-meaning attempt to save them from themselves.
I, too, often find myself tempted to shower my kids with easy offerings of how amazing they are, how smart they are, how beautiful they are - because of course I believe, like all parents, that my children are exceptionally special. And they are. The reality is, however, that they are not any more (nor any less) special than any other child. Every child, every person is exceptionally special. And this simple idea is what I really want them to understand about life. In many ways, it's really the only important thing.
Now, this is not to say that providing recognition and acknowledgment of hard work, effort or accomplishment is not also incredibly important, serving both as a positive reinforcement and an incredible motivator. And not just for kids.
John has taken guitar lessons for well over half of his life. He works hard at it and practices every day. He doesn't have lofty performance goals or dreams of virtuosity. It is something he does for himself, to feed his soul.
Yesterday, John came home after his lesson, eyes shining. His teacher had offered a single well-placed, well-deserved honest acknowledgment of hard work, accomplishment, skill.
And he sat down with his guitar and it sang all night.
I, too, often find myself tempted to shower my kids with easy offerings of how amazing they are, how smart they are, how beautiful they are - because of course I believe, like all parents, that my children are exceptionally special. And they are. The reality is, however, that they are not any more (nor any less) special than any other child. Every child, every person is exceptionally special. And this simple idea is what I really want them to understand about life. In many ways, it's really the only important thing.
Now, this is not to say that providing recognition and acknowledgment of hard work, effort or accomplishment is not also incredibly important, serving both as a positive reinforcement and an incredible motivator. And not just for kids.
John has taken guitar lessons for well over half of his life. He works hard at it and practices every day. He doesn't have lofty performance goals or dreams of virtuosity. It is something he does for himself, to feed his soul.
Yesterday, John came home after his lesson, eyes shining. His teacher had offered a single well-placed, well-deserved honest acknowledgment of hard work, accomplishment, skill.
And he sat down with his guitar and it sang all night.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Brothers
I have one brother. My husband has one brother. My sons each have one brother.
Life with brothers is complicated. Love and fury alive in one body, sometimes in one moment.
Upon the birth of our second son, a wise friend and colleague (and veteran father of 2 brothers himself) told me that the greatest mistake I could make as parent is to intervene too quickly when the boys are in conflict with each other. I took this slightly premature advice to heart, especially seeing as his boys, now in their 20s, seem like responsible, respectable, respectful members of the adult world. And as a mediator, the concept is kind of obvious. I had no idea, however, how hard it would be to live.
I need to say that it is truly amazing, the yowls and howls that I sometimes hear roaring up through the floor boards as the boys play (and by that I mean fight) in their basement playroom. I have worked hard over the years to steel myself against my strong inner need to immediately run and help, to rush to the rescue like the super-mom-hero I'd like to think I could be. But I've learned to make myself wait, one ear at the top of the stairs, listening to them work it out... or not.
The boys know that if they need help solving a problem that they can (and should) come to me or John and we will drop what we are doing to help them with what is going on. But more often than not, they don't take that trip up the stairs. This is probably because they know that a long boring conversation will inevitably ensue which is seriously undesirable from their perspective and therefore must be avoided if at all possible. I'm not always sure how they do it but most of the time they find a way to manage the mess and get back to the very serious business of lego building (or whatever they were doing).
The complexity of emotions that live inside each of us and weave sometimes intertwined and enmeshed with the inner lives of others is something that I find totally amazing. Watching brothers share a joyful, playful moment that can, in a flash, travel down the various pathways of bitter spite, furious self-righteousness, woeful hopelessness, practical resignation and sometimes even honest forgiveness feels tantamount to a miracle. And perhaps it is.
Life with brothers is complicated. Love and fury alive in one body, sometimes in one moment.
Upon the birth of our second son, a wise friend and colleague (and veteran father of 2 brothers himself) told me that the greatest mistake I could make as parent is to intervene too quickly when the boys are in conflict with each other. I took this slightly premature advice to heart, especially seeing as his boys, now in their 20s, seem like responsible, respectable, respectful members of the adult world. And as a mediator, the concept is kind of obvious. I had no idea, however, how hard it would be to live.
I need to say that it is truly amazing, the yowls and howls that I sometimes hear roaring up through the floor boards as the boys play (and by that I mean fight) in their basement playroom. I have worked hard over the years to steel myself against my strong inner need to immediately run and help, to rush to the rescue like the super-mom-hero I'd like to think I could be. But I've learned to make myself wait, one ear at the top of the stairs, listening to them work it out... or not.
The boys know that if they need help solving a problem that they can (and should) come to me or John and we will drop what we are doing to help them with what is going on. But more often than not, they don't take that trip up the stairs. This is probably because they know that a long boring conversation will inevitably ensue which is seriously undesirable from their perspective and therefore must be avoided if at all possible. I'm not always sure how they do it but most of the time they find a way to manage the mess and get back to the very serious business of lego building (or whatever they were doing).
The complexity of emotions that live inside each of us and weave sometimes intertwined and enmeshed with the inner lives of others is something that I find totally amazing. Watching brothers share a joyful, playful moment that can, in a flash, travel down the various pathways of bitter spite, furious self-righteousness, woeful hopelessness, practical resignation and sometimes even honest forgiveness feels tantamount to a miracle. And perhaps it is.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
On joy and assurance
Sometimes I am overwhelmed with feelings of blessedness and joy that I know I have done nothing to deserve. As I watched my children dance in fields of gold this afternoon I felt wrapped in an assurance and ease that was coloured with a shade of knowledge that they are healthy, happy, safe and mine.
And I was reminded of a prayer that I had tucked away several years ago.
By Francis Drake:
Disturb us, Lord, when we are too pleased with ourselves
When our dreams have come true, because we dreamed too little
When we arrive safely, because we sailed too close to the shore.
Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly
To venture on wilder seas
Where storms will show your mastery
Where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.
We ask you to push back the horizons of our hopes
And to push back the future in strength, courage, hope and love.
And I was reminded of a prayer that I had tucked away several years ago.
By Francis Drake:
Disturb us, Lord, when we are too pleased with ourselves
When our dreams have come true, because we dreamed too little
When we arrive safely, because we sailed too close to the shore.
Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly
To venture on wilder seas
Where storms will show your mastery
Where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.
We ask you to push back the horizons of our hopes
And to push back the future in strength, courage, hope and love.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Zilch
A few weeks ago an old friend was telling me of the fun he's been having lately playing a dice game with his two young sons.
And it all just came flooding back.
My Oma was a mean Zilch player. For some reason, I am reminded of a particular memory, sitting with her and my brother at the table in our camper. Not sure where we were. Algonquin Park? Florida perhaps? Oma, shaking the dice in a dark brown tupperware tumbler, spilling them out, clacking, onto the melamine tabletop. Risking everything to hear our squeals of "Zilch!" when she loses it all, eyes twinkling, apple-cheeks glowing.
This weekend, we resurrected the game with a little help from Google where I looked up the rules that had long been buried beside my memories of Oma and the brown tupperware tumbler.
I see the twinkle of joy in Andreas' eyes now as he proudly declares "I'm goin' for it!". And the hoots of "ZILCH!" ring out in another generation.
And it all just came flooding back.
My Oma was a mean Zilch player. For some reason, I am reminded of a particular memory, sitting with her and my brother at the table in our camper. Not sure where we were. Algonquin Park? Florida perhaps? Oma, shaking the dice in a dark brown tupperware tumbler, spilling them out, clacking, onto the melamine tabletop. Risking everything to hear our squeals of "Zilch!" when she loses it all, eyes twinkling, apple-cheeks glowing.
This weekend, we resurrected the game with a little help from Google where I looked up the rules that had long been buried beside my memories of Oma and the brown tupperware tumbler.
I see the twinkle of joy in Andreas' eyes now as he proudly declares "I'm goin' for it!". And the hoots of "ZILCH!" ring out in another generation.
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Fabers
I wish Nancy and Randall Faber were never born!
These were the words I heard Nicholas hiss bitterly under his breath on Monday afternoon as he sat down at the piano bench for the first time in 2 months and I knew we were in for a rough start. It didn't keep me from laughing out loud, however.
Nicholas, on the other hand, was not laughing. That first practice lasted a walloping 1 hour and 15 minutes. All he was required to do was to play 3 short pieces 4 times each.
Nick, sitting in front of his Faber "Piano Adventures" book, sobbed when he couldn't make it through what, in June, was an easy, perfectly memorized piece. He asked me to go to the basement so I couldn't hear his playing. He moaned. He wailed. He declared he couldn't do it. He proclaimed it was the worst day of his life.
I sat beside him. Quiet for the most part. Praying to all the saints and angels above for patience to sit it out with him. Occasionally and calmly encouraging him along.
It's difficult to sit down at anything and discover that what once came so easy now feels so impossible and overwhelming. And to really be OK with the mistakes you make, even though you know that you're better than that. It's a hard lesson, even for us grown ups. The pain (and shame?) of making mistakes-even-though-you-know-better just manifests itself differently, more quietly, in adults. The days of pounding on the keyboard in frustration are perhaps and hopefully behind most of us. But that's not to say that it's not still there, real and alive, biting at us from the inside out.
On Monday, I didn't shelter Nicholas from that pain. We didn't deny it. We didn't pretend that it wasn't there. We allowed it in and it overtook us for 75 excruciating minutes.
On Tuesday, Nick sailed through his practicing in 20 minutes (I think on sheer determination alone not to have a repeat of the previous afternoon). I was tremendously relieved because I don't think I could have done it again either.
By tonight he was playing his 3 pieces without any mistakes.
He just might forgive the Fabers one of these days yet. Here's hoping.
These were the words I heard Nicholas hiss bitterly under his breath on Monday afternoon as he sat down at the piano bench for the first time in 2 months and I knew we were in for a rough start. It didn't keep me from laughing out loud, however.
Nicholas, on the other hand, was not laughing. That first practice lasted a walloping 1 hour and 15 minutes. All he was required to do was to play 3 short pieces 4 times each.
Nick, sitting in front of his Faber "Piano Adventures" book, sobbed when he couldn't make it through what, in June, was an easy, perfectly memorized piece. He asked me to go to the basement so I couldn't hear his playing. He moaned. He wailed. He declared he couldn't do it. He proclaimed it was the worst day of his life.
I sat beside him. Quiet for the most part. Praying to all the saints and angels above for patience to sit it out with him. Occasionally and calmly encouraging him along.
It's difficult to sit down at anything and discover that what once came so easy now feels so impossible and overwhelming. And to really be OK with the mistakes you make, even though you know that you're better than that. It's a hard lesson, even for us grown ups. The pain (and shame?) of making mistakes-even-though-you-know-better just manifests itself differently, more quietly, in adults. The days of pounding on the keyboard in frustration are perhaps and hopefully behind most of us. But that's not to say that it's not still there, real and alive, biting at us from the inside out.
On Monday, I didn't shelter Nicholas from that pain. We didn't deny it. We didn't pretend that it wasn't there. We allowed it in and it overtook us for 75 excruciating minutes.
On Tuesday, Nick sailed through his practicing in 20 minutes (I think on sheer determination alone not to have a repeat of the previous afternoon). I was tremendously relieved because I don't think I could have done it again either.
By tonight he was playing his 3 pieces without any mistakes.
He just might forgive the Fabers one of these days yet. Here's hoping.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Welcome?
So. This is new. And really weird. I've never really seriously considered trying this blogging thing, yet am somehow drawn to idea of finding a way to regularly and intentionally reflect on my life, in an ever-important attempt to strike a satisfactory (joyful, even?) work-life balance.
Crew KH is a stupid name for a blog (then again I think "blog" is a stupid name for anything). But I was prompted by the cyber-gods to enter a blog name when I opened this site and I panicked. So Crew KH it is.
The actual KH crew is made up of me plus my 3 favourite male humans in the whole wide world: John, my best dude, and our offspring: Nicholas (age 8) and Andreas (age 6). I love them.
Those also living under our roof (whom I love slightly less) include: Snowflake and Sal our 2 budgies, Icarus the gecko, and Rocket the crayfish. Occasionally and somewhat regularly, other house guests include my parents from Ontario and John's parents from Saskatchewan.
The essentials about us:
John is a family therapist who works mostly with kids and families in crisis. He is an avid cycling enthusiast, commuting by bicycle to work even through our most extreme winters. He reads voraciously, everything from work-related non-fiction to crappy vampire novels (yes, even the Twilight series). He is a classical guitarist and usually blesses our home with his music for at least an hour or so each day. He is an uber-dad, most recently taking a hiatus from work for the summer so he could spend it with the boys. Introverted, kind-hearted, and generous. And he likes to think that today's teenagers still think he's cool.
Nicholas is a grade three-er (as he says). He loves reading - yesterday he declared that the world's greatest invention was the library. He also loves animals, especially kittens. And large rodents, like raccoons and possums. He, like John, is contemplative and introverted in nature, often preferring to bypass groups of people for the solitude of his own company. Yet, he is confident and independent and is not afraid to share his thoughts and ideas even if it makes him unpopular with his peers. He has the most amazing imagination and has been creating elaborate worlds for himself since he was 3 years old when we met his first invisible friends "Birdie" (the sparrow) and "Mice" (the mouse) on the Metro in Paris.
Andreas is in grade one. He is a warm-hearted, relational boy who loves to cuddle. He also loves to play games and have books read to him. He is interested in basically anything that his brother is and defers to him on most matters, from what colour candy he should choose to what game they should play together. Andreas has a keen ear for music, often commenting on song lyrics or interesting instrumentation he hears. He is very proud of the fact that he a recently learned to tie his shoes and while he looks forward to learning how to read, he is simultaneously fearful that this means his days of listening to stories read by others are coming to an end.
As for me, I feel like (at least for right now) I am mostly defined by my inner struggle to balance my family/personal life with my work life. And I almost never get it right. My work is something that I take very seriously; I work with 6 great partners in a workplace conflict management firm. I've been involved in the mediation field since 1996 and know in my bones that this is the work I was meant to do. It's more than just a job. However, raising my boys (together with John) to be loving, respectful, contributing young men is my most important work right now. And they make this job easy (mostly). I am very proud of the people that they are and am filled with joyful anticipation to watch them grow into who they are becoming.
Other random tidbits about us as a family:
+ John and I have been married for 16 years. I am happy to say that I still really like him.
+ We've been living in Fort Rouge since 2006 when we returned from Belfast, Northern Ireland where we had lived and worked for almost a year.
+ Previous to 2005, we lived in the West End for 10 years. We finally acknowledged recently that neither of us has any real desire to move back to our home provinces (much to our parents' disappointment). This, however, also means that inter-provincial road trips will continue to be a regular family activity for at least the next decade or so.
+ We are active in a faith community where we have many friends and where we find food to fuel our inner journey/s.
+ CBC Radio One plays in the background of our lives almost all the time.
+ When the radio is off, there is almost certainly some kind of music happening in our home: John on guitar, the boys practicing for their piano lessons, or some selection from a very eclectic collection of recorded music is playing.
+ We regretfully contribute vast amounts of newsprint to the city's recycling efforts every week.
+ Earlier this year we finally ditched our television. The TV never went on during weekdays anyways and on the weekends, the boys sometimes watched dvd's. They now watch their weekend dvd's on the computer. Not much has changed.
+ We try very hard (sometimes unsuccessfully) to limit the amount of busyness we experience in our lives. John and I are careful about over-committing ourselves to work and volunteer activities. The boys are only involved in very selective extra-curricular activities - only piano and swimming and soccer in springtime. This gives us all a lot of time to be together. The fruits of this are clearly seen in the (mostly) joyful relationship that is developing between the boys. They literally spend hours upon hours playing together in their basement playroom. They hurry home together after school each day, talking animatedly about their latest lego plans (or whatever) and then promptly disappear as soon as they get in the door.
I think that's us in a nutshell. I will be curious to see if this endeavor is one that I continue. Not sure about any of it yet. It's all a grand experiment.
Crew KH is a stupid name for a blog (then again I think "blog" is a stupid name for anything). But I was prompted by the cyber-gods to enter a blog name when I opened this site and I panicked. So Crew KH it is.
The actual KH crew is made up of me plus my 3 favourite male humans in the whole wide world: John, my best dude, and our offspring: Nicholas (age 8) and Andreas (age 6). I love them.
Those also living under our roof (whom I love slightly less) include: Snowflake and Sal our 2 budgies, Icarus the gecko, and Rocket the crayfish. Occasionally and somewhat regularly, other house guests include my parents from Ontario and John's parents from Saskatchewan.
The essentials about us:
As for me, I feel like (at least for right now) I am mostly defined by my inner struggle to balance my family/personal life with my work life. And I almost never get it right. My work is something that I take very seriously; I work with 6 great partners in a workplace conflict management firm. I've been involved in the mediation field since 1996 and know in my bones that this is the work I was meant to do. It's more than just a job. However, raising my boys (together with John) to be loving, respectful, contributing young men is my most important work right now. And they make this job easy (mostly). I am very proud of the people that they are and am filled with joyful anticipation to watch them grow into who they are becoming.Other random tidbits about us as a family:
+ John and I have been married for 16 years. I am happy to say that I still really like him.
+ We've been living in Fort Rouge since 2006 when we returned from Belfast, Northern Ireland where we had lived and worked for almost a year.
+ Previous to 2005, we lived in the West End for 10 years. We finally acknowledged recently that neither of us has any real desire to move back to our home provinces (much to our parents' disappointment). This, however, also means that inter-provincial road trips will continue to be a regular family activity for at least the next decade or so.
+ We are active in a faith community where we have many friends and where we find food to fuel our inner journey/s.
+ CBC Radio One plays in the background of our lives almost all the time.
+ When the radio is off, there is almost certainly some kind of music happening in our home: John on guitar, the boys practicing for their piano lessons, or some selection from a very eclectic collection of recorded music is playing.
+ We regretfully contribute vast amounts of newsprint to the city's recycling efforts every week.
+ Earlier this year we finally ditched our television. The TV never went on during weekdays anyways and on the weekends, the boys sometimes watched dvd's. They now watch their weekend dvd's on the computer. Not much has changed.
+ We try very hard (sometimes unsuccessfully) to limit the amount of busyness we experience in our lives. John and I are careful about over-committing ourselves to work and volunteer activities. The boys are only involved in very selective extra-curricular activities - only piano and swimming and soccer in springtime. This gives us all a lot of time to be together. The fruits of this are clearly seen in the (mostly) joyful relationship that is developing between the boys. They literally spend hours upon hours playing together in their basement playroom. They hurry home together after school each day, talking animatedly about their latest lego plans (or whatever) and then promptly disappear as soon as they get in the door.
I think that's us in a nutshell. I will be curious to see if this endeavor is one that I continue. Not sure about any of it yet. It's all a grand experiment.
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