herlanddotcom

It’s rare, but on occasion, we have an opportunity to witness something extraordinary. I mean…something… life changing.  I had such an opportunity this past Saturday.

So, I think I’ve written here before how I’m not a big reader but I’m a big fan of what I affectionally call, “Shot in the arm books.” You know, books that you can read rather quickly that give you some insight on life, parenting, love or business.

A few years ago, I think after I watched Oprah one day, I bought the book, Me to We by Craig Kielburger. I read it, then gave it to Evan and he read it and I became an instant stalker fan.

Fast forward to this weekend, I went to my regional conference; a conference that I’ve been to a billion times before…or at least 10. And of all those conferences that I have been to over the years, this was by far the best one!

We heard some great news about our industry, we learned lots of great stuff, we ate great food,  I got to hang out with loads of my peeps, from Lighthouse and from around Atlantic Canada, and we even got to pick up some hardware, receiving such awards as Best Community Service, best promotion, Best advertising opportunity, even Best General Excellence, which is as good as they come.

And all of that didn’t really compare to listening to Craig Kieburger speak. He was…well there isn’t a word to describe him, except that I feel more relevant today than I did last week.  And I have no idea just what I’ll do with what he told me; how we can change the world, both on a local and global level. But I knew as soon as I met him, I was going to have a picture to show Evan that I met Craig Kielburger.

As adorable as he is, he’s even more authentic.  I told him that I loved his book and that my son read it and that I have passed it along to at least a half-a-dozen others.  I also told him that I was looking into his leadership camp for Evan this summer in Antigonish, but that I had to get a hotel to be close to the campus where he’ll be staying.

His reply: My mother let me go to Kenya when I was twelve.  I think you can probably let him go to Antigonish for leadership camp.

 Touché Craig.

I’m driving down the same highway that I’ve driven countless times before, the sky still red from the setting sun.  My van is filled with the smell of sweaty hockey gear still damp from a weekend tournament.  My boys are silently playing their iPods.  They’re happy, aren’t they? I ask myself, wondering if they know yet.   Wondering if they’ve figured out that their dad is different from the other hockey dads.

With a new hockey season comes new hockey families.  Different people asking the same questions. Where is their dad?  Are you still together? Why doesn’t he come to games?  And every season I offer the same hesitation as I try to read that person.  Will they understand? Will they judge us? Will they believe me?  I often don’t explain, but sometimes I have no choice.

We’ve turned our home into an oasis.  Pool, soccer nets and even a hockey rink and a putting green, trying to compensate for the fact that we don’t take vacations, anything to make sure our boys don’t feel cheated.  We throw great parties, making a home where people love to be.  Our friends come to us.

Our family of four is well adjusted despite the addition of a fifth who is rarely talked about.  It’s morphed into a full-fledged monster.  A perfectly wonderful life swallowed by something that can’t be seen or heard.  It can’t be identified or eliminated.  It lives within him. It’s part of him. It’s his panic disorder.

Not being able to leave our community without a panic attack means we have lost friends who don’t understand, not that I blame them. Sometimes, even I don’t understand.  Have you tried tranquilizers?  What if we just drove with you?  Have you tried therapy?    Why haven’t we thought of that? Good idea, we’ll try that. Thanks.

Our real friends, they understand.  They know about the countless therapy sessions, the tens of thousands of dollars lost along with the hope of becoming seemingly normal.  They offer help, not judgment.  They offer comfort, not a cure.

And for 12 years I have told myself I am ok.  I don’t need a man to hold my hand as I navigate my way to hockey rinks in rural communities with poor signage. I’m independent. I’m strong.  I have a GPS.   I can do anything that’s required of me and short of being two people and being able to be at two rinks at one time, I’ve managed just fine so far. Or have I?  Do my kids sense my anger as I accept an award at a convention and I have no date?  Do they feel my sadness when I see them celebrate after a goal, looking for their dad who isn’t there, wishing he’d seen it, wishing he’d heard the applause, and felt the excitement?  Do they sense that, despite telling myself that this is my life that I love, how sometimes, I need help.

While I can’t help him, I know he needs me. I know if I weren’t here his monster would surely engulf him into something far worse, into something I wouldn’t recognize as the adventurous, full of life, fear-free man I fell in love with.  This man that I chose as my husband because I wanted to have children exactly like him; his big heart, his infectious smile, his generous spirit.  And they are like him, in every way.  Will they have this?  This thing?  This monster of their own?  They can’t.  I won’t have it.  I don’t wish this for their future, for their wives or for their children.

So we drive these highways.  We take all elevators.  We run in every direction looking for an opportunity to meet fear head on.  We embrace fear.  We use it, we conquer it and then, we celebrate.

Does he know how much I want to take this from him? Take away his fears both real and make-believe?  Does he know that I wouldn’t give up even one of these sometimes-difficult days to spend in a different life?  Does he know that everyday when I wake, I thank him?  I say, “Thank you for this life; for these boys; for giving me the ability to see past peoples’ circumstances and see right to their heart?” Does he know that this monster has made me better? That, as it made him weaker it actually made me stronger; that it’s made me want to fight even harder? That’s what he’s given me.  What an extraordinary gift. Did he know any of these things before reading them here?

So, I continue to drive down this same highway I’ve driven countless times before, with still the same red sky, with the boys silently playing their iPods and still wondering if they’re happy; wondering if they know; but knowing that they do.

A week ago Thursday, David and I were having a lovely dinner with his childhood friend of over forty years, David Rose, his wife, Suzanne, both of their mother’s, along with our boys.

Then last night, David and I weren’t speaking to each other.  It was a combination of him acting like an ass, me acting like a child and both being too stubborn to give in.

Boy, what a difference a week makes.

The week before that my David had turned 44 and like every other birthday, David waited anxiously for Emily Rose (his friend, David Rose’s mother) to arrive with a plate of his favourite squares, Summer Time Squares.  And every year I say, “David, this might be the year that you don’t get those squares. You’re not 12 you know.” And he says, “No, she’ll be here. I’ll get my squares”.  And this year, like every other year, Emily arrived with the squares and invited us to dinner to celebrate her David’s forty-fourth birthday. 

Are you keeping up?

Anyway, these squares, they’re crazy good. I can only explain them as a mud pie but a square and in Mahone Bay they’re an institution. I’ve joked before that there was a little something extra in the squares, that’s how much he loves them.  I’ve suggested he ask for the recipe because, the Google, which is suppose to know everything, has never heard of Summertime Squares.  But he’s never asked for it because, not being a mother in Mahone Bay in the seventies, I’m clearly not qualified to make them.

Anyway, the dinner was awesome, we had steaks, baked potatoes, cake, Summertime Squares and made plans to do it again soon.

Then the week went by and we became stupid.

His peace offering?  A Tim Hortons coffee, which should have been enough.  But when you’re a child and your friend offers you your favorite candy as an apology, you don’t accept it because…well… you’re a child, and since I wouldn’t want to act like only half a child, I didn’t drink it, which made him more of an ass.

It was like we were reenacting the movie The Break-Up, where our marriage was spiraling out of control and neither of us remembered why.

Then tonight, as my peace offering, I made him Summertime Squares.

It turns out that anyone can make them even if you weren’t a mother in Mahone Bay in the 70’s and you can easily get the recipe with a simple phone call to one such mother.

I sheepishly handed him the squares to take to the shop.  They didn’t look or taste exactly like the Summertime Squares that David enjoys every birthday from Emily, but I hoped they’d do.

His responded with his big smile, and said, “It’s your first time, you’ll get better at it,” which is just as good as saying, “I’m sorry too.”

Recipe for Summer Time Squares

You’re welcome Google!

½ cup of butter

½ cup of milk

3 heaping tablespoons of cocoa

2 cups of sugar

Put this in a pot and whisk while bringing it to a hard boil for 1 minute.  Emily warned me that it had to be one minute.  Too much, it’s too think, too little they’re too runny.  I didn’t appreciate what she meant until I tried it and didn’t boil them quite enough.  They were a little too soft.  Consider that this is the only cooking required in this recipe.

Add ½ cup peanut butter and 1 tsp vanilla.

Add this mixture to 3 cups of instant oats, mix and then to a greased 9×9-baking dish and even it out.  Allow them to set in the fridge.  Once completely cooled cut them in 2-inch squares.  They should make 16 squares.

Those of you who know my Colin or who have read this blog and figured it out, my Colin is extraordinary.  His personality is so enormous, his talents are so huge, his smile so electric, it’s sometimes so easy to forget that he struggles in school.

I’m writing this with his permission, and I’m writing it because if you have a child who struggles, I know how heartbreaking it is.  I know how you second guess how you parent.  I know how hard it is.

I don’t blame Colin’s struggles on our school system.  I’m a big fan of our public school system.  I really love their school.  We’ve been luck; my boys have always had really terrific teachers.   But our school system is a conformist society.  If you fit in the box, you’re ok.  Evan is ok. He loves everything about school. He thrives.  Colin’s talents, while pretty great, aren’t an “outcome” so sadly, they’re not valued as much as those that are.

Take for example, Colin’s cooking ability.  He loves to cook. He’s a terrific cook.  He takes great pride in perfectly frying an egg. He might struggle in math, but when he needs a cup and a half of flour for pancakes, he’ll get me a cup and half of flour.

Colin has this unbelievable ability to say the right thing.  Not many 8 years olds have it.  When I’m serving dinner he’ll look at me and say, “You da best cooker mom,” or “thanks for dis good dinnah.”  And after Dad died and I was driving and trying so hard to hide my emotions that often got the best of me, I would catch a glimpse of my Colin looking at me wipe my tears in the rear-view mirror, his hands shaped into a heart, or he’d say, “I know mamma, you miss your dad.”  I mean, how many 8 year olds do that?  Do we give that any value?  Why isn’t that an outcome?

And my Colin, while he may struggle with handwriting and his organization skills, if only we looked past the letters and focused on the drawing.  Colin hasn’t drawn a stick-person in his life.  He’s always drawn three-dimensional and they’re quite amazing.

His creativity, well, it blows my mind, and I’m pretty creative.  Even his old mini stick, he turned it into a Thunder stick for this spring hockey league in just a few minutes, by taking the logo from their site and adding colours.  He even added his name and number.  He did this all on his own, without any direction from me, because, well, I really detest mini-sticks.

It’s innate for me. When confronted with a problem, I find a solution.  This problem can’t be fixed with a consequence.  It needs a solution.

The solution came in the form of a gal named Tara.

Tara called the paper one day to talk to me about advertising.  See, at the paper, my job is to help businesses thrive.  She needed a little advice.  I gave it to her.  But I usually tailor my advice to the specific business.  I asked he what she did.  She told me that she was with Halifax Learning.  They were opening up in Bridgewater.

Did you hear that?  Yeah, that was the earth exploding.  

Shortly after that, she assessed Colin, and shortly after that, she was teaching him. We already see improvements.  We already see his confidence growing.  His handwriting is improving.

Hand-writing before:

Hand-writing after:

And so, my a-ah moment came in the realization that the outcomes at school and the outcomes in our home are different, and that is completely ok.  For his character, his creativity, and his enormous heart, Colin get’s all A’s.

In case you don’t remember some of Evan’s entreprenureal endeavors, here’s a recap:

Remember when he was, like 7 and he had a blog?

Then, when he was about 8, remember when he grabbed a guitar and busked on the main street of Mahone Bay?  He alternated between playing the opening chords of Neil Young’s Heart of Gold and Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple.  Appearantly, when you’re 8, that’s all it takes to make $14 in 2 hours.

Then remember he and his buddies started a band?  They were going to do gigs? Make T-shirts?

Then, a few years ago, he sold candy canes with his brother, making $72 for the food bank? Remember that?

Well, now he has set up a little store in the closet of the kids game room in the basement, where he’s selling his old sticks and hockey equipment.  It’s actually adorable.

This kid reminds me a bit of Evan. You HAVE to watch this video.  I love this kid.  I love his dad.  But I really really love his only customer.

This is a picture of my little boy, my first born, one of the two reasons for my existence.  I remember when he was born and I thought he was it.  He was perfect in every way and wouldn’t ever do anything wrong.

Then again, he is human.

And so am I.

Evan is a really techy kid.  It’s one of the things that I love about him.  It’s also one of the things that cause me anxiety.  So since he’s gotten an e-mail account several years ago, I keep up on it.  I look and see what he e-mails and who.  Usually it’s pretty harness stuff; e-mails from a guitar chord service he belongs too, notices from Facebook, things like that.  I saw that on occasion he e-mails his soccer coach, even a teacher on occasion,  sometimes invites buddies over, you know, regular 10 year old kid stuff.

Then, yesterday, I was having a peek, the first time since before February, and I saw that he e-mailed two obscure e-mail addresses that I didn’t recognize.  Intrigued, I opened it.

To my utter shock and dismay, I found a photo of a bikini clad girl sent to his two friends.  It was clear.  There was no mistaking it.

TO: them.

FROM: Evan.

Me: furious.

Listen, I know, these things are going to happen.  I know that with technology comes things like this.  I know that we should harbor some of the blame.  I’m not altruistic, but here’s the thing: I envisioned these boys mothers opening up this e-mail and getting the false impression that Evan is this hormone crazed slug!  I was mortified!

I sent him a text. It went like this:

“I need you to explain to me why you send an inappropriate picture of a girl to your friends.  Make it good Evan. Every form of technology you currently enjoy is on the line.”

When he didn’t respond I sent this:

“I’m waiting”

His response to me:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My response to him:

“That’s the thing about E-mail Evan, it’s there…in black and white.  It doesn’t lie.  I’ll show you when we get home.  Until then , enjoy the computer while you’re able to use it.  Oh, and that phone is gone.”

On the drive home I was planning his punishment, but in the back of my mind all I could think about was the reaction from the parents of the boys who received the e-mail.  I felt sick to my stomach.  I decided that part of his punishment was to call their parents and apologize.

I got home and was relatively calm which was exactly the opposite of how I was feeling.  Instead, I calmly opened the e-mails and showed him, watching closely for the expression on his face.  He genuinely looked shocked and then a light bulb  went off.

“Mom, we watched a movie together and that girl was in it, so we used my phone and googled her and they sent the image to their own e-mails. This picture of her on the beach was in the movie.  It wasn’t a bad movie, mom.”

Likely story.

“Evan, try again.”

“Mom. Do you honestly think that I would remember those weird e-mail addresses?  I’ve never e-mailed them before, you can see that in my history . Plus, if you look at the date it was sent, I was with them at the time it was sent.”

A quick check on the calendar suggested he was right.

We all learned something from this: He learned that I will be fierce when it comes to inappropriate use of a privilege like technology.  He learned that whatever gets sent from his e-mail can get traced back to him.  And I told him that the parents still might think it came from him.  He said, “no mom, no one else’s mom checks their e-mails.  You’re so strick.!”

Oh how I detest those three words.

And I learned that even when you believe with every morsel of your being that you are right, you might actually be wrong.

And then, I added that to my book.

So with the return of Nadia so too did our theme night dinners.

Culture in the form of food, oh how I’ve missed thee…

We had tempura battered vegetables and salted edamame as appetizers, which were a perfect accompaniment to the champagne we had to toast our first theme night dinner in 18-months- Vietnamese fusion, and if you’re like me, and don’t know exactly what that means, it essentially means delicious.  Incredibly delicious!

Seriously…it’s all I can think about.

Thank God I took pictures so I can refer back to it!

It was this lovely spicy salmon, a peanut spinach with a spicy calamari, and deconstructed sushi.

And because my caveman husband only eats meat, this is what he got.

My friends spoil him.

Anyway, do you ever find, after you’ve had sushi, you crave it days after?  Well, I do.

I love sushi but I’m not good at making it.  But this deconstructed sushi is really genius!  By adding sushi rice, rice wine vinegar, smoked salmon, avocado to a ramekin and chopped nori with wasabi and pickled ginger on the side, you could have some sushi that completely solved the craving problems and eliminates the tedious rolling of the nori...oh I have too much rice…oh not enough rice…too much salmon, I forgot the avocado problem.

It turns out that even just writing about sushi makes you crave it. sigh