Gifts, Presents, Cadeaux

Gifts, Ungifts 

I just learned the French word for gift today. Cadeau. plural Cadeaux. This is providential, because it reminded me that yesterday I had written down a list of the gifts I got in the last week. I wrote because I didn’t want to forget any of them. My memory is that bad, not kidding. I tried walking into BP yesterday with one of Brent’s crocs on one foot and one of my flip flops on the other foot. A good memory is not one of my gifts. 

I also had to write these gifts down because it was a difficult week in a lot of ways, and after listing those difficulties, I had to list the gifts for some perspective. I know I should be like modern influencers and share about more of these difficult parts of my life on here, but I can’t for various reasons.  For one thing, My husband doesn’t like it if I write a lot of details about him and about our life online. I have tried to respect that and learn from that and share innocuous things or talk about the parts of my day that don’t involve him much. He’s not the only one who feels that way; one or more other family members are on his side too. I’m not writing this in judgement, because I understand why they feel that way. I’m writing this in the interest of honesty and perspective.

Gifts I got this week

A handmade bracelet from one of my girls. 

The smile on her face every single time she saw it on my wrist all week was amazing. Remembering to tie it on every morning was not so amazing, but that smile helped kick my memory into gear when I was blearily stumbling out the door to go to work at 6:30 every morning. 

The priceless gift of a sour candy from a child. I know it was precious to him; he doesn’t have a lot of candy and he was saving these 3 candies, But his generous soul had to give one to me “because you shared your gum with me yesterday.” I felt a little guilty eating it. I felt so honoured and loved by this selfless gesture. I felt unworthy and unprepared to be a care giver and trusted person to this 10 year old. I felt anxious about breaking the fragile bond we’ve developed. This tiny gift came with huge responsibility. 

A few packages of Bologna from a family who never has much money for extravagant or extra groceries or sometimes even for what I would consider necessary. So often sharing looks the most effortless from people who have the least. (Any one have ideas of ways to make bologna palatable?)

A whole jar of chopped and frozen garlic scapes from one of Pelly’s proficient garlic growers. Their garlic is precious to them and I know they worked hard for this jar of scapes. 

A beautiful pile of fresh brown farm eggs from my auntie. 

C’est L’été

A few words to faithful readers. 

C’est l’été. It’s summer, and the so far it’s the busiest summer of our life. 

We’re working, we’re moving, we’re half building a house. We’re also still trying to meet the demands of our every day commitments and support the people who depend on us. 

As a result, We’re neglecting unimportant things like elaborate cooking and mowing our lawn the minute it looks a little shaggy and blogging. 

If I’m fairly quiet for the next couple months, don’t be surprised  I dream up lengthy pieces in my head, but rarely have the time to get them down in writing. I hope to post more regularly again, but that’s a dream that will wait for a different lifestyle to be fulfilled  

A request 

Because I don’t have time/energy to write and because I feel like I tend to write on the same topics over and over, I’ve been wishing for some different perspectives on this blog.  A few months ago I  tried to get my sister who doesn’t have her own blog to write something for mine, but she has never responded enthusiastically to that  request. I think I also asked my mother, but she didn’t come up with anything either . Although they are unwilling, maybe one of you is willing or inspired to write something to post on my blog or to share something you’ve already written. Private message me or let me know in the comments if you’re inspired. Topic can be self chosen, name can be included or withheld. 

A small announcement to subscribers 

Sometime in July, the email notification system that blogger uses is ending. Supposedly there is an alternative, but I haven’t been successful in figuring it out. Sadly, this is all to say that the email notifications of my blog cluttering up your inbox so irregularly will quit coming in July and will continue to not come until I figure the new system out. 

Au revoir. Have a bel été. 

Just Say No

“He probably just couldn’t say no,” my mom said about my husband today. I’m sure she was right. He can’t say no to a child who needs him or to a caregiver who needs a break. I know she wouldn’t say no either. I know she worries and wants to protect us. I know she herself would do the same in this situation.

“Just say no,” my other mom told me today. Tell them what you can and can’t do. 

I agreed, but inside me I knew. I knew that I wouldn’t have the heart to refuse for a while yet. It’s fairly easy to set boundaries on the weekend from the safety of my home, but when life gets real on Tuesday and 3 children call my name from 5 different directions while I’m trying to walk out the door I won’t be able to look into their eyes and tell them I’m not coming back. I know my mil knows that, too.

It’s exhausting to be a carer. Also, it’s exhausting to care. Some of my friends tell me the same thing. I will paraphrase.

“I need a coping mechanism,” one friend told me in the middle of a long busy week. She’s a very capable person, and like she says, her parents did a good job of preparing her to deal with the things she’s dealing with. Even so, being a carer is overwhelming sometimes, especially when the situation or the people are difficult. She asked me if she could say no. I didn’t tell her that she should say no, because I have a different perspective than she does. From a distance, I see that if she doesn’t do the things, they will fall onto someone else’s shoulders, and maybe those shoulders won’t be as strong as hers. So, even though she has really wanted to on so many days, she hasn’t said no.

Another friend told me she was tired of working with people. “I’ve done it for so many years, and now I’m tired.” She didn’t say she didn’t love her job. She didn’t say she was tired of her job. Caregiving is difficult, emotionally more than physically often. But she still doesn’t say no

“Taking care of a newborn with medical needs is difficult.” These words came from friend who is a new mom. “But BabyBoy makes it so worth it,” she concluded. She’s a mother, she’s responsible for this child. She can’t say “I don’t want to take care of you now,” and walk away. She can’t just say no.

This is from the perspective of women in their 20s. Kids these days assume we’re major adults Cos we old, but some of us know otherwise. From conversations with friends, and my own real time experiences, it appears like we’re still learning how to care and be caregivers. Many of us will make that our life’s work, but  right now, in the learning stage, we  haven’t figured out how to take care of others and ourselves. We sometimes give too much of ourselves away, sometimes too little. Sometimes we feel like we’re caring too much but in reality we’re not caring enough. Sometimes the opposite. Myself,  I often feel both. 

Does being a caregiver get easier as a person ages? Do you learn how to compartmentalize so this work doesn’t take over your whole life ?  Maybe it’s meant to take over our lives. Maybe it’s mostly personality. Some of us probably handle caring better than others. Some of us probably avoid caring when possible.  

The disclaimers come near the end:

To be fair to my mom and mil, I have to say that neither of them say no to children or to caring either. They are just looking out for us like moms do.

I wrote this a few weeks ago, but never managed to pull it all together to form a cohesive post. It still isn’t very cohesive because I haven’t figured out how to blend it all seamlessly, but seamless isn’t what I’m trying to portray here. Real. Raw. That’s life, my life, anyway. I didn’t think I’d post this one every but Today it’s so relevant, once again, that I have to. 

Today I think I can’t do another day of zoom school with hyperactive third graders with fasd who can’t read or write, of feeding the hungry children from empty cupboards, of trying to keep the marijuana-smoking preteen from killing his little siblings, of pouring out every single ounce of love I have into a dark hole of need sometimes only to have it regurgitated and hurled back in my face in the form of anger. 

But I can’t say no. 

I’m not sure what little things that keep you caring and caregiving when you think you honestly can’t do it another minute. For me today it’s Small boy picking a single perfect dandelion for his teacher. The angriest boy who now lets me give him hugs/comfort even when he’s upset, a relatively new development. The weed smoking preteen making a point to talk to me in the mornings and open the door (after first slamming it) to yell  LOVE YOU at me instead of slinking off to school without a word. The little girl who treasures the tiny birthday gift I gave her and who calls me 3 or 7 times every day, even the days that I’ve  been there, because she needs someone. It’s the pure delight of a circle of children when we make a recipe they found on tiktok and it turns out perfectly. 

Inadvertent Faux Pas

Don’t  let Mama see you do that. I startle at the words, momentarily relaxing my busy repetitive scrubbing of the broom across the floor. Confused. 

???

?

Do what ? I finally have to ask, because I’m not figuring it out. It must be something important; these people don’t give orders or tell me I’m doing something wrong often. Just love the kids like they’re yours and do things like you’d do it at your house, is a favourite phrase here. 

That. Distracted for a second with keeping Mir from pulling out her feeding tube, R gestures vaguely toward the table. 

I wait. My mind spins in circles. 

Those shoes, he gets around to telling me. 

You mean on the table ? I’m sorry. I just thought they weren’t dirty-

No. He cuts me off. It’s our superstition. You’ll get bad luck. It doesn’t matter about them being dirty. But You might get bad luck. 

I apologize. Three times. Or five. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I just know Mir only uses them in her playroom so they aren’t dirty. I didn’t know. And then, because I’m all the way across the room, I’m busy, I leave them there, thinking I’ll grab them when I leave the room in two minutes and go put them away. Thinking the conversation is over. 

We don’t care about that. But you might have bad luck. Him

I laugh it off. I’ve had black cats run in front of me. My clumsiness has broken more than one mirror.  I laugh, because I still think he’s mostly joking. I’m not sure if I’m rambling about luck out loud or in my head. If I was going to have bad luck I probably already have it. 

I keep sweeping. I think about other things. 

R doesn’t forget that quickly. It’s bad luck, he says again. 

And again. 

Its take me a while, but I finally realize he’s not laughing. He’s serious. He believes this. He probably would’ve gotten up and moved them himself by now if he had been able to safely leave Mir’s side. I drop the broom and go move the shoes. He’s happy now, but still can’t resist one more worried comment a few minutes later, I really hope you don’t have bad luck because of this. 

I tell him I will be okay.

All the way home after my shift I’m wondering- Ukrainian superstition brought from the Old Country 2 generations ago? family belief handed down through the ages? personal belief based on experience? Possibly I should’ve asked. Possibly I should have told him there was Someone stronger than mere bad luck.  

Unforgettable

We’re approaching the end of our lockdown here in Saskatchewan, and I’m a little sad. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not ready for normal life to resume fully. 

I like our Sundays of sitting by the pocket-sized speaker listening to church. But beyond personal enjoyment, these Sundays at home listening to church and not being able to socialize have offered us opportunities and experiences we wouldn’t have had otherwise. 

Take last Sunday for example. The 4 preteen neighbour girls stopped to see us in the morning and ended up hanging out with us all day. The first ones came just as the church service was starting to stream through our speaker, and we could still sit around listening and drawing together.  A little later, two more girls came, and at that point their noise nearly drowned out the pastor’s words. Nearly, but not quite. .

Tal, the oldest of the four at 12 years old, came and huddled over the speaker with me for a couple minutes, listening intently. How you live is how you’re going to die, the pastor intoned. Tal didn’t like that statement and repeated it three or four times before deciding she definitely disagreed, But it must have got her thinking. 

For the next five minutes Tal sat silently. Then she  surprised BTT and me with an insightful question, are you ready for the Lord to return ? We both told her we were and asked her if she was ready for the Lord to return. She said she didn’t know, she said she was worried about it.  She didn’t really know how she’d figure it out. My Mom says she’s ready; you guys are ready. But how do I know if I’m ready for the Lord  to return? she wondered. 

My heart aches for this girl, but I’m a little speechless. How do I explain Jesus to a twelve year old who has only once or twice set foot in a church and has learned everything she knows about God from movies and her off and on drug-addicted mother ? She knows a lot facts about Jesus, the Bible and heaven, (When it rains on earth, it’s the angels or God peeing, don’t you know?) but so many of the things she believes, I have a hard time reconciling with the real life Jesus I know. 

Finally, I find something to say. If you’re worried or confused about if you’re ready for the Lord to return, you can talk to Him. In fact, you can tell Jesus whatever you think and feel, anytime you want to. He’s always around to hear you. I don’t come up with those kinds of words. I mean, there’s a reason I’m at home in Saskatchewan and my sister is the one off in distant lands being the Missionary. Not my words. But I said them, never realizing the immediate effect they would have. 

What happened next was the best. With her typical half smile and a simple, Okay! Tal immediately folded herself into a reverent pose, clasped her hands under her chin and prayed. Miraculously, the other noisy girls noticed her praying and shushed each other to give her some semi-silence for her conversation with Jesus. Tal prayed silently, so I have no idea what she said. I also prayed silently and I have no idea what I said either. The pastor was still droning, unheeded, in the background, and the other little girls and BTT were hissing at each other to shshshsh! Tal’s praying! And then she looked up and smiled and said she felt better now. 

and that was that. 

Truly, though simple, this is a raw story, full of energy and emotion. It's the story of a deep-thinking child, often confused by the things she sees happening around her. I don’t know the future. I only know today. Tal is young, she’s hopeful, and she’s very spiritual. Jesus is and means and expects something different for every single child of His, so I’m trying to squash my tendency to think He’s limited to the way I know Him and the things He asks of me. Now Tal is worried that she might not go to heaven if she doesn’t spread the gospel like the Bible says to. I told her Jesus would tell her how she needed to spread the gospel, and if she’s not sure  her she can talk to Him about that too.  She said she’d do that. She might be growing as a Christian faster than I am. Tal is obsessed with the original 12 disciples of Jesus and likes to try to list them by name. And now that she had this conversation with Jesus, Tal says she’s a disciple of Jesus, too. I have no doubt she is. 

Selfishly, I also got some things out of that day. I got faith. I got to witness  another of the weird incredible ways Jesus works. And I got a story to tell. It’s not my story, it’s God’s story. It’s the oldest story, but for me it’s the first time I’ve witnessed it in action like this. And I. feel. unready. unworthy. and unable to forget it or stop telling it. 

Let Them Eat Whole Canned Mushrooms

 I have a tin of whole mushrooms in the my mini pantry. 

Also, I have a bit of a hoarding problem.

I’m not exactly sure what I had in mind when I bought a couple cheap cans of mushrooms a few months ago, because I generally don’t buy cans of anything, but it probably had something to do with the idea of an emergency rainy day mushroom soup or similar. 

My little neighbour Lex loves canned mushrooms.  Although I can’t personally understand their appeal, she’ll happily eat a whole tin of them at one sitting and then dreamily wish there was more. Since I bought these cans she’s eaten all of them except for the one last can I had hidden on the top of my fridge, hoping she wouldn’t think to look there. She never did find it, although she was suspicious I had one somewhere and tried half heartedly to find it.  Eventually I got tired of seeing that speck of yellow wrapper on the top of my fridge and moved it back to its real home in the pantry. Guess who discovered it there on her next hungry tour of my cupboards and fridge. Of course she did. And of course she asked if she could eat it. I. Said. No. Next time she came over she asked again, and, again, I told her I wanted to keep it. Sometimes she’ll just open the cupboard to look at that being yellow can with a hungry glimmer in her eyes and I’ll hard heartedly pretend not to see her. I think she’s stopped asking if she can eat it. 

Today I opened my pantry and saw that can of mushrooms and wondered, Why. Do I even care. Is a dollar twenty five worth of disgusting canned mushrooms going to do me half the good it will do her ? Or will it give me a fraction of the joy it will give her ? Never. Will my proverbial rainy day come before this tin has been bumped and bent and sat in my cupboard forgotten for 3 years ? Probably not. And by that time Lex won’t want it anymore either. Lex isn’t here today, so I shut my pantry, left the mushrooms in there, and kept thinking off and on about the absurdity of hoarding a stupid can of mushrooms. 

But now, as I wrote this, I had a brilliant idea. Lex just turned 9 years old, and I have a little gift for her sitting on my counter. As soon as I’m finished posting this I am going to go to my pantry, pull out that can of mushrooms, and add them to her gift bag. And to be honest, I think that will be her favourite part of her gift. 

More Stories From Our Town

A friend came through town on business a couple weekends ago and we exchanged stories. We hadn’t seen each other for over 6 months. There were lots of stories. One random and slightly unnerving story even happened while he was here. A woman from our town who is involved in using and selling certain things that are not legal, tried to break into our house, not being able to process the fact that the door was locked and would not open. Then,  a couple minutes later, she half attacked this friend in the dark street. If you’ve read former posts or visited our town, you may not be surprised by this drama.

BTT and I sometimes get immune to the drama of our town. Until we get into story telling mode. Or until dramatic things happen when other people are around to witness them with us. Or until their children show up on our doorstep without proper clothing and start talking about what’s happening to them. Or disappear entirely for weeks on end. The children, always the children, the loved-but-forgotten, neglected, self-sufficient, children. It’s always about the children with us. But I vowed (to myself) I wouldn’t focus on them today.

People die and come back to life in our town. Maybe this doesn’t happen often, but it has happened at least twice in the last year or half year. I don’t know a lot about drug use, but this town had taught me most of what I do know. Sometimes someone accidentally overdoses, and when they do, someone else is there to administer the antidote and count the minutes until they start breathing again, and, depending on their fear level, call 911. Those adverts I’ve been seeing that read, “don’t use opioids alone!” are there for a reason.  

BTT was called by the RCMP to the aftermath of one of these happenings a couple weeks ago, minutes after the ambulance had left the scene. He listened to a woman who had watched her friend die, then come back to life. Although she is a user herself, this happening really shook her up and she cried as she told the story. She takes this risk frequently to quell her demons and satisfy her addiction. But it scares her  .

I haven’t been able to see drug use from this angle before.  In my mind Ive know exactly what kind of person this woman is: the kind whose addictions are more important to her than her children, who are no longer in her custody. Hearing this from her, made me realize it may not be that simple. For her, these addictions aren't only a hallucinative break from reality. They scare her with their tight hold and uncertain power.  They are a power, an evil one, stronger than she is. She may have once chosen them, but now they choose her and she is powerless to resist. 

I am almost ashamed to say that I can’t fathom my life so desperate that risking killing myself daily was my best attempt at happiness.  Ashamed, because who am I to be happy.  So many people the world over are so desperately unhappy. So many people are squandering their Easter weekends in the euphoria of opioids or the soothing company of alcohol. As a result, so many marriages are ending violently as mine thrives; so many children are being neglected or abused in the houses of my town and every other town across the globe, so many families and communities are being ripped apart by the sinister power of drugs and alcohol. 

One friend who works on the local ambulance told us that drug overdoses, alcohol abuse and domestic violence has skyrocketed in surrounding  communities in the past couple months, presumably due to continuous social and physical isolations. I don’t have much to add on this other than to implore you: if you’re feeling isolated and depressed please find a trusted person to help you, or begin new healthy habits and hobbies instead of cultivating  brand new drug and alcohol addictions. And if you do find yourself locked in a routine of drug and alcohol abuse, don’t use opioids alone. And, please, find someone you love to take care of your kids before the government has to do that for you.