Another Summer of Bittersweet, But Different

It’s been five years since the original summer of bittersweet. I am not the person I was that summer; loss, marriage, time and now motherhood have changed me. 

The bitterness that started one late spring afternoon in 2017 as I sat in the ditch of a lonely Saskatchewan highway haunted me for long. It still can when I give it power. It’s especially real at this time of year, the time when everything went down. 

The summer of 2022 has its own sets of bitterness and goodness, possibly bringing the bittersweet into higher relief  than recent  years. I’ve relived the intensity of emotions that crammed into the weeks before and after our wedding. There was so much tragedy happening to people I knew that summer, not only to me, but, at the time, my pain was I all I saw.

This summer there was the bitter again.  The days of shuttling my infant through hospital hallways, both of us dreading the next medical procedure or bad news from a doctor. That’s the bitter. The long lonely hospital nights. I despaired of ever finding the sweet again. Those days passed and are mostly just something I complain about now. I’m not good at handling the bitter parts of life. It’s easy to be happy, to smile, to praise when the bitter is over and I’m sitting on the rocks at the lake cuddling my contended 3 month old and dangling my feet in the icy waves. But on the hard days when Bébé was being poked by careless nurses, when a doctor wasn’t  careful with my newborn, when i face any hard thing I dissolved into an angry mess. In hard times my entitledness fully lives these song lyrics: “I was sure by now, God, You would have reached down And wiped our tears away Stepped in and saved the day. But once again I say, A-men, and it's still raining” * When things get better and they inevitably and unexpectedly (not the way I imagine) do, I wonder why I can’t live the rest of the song: “And though my heart is torn, I will praise You in this storm.”* 

Now there is the sweet. When I’m rocking my precious child in the cool breeze wafting in on the sunset and drinking Agua Fresca or iced coffee with my husband, that’s the sweet. I want to freeze this moment and replay it infinitely on repeat. This is your cue to gag, my unsappy people. There’s so much more good. A sunset walk with my puppy and my child, days at the lake with BTTs family, fresh garden produce, sunshine, having coffee with the neighbors. Many days have felt too good to be true. 

*Praise You in This Storm by Casting Crowns

Almost Chimichurri

 Almost Chimichurri  

a sauce, a marinade, a sandwich spread

Ingredients:

 •Handful of fresh herbs

       Parsley

       Basil

       Oregano

       Dill

       Chives 

•A few over ripe cherry tomatoes. 

•small spoonful minced garlic 

•salt and pepper

•olive oil 

•thawed chicken breasts or thighs 

directions / comments 

•Using a sharp knife or herb chopper mince herbs into small pieces. Incorporate garlic. Crush the tomatoes into the herbs with a sharp knife. Sprinkle with salt -use enough to bring out the herb flavour. This should look something like:

•Rub the mixture onto chicken. Drizzle with olive oil. This should look something like: 

•Grill slowly over medium heat until internal temperature reaches 165•F. We’ve been using baking stones on our grill and love that they keep meat from drying out during the grilling process. Unfortunately I forgot to take the following photo should’ve been the chicken once it was cooked. 

•Once the chicken is cooked remove it from the grill and let it rest for a couple minutes before serving. 

•Eat the chicken. If you have some of the herb mixture leftover use it as a dipping sauce for the chicken or you can just use bbq sauce or your favourite dipping sauce . Recently I like to top everything with sautéed onions, sweet peppers and jalapeños and that is how we’ve eaten this chicken as well. 

•For a full meal Serve with a carrot / sweet potato / Irish potato bake (airfrying is a faster crispier option) and a quick Caesar salad (our boring favourite salad). These have  been  my go to easy sides recently. Garlic bread can be added as well. 

•The following day we make leftover chicken into a sandwich for a quick packed or home lunch: sour dough bread, garden lettuce, tomatoes and onion, New Bothwell cheese. Try using the sauce for a bright pop of flavour. 

the Good Things

The Good Things 

I feel like I’ve been living a nightmare since last week Wednesday. Find the good things, BTT says. Of course, he is one of them. Here are more of the good things. 

The prayers a lot of people are praying. I know people are, they’ve told me that. And these prayers are being answered. Also. @grandmamavis is such a prayer warrior. 

All the new things Bébé B is learning even in a hospital room tethered to an IV machine. 

The all’s right with the world feeling when BTT and Bébé B and I all fall asleep under the same roof. 

Hope that treatment plans will be worked out and we’ll be home soon. This hope has been very tenuous at times; tonight it’s stronger. 

The many people I’ve met these last nightmarish 1.5 weeks. Sometimes i see them for only minutes. Sometimes we don’t exchange any pleasantries. I am not a people person so being forced to come into contact with so many strangers is overwhelming. Still, I like the times when  I find out how many grandchildren someone has or the names of someone’s kids or why someone regrets choosing the job they did or why someone loves their job or about someone’s wife’s pregnancy complications or where someone grew up or who knows someone who shares my baby’s name. I like finding relatable things about the strangers. 

The woman smoking under the No Smoking sign outside the hospital door who made my day with her uplifting comment, “you look snazzy in green.”

Our local hospital supports and advocates cosleeping even though the big city one doesn’t as we found out abruptly and sleepily at 2am. 

The sacrifices people have made so our child could receive the care he needs. Specifically

1 . The man who “has a thousand children” (his coworker’s words) who stayed at work late to care for Bébé B. He probably skipped having supper with his wife and all his kids to help us, BTT pointed out. Really it was his SO and 1000 children who made most of the sacrifice.  

2 . That unnamed child somewhere in Regina General who is still waiting because bébé B received the IV line meant for him. Our child was somehow prioritized over someone else’s child and we are so grateful. My heart is also hurting for the child and the child’s parents who are still waiting. 

This child who makes us so joyful in hard times. His epic whole-face smiles and his sparkly blue blue eyes. His cuddly chubby body cuddled against my shoulder. His conversations. (is he always going to be this talkative?)  The fact that two months in we still argue sometimes about who gets to hold him.

One Year Later 

I’m posting this on Canada Day, remembering my July 1st post from last year.  It’s been another Canada Day filled with heart ache and mixed emotions across my country. Canada, or rather Canadians, have had a rough couple years. We’re struggling to reconcile our differing opinions on how our country should function through the pandemic and into the future. We’re struggling to respectfully acknowledge and mourn a terrible past, the horrific things our country as we know it today was built upon and move forward. The words of our national anthem ring truer than ever tonight, God, keep our land. God, keep our people. 

A Revelation

A Revelation

The Sermonette I wrote to myself tonight.

“casting all your care upon him; 
for he careth for you.” 1Peter‬ ‭5:7‬

No one (but me) ever talks about their least favourite verse in the Bible. Because so many others love this verse I’ve only thought of it as a cliche and never as words that could be meaningful to me.  I’ve never stopped to think about the meaning of it. Possibly the main reason I’ve avoided thinking about casting my care on anyone else but myself is that I love to carry my cares around alone feeling all proud of my broad shoulders.

Week 8.

It’s hard to write about now. 

Everything is visceral and intense. 

The emotions, bigger and better and more complicated than I imagined. 

The actions. Hours and hours of breast feeding. The many is-he-still-breathing checks I perform in my newmom paranoia. 

The state of being. No being alone. ever. Semi exhausted but also motivated and euphoric when it comes to the small human. 

The secrecy. Eavesdropping on BébéB having deep conversations with his daddy. Keeping the secrets he shares with me during his 4am diaper changes. 

The feelings. So much delight in BébéB’s smiles and coos. So much excitement and pride in when he learns new things. So much love when I look into his blue blue eyes and see them crinkle in a smile. 

The ways my self and my life have metamorphosed in the last two months: not at all but also completely. 

The Village

It takes a village to raise a child, the old proverb goes. Our baby isn’t even here yet, but already they have their proverbial village. 

“ I think the Ukrainians are more excited about our baby than [the Mennonites.]“ my husband has said to me more than once. He should know. His friends and customers, many of them grandparents by now, have faithfully asked about his pregnant wife and unborn baby in the last few months and love to share their own experiences with being parents.  Lately some of them have been messaging and calling ostensibly for legitimate reasons, but mostly to ask, “You daddy yet?” 

The people who own and run local establishments and know us by sight or possibly reputation, are full of questions about due dates and health and are effusive in their well wishes. Random strangers in stores and restaurants hug me and congratulate me. Most of them don’t do the hugging part. One adorable old woman in Superstore told me, “you are carrying a precious baby boy.” We’re impatient to find out if she’s right or wrong about that. 

The ladiesatchurch are very good at asking, “how many more weeks?” and “are you all ready?” Some of them have bits of advice for me. Buy gripe water before baby is born. Make sure you have enough blankets; it’s summer and they’ll get dirty quickly if you spend time outside. You need a thermometer for those middle of the night tiny baby fevers that can cause so much worry ! they say. 

There are different women from the community who call me regularly to see if I’m okay and ask how big my bump is. “You will be a good mom,” they tell me. One raised 8 children and the other has been a mom to many more than that. They have the mothering wisdom of years and their concern for me comforts and encourages me. 

All of these people are beyond our immediate circle of family and friends. In this group we have mothers (and fathers) who give us things for Hermit (including advice) and tell us things we need to know and share stories about when we were born. We have excited siblings including the little boy who is actually a teenagers and often asks, “is Hermit here yet?” and the sisters who listen to me talk about being pregnant like it’s the only possible conversation topic and the brothers who give my husband joking advice about being a dad. We have friends from nearby and far away who put on the most delicious baby shower and/or give us lovely gifts and/or share things they’ve learned about having a baby and being new parents in the 2020s. 

You are part of our village, cliche as this sounds. I am awed and blessed by the sheer amount of people who care about us and our child. Many women do not have supports of any kind around them through pregnancy, birth and parenting, but I am surrounded by love and support. I realize how blessed I am. 

La Vie

The dog sleeps soundly on the floor beside me.

The husband rushes off to help someone, and then someone else, and then someone else.

The bébé and I have conversations about when he’s going to come meet us. He says 4 more weeks if we’re lucky; I try to persuade him that anytime now is good.

The snow silently melts a little more, while The mud becomes muddier

The boy calls once, twice, sometimes 3 times to say hello, to vent, to beg to come over, to talk to the dog.

The sky lights up with auroras, and, tho I see it for a minute and marvel and make my husband come admire, mostly I just asleep under the spell of their majesty.

The husky and I see animal tracks wherever we walk. The fields are full of them, the hedgerows even more. One set of tracks could really only be from a bear (I know, Because of Google.) I now believe the brothers in law who say they’ve seen bears nearby.

The dirt in my green house shoots joyful tiny seedlings up toward the light. 

The tow trucks run a little less often than they used to, but still very often. People still hit bison, jump snow banks and roll vehicles. Someone’s neighbor children lock the keys in their vehicle and run away yelling “April Fools.” Someone’s car dies necessitating an evening haul to Yorkton. Someone gets fed up with their family using their broken down vehicle as a garbage receptacle necessary another evening haul to Yorkton. 

The weekend approaches, is here. Sour dough buns rise on the counter. Saturday dawns quiet (no work calls yet !) I think about working on whittling down my todo list. My husband actually does work on his. La vie continues.