Winter

I've been preparing for winter lately. In more than one way.

There's the obvious - pulling up carrots, raking, packing away my lawn furniture (between my freezer and washing machine since I don't have a garage). We've been lucky this year with a long, warm fall. I don't know how many conversations I've had on the schoolyard that start, "This may be our last nice day..." And every nice day is filled with one more rake or one more mow or one more hour of sitting outside thinking this may be my last hour outside without windburn.

I'm still not ready; there's work left to do. There are more annuals to pull out (but they're still blooming!) and I'm told my lawnmower needs to be drained. (Oh goody, I get to smell like gasoline one more time.) And I'm not ready to let go. To trade the crunch of leaves for the crunch of snow. The colours of flowers and maple leaves, for grey, sanded streets and yellow snow. The warm sun for the biting blizzards. To watch nature around me die and be buried.

Another way I've been preparing for winter is by spending time with biblical dudes like Jonah and Hosea. That's because I'm going to be teaching Bible college again in January. The march toward winter for me means less and less time for late night Starbucks runs and House reruns, and more and more time for writing lectures, creating Powerpoints, and printing handouts. Letting go of my relaxing, balanced, organized life (and home!) and being stretched yet again. I'm not ready.

I wish it was only my free time and flowers that are dying. In September, when I blogged about explaining Terry Fox's cancer to my frightened daughter, I couldn't have known that my Grandma, who had recently fallen ill, would be diagnosed with terminal cancer one month later. Every time we visit she seems a little smaller, a little weaker, a little more medicated. Every time I leave I think, this may be our last time together. That's stretching me in ways I'm not ready to be stretched.

It's hard to watch the colours fade and something of beauty slip away. I see it every year in Manitoba. But never like this one.

How I traded my fear of escalators and ramps for a little lift

I used to sweat every time I went near Polo Park Shopping Centre.

There's a few reasons for that. When I first moved to the city in the summer of '92 (to begin my short career at Dairy Queen) I was hit by a truck right in front of the mall. I didn't see any other vehicles coming, but in the middle of my U-turn I sure felt one. We never found each other in all the traffic, he never phoned it in, and I was left paying the deductible.

I wasn't injured, but the experience didn't do much for my confidence as a city driver, especially considering I had just rear-ended someone two weeks before. If I had had speed dial, Autopac would've been on it.

I was so tired of dealing with body shops, police reports and Autopac claim adjusters. Every time I saw an Autopac sign I would relive the boom of the crash, followed by the laughter of my Dairy Queen coworkers, the shaking frowns of my parents.

When I began dating T. that fall, we decided to turn my negative experience around; every time we saw an Autopac logo we treated it like mistletoe and smooched. Now that was a much more pleasant 'collision'!

The other reason Polo Park gave me the shakes was because I was a regular window shopper at Polo Park's Thyme Maternity during my first pregnancy...the one I lost.

I also seem to recall a frightening encounter with the Polo Park down escalators from my childhood, but I think I've repressed it.

This summer there was a reclining lawn chair on sale at Zellers that I wanted to get T. for our anniversary. There was only one left in the city - at the Polo Park location. I made it home with the chair, a stiff neck, and a few more reasons to hate going there, which involve confusing parking ramps and gift cards that drain themselves if you don't spend them in time.

But last night I drove to Polo Park and I can't wait to go back.

I visited a parents' group for moms of kids with disabilities that meets in that area. We shared our experiences with behaviour therapies and stimulant medications, discussed coping strategies, and swapped the battle stories that sometimes make parents of typical kids clear their throats and change the subject. Stories of kids running away in public and parents wishing they could too. Of unhinged doors and falling stipple. (Which, by the way, they wanted me to let you know makes a great hair gel. Scratch off ceiling onto head, rub in and style. Instant body and hold. Not that K.'s naturally "Calvin and Hobbs" hair needs it.)

After 3 hours of laughing and sharing over 7-Up (i.e. 3 hours of laughing on a full bladder) I felt so comfortable (except for my bladder), like I'd known these moms for months.

Polo Park still has parking ramps and gift card fees, but I don't have to worry about those. Just like Autopac can become a reason to kiss, Polo Park has become a reason to laugh.

A house full of pirates and joy

At G.'s dance class last weekend I overheard some moms talking about their families. One mom had five young children and finally felt like her family was complete. She looked very calm for a mother of five. (She owns 2 washers and dryers which helps I'm sure.)

I always imagined T. and I would have four kids, or at the very least three. When we were engaged I had visions of us someday walking through the park with four blonde heads of descending size, like Russian dolls, walking between us.

Okay, so I was a bit naive. What I really got was one blonde head trying to dive into the duckpond and the other one rolling in the grass screaming because her leggings were slipping.

I guess it's sort of like my dream: they could've been brunettes or redheads diving and rolling.

I wonder if the Madonna-Five-Times-Over ever has days like that. From what she said it sounded like she nurses the baby while the other four sit quietly at a table and teach each other the alphabet.

After K. got his diagnosis, I'd see pregnant women and all I could think about was the risk they were taking. Especially by having boys, who are 4 times more likely than girls to have autism and 2-3 times more likely to have ADHD. At the time when people usually talk about having a third, I was so overwhelmed with K.'s behaviour and the needs of a preschool-girl-with-attitude, I didn't even seriously consider it.

Last night I had 5 kids in my house. Three boys from the neighbourhood showed up to play hide-and-seek with K. and G.. I had kids popping out of closets and shower stalls left and right. And it felt like little champagne bubbles popping in my chest.

I loved having a house full of children. And as someone who wanted a little girl very badly, I'm surprised at how much I loved the pirate sword fights and Lego airship factories of K. and his friends. Nine year old boys are a lot of fun. And now that we're permanently diaper and spit-up free, I wonder what it would be like if we had had more? (If we'd made it through the toddler years with a bit of sanity remaining.)

All I know is that I'm grateful that K.'s social skills and our parenting skills have grown so that we now have the energy to welcome more Russia dolls of all colours into our home.

Even if it is only for as long as it takes to bring down a pirate airship.

Why's it called a Terry Fox run if Terry Fox isn't coming?

G. is afraid of the dark, so T. or I often lie down with her in bed for a bit to get her settled. I love those little talks. Last night as we lay cheek to cheek she said, "Guess what? Terry Fox is coming to our school tomorrow!"

When we heart started beating again I whispered, "It's called the Terry Fox run, honey, but I don't think Terry Fox will be there." Please don't make me explain this, I'm thinking.

"Why not? Because he'd dead?"

That would be the main reason, yes. "Yes, Terry Fox died many years ago," I said. "But while he was alive he did such wonderful things that people remember him. Now we run to raise money to help sick people and we name those runs after Terry."

"Mommy, what happened to his leg?"

Here's where I should have probably said, "I don't know." But instead I explained, "He had a sickness called cancer in his leg. They cut off his leg so he could live longer."

"How do you get cancer?" I'm thinking about things from the news and movies: people breathing asbestos, getting too many sunburns, Erin Brockovich and factories contaminating water. Research about needing to eat more spinach. But those aren't really answers.

"We don't know, sweetie."

"Am I going to get cancer?" Her voice is higher now and her lip is trembling.

"I don't think so. Only a few people get cancer."

"I don't want that to happen to me!" She lifts her leg from under the covers and stares at it, wide-eyed. Then she says something about Jesus I don't quite catch. "I want to tell Jesus, but I won't hear his answer."

I'm not sure what she wants to pray but I'm glad she does. It's not usually her first response. "Maybe you will, maybe you won't. You tell Jesus anyway. If I hear his answer I'll tell it to you." She wants me to tell him so I say, "Jesus, G. is sad that Terry Fox got sick and she's scared of getting cancer too."

I hear her squeak out a little, "I love you Jesus." Then she asks me, "Did he answer? Did he say if I will get cancer?"

I thought of something C.S. Lewis wrote about Lucy wanting Aslan to tell her more than she needed to know and said, "Jesus doesn't tell us the end of our stories. He only tells us what we need to know for today. Jesus, what does G. need to know for today?" As soon as I say it, I feel love pouring down on us.

"He said he loves you so much, G." She calmed a bit and a few minutes later fell asleep.

This morning I found out that my Grandma is more ill than I knew. Within the next year I will probably have to have the same conversation with G. about someone much dearer to her than Terry Fox.

"He still love us so much, G. Even now."