I have always loved the idea of recessed exterior lighting on houses. I wanted to do it on our house on Bridle Park but the porch overhang made it impossible.
Our current house was just begging for it. There are no street lights on our street and our neighbours seem to prefer to be in the dark. Everything seems so dark and dreary. Plus, there have been quite a few break-ins in our neighbourhood and I figured more lighting would help make us less of a target.
The problem was our house is on the large size and we were operating on just one salary almost since the day we moved it. It would cost us a lot, for sure. Plus I wasn’t completely certain it would look right.
But, once I returned to work and we started having a little more financial freedom the idea moved up on our priority list and we decided there was no time like now.
So, we went for it and I have to say I’m pretty pleased! I feel like we’re lighting up the whole street a bit now though!
Ingrid and Elodie got into (yet) another dust-up. I usually jump to action and shush them up, sent them off to their rooms to cool down or generally tell them to knock it off. I don’t take sides – at least I try hard not to.
This time, though, they were being incredibly and unbelievably mean to each other for just seven and four years old. I apparently took a side and very obviously, it was the wrong one.
Without me even telling her to, Ingrid stormed off to her room and closed her door behind her. She was quiet for a long time. When I went by her room to see how she was doing I found this posted on her door…
I am moving.
I found her hidden in the back of her closet, breaking her heart crying.
I asked her where she wanted to move. She said "Anywhere that Elodie doesn't live."
St. Patrick’s Day turned out to be a bit of a bad luck day for me after all.
After dealing with three wildly different and often erratic personalities all day I was set on going for a run by myself once everyone was finished supper and were settling down.
I went upstairs and got dressed to go out and burn off a day’s worth frustrations. I used the toilet, flushed, walked out of the bathroom and heard Danica wailing over something. Derek was useless in his efforts to calm her down because all she wanted was “MOMMY!!!!” There goes my run.
This made me so angry. I know she wanted her mommy and there wasn’t any subsitituon in the world that would suffice. Still, that didn’t make me any less resentful that Derek couldn’t fill my shoes, just this once and let me go out for my much desired run.
So, when I say that even though I heard the toilet struggle to flush and continue to fill with water, I still walked away you might be more willing to understand it based on the facts of the evening.
I begrudingly stomped my way down the stairs, silently cursing Derek’s ineffectiveness, Danica’s constant neediness and my perception that Derek was trying to sabatoge me. All the while I heard the toilet still running.
And yet, I carried on.
I stormed into the living room, pulled Danica off Derek’s lap and plopped her down in the chair with me, postivitly fuming.
Free of Danica, Derek picked up his laptop and proceeded to mind his own business and became momentarily oblivious to the rest of the world.
In his moments of oblivion and a floor below, I continued to hear the water running. The spite raging in me refused to alert Derek to the potential problem brewing in the upstairs bathroom. I could hear it running from my seat literally two feet from Derek and I was so mad that he was able to just tune us all out, not hearing a single thing amiss around him.
Before long I hear the telltale signs of a leak. The drip-drop, pitter-pat of water falling several feet. I figured that I finally had to say something. Was I nice about it? Not even a little. I scared the bejesus out of Derek when I yelled (from two feet away remember) that he should pay attention for a second or we’re going to need a row boat to get to bed.
He jumped out of his reverie pretty quickly. He ran all over the first floor like a chicken with its head cup off looking for the source of dripping.
He finally ran upstairs and the moaning and groaning that came back down was alarming. I finally got over myself and ran upstairs to see that in the fifteen minutes since I over flowed the toilet, there was a full inch of water accumulated on the bathroom floor and at least three feet of the carpet into our bedroom was soaked right through to the wood.
Oops. And an expensive one at that.
Ever hear of the phrase “cutting off one’s nose just to spite the face”?
One day in kindergarten we had to draw a picture of ourselves doing whatever it was we wanted to be when we grew up. I drew myself as a nurse complete with a white hat on my head and red cross on my chest. I am sure my mother still has it somewhere today. I can see it so clearly in my mind.
In grade two I started to notice children falling down on the playground during recess and getting hurt. I would observe the teachers, armed only with tissues from their pockets, try to mend their booboos back together. Determined to make a difference, one night I emptied a Purity box of its crackers, punched holes in each side from which I strung yellow knitting yarn to make it portable and then stuffed it full of tissues and the lone bandaid I could find in our bathroom. I was going to be the self-appointed, homemade, mobile schoolyard nurse. But by morning the fear of being laughed at got the best of me and I left my creation at home and went to school empty-handed.
All I ever wanted to be was a nurse. I still do.
There was much foreshadowing in my young life. I see it all now. The timidity, the fear of failure and rejection...the lack of self confidence... I was always nice and well behaved. I was appropriately seen and not heard. I was smart and things came easily to me so I didn’t have to work hard. That sounds like a good thing but looking back I now understand that it was not. When you grow up never having to work hard for your accomplishments and yet still get rewarded for your performance it gives you false sense to self-worth. I see it now. Oh, yes I do.
When I was in my final year of high school, post-secondary councillors came to our school to meet with us individually and give us some guidance on what we should register for that coming fall at university. I wanted to go to "nursing school" at the general hospital but as someone with three older, university-educated siblings and friends who were all university bound as well, I felt that I, too, should go to university. I didn't want to be the flunky who didn't have a degree. I was also told that a BN was better than an RN. I bought it hook, line and sinker and off to university I went without a single clue what my future career would be. If only I had known...
After I had completed all the prerequisite first-year courses, it came time to apply for nursing school at MUN and I balked. I was so afraid I would fail at the only thing I ever wanted to do that I started finding excuses for why I couldn’t do it... why I shouldn't do it - no jobs in Newfoundland meaning I would have to leave (at the time there really weren't any), no one to sign the admissions referrals for me... The list of cons went on and on.
Twenty years later, here I am... literally counting down the long boring hours before I can leave this dusty office of mine and drive the one hour commute home in a city I'd rather not call home. Funny how one of the reasons why I didn't pursue nursing in the first place (having to move away) I went and did anyway. Life is so strange.
At 30 I considered quitting my job and going back to school but by then it was too late in my mind. I was married and mortgaged. Now at 41, the thoughts and temptations have resurfaced again. Only this time it really is too late. I am still married and mortgaged but now I am also a mother. That kind of commitment would take too much time away from my children.
Instead of following my own dream, my job now is to teach my children to follow their's, to go for what they want no matter what. As long as I am their mother they will never lack for support and encouragement. They will do wonderful things in this life, I am sure of it. I don't care what it is, as long as it makes them happy.
Because regret is a terrible thing to live with.
I would have been the best damn nurse in the world.
We made our annual Easter trek out to the farm for a much anticipated, but all-to-easy, egg hunt.
It's Danica first year of really participating.
It's so interesting to look back at all our Easter's at this farm and to see how the place and the weather changes year to year. Looking forward to a snowless Easter next year. Fingers crossed at least.
They built a new pavilion this year and went a little haywire tossing eggs around. Within a minute we had all the eggs we needed (and then some!) to claim our cookies!
Elodie is pouting now because she wanted to get on, too. Middle child always left out.
Their feet were soaking wet despite the rain boots.
Ingrid slipped and fell hard.
Daddy to the rescue.
It was pretty chilly but Danica refused to put on her mittens. Instead, she sat with her hands in her pockets the entire time. She rarely ventured from the stroller.
Oh my goodness! It was so wet. I wore sneakers. BAD IDEA!
They thoroughly enjoyed the puddles, though.
Ingrid took a breather to wring out her socks. Seriously.
Conversations with Dad. May she always feel comfortable telling us all her secrets.
This year's farm cookies were just meh. We didn't go back for seconds. I don't think anyone even finished their firsts.
Before bedtime we made sure to leave some carrots outside for the Easter Bunny.
And while three little girls slumbered upstairs, the bunny came.
We really need to up our egg decorating game. Every year we say we're going to do it "right" but then Easter sneaks up on us and I never catch up. Story of my life.
I must clarify that by "right" I mean that we should probably hard boil the eggs like most people do but I can't imagine having that many hard boiled eggs in my fridge. We eat them about twice a year so I sincerely don't know what we'd do with that many.
Instead we let three, slippery fingered children loose with raw, easily-shattered eggs. The hardwood in our playroom will never be the same.
But, they seem to enjoy it nonetheless, gooey, messy egg carnage aside.
Elodie had an oopsie moment.
Ingrid gets better at it every year.
We did two dozen but only have 12 to show for it. Major OOPS!!