rant – Grateful Grumbles

July 13, 2019July 16, 2019

Our Blatant Invisible Luxuries

They’ve done it. The third time is the charm. Twice my desperate pleas of, “I’m sleeping. Shut my door,” worked. “Pleeeeeease!” I add and pull the duvet up higher. It feels early, but it’s not — not in this house anyway.

I roll off the bed and take the almost giggling baby with me. She loves mornings, she loves the super high-pitched squealing declarations of love from her sisters too. Goodness, that’s high-pitched. I need coffee.

I power up the espresso maker. It stubbornly beeps at me, a reminder that I forgot to empty the grounds, yesterday. It needs water too. A petulant thing — I’d complain, but then again I’d give her anything and she knows it. Satisfied, she pours a double espresso, extra long, just right.

I release the dogs from their kennels downstairs and prepare their medicines. That’s right, they’re both taking medicine now, for the rest of their lives. We probably should have better timed getting dogs, so they weren’t both seniors at the same time.

I prepare breakfast for us all. We all want different things. Not a problem, the espresso has kicked in.

And then the poo. She warned me, by pushing and grunting. I bring her to the change table, and lie her down. I remove her diaper and carefully peel off her jammies. There’s poo in her armpit, well that won’t do. I run a bath.

Her sisters crowd around as I lather her up. She laughs and kicks her legs under the heavy wash cloth. Sufficiently clean, I lift her from the tub. She looks unimpressed to be leaving the warmth of the water. The towel I had neatly laid out on my bed is now balled up on the floor. “Thanks,” I mumble to nobody.

I rinse off her poo-logged jammy in our oversized sink, I spray on too much stain remover and place them into the washing machine. Before I press start, I gather the remaining laundry from the various places it has been strewn about the house, tucked into the couch and hidden under beds. I’ll repeat the same circuit later, scouring for dirty dishes and random toys.

The weather looks iffy and I can’t stand the thought of being indoors all day. It’s time to get to the park. They need a snack. Crackers and cheese strings will have to cut it.

The baby falls asleep on the six minute car ride there. I buckle up the baby carrier while making small talk with a couple in the parking lot. They lower a ramp out of their car for their Rottweiler, who very happily makes her way out of the vehicle. My kids are equally as happy as they make their way out of mine. The baby stays asleep, snuggled against my chest as her sisters chase down bunnies wildly waving their carrots in the air. “Go slooooowly!” I whisper.

We walk through the park, greeting everyone with a genuinely hearty, “good morning!” (I may have had a second espresso). They echo our sentiments, everyone is happy to be out here.

We stop a few times to throw rocks in a pond, attempt to climb a very large rock and to watch ants scurrying around.

While my kids play at the sandbox amongst the once loved, now abandoned, toys I contemplate this short morning, a typical one, mundane even (in the most beautiful way), I’m lucky.

I can’t help but think that of course they’re coming. Of course people want their children to experience even the smallest luxuries we all take completely for granted. Safety at the most basic level, enough food and shelter. Even my inconveniences are convenient — blatant invisible luxuries.

I did nothing to deserve this. Nothing. And yet here I am, completely complacent.

I’ll likely never have to risk dehydration and starvation crossing deserts. I’ll likely never need to brave the ocean waters with a child on my back. I’ll likely never need to cross borders to keep my family safe.

But I would. If it meant that my children for just one morning could run freely through fields, throwing rocks into ponds, attempting to climb impossible rocks or watching ants scurrying on the ground, not a care in the world, I would do it. I would.

May 15, 2019May 15, 2019

We Can Do Better. We Have To Do Better.

It’s the end of spring cleaning week, the week our city purges their unwanted items and piles them onto the curb, in hopes that someone will claim our household trash for their treasure. Although it is a mostly green initiative, giving our unwanted items a second chance at life, it’s an impressive display of our wastefulness. The unclaimed items, making up the vast majority, will be conveniently removed and disposed of — never thought of again.

It used to feel like a welcome decluttering, cleansing even, this year feels different. Climate change news stories are circulating through my mind. My step mother pointed at the salal that grows wild on their property, indicating its colour. Salal, a bush native to western North America, is green year round, but now its thick leaves are dark brown and crunchy. Google confirms the browning is not limited to this area. I wonder what that means for the birds and bears that eat the berries, for the creatures that find refuge in their branches and for the mushrooms that grow in their shade. Small ponds are drying up faster than usual, disrupting frogs and salamanders from completing their transformation, dying before they can search for a new place to live. These are just two circumstances I can document with my own eyes. Mother Earth is warning us. While causing the extinction of other species, we are dangerously close to causing our own. My daughters are five, three and five months, I need to do better for them, before Earth becomes completely inhospitable towards us all.

We are not living sustainably, we haven’t for generations. We love our stuff — especially cheap stuff. We were all raised to be good to the Earth. In primary school we all pledged to recycle, reduce and reuse, it all felt so promising and yet it all rings so hollow now. Why didn’t they grab us by the ankles, hoist us into the air and make us watch as they dumped our “disposable” things into the Earth — piles upon piles of it — until our beings filled with dread and we promised to forgo our cheap plastic junk? Why didn’t some Christmas Carol-esque angel guide show us what catastrophe awaited us after decades of careless waste? Maybe they tried and we were too distracted by our things or we just didn’t care.

We need to add “do without” to the ol’ recycle, reduce, reuse adage. I don’t want to buy anything new, like ever. Although I wish I had made this decision after my hair dryer started smoking in an exhausted defiance of years of overuse, I’m sticking to it. Like everything else, I’ll simply toss it in the garbage, but this time there will be no google search, no amazon order — I’m trying to be better.

We are enslaved to consumerism. We work hard and we earn enough extra money to purchase new things — we “deserve” it. And then we need more, because styles have changed and our cheap broken items have been discarded or our fully functional items have become obsolete so we dispose and shop again, creating a need for more work and fuelling the market for cheap stuff. We have willingly jumped on this giant hamster wheel, specifically designed for us (smart ads) and we run, all while destroying the Earth and simultaneously giving ourselves anxiety, simply because we have too much stuff. Apathy and ignorance are killing us. We have to do better.

What do you think they will say about us, millions of years after our passing — the self induced extinction of humankind? What will they make of us when evolution has breathed life into another self aware species capable of exploring Earth’s history? What will they learn from our mistakes? What will they make of our homes packed with things, right beside other homes packed with the exact same things? What will they make of the fences that separated us, loudly marking what belongs to us, as if this Earth and her kindnesses were ever ours to divide? What will they make of our vast garbage heaps, buried not so discreetly just below her surface? What will they make of our willingness to pollute our Earth for a few dollars or a few moments of enjoyment?

Humankind, victims of vanity, independent to a detriment and consumed by convenience.

I can’t make up for years of impulsive purchases, and irresponsible wastefulness, but I can do better right now — so I will.

March 31, 2019March 31, 2019

Mother Earth

Our generous host
She offered everything
But we wanted more
We reached deep down into her being and pulled from within her
Drained her aquifers
Extracted oil
Mined metals and stone
We sold her soul for wealth
Sold our own by taking far more than we need
Without thanks
Who could blame her when she demonstrates her majestic rage
Still we refuse to listen
She’s fighting us
The same way our bodies fight an infection
With fever and chills

-What have we done?

March 27, 2019March 27, 2019

Waste Not

I dropped the salt. I know, I know, it’s bad luck to spill a little salt. Maybe the bad luck ends when the shaker breaks in half, pouring out its contents onto the counter and the floor, a million crystals mocking my clumsiness, one can hope anyway. Normally something broken would have been thrown into the trash without a second thought, but not today.

The night before the shaker broke, a few of us had casually discussed the end of the world, over supper. Climate change is worsening, but I had somehow remained unaware of just how quickly and just how giant an impact this will have on humanity. Ignorance turned into a feeling of impending doom as we discussed the worsening fires and lack of rainfall. Ten years “they” say til we feel the harsh wrath of the earth, thirty years before we are likely fighting for existence. No one knows the exact timeline, but the idea that there is one that expires at all and quite possibly in our life time is terrifying. It feels irresponsible not to fix the shaker.

Not fixing it may have imminent consequences.

As a country we are giving up plastic straws. I too watched the video of the sea turtle with the straw painfully lodged in its nose, poor guy, but there’s no way sea turtles are constantly doing this and yet for that little guy and maybe a handful of his friends, we are doing it. There are far more environmentally hazardous and unnecessary things. Maybe we are just being eased into it, if we survive surrendering our plastic single-use straws, surely we can give more without altering our lives too greatly. Single-use hangers for example, you only need one set of hangers. After shopping, you take the clothing off the hanger and put it on a better hanger or into a drawer, where does the single use hanger go? Certainly not the recycling, they don’t get recycled, believe me, we tried.

Apparently recycling is just a feel-good activity anyway, to make us feel better about our copious amounts of waste products, as most of it is put into landfills.

But imagine for a minute that “repaired” became the new trendy. Our items would gather scars and character from their time with us, creating charming conversation pieces. For instance:

“Please pass the salt”

“Here you are”

“Oh wow, what a charming salt shaker, what’s her story?”

My in-laws very generously lend us their camper trailer each year for my sibling camp out. It’s perfect, fully stocked with all the necessities it makes packing easier, sleeping comfortable and undesirable weather bearable. We made a meal, slapped the food onto the plates and the plates literally fell to pieces, right there on the tiny counter. Just gave out from the weight of the toddler sized portion of food. I thought this was next-level thriftiness, which is admirable in itself, but now I’m aware that saving free collectible dishes from Shreddies, circa 1985, is very environmentally friendly. That dish far exceeded its life expectancy and the in-laws can feel good about having not wasted. I guess this ought to be the trend.

Waste not, want not, has long been forgotten, and certainly not well practiced here in the western world, not by my generation anyway. In an age where things are cheaply mass produced and so easily replaced, that’s exactly what’s happening, replacing and not repairing, often replacing before it’s even required. I’m guilty, so guilty. I want to change and it begins today.

We need to evolve or there may be catastrophic consequences. And I hope that all of our little efforts add up.

So I glued that big old piece of plastic back together. I might even add some cute tape. And if you’re ever at my house for supper and see that glued-up, taped-up piece of unwasted plastic, I will tell you about the day I feared for the end of humanity. At the very least it will remind me to be more environmentally conscientious, to take better care of the Earth that cares for us.

What’s the greenest thing you’ve done this week?

October 6, 2018

she steps out

she steps out
into the void
unsure
where her footsteps
will fall
as she steps
into the darkness
each step
illuminates the ground before her
a path paved in “me toos”
by women
who bravely stepped out before her
preparing the way
at great cost to themselves
creating the path so others could follow
women everywhere
young and old
bear witness
gathering the courage to tell their stories

-it wasn’t in vain

September 20, 2018April 24, 2019

Fortunate Circumstance

As I lie in the dark, listening to the rain pouring down outside, I sink further into the warmth of my bed, pull the covers up, shut my eyes and reflect on my day. I had taken my two daughters on a walk through the park. I watched as they excitedly chased birds in an open field, in the distance children pulled at a branch of an apple tree, they cheered as an abundance of fruit rolled down the hill. People walked their dogs along pristine paths, lined with beautiful gardens, and a helicopter flew overhead.

Never once was I concerned for our safety, never once did anyone look at me as though I didn’t belong there. My children wore clothing adequate for the cool temperature and light rain, they snacked on oversized buns, too big to even finish in one attempt. As I soak up their smiles with my memory, I know that we are lucky. For all of the things that I take for granted, I am lucky.

Out of all the countries in this world, out of all the families in this world, out of all the times the world has seen, out of all of the bodies in this world, I am so lucky to have been born here and now. I recognize that life could have, just as easily, been very different and for that, I have to acknowledge that I am lucky.

I have a family who loves and supports me. My parents provided me with a safe and nurturing home. They encouraged me to take chances and were there for me whenever I needed it. They continue to be a valuable part of my life. My husband and I are now able to provide our children with the same beginnings. I am lucky.

I am physically and mentally able to work. I work hard, but that is because I am able to. While I do endure some physical limitation in the form of rheumatoid arthritis, free access to good medicine has helped me to live my life with very little restriction. At this time my children are also in good health. I am lucky.

I drink, cook with, and bathe in clean water. So many countries across the world, and even some communities within our own country do not have this access, spending valuable time and energy sourcing out something so basic as safe water. I am lucky.

I eat nutritious food, and have a pantry full of it. As a child we didn’t have much money for extras, but I never feared hunger. My children have never wondered where their next meal was coming from. I am lucky.

I am able to access free medical care, in my own community, whenever I need it for myself and my children. Never have I had to weigh the balance of my bank account against the concerns of my health. Never have I had to hike for miles only to find out the help I was seeking was unavailable. I am lucky.

I attended public school and later government subsidized university. I had teachers passionate about the subjects they taught and I felt safe while attending. I was able to live at home while attending high school and university. I drove an old but mostly reliable car and when I couldn’t afford to fix it, my parents helped. I am lucky.

I have never been on the receiving end of racist jokes, comments or actions. I have never been told I am worthless. I have never been made to feel unwanted. I have never feared for my safety when dealing with the police. My profile has always worked in my favour. I am lucky.

Everything I am stems from circumstances completely outside of my control.

Sometimes, when considering the circumstances of others we forget just how much of our own circumstances depend on luck. We have worked hard, but the opportunity to do so depends so much on the things we have had no control over.

So when our country offers refuge to people in need of safety, I am happy, because they might get to experience the safety I so often take for granted now. The very real possibility of their limbs being severed from their bodies, their children raped and burned alive in their homes fade into only nightmares as they become a part of a country that cares for physical health and safety.

When our country deems it necessary to send a sizeable donation to countries in need of relief, I am happy, because for just a second they get to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing their children can sleep for one night with a full belly.

When our country offers welfare to individuals and families in need within our own country, I am happy because their basic needs have been met. When our country makes promises to care for our most vulnerable populations I am hopeful, that they may one day take for granted some of the things I have taken for granted my whole life.

So often compassion arbitrarily stops at a border, as if a person’s worth, health and safety ought to be determined by their place of birth, the colour of their skin, their income level or their physical or mental wellness. People fear advances for others as if their small step forward is an infringement on the luxuries we did nothing to deserve and feel so entitled to, but why?

Canada has taken care of me for thirty-four years, only five of those, have I contributed any significant amount towards taxes. I enjoyed medical luxuries beginning with my own cesarean birth, very expensive medications, I attended public school and worked part time while I attended subsidized university, I have had three c-sections, taken two maternity leaves and plan to take another. Never have I been deemed unworthy, and why?

So as I listen to the rain drumming down on the roof, surrounded by so many luxuries, carelessly strewn about, it is overwhelming acknowledging just how much I have especially when faced with the sharp contrast of the lives of others. I am grateful, but I know that I am lucky. In so many ways, I am lucky.

January 22, 2018July 21, 2018

Making a Woman

make her smaller than the male of her species

fault her

and her thirst for knowledge

for the fall of human kind

give her a womb

let it define her

mother of humanity

drain her of her energy for several days each month

give her a surge of hormones

combine it with discomfort and pain

give her breasts

to nourish her young

let them become objects of sexuality

to be lusted after

tell her how and when they are appropriate

give men ownership over her

allow her to be given away

give her sexual urges

chastise her for acting on them

at all

or too often

give her a desire for knowledge

the ability to cure ailments

and the yearning to gather with others like her

burn her

stone her

lock her away

give her a love for the earth

let her care for it and cultivate it

raise her children upon it

but not own it.

give her a mind

make it powerful

combine wisdom with empathy

make her fight for her vote

give her the desire to succeed

and the ability to work hard

pay her less than her coworkers for performing the same tasks

dress her in high heels

underwire

strapless dresses

and tiny bathing suits

constantly evaluate her

loudly make it known if her body is

or isn’t pleasing

whisper in her ear that beauty is more important than inquisitiveness or strength

create several billion dollar industries to tell her her body is not good enough

capitalize on the insecurities you created

give her a voice strong and full of conviction

speak over her

ignore her

when she speaks of sexual assault

harassment

and misconduct

call them claims

dismiss her completely

ask her how she could have prevented it

give her control over her body

give her the right to say no

do not protect her under the law

consider the life of the vicious

twenty minutes ought not to define him.

tell her she’s equal

ignore her as she explains the truths of the past and the present

give her tenacity

courage

and a vision

watch as she stands

clears her throat

and prepares to speak

again

confident and in unison

hand in hand

with her sisters

until she is heard

until she is understood

until she is equal

September 16, 2017June 24, 2019

The Wasp Trap: A Delightful Demise

I think both my fear and fascination with wasps began with my first sting. This is perhaps my first childhood memory. On a family reunion camping trip I unsuspectingly slipped my foot into a shoe, only to receive a startling and excruciating sting. I vividly remember holding ice to my foot, tears slowly sliding down my cheek as my grandmother pushed me in a swing, in a kind but somewhat pathetic attempt to distract me from that life altering moment.

Since then, I exerted a great deal of energy running from them, ducking for cover from them, surrendering food to them, trying to ignore them, gently shooing them and nothing has worked. Nothing.

Once while waiting at a ferry terminal with a friend I ordered a pizza, a $12 pizza. It was a beautiful pizza, hand made, organic, the toppings placed just so. Merely moments after I had taken my first bite, wasps had swarmed my pizza. No amount of fast walking, jolty movements, blowing, gentle shooing and hysterical shrieking could convince the wasps to seek a meal elsewhere. My friend embarrassed and probably wishing she had invited a different friend on a weekend away, calmly reminded me that wasps are small and generally mean no harm. But, you see my friend is a vegetarian, and while she is admittedly much more level headed than me, the wasps had very little interest in HER pizza and no amount of sensible speak could prevent me from hurling my pizza onto the ground and running in the opposite direction. Is THIS why people become vegetarians?

I love the outdoors. I need the outdoors. My body and my mind are at peace outdoors. My kids get along outdoors. My dog is happy outdoors. I cannot stand when my peace is disrupted by that all too familiar buzz and aggressive flash of yellow.

I wonder what my neighbours think when they hear my shouting and shrieking. Really, why would a grown woman be raising such a raucous outside? Or maybe they get it. We have all encountered a nosy and persistent wasp, haven’t we? I am slightly concerned that one day they will assume I am being chased by a tiny insect when I am in a deeper sort of peril.

Often lately they have been lurking just outside my door, threatening to come inside each time it swings open, invoking some fearful cursing and an immediate slam. They bump their bodies into the screens of my windows as they peer inside, meticulously studying the perimeter of the house, obviously plotting their take over. It was time, time to take back my doorstep, time to reclaim my place outdoors.

My late, great uncle, great, both in the wonderful sense of the word and in the generational way, an inventive and ingenious man, used to fashion his own traps. He’d hang the carcass of a fish, above a bucket of water. You see wasps are carnivorous, ferocious and selfish little creatures. They would feast and feast until they were so engorged they could no longer lift their tiny little bodies off of the fish and would plummet into the bucket below. Drowned by their own gluttony.

Since a rotting fish would most definitely draw in a much bigger and much more dangerous creature I opted to check out the selection of pre made traps at the ol’ Canadian Tire. Having heard a great review on something that sounded like the trap I held in my hand, I confidently headed for the check out.

I set that bad boy up, following every instruction, tightening and untightening, cutting and dumping, and washing my hands, I need no help attracting wasps.

I caught 39 wasps in 24 hours. 39! I watched two wasps literally fight to be the first one in. The trap was mesmerizing, alive, a buzzing ball of angry beasts, desperate to escape. 39 wasps meant that my original thought that there were one or two, possibly three mean wasps that were taking pleasure in torturing me with frequent fly bys often landing on myself or my kids, sending me shrieking in terror, arms flailing, racing for the safety of my house, was not true.

Day two, the number has probably doubled. On one of my excited frequent checks, I noticed what appeared to be a super wasp, much larger than the others, perhaps the king of all the wasps. Upon closer inspection, I was horrified to realize that it was carrying the head of one of its fallen friends. Turns out when trapped for hours on end, wasps will resort to hauntingly cannibalistic behaviours.

I have begun to picture a world, not completely free of wasps, because apparently they do serve a purpose, but one where there are traps in every space that I frequent. The park, scattered throughout my yard and the place I return my grocery cart to, offering the wasps something far more appealing than me.

Too long had I been running, yesterday was the day I took my power back from the tiny yellow overlords and it feels good. This does not come without consequence. Every time I shut my eyes I see them, crawling on top of each other, entangled, fighting for freedom; which is both delightful and disturbing. But it is worth it, completely worth it.

With a brazen confidence, that I am sure only comes from killing 39 wasps in one day and will soon dissipate, today at the park, I crushed a wasp under my foot, and a second by removing my shoe, and squashing it dead, right there beside the swings. 28 years ago a wasp used my shoe against me, today, I used my shoe to crush it. Today the tables have turned; today I have regained my power.

June 12, 2017August 13, 2017

No More Mother’s Day in School

I realize Mother’s Day has come and gone, but with Father’s Day right around the corner, maybe it is still applicable, and this has been on both my mind and heart for awhile.

Recently grade 1 and 2 teachers, in just one school, in just one city, announced they would not be creating Mother’s Day crafts this year. There was immediate backlash and outrage from not only the parents of those children, but the entire community and province. So like anything that fuels my teacher fire, I took to the comments section of Facebook. I was asked several times, “Why the hate for Mother’s Day”? So here it goes (for the record, I don’t hate completely hate it, and I still do Mother’s Day crafts with my students).

I am deeply bothered when teachers are not given the benefit of a doubt. Let’s pretend for 30 seconds that teachers, who have spent 5+ years of school learning to be a teacher, have years of experience, take professional development to continue to learn how to effectively reach children, who spend evenings reading books and blogs to become better teachers, who spend 6 hours a day with a particular group of children might just understand some of their emotional needs. In this particular circumstance one of the students very recently, and very tragically lost their mother. Did they write this in the note home? No. Should they need to? NO! Parents and the public should understand that the vast majority of teachers are looking out for their students best interests.

BUT… BUT… BUT…

Why don’t teachers just get them to make a craft for someone else? If you think that teachers everywhere have not been doing this since the beginning of Mother’s Day, you are wrong. If you think creating a craft for an aunt, grandmother or foster parent on Mother’s Day makes those students who have lost theirs, or who have mothers who are not yet well enough equipped to be a mother, feel less left out, you are wrong again. Every year I have at least 2 students who come from complicated family situations.

Mother’s Day crafts have been made at school for 100 years! There were a lot of things happening 100 years ago in education that are highly inappropriate for today. Students were given the strap as a form of discipline, teachers smoked and drank in the staff room, special needs students were not included in a regular school, black children did not attend the same school as white children and First Nations children were taken from their families, stripped of their culture, forced to attend English speaking schools and often abused. As society evolves so do our thoughts, attitudes and actions. “It’s always been that way” is clearly not a reason for continuing hurtful practices.

I’m sick of everything having to be so PC. I’m not entirely sure why this was used as an argument in support of Mother’s Day cards, though it was. I know the teachers used the word “inclusive” on their note, and I know that word scares some people, heaven forbid we be more inclusive when considering 6 and 7 year olds. I have taught children with same sex parents and I can assure you that those parents have been more than happy receiving two projects on Mother’s Day. I have also taught students from a variety of different cultures, they too appreciate a love-filled, paint-splattered, heart-shaped handprint card.

This is not preparing them for the real world. First of all, they are 6 and 7 years old! If ever there was a time to shelter someone from the “real world” it is when they are 6 and 7 years old. Secondly, some of my student’s stories would break your heart if you heard them, others would make your skin crawl. Believe me, they know more about the “real world” than they anyone ever should. The MOST important thing in my class is to keep my students safe. I wish it was learning, I do. It is my job to keep my classroom a safe space, because unfortunately for some students my classroom is the only safe space, the only escape from the “real world”, they have.

My child is very upset they cannot create a craft for me. First of all most 6 and 7 year olds I know, don’t know what day of the week it is, let alone year. But let’s pretend they do. If they are upset, wonderful! That means they have a wonderful loving mother that they want to create a craft for! Give them a hug, they will get over it. It is the ones who have lost their mothers or the ones who have a mother unable to be a mother, that are the concern here.

Arts and crafts are part of the curriculum. Yes, they are. At 6 and 7 years old they are usually making 1 project per week. I’m sure you are inundated with beautiful projects that your child excitedly hands you each week. Feel free to claim any one of these as your special created “just for you” project, because they are, kids cannot wait to bring these weekly little gems home and gift them to you.

Finally to put this into another, far more personal, perspective, Mother’s Day 2012 I was pregnant with my first. People wished me “Happy Mother’s Day,” saying I was a mother, maybe I was, I was getting up frequently at night, which is basically the definition of being a parent. I lost my baby shortly after he was born, fell pregnant quickly again only to miscarry that little guy. So Mother’s Day 2013 was a very painful day for me, but I’m an adult and am capable of dealing with large emotions, so I completely avoided the world and anyone who wasn’t also grieving. 5 years and 2 beautiful daughters later, I still don’t step foot into church or a restaurant to avoid that stupid obligatory flower that reminds me of my heavy heart.

Now imagine for a second that there was a day called Kid’s Day, where everyone around the world recognized their little trouble makers, and on this day at my place of work every staff member was forced to create a special little project for their little ones. It is mandatory, I cannot escape it. But they assure both me and the other lady, who has tried for 7 years to become pregnant, that “It is ok, just create one for a different baby.” Seems like a special kind of torture, am I right? School is mandatory. It is for children. Some children are very hurting.

Mother’s Day is clearly a family event; does it need to be a part of school?