C≠B, where C is the closet and B is the bathroom

Doing all this math elicits quite the dichotomy of feelings within me. I did so well on the "solving linear equations" section that I took a picture of my notebook to send to Andrew:

Black-eyed baby

I haven't gone to Sunday School this year, a feat made easier by the fact that we only have Sunday School twice a month now. I missed the first week of Sunday School because instead I taught (and, uh, maybe lost) Sunbeams. I missed last week because Zoë was too sick to go to her class so I took her home instead (and then I also packed for my weekend trip to Idaho because I'd forgotten to do that the night before). 

She's now getting over her croupy cough and hasn't had a fever since early this week (though she also missed preschool on Wednesday, which was bitterly disappointing (though was made sweeter when her friend Hannah dropped by some cupcakes to help her feel better)). 

Naturally Alexander is croupy now, running a fever and barking that iconic seal-like cough. He's so sick and miserable that everything he does is 100% pathetic and sympathy-inducing. 

"Momma!" he'll moan, and he gets Momma.

He moaned a new word this afternoon, "Banana!" and he got a banana. 

Basically whatever he wants he gets because everyone feels so sorry for him. Our pity is heightened, I think, because on top of being cute and small and sick, the poor boy has a black eye! 

Building, writing, creating

This evening I had my second session of my writing class, which has so far been surprisingly empowering. My sister sent me an article about parenting through grief several weeks ago when we were, you know, in the trenches of parenting through grief (not that the battle is over, but I don't feel like we're quite in the trenches like we were) and it said something about allowing yourself to neglect the kids and house a bit. When you hear that judgmental voice in your head saying, "Too much television is going to rot that child's brain," or "That laundry should have been folded days ago," to just thank that voice for its concern and send it on its way.

That was so helpful for me to read at the time.

Eating pizza for dinner (again) wasn't going to ruin my children's childhood. Playing the Wii all weekend long wasn't going to ruin my children's childhood. Picking clean clothes out of a laundry basket instead of their drawers wasn't going to ruin my children's childhood. And eventually we'd find our new normal and life would continue with vegetables and human interaction and chore charts.

No need to castigate myself for not having it all together because people don't have everything together in the best of times, so why should I have everything together in what could be categorized as one of the worst of times? (For the record, we're out of the trenches and my house still isn't tidy, but it wasn't before, and I don't think my children are really worse off for it).

I heard a similar thing tonight in my class. We made lists of our fears and our distractions and the judgmental voices inside our heads and then one of the teachers said to thank those fears, distractions, and voices for trying to protect us but we were going to forge ahead anyway.

And that was apparently so helpful and empowering for me to read that it spurred me into having a difficult but necessary conversation today.

But enough vagueness. I only meant to say that we did a writing exercise during class, which is one I feel rather familiar with because it's kind of the topic of this blog, but it went in a surprising direction, so I will share it here. The prompt was, "In this very moment..."

My math zipper is misaligned

So, I'm studying for the GRE, which is all kinds of fun and is bringing back lots of, you know, fun memories. And by fun I mean traumatic.

I suffer from a bit of math anxiety, which I've been reading quite a bit about lately. This fear of math can be passed on from parent to child when the parent expresses thoughts such as, "Math is dumb, anyway," or "It's alright if you're not good at math because I'm not good at it either," and things like that. It can also stem from teachers expressing math anxiety in front of their class or, I imagine, from shaming students who are struggling to grasp a particular concept.

Two instances of math shaming stand up readily in my mind. The first is in grade three. We had to do timed multiplication tests weekly in Mrs. Robinson's class and while I did enjoy my time in Mrs. Robinson's class, I did not enjoy those timed multiplication tests. I only ever managed to get through the whole test once at the very end of the school year.

"You must not be as mathematically minded as your brother," I remember her remarking. "He was so quick!"

He had been in her class a couple of years before me and he, of course, finished his timed tests every week. I know this because if you got 100% on the test (which would naturally involve finishing it) then you got to pick a prize. He got a prize every week.

I never got prizes. Until the end of the year. And by that point I don't think I cared any more.

(Except that I am bringing this up again so perhaps I cared a little bit more than I thought).

Up to Idaho and down again

I ran up to Idaho with my mom this weekend to attend Burt's funeral. We drove up with my Aunt Judy and Uncle Wally and Alexander (the only child I took with me) was a fabulous little traveller.

It was wonderful to get reacquainted with some of my more distant relatives and to have the opportunity to see some close family members again (my Auntie Colleen and Uncle LeRon drove down from Alberta and Elizabeth was there...because she lives there).

Alexander had a marvelous time crawling around (and rolling around) the floor. He seemed to enjoy the soft carpet quite a lot. He also did a lot of toddling! He was taking quite a lot of steps as he made his way around the room. Without anyone there to yank him around and knock him over (I'm looking at you, Zoë) I think he felt confident enough to give this whole two-feet thing a try.

After the viewing we met at the Airbnb my Uncle Bruce and Aunt Sara had rented—a cute single-wide trailer home—for a dinner that Sara prepared for us. It was fun to get to visit as our own little family unit for a while (Uncle Bruce, Aunt Sara, Elizabeth, Bridget, Aunt Judy, Uncle Wally, Auntie Colleen, Uncle LeRon, my mom, Alexander, and I). And then, since we hadn't yet found a place to stay, my mom, Alexander, and I ended up spending the night there as well (Colleen and LeRon had already found a hotel and Aunt Judy and Uncle Wally stayed at Elizabeth's). It was so nice of Uncle Bruce and Aunt Sara to share their space!

The funeral was quite wonderful. Burt was, by worldly standards, a rather unsuccessful man; he had terrible luck progressing through any given career track, but he kept on trying new things so that he could help support his family. Still, his lack of success plagued him throughout his life and he just never felt successful. But he was successful in all the ways that truly matter. He was so kind and honest and generous. Everyone loved and respected him. He was, as was repeated so many times today, a gentle soul—just so good.

He'll be missed by many.

After the funeral program we all piled into our cars to make the half-mile journey to the cemetery. It was cold and windy and the dedication of the grave was mercifully short. Then we all piled back into our cars to head back to the church.

Old friends

I got together with some old friends tonight and it was so great to get to see them! We go back a long time. Let's see...

Courtney and I have been in three different wards together. She was in our Parkland ward when our family moved to Calgary (the end of 1994). My family moved to High River before the start of the next school year and Courtney's family moved very soon after we did, so naturally we were in the same ward again because there was only one ward in High River (and it encompassed several nearby towns as well: Nanton and Cayley and so forth (now there is a ward and a branch in High River)).

Amy's family moved to High River from Oregon that same year, but in the middle of the school year, I believe.

Extra Eyebrows

Today Zoë had an open peanut butter and honey sandwich, which means she gets half a slice of bread with honey and half a slice of bread with peanut butter. She likes it open so she can have the full experience of honey-on-bread and peanut-butter-on-bread one at a time, rather than the traditional melding of flavours that is the abomination known as a sandwich.

She ended up giving herself a little peanut butter mustache while she was eating and when she showed it to me she said proudly, "Look, Mom! I have an extra eyebrow on my face, just like men do!"

And now I can't stop imagining going up to some random men and complimenting them on their "extra eyebrow" (or, perhaps "lip eyebrow"), just to see how they respond.

Karen's Cookie Kegger (November 17)

I've put off going through the pictures from Karen's funeral for two solid months now. There's no reason for it, in particular, other than that life keeps marching on. I didn't do it right away and so it go swept under the rug (along with the billion other things I haven't documented in my life). It's not particularly painful to go back and look at the pictures because although it was a hard day it was a good day. I just haven't looked through them until now.

But I had to pull them up yesterday so that I could find this picture of my mom (and me (and Alexander and Kathi and Sister Starr)) with my mom's cousin Burt:

A visit to the fire station

Our neighbourhood preschool took a trip to the fire station this morning. The first truck we got to visit was a 1937 American LaFrance Fire Truck, the second engine Spanish Fork acquired (it's engine #2). The kids weren't allowed to climb on it, but they were allowed to walk around it. It still comes out to participate in parades sometimes (though it looks like it might need some work before hitting the streets again—something was leaking all over the floor).

Alexander at 15 months

This sweet little baby of mine continues to insist upon getting older, so I guess he's fifteen months old now. He's still at the age where he's changing a lot from month to month, so I will do another update on him.

At fifteen months, Alexander...

• is finally experimenting with walking, though he still doesn't love it and will refuse to take any steps if he's not in the right mood. He is definitely, and by far, my latest and most reluctant walker. 
• still loves to climb. He likes to hang out on top of his little slide'n'climb structure, which has been a sanity-saver this winter. He can also climb onto the benches for our table, which means that he can also climb onto the table whenever he wants. 

Here he is doing a bit of climbing: