Letting Go

I’m officially not a single mom anymore. Andy’s here. He’s moving his stuff in even as I write. Six months after we met -- again -- (we first got to know each other in 1995, but at that point in his life, he didn’t want kids and I couldn’t shut the damn alarm off on my biological clock) he has given up his life in the Rockies where he lived for 14 years, sold his house, left his friends behind, and today there are boxes piled in every corner of my little house.

Not only has he brought his stuff, he’s brought his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide open arms. What more could a woman ask for?

“I'm embracing us with open arms, no reservations or expectations. A very real feeling.” He wrote this to me one night six months ago, when we realized – with surprise and delight – that the escalation of romantic emails had led to love.

As of last Thursday, he’s here: in my life, in my heart, in my house. And not only does he love me, but he also loves my kids. What else a woman could ask for?

“I never wanted kids,” he told me early on. “And I can’t believe how much I like yours. I would have missed out on so much if my life had just continued on the way it was going. These boys are a real gift to me.”

Face it, girlfriends, with that, he was in. That’s the ultimate test!

Or maybe, the ultimate trial is what happens when the rubber hits the road. Like one morning in Canmore when we were on holidays and Secundo woke up early – not unusual, but this time I was grumpy. Andy took one look at me and got out of bed. “Let me do it,” he said gently. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll adjust my attitude in a minute … or two.” (The only thing worse than being grumpy with the world’s cutest two-year-old, is feeling guilty about it …)

Andy got my attention. He touched my forearm and looked into my eyes.

“What?” I said, a little irritable. It was after all, not much more than 6 in the am.

“This is a partnership, remember?”

“Oh,” I replied. “Yeah.”

“So, get back into bed and I’ll go hang out with the boy.”

All righty, then, more points.

In fact, I give him full points for integrating into our family unit -- not only has he figured out how to get a diaper onto a twitching toddler (insert on head first, imitate Elmo, tickle, then attach around butt with left hand while holding shiny object in front of the child with the right), and implemented the habit of drinking warm milk before bedtime, but today he once again asserted his weight in our partnership by asking me to stay home while he picked the boys up from their caregivers and delivered them to their dad’s house.

Secundo was sick and needed cuddling. I wasn’t there to do it. When Andy told me about it, my guilt bloomed profusely. (Are you noticing a theme?) But before I could shed the tears that welled up, Andy said, “It’s important for you to let me learn how to comfort him, and for him to learn that I can comfort him too.”

There’s a lot going on here. We’re all working hard. The little one who at two is adapting and adjusting to being away from his mom for three days every week. I who am letting go of the boys into their father’s care on those days and into Andy’s arms too. Andy who is opening his heart to all of us – including my ex. And their father who is accepting another man into his sons’ lives.

At five Primo has naturally moved on from momma. When we pick him up from his caregiver he races right past me into Andy’s arms. But a two-year-old is still all about his momma. I don’t want to let go of being the most important one in his life. There’s this feeling of pain in my chest, and nausea, that comes with that surrender.

But maybe it’s not about me. Maybe it’s more important that I think of him. What are his needs, given that it’s a fact of our life that he spends three days away from me?

He needs to learn to be secure and confident when he’s away from me. He needs to be comforted by the others in his life. He needs to be secure and confident in both his homes. Most importantly he needs me to be secure and confident, to be OK when he’s with me and when he’s not.

That’s my job right now. To let go of my children long before I imagined I would. Long before they push me away because I’m embarrassing them. Long, long before they’re heading off to Europe to go traveling or to university to study archaeology or Braille.

I have to let them go. I have to live with my grief without letting it taint my relationship with Andy. I have to allow them to have a full life with their father where I don’t get to see everything they do, and miss out on some of their milestones like when Primo lost his first tooth, or hear all the funny things they say (like That spider is going to grow up to be a tarantula, or Are we just puppets, or the two-year-old version of Dammit!).

So, I do. And I also build my relationship with Andy and launch our new life. And make damn well sure I write. I am not going to waste this chance, not going to dis this gift from the gods.

I am very thankful that Andy’s here. With Magic. “I like dogs now,” says Primo. And the Underwood Number 5 and the German bullet that lodged in his Dutch grandfather’s shoulder, and his mushroom lamp (yes, you heard that right), and his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide, open arms.

“It's crazy you’re in my head so much,” he wrote to me back when we were still talking via email. “It's scary and wonderful at the same time.”

“What’s scary about me?” I asked him

“Nothing,” he wrote back. “That's why.”

When I read that, my heart opened up in that way that made me believe what they say about the unconditional and limitless nature of love.

And with that newly opened heart, I love Andy. I love the boys. And I love myself. In fact, I can’t see that there’s ever been a more important time to love myself. To forgive myself for the grumpy mornings. For the times I make mistakes, when I trip and fall. To treat myself with the same gentleness and respect that I give to the boys.

Now, it’s time to go have dinner with Andy. To eat food without a wriggling toddler spilling cheese on my lap, or a lippy five-year-old insulting the cauliflower. To have wine instead of whine. To discuss matters of great import (or small) without someone asking how pillows are made.

To go and listen to my lover, and learn something new about him today.

To feel the grief in one of the chambers of my vast heart and to also feel the happiness and the gratitude and the love.

The week before school starts

Primo started Kindergarten today. Last week we went camping on the Juan de Fuca Strait at a beautiful place called French Beach, me and my two sons, boys who will be men one day.

We left the city on Tuesday at noon after running around all morning. Doing errands with two boys in tow takes twice (thrice?) as long, especially when one of them is two. But eventually, and with patience and humour, we bought tent pegs and propane, filled the car with gas, purchased stamps and mailed my letters, and we were off!

“Is it a long way?” Primo asked as we started. “An hour,” I replied. “What’s that?” So I counted to 60 minutes by fives using five fingers for each increment. He settled back. “That is not a long time.” Secundo had already closed his eyes and turned his forehead into the side of his carseat. I put on some tunes and the road trip began.

I took my first road trip with the boys last summer when my marriage was on the rocks. I didn’t know what else to do. Home life was hard, but I understand the road. We drove to Jasper along the gorgeous and wild north Thompson River. We’d ride when Secundo napped, and stop in the middle of the day to eat and cuddle and nurse and play. I met my cousin at the campground in Jasper and she marveled at my audacity to do it alone. I had been living with such chaos in my personal life since Secundo was born. Being on the road and in nature, living outside the box, going with our creative flow, this seemed natural and healthy. The boys responded to my confidence, and to the inner peace I found on the road.

This trip had nothing of that desperation to it, and all of the enjoyment. We wound our way along the coast and found the French Beach campground by early afternoon. Primo nailed the perfect site. Number 11, it turns out, has a path that leads right down to the beach. Where we went as soon as I had the tent set up and the boys had slugs in our immediate vicinity counted.

The beach is covered in rocks. Harsh as that sounds, it is actually the essence of feminine: each rock is smooth, finely sanded, unique and beautiful. Primo went to water’s edge to play in the surf. Secundo climbed driftwood. And I lay down on the warm rocks. After the packing and driving and setting up, I needed a rest. Then the sun came out and melted the fog and I came alive. Scents of ocean, sand, fir, iodine. The beautiful coast emerged, and a warm, mellow September sun enveloped us. Eventually I sat up, watched the boys. It is one of my highest parenting value – one that Andy and I share with their father -- to have the boys enjoy and explore nature, and to play on their own. I make sure that we get out regularly, and I’m talking daily. Sometimes it’s a big trip, like this, other times we visit local beaches or our neighbourhood nature preserve, Swan Lake, where we have a favourite rope swing in a willow tree beside a winding stream.

They will learn all that the world requires of them in time. Reading, writing, and the more sophisticated skills will develop as they begin to practice them. But to start, I am grounding them in the experience of their bodies on this earth. And in the joy of life that comes from being free in this way. Primo dances with the surf. Secundo tumbles off a log. I watch and smile. Stand on my head. Lick rocks.

Hunger drives us back to our campsite. Together we pour water into the pot, light the stove, cook the pasta, add the cheese, stir, and serve. Primo makes loud noises of delight and hugs me in appreciation of the fine meal. Secundo happily scarfs his meal. I’m thankful for the calories. Then there is a slug hunt as I wash up and we head back to the beach. This becomes our routine for the next three days.

One day we drive further up the coast to Botanical Beach which is renowned for its tidepools. We explore, Silas trundling over the beach on his sturdy feet. But Primo has other priorities. He has seen the surf crashing at the farthest reaches of the rock, and he leads us there, along narrow ledges where the ocean seethes, over long fingers of rock where the ocean licks, and out to the point where waves pound onto the rock shelf, spray up like geysers, and wash over the rock like waterfalls.

“Wah-tah-fah,” Secundo says it too. “Tide poo-ah.” He speaks deliberately, slowly. He learns new words every day. I can now have a conversation with him. When he fusses we tease him. “Are you two?” “No!” he shouts. “No.” And then he laughs too.

Finally Primo admits he’s cold and we turn back. It’s a long walk back to the car, including a kilometer hike up a hill. The five-year-old says he can’t do it, and I grab his hand and, with Silas in the backpack, we hoof it up the hill like the little engine that could. “I think I can,” I chant. “I think I can. I think I can.” This is actually another of my strong beliefs, one that I teach to my children: we have the power to create, to form, shape, and make. We must face our feelings, feel them, and often overcome them to achieve what we want and need to achieve.

Back at number 11 we slip into our domestic routine. No slug can hide from boys’ eyes. And I learn how to remove slug slime from little fingers (a dry washcloth and lots of rubbing). The boys play with sticks – what more do they need? We bang pots and sing as we walk to the drain. Pooing and peeing are both more challenging (I forgot to bring Secundo’s little potty) and easier (he runs around half naked most of the time and I clean up after him like a dog). The highlight of our trip was discovering a van that had a picture of Scooby Doo painted on it. As its drivers looked for a campsite, we watched it circle the campground, its engine loud, passing by us again and again. Where would Scooby settle for the night? Frankly, I love the child’s world, the child’s perspective. It is fresh, purely creative, and so alive. My spiritual practice is to be present with them.

We went to sleep with the sun and woke with it. Nature’s rhythms matched ours. I found it so easy. Of course, I did not have any distractions, nor did I expect to have any time to myself or for my own pursuits. Even yoga became a game. They hung on my back when I was in down dog, or to tried to push me over in headstand. I was all about the boys, which is pretty much how I parent when I’m on my own. We became a unit, and worked like a team. We did everything together. I loved it.

Upon our return home we maintained the unity, put away the camping supplies, dried the tent, washed dishes. Played with the sticks they dragged back with them. And morphed back into our home life, sunburned, salty, and full of nature’s power.

Today Primo started school. Sat crosslegged on the carpet when Mrs. Birch instructed “Criss cross apple sauce.” I know that school will teach Rio many important skills. And it’s my job to ensure that Rio has the exposure to nature that he needs as an earthling, to develop all the other parts of his beautiful and divine self.

no offense, ma'am, but

The other day we got home late after looking at the stars out at the Observatory. Silas was past sleepy, well into grumpy. Rio was limp, less than half awake. We drank warm milk and the boys fell asleep as soon as their teeth were brushed. I put away the milk and loaded our cups into the dishwasher. At ten pm I checked my phone. Two messages. I’ll listen, I thought, then go to bed.

Two hours later I was saying good bye to a very unusual police officer who gave me even more hope that the world my sons are growing up in is on track.

Here’s what happened.

The phone messages were unnerving and a bit creepy. A young man used my name and spoke nonsense in a singsong voice. The creepy part came when he invited me for coffee and said I should bring that little “Simon” with me. He also left a number and asked me to call him. I called Andy and I called the police. The dispatcher had me trace the call and she promised to send an officer to my house.

As I waited for the cop, I felt a deep first chakra fear that turned the contents of my bowels into liquid. Feeling threatened in my own house like that, I also hooked into my mother bear instincts. I knew that I could kill to protect my children.

Andy traced the number the caller left to a gay bar on Johnson Street. Dialed the number and talked to the young man who answered the phone. Could be the prank caller was a bored drag queen looking for a little thrill while the night was still young.

When the cop came I’d already calmed down. I ushered him into the house and offered him the pink chair in the living room. He was a young man. He sat down heavily in the chair, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked around. “This is a nice room,” he said.

“Yeah, I love this old house,” I replied. “It’s a gem.” After some chit chat we listened to the messages together. I was a little surprised to hear the cop laugh at the first message, off-the-cuff sentences that rhymed but that didn’t make any sense.

I laughed too, then, my fears abating. “He’s pretty good,” the cop said when it was done. “He can make it rhyme like that. I can’t do that.”

I smiled. Played the second message. Creepy, but more theatrical than pathological. Not entirely nice, but not dangerous. Designed to get a reaction.

The cop made a report. Took down our names, birthdates. When he’d finished writing the boys’ names and birthdates he paused for a minute, then looked at me. “No offense to you, ma’am,” he said. “But your boys and I have cool names.”

His name is Damian and he appreciates his parents for not calling him Sarah or Ryan. No offense to them, either.

“Well, I think we come with names,” I said. “As parents we just have to figure them out.”

He processed that.

“You got kids?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I’m only 26. But we will, one day.”

“When you’re ready,” I said. “You gotta be ready because it changes your life.”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” I forged on. “Be prepared. Because, speaking as a woman, it changes your life a lot. More than you think. So, just be supportive.” I wanted to tell him everything I know. Everything I’ve learned in the last six years. But I distilled it. “Just be right there and follow along,” I said. “Expect things to change and go with it.”

He nodded some more.

“It’s a lot of fun too,” I say. “Never a dull moment.”

“No doubt,” he said. “Here’s the file number. Call if he bothers you again.”

I thanked him and ushered him to the door.

We said good night.

“Just live your normal life,” he said, as he stepped out of the house and pulled the screen door shut behind him. Then he turned to look at me through the screen. Smiled reassuringly. “And love the earth,” he added.

“OK,” I said, and watched him get into his car and drive away. “Good advice.”

They’re obviously turning out a new breed of cops these days. Ones with cool names and open hearts.

Laughing at Bats

This evening Secundo and I watched the sun go down at Willows Beach while Primo hunkered down by a tide pool and counted snails. I swept my eyes across the water, saw it go from pewter gray to purple, and in between that crazy shade of pink sunset blue that disappeared in seconds. Ahh. We packed up our nets and bucket, and two sandy, blackberry stained boys and I headed across the beach.

“Mama tar,” Secundo said, pointing from the breakwater. “Go home.” He’s making two word sentences now. We piled into my Subaru, grabbed handfuls of cashews, and drove to our little yellow house on Cedar Hill Cross.

At our new table – Andy brought one truckload of stuff with him this week! -- we drank warm milk with caramel flavour, then brushed teeth and washed sticky hands. I saw that the soles of their little feet were dirty as they climbed into bed. Who cares, I thought, it’s summer.

I read Secundo a book about earth movers while Primo made hand shadows on the wall. “This is a hermit crab, Mom,” he said. “And look at this, it’s Scooby Doo!”

Then it was bedtime. “Turn out all the lights,” Primo said in a voice that slurred. He sighed blissfully when the room went dark. “My stars are glowing.” And so they were, on the ceiling above his head, a crescent moon too.

Secundo took a little longer. At 10 pm he said “Poo” and we went to the bathroom. He deposited some in the potty then wandered around saying “Honey,” in his little Vienna boy’s choir soprano voice. “Honey. You know what? Honey.” He’s so damn cute I could just cry. And usually I do.

They came back to me today. After two nights and three days with their father. When I cuddled Secundo to sleep I didn’t recognize the smell on his head. An unfamiliar shampoo, or maybe his caregiver’s perfume. God, it’s hard to let them go.

Yesterday I went climbing with Andy and Shannon. Pulling myself up a rock face, balancing and pivoting 10 metres above ground, using my toes, my fingertips to hang on – this is a new passion for me. Andy loves climbing and he thrives on instruction, so he makes a great teacher. He promised to have us climb until we were exhausted. But after only three climbs, my energy flagged.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Secundo. My two-year-old. Not with me. Two nights away every week. Soon to be three. It stops my heart beating, and I gasp for breath when I think of it.

“I can’t have fun,” I said to Andy while I was belaying Shannon. “I feel so guilty when I’m not with them.”

I saw a shadow cross his face.

I pulled Shannon’s rope taut and watched her struggle on the rock. “I’m going to put my toe on that? It’s not going to hold me. And that little chip? It’s not possible to hang on to only that.” Fear. The unknown. Difficulty.

“Try it,” Andy said. “You can do it.”

“I can’t!”

“You might be surprised.”

She did it. Dug in her toe and hauled herself up with her fingernails. She was so proud of herself.

That’s what I do every day that my kids aren’t with me. July was particularly bad. The feeling of missing them was torture. I cried a lot.

“But it’s all so good,” Zana said. “It’s all so much better now.”

Yes, it is. Yes. Yes. Oh, yessss. And I will not tell you it doesn’t hurt. It just feels wrong when they’re not with me. Sorry.

Andy and I had dinner at 8 pm last night. Just the two of us. White Truck chardonnay. Halibut in a maple syrup tamari lime sauce. Steamed veggies. Fresh brown bread with butter. Yum. Then we made a fire. Made love. More yum.

But before the fireworks, I shut down, couldn’t keep my mind off the boys. I knew they were safe with their father. Well taken care of. Absolutely fine. And still, my mind went there. Is Secundo away from me too much -- he’s only two? Do they have enough of me? Do I have enough of them? This isn’t OK. How do I live with this?

I know it’s not easy for Andy when I go into this funk. He loves the boys. He shares the pleasure and delight that he takes in them. “I never wanted kids,” he tells me. “And I’m so happy that I’m not missing out on this!” He says it’s beautiful to fall in love with them as he falls in love with me. He is patient and sympathetic, and he wants me to move on, to be happy, to have fun.

Me too. And I am. But this is going to take the time it takes.

My friend Judi says it’s impossible for me to let go. A mother can’t. It’s simply not possible. All I can do is trust that all is well. And find a tiny hold on the rock where I can place my fingertips and pull myself up.

So, that’s what I do. Give Andy one last kiss before he drives his Tacoma back to Canmore where he will put the finishing touches on his house so the new owners can take possession of it in a week. Then he’ll move here to be with us. Forever.

As soon as my work is done, I cycle off to fetch Secundo. “Mama!” he runs to me, his two-year-old feet are getting more and more adept each day.



Ahh. Bliss. It feels so right when he’s with me. When we are together, it doesn’t matter that we were apart. He is fine. Glowing, bursting with life. Tonight at the beach he watched bats fly for the first time in his life, and he laughed. Threw his head back and danced his hands in imitation of their erratic flapping flight. Then let loose with that glorious, gurgling chuckle that makes anyone in a three-metre radius laugh along with him.

I did. So did his bro.

This is my lovely life and I am swimming in every beautiful wave of it.

Wants and Needs

What a baby wants is what it needs. Attachment parenting proponent William Sears says this. Milk (food), touch, and being held are the obvious early needs. As the baby becomes a child, this becomes trickier. Obviously we’re not going to give our kids everything they want. So, how do we determine their needs?

Well, that’s a good question. One that I answered by looking at my own wants and needs. Could I separate the two? This contemplation – over years – led me to respect my own wants, and this has allowed me to open my heart – to myself, my children, and others in my life.

What about night time parenting – do our children need us at night? I struggled with this in the early days of parenting when Primo woke many times in the night to nurse and to be comforted. To answer the question I turned to my own life. I had company in my bed at night. I love to stretch out a foot and feel the warm sleeping body next to me.

Mammal babies sleep in a heap. It’s how we start life, cozily curled up inside the mother, lulled by a heartbeat. I love the idea of maintaining this sensuous connection.

What I didn’t like was being the only one to respond in the night.

I set myself up for failure when I began to do all the night time parenting. I had the breasts, after all, and he had to function during the day. We did sleep in a family bed for a while. This worked better for me, as I could easily roll over to attend to the baby, and cuddle with the other child. I learned to enjoy the pride of family. But in the end, this sleeping and parenting arrangement contributed to a further breakdown of my relationship with the kids’ father.

What I learned is that night time parenting requires teamwork and discipline – just like day time parenting. It’s a process of graduated steps that happen naturally when the child – and parents – are ready and paying attention.

Something interesting happened last night. I woke up to hear Secundo crying. It was midnight. I went to him. He had climbed off his little bed and found his brother who was sleeping in a nest on the floor. He tried to curl up with Primo but he was confused, only half awake, and crying. I pulled him back up onto his bed. We had a cozy cuddle and he fell asleep.

Around 5 am I awoke to the sounds of the two-year-old crying again. I was alone in bed. Andy had gone to Secundo. I listened. There was a lot of crying and I intended to help Andy if the crying didn’t stop. It did. Then it started again. Stopped and started.

Should I rescue Andy? Five months into parenting my two kids – is he ready for this? And Secundo – is he ready? He’s not with me every night (he spends two nights a week with his father), so when he’s in my house, I give him as much of me as he needs. I couldn’t sleep with all these thoughts.

Finally I walked through the dark kitchen and living room to the boys’ bedroom. I whispered quietly, “Do you need my help?” “No, thanks,” Andy answered. “Let me do this, please.” I respected Andy’s wish. I surrendered. Let go of my primal need to respond to my child.

Maybe it’s me who needs him, I thought. And more importantly, Andy is ready to take responsibility. He needs this opportunity to practice. And Secundo needs to learn that Andy can comfort him. This is a partnership, Andy often reminds me. That’s the way it works in a family.

Half an hour passed. Finally there was that thick, dark silence that comes with sleep.

When Andy came back to bed he gathered me in his arms. “Thanks for that,” he said. “It was hard, but we did it.”

Over toast and coffee at breakfast Andy recounted the tale of night time parenting. When he went to Secundo in the night, the boy only wanted me. “She’s not here,” Andy said. That was not the right answer. Secundo wailed. “No, no, Mummy’s asleep,” Andy corrected when Secundo finally took a breath. “We don’t want to wake her.” Secundo took some shaggy breaths, and leaned into Andy. Then started up again.

Andy picked him up and carried him into the living room. “Look,” said Andy. “It’s dark. Sleepy time.”

“Nigh-nigh,” said Secundo. “No, no.”

“It’s OK,” Andy said. “You’re OK.”

“Mummy,” Secundo pleaded.

“I’m right here with you,” Andy reassured him.

Finally Secundo relaxed. Stopped crying. And leaned his head against Andy’s chest. “Should we get a sleeping bag for you?” Andy suggested. “Just like your brother.”

“Yeah,” Secundo liked that idea. “

They lay down together. “Mumma?” Secundo asked again.

“I’m here,” Andy said.

“Mummy?” Secundo held onto Andy’s finger. Relaxed. “Daddy,” he said and finally succumbed to sleep.

Andy didn’t dare move until the boy was deep in. Then he extricated his stiff shoulder from under the slumbering body and headed back to our bed. Dazed, dozy, blissful.

That’s how the attachment grows. That’s how the bond develops. I step aside and let Andy do some of the hard work. It’s ironic that what I used to dread – the night time parenting – is now a joy and a privilege that we share and appreciate. That time of the day is so tender.

In the end, a mammal’s needs in the night are so easy to meet: comfort, touch, reassurance. A mother can provide this. Siblings too. Father. Dada Andy. And when the boy’s ready he’ll sleep through the night -- look at his brother. Primo didn’t wake through any of that. I didn’t believe it would ever happen.

Now I have faith. And I’m not in any hurry. I’m so enjoying this lovely time of our life.

Every Little Thing

Today in the change room, after 90 minutes of Bikram, a sister yogini came up to me and said, quietly. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw that you were upset earlier, and I hope everything turns out all right for you.” I smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” She walked out without a backward look. But it helped.

In the busy of world of business-y Bikram yoga, in the change room full of women surreptitiously checking each other’s between-the-legs hairstyles and comparing the thin-ness of the other girl’s butt floss (or maybe that’s just me?), I love finding (and making) the connections. Wendy, a friendly teacher whose philosophy I appreciate, pressed on my sweaty back during rabbit pose today. “Let it go,” she said into the mike around her ear. “Let go. Release. Whatever it is, it’s OK. Just let it go. There it goes.”

My intention for today’s class was this: I want to learn what it is I need to let go of so that I can write. I’m talking write. Blog. Articles. Novels. Publish. Sell. Succeed. What came up was that I have to let go of worrying about my kids when they’re not with me. I have to let go of feeling guilty when they’re not with me. I have to BELIEVE THAT THIS IS ALL WORKING OUT PERFECTLY! I have to trust that the two of them – two and five years old – have enough mummy, though they have me 70% of the time and it’s dropping to 60% next month.

God, just writing that on the page chokes me up. During class I was bawling. Quietly, mind you. But the tears were flowing, though I could hardly tell the difference between them and the sweat. Toxins – mental, emotional, and physical – released in those salty body fluids.

As I cried, I pictured their faces. That’s how I pull the weeds from my mental garden, as my friend Raj Pal Singh recommends. I saw Primo’s smiling face, all pink and healthy, highlighted by his long white-blonde hair that curls as it touches the back of his neck. And Secundo, still baby chubby, he is sturdy and so yummy I could eat him up. He is a happy lad, at home in the world, confident, secure, with an infectious chuckle. I know they’re both good. They have me. They have their dad. And they have Andy, my new partner, who is developing a beautiful bond with them.

So, what am I crying about?

Maybe it’s just an old pattern. It’s a habit, worrying about stuff. I’ve lived with anxiety for a lot of years. Probably since I graduated from Grade 13 and didn’t know what the hell to do next. Am I safe in the world? A lot of things eat rabbits, you know. And I’m a rabbit from way back.

As I lay in sivasana after tucking my head between my knees and lengthening my spine, I realized that I’ve made it through seven days without being terrified. That’s a record. After twenty-five years of anxiety, a week without worry is strange. No wonder I was worrying about the boys. My mind was struggling to get back into a known pattern.

Life without anxiety is very smooth. It’s peaceful. Calm. Quite nice. Maybe even a little boring? The trick is to learn to feel comfortable with feeling at ease. That sounds strange, but it’s part of neuroplasticity – creating new neural pathways. The new healthy pattern is going to feel weirder than the old crappy one that you want to discard – at first. After a while, the new pattern becomes the norm.

So I shed a few (pounds of) tears. But I didn’t wallow in the pain. I practiced visualizing happy, healthy boys in the context of my new life with Andy. Putting the children first, that’s the secret to successful uncoupling. When mama’s happy, so are the boys. I pictured the boys with their dad, they need him and he needs time with them to build and maintain their relationship. I know they are fine. So am I. Better than ever.

Everything is turning out all right, thanks, I want to tell my friendly yoga sister. But she’s already pulled on her panties and gone home. So I do the same and I head out into the sunshine too. And home to write.

Today

Friday, August 17. 2007.

A day for a memory books. I don’t know why. Some days are just like that.

We’re up early, 6:16 am and the boys are alert. I’m groggy, stumble as I flip the switch to the kettle. In a matter of minutes I’ll have tea.

We pick up where we left off yesterday, with books from the library. Silas pores intently over his book on earth movers. “Digga, mama!” he says triumphantly, pointing with that all-knowing index finger. Rio is paging through a Space Brats book. It’s years beyond his reading ability, but a sign of times to come. I’m reading “a poignant novel of love in the tradition of Danielle Steel.” The author seems to write about two books a year, and she sells a lot of them. Can’t hurt to figure out her secret.

The day takes off. Race car. Meteor. The TGV. With boys, that’s how it is. We head to the swimming pool for an early morning dip. Silas slows down to glazed eyed contentment in the hot tub while Rio floats across it like an astronaut. Then it’s cavorting and noodling about in the water until hunger forces us from the pool. In the change room they munch on peanut butter and jam sandwiches while I blow dry my hair, and then theirs.

Home to a Magic School Bus video. More PB and J, and then we head out again. This time we make for the Goose on my bike with chariot. Silas sits in a bike seat in front of me and his helmet bumps against my chest as I cycle. We chat together up there and Rio complains that he has no one to keep him company. Just before we get to Quadra we spy two diggers. Oh joy, oh bliss.

The blackberries are ripe and we get off the bike to graze, munch, and laugh. Silas squishes berries between his toes and Rio hounds me until my container is full. Then he sits down to devour it.

On the way home we stop at the rope swing, a length of rope attached to a willow tree branch which overhangs a little stream that meanders beneath a picturesque bridge in the Swan Lake Nature Sanctuary. We’ve spent many happy hours there getting muddy and screaming, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?” Rio grabs the rope and lets his lithe body crisscross the stream. He is light as air and full of sunshine.

The ride home is mellow. I’m tired. Doing everything with an extra 70 pounds attached is a good work out. My endorphins respond daily. One of the two diggers is still hard at work, filling a dumptruck with top soil. We pause to watch. Now our day is complete.

In the door and I prepare more snacks. The little meals are never ending at our house. Rio eats all the chicken breast and Silas and I share a salad and salty peanuts in the shell. I offer him nuts, but he prefers to crack the peanuts open with his teeth and fish them out himself.

Rio is the deep thinker. On our holiday to Canmore he asked questions like, “Did someone make us?” and “Are we just puppets?” Two-year-old Silas, on the other hand, is still soaking up the world around him. His favourite things are digga’s, polee-tah’s, and menna (concrete mixers).

Twenty minutes into Mr. Dress Up their dad comes to pick them up for a weekend of camping on Hornby Island. He shares his fries with them and then we have to say good bye. I belt Silas into his car seat and he grabs the back of my head, pushes it toward his face, closes his eyes, and kisses me passionately on the lips. Three times. Rio pecks me politely and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth when I pull my head back.

They’re good boys and I love them. And now I have a weekend to myself. Yee ha!!

I add ylang ylang to the hot water in my bathtub and sink into a full blown vision of the novel I’ve been writing in my head for the last seven years – que sorpresa. I’ve already written three versions and vowed I won’t start the next one until I know how the story ends. (I paid good money to have them try to teach me that at Ryerson.) No more fumbling about in the subconscious of my creative mind. I’m actually tired of getting lost. I have a hankering to know where I’m going.

I’m ready to shine a light on this thing. And sell a million copies – a la Syrell Rogovin Leahy. Maybe I should change my name too: how about Limon Ylang Grant? Or Penelope Pure Vida?

We’ll see. I’ll have to discuss that with my agent.

In any case, it looks like it’s time to start writing.

Yee-fuckin’-ha!!