The Wreath

Perhaps I should tell you that I was young, very young. Barely 23? At any rate, I was young and image mattered a great deal, far too much. The very notion that we had so little money for Christmas, and that there would not be days of celebration was not at all in keeping with what I wanted, wished or imagined. A limit of $30 each was not how I imagined our first Christmas together.

Christmas Eve came, and we decided to open our presents. I cannot recall what I bought for Mr. Spit, but he gave me this parcel, wrapped with care, and he was so happy. Love was shinning out of his eyes, he was pleased.

All good stories have a bit of drama. This one too.

It seems to me, that marital gift buying is 2 parts knowing your partner, 2 parts having a wish list, and 1.75 parts sheer dumb luck. We have found that you even the score with the wish list.

And while I'm confessing, I should tell you that Mr. Spit found my love of Christmas bewildering. Christmas is an entire season for me, with boxes of decorations, and 2 trees. A wreath for every door. Every surface that will stand still has garland. Ornaments from my childhood.

For the record, Christmas at Mr. Spit's meant going out to the garage, hauling the tree in, pulling off the sheet that covered it, standing it up, fluffing up the homemade popcorn chains, and shoving the presents under it. On Boxing Day, you covered the tree back up, and took it back out to the garage. Not what you might call a big deal.

We had, you might say, slightly different expectations and slightly divergent experiences on this whole Christmas thing. Which came crashing together that night.

My gift was before the wish list.

I opened my present. It was, well, I took a picture for you.

Yeah. Not what I was expecting either. I guess my face showed it. That look of love and excitement on his face? Oh yeah, it was gone.

And we could all argue, what woman wouldn't be overcome with a crocheted wreath? With crocheted roses! And hangy bits of ribbon!

It probably didn't help when my mum came asked who on earth gave us that ugly wreath. The tacky, tasteless wreath I hung over my couch! Mr. Spit came entered the living room in time to hear me commenting that it was the worst gift I'd ever received.

We had words over the wreath: hard words, mad words, difficult words, sad words, and finally, understanding words.

It turns out, Mr. Spit bought the wreath because he knew how much I loved Christmas. He wanted to give me a decoration, because he knew I liked decorating. A wreath didn't seem to be such a stretch for a woman who already had 5. He bought the gift with me in mind, and he bought it with love, negotiating a lower price from the lady who made it. He didn't buy the first thing he saw, he looked and he thought. He bought it with love and care and delight, thinking he was going to make his brand-new bride so happy.

My mum and I were sitting on the couch the other night, chatting after dinner. She looked at the wreath, hung in it's traditional place behind the Christmas tree, and she smiled and said "It's still ugly."

"Oh, I don't know", I replied. "Almost 10 years later it kind of grows on you."

Wishing you a very Happy Christmas.

Nothing to See Here

Nothing to see here.

Go wish Mr. Spit a happy birthday, would you?

One Other Thing

If you read Make a Wish, there's a post there that you should read.

8 Years

Happy anniversary darling.

Days Go By

As one would rather expect, there is not a Father's Day card for the men in dead baby land. I know - I asked. Oh, don't look at me like that, I asked nicely. I asked if there was a Father's Day card for men who had recently lost their children. Underneath the banner that proclaimed Father's Day was June 21, waving dismissively at the rack of cards, I persisted. A card for someone who will not have the greatest Father's Day, for when things are not good? For a Father's Day that will be hard? Surely, Hallmark, that makes Father's Day cards from the dog, could make a card that acknowledged the painful reality that Father's Day is not always a new tie, an ugly pencil holder and an apron proclaiming "world's greatest dad".

But, no. Let me tell you a secret - there are only 2 Father's Day cards out there. There is the "can I borrow $20 bucks type - clearly identified by it's reference to cars, beer, and bbq's" and the "You're my inspiration - with the attendant river-at-sunset scene" and I think we can all be clear that a living child is a clear pre-requisite for the purchase of both of those cards.

Oh, I can put together a gift, BBQ stuff, M and M's, an F1 car magazine, things to celebrate Mr. Spit's particular interests. I can put together presents, but I wanted the card, to make it legitimate. So that I was not the only person saying that Mr. Spit is a father. In our shared remembrances, in my memory - when I see him cradle our Gabriel. My hair, his father's hands. A mix. With a mother, and a father. Two parents to grieve and celebrate.

The clerk at the Hallmark store suggested a sympathy card, and I realized the problems were larger than card selection. There is a time and a place for sympathy, for tender care and concern, for abiding. But equally, there is a time that recognizes what is. Mr. Spit is a father whose son is not here, not close enough to touch, and not able to make an ugly pencil holder. And frankly, when your son is not here, no one remembers you on this day. You don't count. But, this does not mean we cannot, should not celebrate. Gabriel was here. And in those 30 minutes of here-ness, Mr. Spit became, forever, irrevocably, a father.

Today I wanted to mark this. To mark that if the father of a dead child can do well by his son, can be a good father, then Mr. Spit, he does those things. He remembers faithfully. He grieves. He loves, still, always.

I do not want to be the only one, insisting that Mr. Spit is some one's dad. That he is a father, that he deserves to stand up and be recognized. I wanted a card for him. I didn't want to be the only person insisting that Mr. Spit too, could celebrate Father's Day.

I am tired of the way we are ignored, expected to be over this, to be all better. And, for one day, just one day, I wanted Mr. Spit to be celebrated - feted - held up with all the other fathers, and not shoved off to the side. I wanted to stand up and argue, I wanted Mr. Spit to hear that he is a father. That he is important. That Gabriel is important.

And, I couldn't find a card.

Happy Father's Day darling.

Grass Cycling Through My Head

Mr. Spit and I are on the hunt for a lawn mower. The old one died last fall - after admission to the Lawn Mower Hospital, where we cordially but firmly signed a DNR - and then managed to not think about grass cutting all winter; with the arrival of spring, we are looking with trepidation, the grass it is a-growin'.

We look at the price tag and think manual reel mower, and then we look at the work (our backyard is quite small, but we also do the fronts' of the houses, and down the side of the neighbour's property) and we think gas? electric? battery? $500?!?! We look dismissively at the riding mowers, and then I am seduced by the lime green Gardena lawn mower, but am afraid to confess to Mr. Spit who understands about such things as small engines and corrosion and blade deck depth that well! hello! it's lime green! With snappy orange accents! Also, made by the same people who made my hose sprayer and water wand and sprinkler, and I like those well enough. And at this point, $500 is looking like a price I am willing to pay, just to make the whole problem go away. Look at her running toward the checkout with a box in the cart, waving her Visa card, shouting sold. (And now is probably a good time to point out, if you are buying something worth $500 the box ought to be a whole lot bigger. A Whole Lot!)

I spout aphorisms like "It is only the rich who can afford to buy cheap things", and then I say, '"well, a penny saved is a penny earned". And frankly, my eyes have long since glazed over. This is what being a homeowner means? I must converse intelligently about lawn mowers?

Then the whole discussion starts over again. It is not a particularly productive discussion, and this discussion, immediately necessary though it be, is not helped by the fact that lawn mowers are located precariously close to the bedding plants and seeds, leaving me easily distracted.

"But that one has a 4 year warranty. . . Oh, look, cup and saucer vine. Wow, I've never seen gladioli in that colour before. . ."

And then Mr. Spit ( lamentably understandably) gets a touch cross with me, and he draws my attention back to the lawn mowers, and I am then distracted by deck furniture, BBQ's, garden accessories, and the final stopping point, pool accessories. (Chez Spit is, sadly, lacking in the swimming pool department, and there is, I confess, quite simply no sane reason for me to be interested in pool chemicals)

But here I am, with visions of a lime green lawn mower dancing in my head, wishing for a 50% off sale.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Spit

Today is Mr. Spit's birthday. Which seems, to me at least, as good a time as any to tell you why I love him.

I love him because of inside jokes. Things that make both of us laugh. I love him because of how we can make a not very funny line from a movie make us laugh for weeks. (or, in the case of Office Space, years.)

I love him because his smile lights up his face, and he can find humour in anything. He makes me give over my serious and pensive moods, and laugh at the insanity of the world around me.

I love him because he's virtuous. Virtuous - is an oft mocked word. Put simply it means a sort of goodness. I watch my husband go above and beyond, be honest and good, even when it would be easier not too. I watch him take the hard path, even when no one notices.

I love him because he's kind and decent. I realize that kindness and decency, much like virtue are considered to be a boring sort of character trait. Not so say I. Mr. Spit is truly kind. He's truly gifted at looking at things from other's points of view. He's truly fair.

I love him because he takes joy in the world around him. From his love of astronomy to technical gadetry and literature, he finds so much to be excited about. In a world of cynism and bleah-attitudes, I find his wonder amazing and inspiring.

I love him because he listens. When I say something like "You know, I've been thinking . . . " and what I've been thinking about includes ripping out walls or buying a new car or digging up more of the back yard, he never tells me to stop thinking. And he never runs away. He's always willing to hear other's out.

I love him because he's a gentleman. He holds the door open for ladies, gives up his seat, doesn't wear a ball cap indoors, treats women with kindness and respect.

I love him because he gives back to his community - he routinely volunteers with the large item pick up, schlepping heavy stuff to the dump. He shows up to my volunteer commitments, and takes pictures, or helps organize, or runs chips at a casino.

I love him because he believes in me. He knows I can kick ass in a skirt and high heels, and he knows that I can do just about anything I make up my mind to do. And when I forget it, he reminds me. And more than believing in me, he believes in us.

And so, for these reasons, and many others, ladies and gentlemen, if you would join me in raising your (virtual glass),

To Mr. Spit, on his 36th birthday. Wishing him many more.

Cheers my love.

A princess story

So Mon Liege has purchased a device to bring peace and order and joy and happiness to the mythical realm of Spitdom. This device, a Kindle, will make an everlasting difference to Mon Liege's life. Indeed, Mon Liege has been tracking it obsessively, since it left the furthest southern environs of the great land of America, (the only place producing and selling such wonder devices) until it arrived here. When he lost track of it in Winnipeg, I truly feared that he was about to send out a national task force. Which would not find the Kindle, but would somehow find a way to blame all of Canada for all the Kindle's problems.

Said device, this mysterious Kindle, could not actually be purchased in the dominion of Canada, indeed Mon Liege had to engage in international skulduggery to get said device here to the mythical realm of Spitdom. Did you know that Mr. Spit had a brother named George Spit? Neither did I. Does seem to be something that should have come up. (And I wonder, would I like that Sister-In-Law better?). Said device was ordered and procured and set up by the wondrous and amazing Paige, who is a queen among women! She may also have broken state and federal laws, but surely I can grant her immunity in the realm of Spitdom.

But, really, this is a story about a princess.

So, the fairest princess in the mythical land of Spitdom (ok, the only princess around, but move on!) was sitting at her desk this morning. When she received a phone call that there was a package for her in the mail room. She went tripping down to the mail room.

No, really. She tripped over her own two feet on the way into the mail room. It was not her most princess-like moment of the day.

Our princess carried the box, held aloft, so that all might see it's electronic goodness and salivate. But not on the box please, that's gross! She prayed she would not get stuck in the elevator again, like last Thursday. Being stuck in the elevator necessitated a $75 emergency wool purchase, to bring the princess's heart rate down again. They used a crow bar to get us out. Honestly, a crow bar.

The princess carried the box back to the hamster farm cubicle of awe that she works in. She grabbed the tech guy she works with, preventing him from going to the loo, and said "you have to see this." She opened the box. Carefully. Trying not to stab herself with the scissors. (this is the princess who tripped over her own feet.) She pulled out the white box, carefully lettered "Kindle". She held it up. She bodily prevented the tech guy from touching it. (perhaps there was some blandishment of scissors. Nothing is to great to protect the instrument of wonder and delight for Mon Liege)

She decided that she would not attend the study group for her PMP exam that evening. Nay, she would ignore the pressing need to study for a 3 hour exam that causes lesser brains to sweat blood. No, she is a smart princess. Surely she can meander through the PMP with a flick of her wand. She'll merely show them her crown and carry on. Nay, she would arrange to deliver this package of electronic marvel to Mon Liege, who had a plasma appointment, and was heartbroken that he would not have the Kindle.

Nay, the princess drove home like, well, Fergie heading to a sale of half-priced pastries. She possibly exhibited the tiniest of un-princess like behaviour. She ignored the mail, changed into her royally appointed Kindle delivery wardrobe, and let the fairy gnomes err, dogs out. They looked really fetching in their tu-tu's and tiara's. (Pink goes so well with mastiff slobber. Such a nice contrast.)

The princess hopped back into her princess-mobile, and drove across town, through downtown in rush hour. Sigh, dear subjects, rush hour traffic does not even stop for princesses. She drove through town, to the Blood Services Centre, where her Liege was going to be be, doing his royal duty, donating plasma. She kept looking out the window at the storm clouds brewing, and listening to the radio, which was suggesting that there was a mere %30 chance of rain. "Not so", said the princess, as the rain drops began to fall on the windshield. "I'd say %100 now".

Possibly, before driving across town she also stopped at a Subway, to get some dinner. Where she left the Kindle in the car, not wanting to get any food detritus on it. So, she spent her time ordering, with her back to the clerk, watching the car obsessively, trying to decide if she would hit any culprits trying to bring harm to the wonder Kindle, by hitting them with her purse, or possibly her shoes. (She decided on the shoes, as the purse is really quite nice.) She reorganized the restaurant so that she could always see out the window, to the Kindle's resting place. She did not go to the loo, fearing to let the wonder kindle out of her sight. She also may have had two cookies, but we don't need to talk about that, now do we?

The princess eventually made it across the bridge, all the way to the Whyte Ave district, in spite of the very best efforts of a troll driving a Buick Crown Victoria, who insisted on hogging both lanes of a very narrow bridge, while only driving 45 (28 mph for the American's!). She spent her time, and there was lots behind this troll, considering how to get the Kindle package of awe into the building, without it getting rained on. A variety of options were considered and summarily tossed, including the possibility of wrapping the Kindle in her shirt. (The princess realized this would leave nothing to wrap her, ahem, rather large rack princess-worthy chest in.)

Indeed, with nothing left for it, the princess decided that she would simply stick the device of wonder and glory under her shirt, and make a run for it. This was, perhaps more dangerous than one might have imagined, given the experience of the mail room. But truly, is there any sacrifice to great to protect the wonder and joy of a Kindle for Mon Liege?

Finally, the princess arrived at the front door. She straightened her tiara, found her royal orb, and brought forth the device of Kindle goodness, and gifted it to the receptionist who said

"What's that?".

Honestly, the things I do for Mon Liege.

Marriage

June 23, 2001

DEARLY beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church:

It rained on the day of my wedding. She smiled, and said:

"It will rain during your marriage too."

This holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence and first miracle that he wrought in Cana of Galilee, and is commended of Saint Paul to be honour-able among all men: and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly;

Right before I got married, I asked a woman who had just celebrated her 60th year of marriage, how she did it. She paused. I was waiting for the big secret.
The bit of advice that would give me success.

And in the end, she looked at me, and said:

"You take the good with the bad".

But enter it reverently, dis-creetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.

Seven years of marriage. 4 moves. 4 animals. 3 years of renovations. 7 jobs. 1 university graduation. 3 cars. 5 rooms painted and a hallway wallpapered at 2 am. 1 deck built. 1 elopement and 1 wedding. The birth and death of Gabriel. 2,557 days.

O ETERNAL God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; Send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy Name; that they, living faithfully together, may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made, and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

We are older, wiser, sadder and stronger now. We have known perfect love, and agonizing sorrow. We have known blessing, and it's deprivation. Choosing love, each day. Choosing to put yesterday to bed, to leave tomorrow to its self,
and to live in today.

I Cheryl, take thee Owen, to be my wedded Husband,
to have and to hold from this day forward,
for better for worse, for richer for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish, till death us do part,
according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.

I think of these words.

With this ring I thee wed.
With my body I thee worship.
With all my worldly goods, I thee endow.
In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.

Owen:
This day, and every day. For as many days as I am given. I choose you.

Father's

My first introduction to fatherhood was my father. Who took me everywhere. I spent more time with him, than with anyone else. He was, in many ways, more involved in my life than my mother was. And I could talk about the unhealthy dynamic of my family, or I could just remember riding the LRT with him. I choose the second.

My second significant experience with fatherhood occurred when I was still pregnant. I was at a party one night, and a father was packing a diaper bag for his child. And the mother, in the middle of the party, with everyone watching, she took the time out to examine the diaper bag. To make sure that she thought everything that should be in there, was in there. A step by step inspection of his work. I honestly can't remember if it met her approval. But I remember being flabbergasted. I cringed at the humiliation. I remember thinking "This man is an educated, articulate, intelligent man. He's actually quite brilliant. The company he works for permits him to make significant decisions about its future. I'm pretty sure he can figure out what to put in the diaper bag. The child is not new. And if he forgets something, I'm pretty sure he can figure out what to do." This wasn't the friendly reminder of sleep deprived parents, no it was the implicit assumption that unless mum provides the childcare, it will be done wrong. Dad isn't an equal partner, he doesn't deserve equal say.

That was when I began to learn what was fashionable among mother's. To bash husbands, to bash fathers. To assume that only mum can nurture, to assume that Dad's are dangerous. To allow a child, even encourage a child to cling to mum, and to leave dad out. Dad, after all, doesn't matter. It's women who do the important work of bearing and raising children. Dad's are a semi useless appendage responsible for about 5 minutes of work.

We all know the stories, the sayings. The dad who can't change a diaper, the dad who was useless at housework. Mum's kisses make things better. Mum knows what to say. Mummy will fix it, get it, solve it. Mummies are naturals at childcare. Daddies are uncouth louts who muddle along as best they can.

I was struck by something as I looked at the pictures of Gabriel for last Tuesday's post. I was taken with how natural Mr. Spit looked picking up Gabriel. How he held him perfectly in the crook of his arm, as he made phone calls. How he carried him in his hands. How he revelled in Gabriel's perfection. How perfectly our son was made to fit in this daddy's arms. And how right and good and how natural Mr. Spit was. It isn't that he's held a lot of babies, but this wasn't a baby, this was his son.

I went looking for a father's day card last week. (Oddly enough, Hallmark has no cards for the father's of dead babies). All I found were cards that joked about wreaking the car, needing money, golf and farts. All I found were the same old tiresome stereotypes. And I thought of Gabriel who nestled so perfectly into his father's arms. Who felt safe enough there to leave for heaven. Who knew who daddy was, and that daddy loved him. Who felt his father's tears on his tiny face, and realized, that men can care and nurture too.

Mr. Spit will do things differently than I will. He will introduce danger and risk and exhilaration. And I will no doubt cringe. But I will take a deep breath, and I will remember our tiny, fragile son, held in his father's arms, exactly where he belonged.

Give a Lady a Hand

Well, actually, give a gentleman a hand.

Mr. Spit is looking for ways to remember Gabriel. I have a lovely bracelet from these folks, but he's looking for something more, well manly.

Could you head over and make a suggestion?

thanks,

Mrs. Spit

PS - Yes the interview is today and yes, I'm a bit nervous about it.

Stealing A Story From Mr. Spit

Mr. Spit blogs!

Except, now we have to argue over who gets to blog what. This from a family where we have emailed each other at the same table. We've instant messaged rather than walk into the other room. We are, how you say, geeky? And now, I'm going to know how his day is going and what he's up to, before I even see him at home, peering over the top of his computer screen.

Oh, oh, maybe we can even debate dinner ideas and who's turn it is to wash the mastiff slobber off the walls in our comments. That'll be fun for y'all. (Can you tell it's my turn this weekend?)


So, I'm going to steal his story. And it's entirely possible that I won't tell it as well as he does.

Mr. Spit wanted the new Joe Satriani record. He actually wanted to buy it. You know, on a CD, like when we were young. (Me, I use iTunes). We went to the great Canadian Record Store. Which is possibly the only record store left in Canada.

So, I bought the CD. I went to the cashier and she asked:

"Are you a big fan?"
Nope, said I. I'm not into Satriani. It's for my other half.
"Oh, is your partner a musician?"
Nope, an engineer I replied.
"Oh, is he in a band?"
Umm, no. He's an engineer. He builds bridges. Not very musical, that.
"Does he play the guitar?"
No. I think he played a brassy sort of instrument in high school.

So, there we have it, your introduction to Mr. Spit, who is not a musician, is not in a band, and doesn't play the guitar. He builds bridges that don't fall down, helps the fishes mate in culverts, fixes things, carries heavy stuff, kills icky bugs, and he called me his best friend.

Oh, and now he writes a blog.

Love you babe!

Now, can we go get milk and a weight watchers 4 point chocolate cake from Safeway?