Tag Archives: Family

Make Peace with Love

11 Saturday Oct 2025

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Here it comes. Another boring, sentimental, grossly emotional blog about love.

Love is complicated and it is a power in and of itself. We can’t control love. We can’t make love do what we ask of it. It just is.

Love brings the greatest of joy and the deepest of pain. It punishes just as intensely as it rewards.

There are many different types of love. There is the love of a parent, constant, steady, and unconditional. There is the love of a partner, compromising, negotiating, laughing, crying, fighting and making up. There is the love we carry for those we have lost, messy, angry, wrenching, seeking and feeling lost. Unrequited love that continues to beat us down whilst simultaneously sprinkling hope of what could be over every breath taken. The love of a child, pure, selfish, goofy, tender, sweet and vulnerable. There is the love you have for an elderly parent, fearful of what is to come, proud to be their child, tired by the weight of a lifetime, wise beyond your years, solid as a rock. The love of a friend who showed-up just when you needed them and gave their best to you when you needed someone to believe in you. There is the love of a sibling, not always present, but always there, behind you, you know that they will always get your back when you need it.

I have had the honour of experiencing all of these loves, and more.

I feel privileged to be loved by many different people in as many different ways.

I just wish that it was easier to be, well, a human. My heart aches and burns, it twists and gnaws at me every single day for people I miss. I miss friends and family who live miles away. I miss friendships that have faded into the background of memories. I think about lovers, desired lovers, and I wonder what life could have been like if things had been different.

I get angry when I think about people who have intruded on my life, steering it in their own direction, acting selfishly and not from a place of love.

Don’t get me wrong. I feel all those cliche feelings of ‘not wanting anything to change’ because it ‘would mean I wouldn’t have my children.’ And this is true. Now. But, if things had been different, I wouldn’t know my children and I wouldn’t know what I would be missing; I would have different things. Maybe different children for whom I would have all the typical, cliche, feelings.

My Mom and I used to play all kinds of “choose your own adventure” type of games – If you could go back and redo a year of your life, what year would it be? If you could only save one of your siblings, which would it be? If you could only be with one person for the rest of your life, who would it be? And so on.

But, can’t I have it all? I want it all. I want to live in New Zealand and Canada at the same time. I want to be here where my stepdad lives and in Toronto. I want to be with my partner and my children, but I also want other experiences and relationships. I want to be with my family, but I also want to be alone. I want to go back and relive some experiences in my past (maybe do it better the second time around), but I also wouldn’t want to lose what I have now.

I want everything to change and nothing to change all at once.

Does anyone else live with this conflict pelting you in the face every day? How do you deal with it?

I blame love.

There is too much I love in life, too many people I love. Too many lived experiences I love and more experiences I would love to have. Too many countries I would love to live in. Love that exists alone, hiding in shadows afraid to be seen. Love. I love you. I love you. You break my heart, but I love you. You are a wicked, sinister, evil, devil. Your necessity just makes you more grotesque.

One day I will make peace with love.

Until then, I will continue to fight, to cry, to long, to reminisce, to wonder what could have been, to serve, to play; I will have fun, fight, search, smile, frown, learn, seek, comfort, and hope. Hope that one day I will feel more complete, that I won’t feel like I’m always competing with love.

One day I will make peace with love.

It’s Okay to be Okay

13 Thursday Mar 2025

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As time marches on, I am becoming better at being okay. My Mom is gone. I cannot bring her back, and there is little I can do to control any sadness, grief, feelings of emptiness, or the sting of loss. I have recently realized that I have been hiding from a lot of these feelings and experiences, shoving my head in the ground like an ostrich, pretending that the threats don’t exist.

But recently, I have forced myself to yank my head out of the ground and let everything be what it is. The most incredible thing has happened as a result, I have found that there are times that I am okay. More than that, I have come to learn that it’s okay to be okay.

I really struggled at the start when people would say to me, ‘what would your Mom want for you?’ All I could think, or feel was that she would want us to be together; she would want to be alive. Then, I would get angry.

I hid from things, and watched as my world fell apart; my house became a constant disaster zone, my children were becoming more feral each day, nobody was eating proper meals. It was as if I had totally given up on myself, my family, and my life.

Then, I realized one day while talking to Mom (yes, I talk to her…I’m not crazy. It just helps) that she would be so sad to see what I was allowing my life to become, and this upset me. I had to do something – for her sake.

It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay if this takes a long time or happens quickly. It’s okay to fall apart. It’s okay to hide your head in the sand. It’s okay to get angry at yourself for hiding.

And, most importantly, it’s okay to be okay.

As I have sat here this evening, enjoying my newly cleaned house, feeling refreshed by the amount of water I have consumed today, jazz going in the background, and ambient lighting reflecting the peace of my mind, I am okay.

And that’s okay.

Hindsight is 20/20

01 Saturday Mar 2025

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There is a well-known adage that says, “hindsight is 20/20.” It means that it is often easier to see things clearly after the fact, than it is when you are in the situation or trying to make a decision.

I experience this phenomenon regularly.

For example, our basement flooded and we received insurance money to pay for the repairs. We had the choice of hiring a company to complete it or trying to do it ourselves. We chose to do it ourselves…10 months later and we are still working on it. If we had just paid someone to do it, we’d be down there enjoying the space right now. Instead, we have way too much stuff upstairs and can barely move. We desperately need the basement space back. If we had known back then what an ordeal it would have been, we may have chosen different.

I go through this a lot with raising my children. If I had known, way back at the start of things, how some of my decisions would affect my kids in the future, I would have done things a bit differently (or, at least, considered and/or tried to!). For example, if I had allowed life to be more difficult and unpleasant for my eldest, perhaps he wouldn’t struggle so much to cope with the realities of life today.

I can look-back on so many situations in my life where I was totally oblivious to what was going on but can see it clearly now. There are boys who were flirting with me, and I never knew it until recently when I think back on the interactions. There were times when I was taken advantage of, and I can see it clearly now.

Horrible restaurant experiences, getting stuck in the rain, being unprepared, having to rush to not be late…there are countless examples in my life.

One thing of which I do not have much, however, is regret. I don’t regret much about my life, even with its history of abuse, neglect, heartbreak, pain, and sorrow. Regret is an altogether different experience than realizing after (or into) an experience that, perhaps, you should have done things differently.

Regret has to do with feeling badly enough about something that you would change it if you could.

To be honest, there is only one experience in my entire life that I regret and would change if I could; I would save my mom. I regret that I didn’t catch her illness sooner to do more about it, perhaps even stop it from progressing and save her. The illness would have got her eventually, but I might have been able to slow it down and buy us all more time together.

I wish that I had known how sick she was and that it was going to be the end, I would have stayed longer with her, laughed more, hugged her more, and just spent more time enjoying her presence. I regret not doing these things; hindsight is, indeed, 20/20.

While I have always been a “deep” person and try my best to be present in every moment, these experiences have coupled up with my age and, perhaps, a few strands of wisdom to match the growing expanse of silvery highlights, has made me even more acutely aware of the importance of trying to see the hindsight first – before it happens.

‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ I hear you groan at your screen. Before you think that I’m just being stupid and decide to navigate away from this page, stop and think about this. If you could gain even a smidgeon of hindsight before the fact, don’t you think that could change how you approach and experience life?

‘Sure. But wishing it were so and making it so are two very different things.’

Are they?

Perhaps wishing it were so in and of itself makes us more keenly aware of the important aspects we need to consider before making a decision and/or experiencing something.

So, the next time you are in a situation whether you have a decision to make or are spending time with someone else, stop and think about hindsight; are there any thoughts, feelings, ideas, concerns, hopes, or fears that you have about things? Try to picture yourself in different ‘hindsight scenarios’ and maybe, just maybe, we’ll have less disappointment in experiences, and maybe even less regret.

It’s an experiment worth trying to help us live life to its fullest.

My Mom Died – I’m Seeking Life Now

24 Monday Feb 2025

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My mom died recently.

I have been waiting to write about it; waiting for the pain to not be so strong and the ability to breathe not be so weak.

It all happened so fast. I still can’t believe that she’s gone.

I keep thinking that she’s going to show-up and say, “surprise! I’m here! It was all just a joke! You’ve been pranked!”

But this is not going to happen. I will never hear her voice in real time ever again. I will never experience the feeling of one of her hugs again or watch her giggle while playing with my children.

 There will be no more “just because” gifts.

I’ve lost the person I could text at any time about anything and always get a response, and almost always get support and encouragement.

Who is going to encourage me now?

She was my biggest cheerleader; I knew that I could handle life, that I could manage, that I was special because of her. What am I now without her?

Life goes on. It’s true. I still do life things; it’s not just everyone else who continues living while she is dead. It’s me too, and this makes me feel guilty. I make dinner, eat toast, buy toilet paper, watch tv…but I do it all while thinking about her, missing her, and hoping that she will come around any corner at any moment and give me a hug and kiss and tell me how much she loves me.

My Mom called me her “Joy.” But I never got to tell her that she was my joy and that the only reason I was ever able to be a joy to her was because of all the joy that she had given to me. I am me because I am her daughter.

So now, my joy is gone, and I don’t know what to do about that.

I miss her.

I want to tear the world apart out of anguish and anger for the fact that this world took her from me.

I don’t want platitudes or to hear “it will get better with time.” These things do not help with the pain that I am feeling right now.

I want you to be angry with me. Be angry that a great mother, wife, friend, Auntie, Nana, and friend has been taken from this world. She died so quickly I didn’t get a chance to say everything I wanted, for us to do the things we talked about doing together.

There will never be another birthday card, or Christmas gift; I will never have to help her change a password again or help her return a mistaken purchase from Amazon.

We were going to watch “Wicked: Part 1” together…

She was hoping that a house on our street would come up for sale so that we could live close – we’ll never live together again.

She wanted me to wait to show Brian my convocation video when she was feeling better and could watch it with us.

We were going to watch “Grumpy Old Men” in late January and do a turkey dinner for Easter, since we did a fish dinner for Christmas.

We won’t be doing any of this now. I will do it all alone. Without my sidekick. Without my friend. Without my best friend. Without my mom.

There will always be a piece of me that is broken, a piece that is missing now.

Always.

I am learning to live with this new version of myself. This version that I have never, ever, known before. There has never been a version of me that has not had my mom – until now.

What is this life?

I thought it was a struggle before to figure out this life; seeking life now has taken on a monumentally deeper and intense meaning than any other thing I’ve experienced.

Seeking life now; when life doesn’t turn out as you had hoped it would.

The Storm

14 Friday Jun 2024

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Sometimes I go to sleep wondering if I will wake up the next morning and discover that it was all a bad dream.

But as the hot tears burn my cheeks and another stress migraine settles in, I know that no matter how much I try to wish it away, this is real.

I cannot comprehend why, or how, a child can hold so much pain and fear.

I try to suppress the day’s memories of being called horrible names, of being used as a human punching bag by the life I brought into this world.

I absorb his pain. I take his suffering. I can only hope that it provides him some relief. I would do anything to help ease the torment for him – even take the blows without flinching in an effort to prove to him that my love for him is unconditional; that there is absolutely nothing he could do, nothing he could be or become that would make me not love him.

As I hold him tightly, assuring him that I love him, that I’m not going anywhere, and that it doesn’t matter what he does to me, I will never give up on him, the punches become lighter, the swearing decreases, and I can feel the pain and anger being replaced by shame and sorrow.

He finally collapses in my arms, sobbing, apologizing. I can hear the agony in his voice; the fear of self, the hopelessness of feeling like you are a monster that is sick and will never get better.

I have been there.

I know what that feels like.

My heart shatters in a million pieces once again, but I have to be strong for him. He needs me.

This whole situation is so messy, so painful, and so completely undeserved.

While I may be strong for him when he is near, I crumble multiple times a day.

I fight back thoughts that maybe he is right, maybe it would be better if we didn’t exist anymore – maybe that is the only way out.

Then, through all this pain and suffering, while I am struggling just to breathe, to function – when it takes every ounce of effort to get up to face it all again and to keep getting up every time I’m knocked down – my integrity is questioned.

I have no words.

I barely have breath in me, but they manage to squeeze out plumes of vapours, forcing me to prove that I am unwell.

What they don’t understand is that I have to keep going every day; I am not free to live out my own pain because I have a child who needs me.

They do not see that every day is a struggle to live, that I have to give more than I have to get up each day.

They cannot comprehend this love, nor understand the toll it takes to lose myself every day in the hopes that we will find him; to sacrifice myself so that he might be saved.

He is my heart, and my heart is sick.

I would go to the ends of the earth to help him. I will never apologize for that.

The Decision to Move

22 Thursday Jun 2017

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When my Mom phoned to let me know she had called an ambulance to bring my stepdad to the hospital, it was as if the world around me grew still, despite the fact that I was standing in the middle of a bustling Nathan Phillip’s Square in downtown Toronto at the very first Winter Festival being held there.

My husband, child and in-laws kept walking and I could see them pointing towards the ice skaters and, more excitedly, towards the Zamboni. But, my heart had sunk to my shoes and tears were streaming down my cheeks.

I didn’t want to spoil their moment, but I was feeling desperate. I just wanted to get away and be somewhere I could have a good cry. But, I didn’t want to scare my son.

I hung-up with my Mother and eventually rejoined my family. I explained what was going on to my husband while his parents entertained the kid. My gut instinct was to get in a plane and go be with my parents. However, this was very much complicated by the fact that our in-laws had flown all the way from New Zealand to be with us, we didn’t have any other vacation days (so I’d have to take a pay-loss), we were broke so I would have to borrow the money to go as it was, I and I have a 3-year old that I had to consider.

My husband calmed me and told me to just wait to hear some more news about what was going-on before I panicked too much.

It wasn’t until recently, when we moved-back to be with my parents, that I learned just how dire the situation was and just how terrified my parents had been. These are difficult things to convey over text or phone calls, I suppose.

When talking to my Mom in that week and a half, I was trying to discern from what she said and how she sounded whether, or not, they really needed me there.

After getting off the phone with her one evening I broke-down. When my husband came to see what was happening I sobbed “I hate feeling like I am waiting to get that nightmare call that we had better come now or it will be too late…”

My Stepdad had gone through 11 rounds of chemo for colon cancer, and this was the year after he had been flown to Ottawa for a triple bypass. Now, he was in hospital with sepsis and my Mother had said that they were struggling to keep his organs functioning.

I knew it was serious, but did not know how serious or how scared both of my parents were going-through this. I guess that’s a compliment to how well they handled it together. Still, I hate thinking that they had to go through it alone.

Once my Stepdad was out of the hospital, I said to my husband, through more sobbing one night: “I NEVER want to be in that position again. Having to ask my Mom to let me know when it got to the ‘you need to come now because he’s dying’ stage.”

I hated being in that position. I didn’t wan to wait until it was too late. I wanted to spend time with him while there was still time to spend. I wanted my son to be able to build memories of his grandparents of playing games, laughing over dinner, sharing ice cream treats and going for car rides and not just sitting in a hospital saying ‘goodbye’.

So, we made the decision to uproot our lives, and move home.

It was a decision that required a lot of sacrifice, and there are times I still can burst into tears when something I miss about our old home strikes or when my Son asks something like: “Can we go to the tick-tock park?” (A park we used to frequent behind city hall, where the large clock on old city hall, would chime on the hour).

But, the pain and the loss we experience over leaving the city that we all dearly loved pales in comparison to the pain and the loss we would feel if we had decided to stay and, instead, forfeited the time we now get to spend with family.

You just cannot put a price on that.

People say it all the time, but until you are staring it in the face it can be tough to comprehend;

life is short.

You have to look at what really matters to you and be prepared to move heaven and earth to make it happen.

It may be very difficult at times when we are missing our beloved city, but that is grief, not regret. I will never regret choosing time with my family over our life in the city.

We never know how much more time we have together. I’m determined to make the most of it.

I  Could Get Used to This

09 Tuesday May 2017

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It’s not “home” as I once knew it.

It’s not where I grew up, where I spent years of learning, maturing, laughing, crying, working and resting.

It is not where I rolled on the ground with the dogs, flung hay around for the cows’ lunch, learned to drive, or spent endless hours in my bedroom dreaming and pining for the kind of romantic adventures I had read about. It’s not where I fought with my brother, or where we spent hours recording ourselves on cassette tapes as we played Mario Bros. or watched Degrassi. 

My brother thought the tapes would be worth money one day. 

It is not where I used to sing opera at the top of my lungs in the hay loft, or dance around the calf stalls singing “16 Going on 17” when I was supposed to be cleaning.

No, it is not the home I grew-up in; still, it is home.

It is where my parents live and now, so do we.

Myself, my husband and our 3 year old son. Five of us under one roof. I am glad that we have our own space upstairs and will be much more glad when our things arrive and we have our space filled with our things. We have always been 3. The trinity. A perfect triangle. The 3 Amigos. 

There has been an adjustment period as we have expanded our triangle into a pentagon. The 5 Amigos. Or, as my son likes to point-out, the perfect finger family.

I get impatient with adjustment periods. I want to be settled NOW. I am hard on myself when I feel like I should be doing better, I should be feeling better, I should be more settled, I should have everything set-up and all the details under control. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s only been 1 week. Well, 1 week and 3 days. 

Although it has been, in actuality, a short period of time, it has felt as though we have been suspended in this unusual state for many months. I have gone in and out and around various stages of mourning. In the past few days I have cried over the loss of what had been routine family times, back when it was just the 3 of us. 

I have missed coming-downstairs on Sunday morning, after my husband let me sleep-in, to find my boys, sweetly, playing together. I would turn-on classical 96.3 FM and sit at the table with my toast, eggs and tea and just soak-in the sweetness of our trinity.

These moments are gone. They have become memories that feel terribly distant and teasingly close all at the same time. 

But, new moments and new memories are already beginning to establish themselves like the first green buds that poke out of the ground after a forest fire. New life full of new stories and sweet memories are already springing-up. My husband and I have shared many of these while watching our son with his grandparents; when he goes to help Nana feed the birds or bursts out laughing and says “You’re funny, Grampa!” in response to almost anything Grampa says.

And this evening I had a moment of pure perfection while bathing my son. I sat on the little, white stool that he uses to climb up onto the toilet or stands on at the sink to brush his teeth and watched him playing in the tub. As I watched him, the sweet smell of lavender baby wash circled around me and the song “Don’t Grow Up So Fast” by Train played quietly behind me, I realized that life couldn’t get any better than that moment.

Perfection. 100% pure perfection.

I wanted to seize on it, to tie it down, to capture it forever. 

In an attempt to trap the moment as long as I possibly could, I hit repeat on my phone. I sat there soaking in the sweetness, trying desperately to ensure that it was securely planted deep within my mind, somewhere it would never be lost. 

I did this another 4 times.

And I thought the thought that I have had many times since arriving here:

I could get used to this. 

It’s Dad’s Day

19 Sunday Jun 2016

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It’s Father’s Day here in North America and I have been on the verge of tears all day. I feel sad, frustrated, scared, helpless and very far away from my entire family.

I have a father-in-law doing radiation treatments, a Dad who is going for major surgery this upcoming Friday and a Stepdad who is undergoing chemo as he battles colorectal cancer.

And I feel helpless about it all.

It is making this Father’s Day particularly difficult for me. I wish I could do more. This feeling of helplessness is exhausting me and I feel like my reaction to it is to become a deer in headlights-standing there, frozen, unable to do anything.

My Father-in-Law has always treated me like his very own daughter. Maybe the daughter he never had. He has an incredible way of always making me feel loved and welcome. I have never felt like a visitor in his presence, but always like family. From the first time I met him he made me feel special-like he was proud that I was the one his son had chosen. This is an incredible gift that has granted me much encouragement, inspiration and support through the years.

My Dad loves the outdoors. For the first 7 years of my life, I spent a lot of time camping, swimming, hiking, canoeing, fishing and just being outdoors. When I was very young, I used to love getting up early and sitting outside the house with him, watching the sunrise. To this day, the smell of coffee always brings me right back to those warm, red, sun-bathed memories. I learned  how to be quiet, how to let your thoughts and emotions be worked-out through physical activity. I learn from him how to be hardworking and to keep moving, no matter what.

My Stepdad has been my rock, my refuge and my safety. He is a true, ‘salt of the earth’ kind of man. He is a retired farmer. He took-over his Dad’s farm and poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the land and the livestock. I still remember the year he was finally able to purchase his ‘dream’ section of land. For his entire life, a beautiful section of land separated his fields, but the owner never wanted to sell. The year the owner finally sold it, I went out on the 4-wheelers as my Stepdad, puffed with pride, showed me his new land. He pointed-out the gorgeous flowers, the luscious grass, the perfect placement of the trees. On that day, I saw a a man’s dreams come to a meaningful completion.

All three of these men have strengthened my life, supported me, and encouraged me in who I am. And, here I sit-miles away from each of them-aware that they are all going through their own, unique, struggles and circumstances and feeling responsible and guilty for my lack of returned support.

I have enjoyed spending the day with my husband, the Daddy to our own, wonderful, child. But, it has been a really difficult day as well. If I could do anything for my Dad’s this Father’s Day, it would be to remove all their pain, illness, discomfort and fear. 

Everything else just feels so empty. 

But, for what it’s worth, I love you Dads.

271.1 – A Weighty Issue

18 Monday Apr 2016

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Throughout my life, I have found it very frustrating and discouraging how much my weight can fluctuate. My last post saw me at 268.7 and I was feeling very positive. I had given myself a goal of reaching 265 by April 30th and when I saw that # I thought, ‘maybe I can actually reach that goal’. And then, getting on the scale this morning I think ‘there’s no way I’m reaching that goal’.

This is not a new struggle. There have been many times before when I was doing great at this ‘being healthy’ thing and would step on the scale and be up a few, and as much as 5, pounds. And, historically, I would come crashing down and I would give up. ‘If I’m going to gain weight anyway, I may as well eat whatever I like.’

This see-saw of weight and emotions is one of the reasons I have decided to post my weight. It’s important for me to see that it is not the most reliable measurement of the hard work I am putting in. It’s a number. Ultimately, we want to see it trending downwards, but I’m no longer going to allow myself to be discouraged when I step on the scale and the number is up from last time.

Posting my weight (a thought that terrified me a few months ago) has been really positive for me. I used to think that someone other than me knowing what I weighed would be the most humiliating, horrible, dreadful thing.

But, posting the # has, actually, diminished its power and its hold over me. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed like I thought I would be. In fact, I’m proud. I’m proud of myself for being honest about who I am and having the guts to tell the world. I’m also proud of how I don’t feel ashamed about it. It’s good to know that I have that much respect for myself.

I have people in my life who love me just the way I am but up until now, they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know how fat I really am, because only I knew the “real number”. Now they do. And, guess what? Nothing has changed. They still love me just as much. And now that the ‘dirty little secret’ is out and I’m still loved and accepted and there was no cataclysmic event that followed, I realize just how meaningless the # really is.

This is who I am and, I love myself for who I am. Would I like to see changes? Yes. Does that mean I don’t like myself now? No. Would I like the # to go down and be smaller? Yes. Am I going to get hung-up on it and discouraged if it doesn’t? No.

I am loved. I love myself. I’m doing my best and I am enjoying my life.

You can’t put a weight on that.

There is no place like…home?

04 Monday Apr 2016

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Home.

It’s such a confusing, difficult and complicated term to me.

Where is my home? Is it where I am? Where my family is? If so, are we talking my immediate or extended family?

Is it where I feel most comfortable? Most relaxed?

Is it where I was born and raised or where I lived for the longest period of time?

Where is my home?

Our society puts such an incredible value on this idea or concept of home. But, I don’t really know what that is to me and so, I often feel lost.

They say that “home is where the heart is”. If that’s so, my home truly does exist in a great multitude of places, for my heart is always at many places at once.

At any moment of the day you can find me yearning for one of my ‘homes’. I long to be in New Zealand, driving along the stunning shoreline, and laughing with my friends and family who live there. I long to be back on the farm where I spent my childhood going on adventures and exploring the wilderness around me. I want to be in the homes where my parents live, and sitting with them over dinner, laughing and chatting about the funny stories, old and new. I desire to be in the residence where I am living now, playing and giggling with my son while I stream some great, new, tunes on Google Play.

There are days I am desperate to move back to NZ – and other days I am yearning to return to my hometown. And then, of course, there are those days when I can’t imagine living anywhere different to where I am now.

Being pulled in all these directions all the time is exhausting. I feel like I am constantly betraying someone. If we’re here, we’re disappointing both sides of the family because we are close to neither. If we lived in one of those places, the other side of the family would be hurt because we had not chosen to live by them.

I have been challenging myself lately to really seek what is best for my little family of three. What is best for my husband, for me, and for our son.

This is a difficult question to tackle when you feel guilty for not “being there” for the people who have stood by your side for your entire life.

But, what is being a parent if not preparing your child to mature, venture out, and embrace his/her own life, doing what is best for him/her and will make him/her the happiest that he/she can, possibly, be?

I have been seeking to turn our residence into a “home” ever since we moved here over a year ago. And, I have little moments- pockets of time- here and there when the sun is shining in on our lounge, my son is lying on the floor playing with this trucks and my husband is standing in the kitchen, humming to himself, when a deep breath finds its way out of the depths of my heart and exhales a contended sigh – “I’m home”.

But, I’ve also had this feeling when opening the door to my office on a weekday morning, and I’m greeted by my plants on the window sill, the desk where I spend a good portion of my life, and my awesome “Zootopia” mug out of which I enjoy a great amount of homemade mochas during the week.

I have also experienced the welcoming feeling of being home when I have looked-out on the city in which I live-when I see the lights of the familiar buildings, hear the sound of streetcars rushing along the tracks, and breathe-in the odd, but familiar scent that rises-up from the subway.

Does that mean that “home” really is wherever I am?

Do I bring “home” with me wherever I go?

Am I at home when I am on the streetcar, on the farm, on the beach at Lyall Bay, in my office, in my living room, and on the street where I am walking?

Maybe.

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