Happy Mother’s Day?

Mother’s Day kinda sucks. It certainly hasn’t been the same since August 14, 2022 when I lost my Mama. 

I am grateful that my fella and children have always been cool with Mother’s Day truly being ‘my day’… whether I want to chill out at home, have a solo thrift, whatever… (my only request is usually a nice, BBQ steak and smokey glass of red wine for dinner, weather permitting).

But Mother’s Day has mostly become a day of remembrance. A day of (sadly) emptiness. A day that mainly reminds me that one of the people I have loved the most in my life, is also no longer in my life… “The one person who knew everything about me, and loved me anyway” (thank you, Nicole Kidman). 

Her hands.

Her scent. 

Her eyes. 

Her kiss.

Her smile.

Her laugh.

Her baking.

Her cooking. 

Her cleaning.

Eating with her.

Shopping with her.

Telling her stories that made her laugh.

Telling her stories that made her uncomfortable (but she kept on listening).

Dolly Parton.

Julio Iglesias.

Neil Diamond.

Tracy Chapman.

John Denver.

Celine Dion.

Tom Jones.

Jim Croce.

Benson & Hedges Menthol 100’s.

The way she folded every single piece of laundry in perfect little squares.

Tigerlilies.

Who am I kidding? - All of the flowers and plants.

Sending her the same message, every single morning: ‘Good Morning Mama.’

Our daily phone call on my drive to work.

Our daily phone call on my drive home from work.

Before she left us I told her I wanted her to be my mama in my next life. The truth is, I would choose her in every lifetime. 

This day, and all of my remaining days, will never be the same without her.

This photo is the definition of Motherhood to me. The mother I had, and the mother I am. Two of my favourite things. The beauty and heartache of it all.

Happy Mother’s Day… My babes, I adore you. My mama, I love you and miss you. Always & Forever… 

it's ok now...

On August 12 mama said her final words to me:  "it's ok now..." She repeated those words over and over, softly into my ear when I arrived at the hospital.  Two days later, on August 14 she passed away.  We were there with her.  Holding her hands.  Telling her how very loved she was.

 

Mama was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April.  I was at the appointment with her when the specialist gave her the news.  He told her she likely had a year, maybe two or three if she was a candidate for surgery and treatment, which we soon discovered she wasn't.  When we drove home from the appointment I asked her how she felt.  She said it didn't feel real.  I asked her if she felt angry.  She told me she was sad.  She said she wasn't ready to leave, there were more things she wanted to do.  She thought she had more time.  I asked her what she wanted to do.  She said she wanted to come to Welland for a weekend, go shopping and hang out like we used to... that was mama's bucket list item:  coming to Welland for a weekend, like she used to.  We kept trying to make a plan, but her health kept declining.  We thought we had more time.  

 

A few days after the appointment mom sent me a message that said:  "I am ok if you are ok so let's just be ok"  I replied:  "I'm ok if you are ok, so we will be ok" and she responded:  "Yup we will make a vow to just be ok whatever"

 

My greatest fear during childhood was losing my mom.  I also worried about the end of the world a lot - but to be honest, the thought of either was equally terrifying.  When I was little she was my hero.  She had magic hands, they made everything better.  When I grew up she was my best friend.  A best friend who I shared everything with.  Even when she politely asked me to stop oversharing... As a child I never wanted to leave her side.  As an adult I started every day with a message to her:  "Good Morning Mama", and a phone call on my drive to work, sometimes a second phone call on my drive home.  The daily phone call started over eight years ago when Shari was in a dark place, and we would check in with each other, compare notes and make sure sista was ok.  The daily phone calls continued after we lost Shari.  First to check in and make sure we were both ok.  We weren't, and we talked about it.  We talked about everything.  We always did.  We talked about our days, what was for dinner, what embarrassing thing happened - nothing made her laugh quite as much as a good, embarrassing story.  We talked about trivial things, and we talked about serious things.  When the world felt scary and bad she was my person.  She had a way to always make me feel like everything was going to be ok.  It's ok now...

 

When someone dies from cancer people always say they 'fought a courageous battle..' there is always this image of fighting.  Mama didn't fight.  She gracefully shifted from being sad that she thought she had more time into a very soft and peaceful acceptance.  When mom went to the hospital there was a change.  She cracked open like a shell, and she oozed love.  She oozed peace.  We all just wanted to be around her.  One week before she died all of her grandchildren came to see her.  I had noticed she always had a tissue in her hand, and I wanted her to have something to hold when we weren't there.  Something for those magic hands that had always worked so hard, and given so much - those hands that always made everything better, to cuddle with.  Julian and Nora brought her this stuffed bunny.  She named her Pamela and she never let her go.  

 

Mama taught me so many things.  How to fold laundry into perfect little squares.  How to squeeze water out of a dish cloth 'the right way'.  How to cook a turkey and make chicken paprikash and nookedlie.  How to decorate a Christmas tree (while listening to Dolly & Kenny).  There are so many more things I wanted to learn from her.  I thought we had more time.

 

She was always strong.  She was always beautiful.  When it felt like the world was crumbling around me she had a way of making me truly believe that it's ok now... 

 

I love you and miss you mama, always & forever... xo 

Peace, Hope and an Angel...

After we lost Shari we started the task of going through her things… including many items which had been packed away in a storage unit she had rented. I was the first of my family to arrive on the morning we began to tackle these items.  I distinctly remember the feeling as I pulled up, the quiet, the calm and the sadness.  Specifically the realization of how sad it is that after we are gone all that is left are our ‘things’, and the people we love are tasked with sorting, keeping, gifting them.

When I opened the storage locker I immediately saw three items sitting out, two items were perched on a wooden bench and one was on the floor of the unit, not tucked away in boxes or bags like everything else. 

The first item was a metal Peace sign. 
The second was a fabric banner with the word Hope.
The final item was this Angel. 

Peace, Hope and an Angel. 

I sat on the wooden bench, holding those three items for a very long time.  Those three words and three items got me through that day, and many days since. I still have all three of these special objects in our home, and the Angel has topped our Christmas tree every year since 2014. After each Christmas season comes to an end she moves from the tree to the top of our piano in the living room. She is always there.
 

Sending Peace and Hope into this new year...

jbxo 

Seven.

Seven years... feeling at a loss for words today, so I went back.  These last few days I have felt the need to go back.  Back through photos of her smiling, beautiful face.  Videos of her laughing, talking, moving.  The missing, seven years later, is every bit as deep.  So - today I will go back.  Back to where we grew up.  Back to share memories and honour her, as a family.  

 

The following are the words I spoke for Shari at her funeral seven years ago.  Since I don't have the words today, I will share these instead...

 

How do you put words to the loss of a daughter, a sister, an auntie, and a friend?  We can’t, and any efforts here to encapsulate the life of this angel will fall short. Shari, for those of you who didn’t know, walked a difficult road for most of her life.  Hers was perhaps not the path that my mom and dad would have hoped for when she entered this world all those years ago.  While she lived, while she grew, while she evolved and while she achieved… anxiety and depression were her constant travel companion.  Tired from the constant challenge of carrying this far too heavy burden, Shari left us last Monday in a moment we struggle to define and understand.

 

But while our gathering here today is defined by this sudden loss, Shari was much more than the burden she carried and the decision she made to ease her pain.  Few people epitomize the tag of  ‘gentle soul’ more than Shari.  How many of us carry our burdens with such grace, with such patience and beauty?  How many of us would literally stop to avoid hurting an insect, how many of us bite our tongues when confronted with an opinion or perspective we don’t agree with so as not to offend?  Shari glided through this world touching the lives of every person she met and negatively impacting so very few. 

 

It is easy for me to remember the sister that I admired, the person that I loved and looked up to.  When I was little and would wake from a bad dream, I ran scared to Shari’s bed for comfort.  Shari was my older sister, my confidant and my protector.  Over the years, and especially in this past year when things got scary for Shari, I am proud to say that she came to me and for what was one of the happiest times in my life she lived with my family.  I was honoured to have her turn to me for support and for me to be able to repay her for all of the times she had held me and protected me.  During those precious months I reflected on how beautiful she was, I laughed in ways only Shari could make me laugh and I watched her love and nurture my family in ways that I could never repay.  I will be eternally grateful for the love she showed Andrew, for the way she instilled her artistic temperament in Nora and for the confidence she gave Julian to have deep, philosophical conversations.  My sister has always been a part of me, and always will… but to see her reflected in my children and to see their love for her fills me with a pride I cannot put into words.  Thank you Shari for teaching me, from the day I was born, what true love and friendship is. 

 

To my mom and dad.  I cannot begin to understand the pain you feel today, but I remind you of your beautiful family and how much your children love and care for one another.  These past weeks have shone a light on how close we are and how much love we were raised with.  Shari never wanted to disappoint you and she ached when her emotional setbacks would cause you stress.  I know that you have carried the burden of her challenges more than anyone else.  You have done so with love and dignity and I know she loved you deeply for your efforts to respect and understand the complexity of her emotions.  The connection between you, parent and child, is epitomized by the harsh reality that while we searched for her for four very long days Dad knew where she was instantly.  Dad knew where she lay and felt intimately what her last steps had been.  Last Monday evening, tired of the struggle to be at peace with herself Shari walked from my house to the boathouse with the bright light.  She followed that light, and the metaphor here is not lost on any of us who were looking for the signs, she found comfort in that light and she would have her spent her last moments under it.  She entered the spot where dad said she was and there she entered into the light of another protector and the peace she so restlessly looked for her in life was given to her.  

 

Be at peace, my sweet sister, my best friend.  

I love you, always & forever.

oscar & clinka

I have always drawn.  For as long as I can remember.  With some breaks along the way.  My brother, sister and I all grew up loving to sketch and paint.  Our family never quite understood where this 'artistic flair' came from - neither mama or papa like to draw.  My brother enjoys drawing caricatures, sista was always drawing, colouring, painting, creating.  For myself, I did the majority of my art during school, doodling or sketching when I should have been paying attention.  

I tend to sketch the same things over and over:

flower

butterfly

tree

house

sun

swirly shapes

oscar & clinka

I started sketching oscar & clinka in university - during class, of course.  They ended up being a recurring addition to the comic section in The Brock Press.  Some of the scenarios I created for them were autobiographical, and others were just made up gross or strange things I thought about.  It always felt safer to share gross and strange things through oscar & clinka than in 'real life'.  Sure, the comic was 'by Jules' and it was distributed to the ENTIRE university... but, besides my tiny group of friends, no one really knew who Jules was...

I remember a particularly inappropriate submission - like, I think I blushed when I handed it in - and two weeks later someone wrote a Letter to the Editor saying:  "I don't know who this Jules guy is, but he really needs to get some professional help..."  I remember finding it funny not only that my sketch upset someone so much they felt compelled to write a letter to the editor, but even more amusing was they assumed such grotesque inappropriateness could have only come from A GUY.  After that, all bets were off - I was officially inspired with the goal of being as inappropriate as possible.  I was also sure to sign my followup submission:  'by a Girl named Jules'.

I know I am not alone in this, but the funny thing about me and art is - I only want to do it when I am inspired to do it.  Once oscar & clinka developed a following (likely under five people) I hated the pressure of 'having' to come up with creative ideas and draw them.  Hence, the vast majority of submissions were drawn while I was in class, on whatever scrap piece of paper I could find, usually on the same day it was due to be handed in.

Once I became an 'adult' and a 'corporate professional' I would still draw on occasion.  My subject matter, however, became much more appropriate and palatable.  I gravitated towards sweet, lovely little sketches of:  flower, butterfly, tree, house, sun.  I would sometimes sketch in my notebook during long meetings, or training sessions.  A few coworkers noticed my art, some of them truly appreciated my lovely little sketches, and for them - I would draw on my very best paper, and frame them as gifts.  One or two of my pieces even became tattoos on other people's bodies (which I love...).  oscar & clinka spent a long time on hiatus, safely tucked away in a binder placed on a high shelf in the basement.

A few months ago, a friend asked to see the original oscar & clinka pieces that were in The Brock Press.  I pulled the old binder for her, and watched her pour over each piece, laughing along the way.  She loved the realness and edge to them and encouraged me to start drawing them again.  A few days later I pulled out my sketchbook - and sadly realized that the last time I had drawn in it was in 2014 - the year we lost Shari.  I took a deep breath, and clinka poured out of my brain and through my hand... oscar quickly followed.  It felt good to draw them, and breathe new life into them again.  They now live on their own Instagram account:  oscar & clinka.  I only draw them when I feel inspired to do so.  I am not sure how inappropriate they will get - but a part of me hopes I get a Letter to the Editor.

jbxo

Twenty-Two Egg Cartons

 

Papa is old school.  He doesn't always have to buy things with money like the rest of us.  Growing up on a farm, he learned the age old tradition of the barter system.  You know:  I have cucumbers and you have tomatoes - let's swap!  I always found it fascinating to watch my dad go out to 'run errands' and 'pick up a few things' in the summer.  In addition to checking that he had his wallet (which he usually couldn't find) he would spend time carefully loading a box of items from his garden, and setting it in the back of his vehicle.  Many hours and visits later, he would come back home stocked up with a variety of items, always including a carton or two of eggs from a local farmer.  In my dad's world, one DOES NOT EVER throw out or recycle an egg carton.  Egg cartons are to be saved, and brought to his farmer friend, to be filled with more eggs.

My dad isn't a huge fan of the Big City.  When he comes for a visit he usually finds an excuse to run an errand, or go for a walk.  He finds the houses a bit too close together, it makes him antsy.  One question he would always ask when he came here or when I went to them was:  "Do you have any egg cartons?"  I haven't recycled an egg carton in years, I keep a little stack in the garage, and would usually have three to five cartons saved up for my next visit - handing them to my dad, his eyes would light up like I was giving him bricks of gold.

I haven't seen my mom and dad since August 2020.  My stack of egg cartons has been growing in the garage for months.  Every time I add a carton to the pile it hurts my heart a little bit.  Each carton represents time spent apart - with no clear end in sight.  Visits, meals, laughter and stories missed.  Time that we can't get back.

As we approach the one year mark (I refuse to use the word 'anniversary') of this very strange time, and apprehensively move towards a 'new normal' I am thinking about how much has changed, how different I am, how different we all are - especially for those who have lost loved ones.  One year ago I referred to an article I read which perfectly detailed how, through the pandemic itself, we were all going through a grieving process.  I still find this to be very accurate and true.  Much like any great loss, we have been in shock for most of the past year, there has been denial, anger, depression... as we slowly move into acceptance.  Interestingly, for me, much of this past year has also been peaceful, beautiful - an awakening and a realization that in many ways I don't want to go back to 'what was'.

But, the one piece that continues to break my heart is the 'missing'.  The time with those we love, that we will never get back.  The empty egg carton stack that continues to grow...

I miss you.

jbxo

Like Mother, Like Daughter...

My relationship with my mama is pretty special.  From the time I was a small child I just wanted to be around her.  Like... all the time.  I have heard numerous tales of me, as a little creature on the farm, clinging to her leg 24/7.  One would think that growing up on a farm would mean possessing a natural affinity and love for the sound of loud engines.  I was not born with this trait, and the sound of a tractor, snowmobile, motorcycle or any other motorized vehicle revving up would send me running, screaming hysterically, clinging to my mama's leg as though I had been chased by a psychopath wielding a chainsaw.

When I transitioned into the teen years, I remember many heart to heart talks with mama.  Don't get me wrong, these were not girl talk sessions featuring a mutual bearing of our souls.  This was me, either asking really uncomfortable questions, or spilling every juicy detail of my young, inexperienced life.  I never shied away from 'sensitive' topics, much to her dismay I would imagine, as she has always been much classier than me in regards to subjects of conversation - remember, she never swears.  I recall around the age of 15 or 16 spilling some especially scandalous tea, and her saying:  "My mom friends always complain that their kids don't tell them anything, sometimes you tell me too much..."  This, of course didn't stop me, and through my life, when something particularly personal, even better - embarrassing - happened to me, she has always been the first person I wanted to call.  Nothing makes my mama laugh harder than a story about falling down in public, a poorly timed bodily function release or anything of the like.  

Sadly, we now live two hours apart from one another.  When I was working, my daily routine included calling her on my drive home so we could chat about our day.  Good, bad or ugly, we shared it all.  Since the pandemic started we are not in touch daily, but she is still the first person I call if anything embarrassing arises.  Sometimes we text back and forth, and our text conversation from a few days ago might be one of my favourites... so much so, I thought it should live on forever in my blog.  I think future generations will really appreciate it.  For a bit of context, the topic of vaginas came up (as it does) and I had referred to it as a 'foofer' (as you do):

mama:  I didn't know how to spell foofer before, I thought for sure it would have a capital "f".

me:  You can spell it however you like as it isn't a real word.  Yours must be special to get a capital "F".

mama:  Mine does not have a name.

me:  Mine has at least two names:  foofer, clinka... there might be more, I will have to think about it.

mama:  Well, if mine ever did have a name I can't remember it.

me:  You should ask dad.

mama:  OMG can you imagine?  I will tell him you want to know.

me:  He might have you institutionalized, or write me out of the will.

mama:  Probably both.

My dear mama, thank you for always being my bestie, for listening to years of oversharing,  for sending me six hearts whenever I need them, and for pushing me out of your foofer.

jbxo

static & silence

Six years ago today Shari left us.  In the early days after losing her it was difficult to comprehend how I would get through a day, or a week, impossible to believe I would survive six years without her in my life.  

Six years.  That is:

72 months.

313 weeks.

2,192 days.

I remember the feeling of September 2014.  That month, and many of the months that followed had a scent, a taste, a sensation, both in the pit of my stomach, and the ache in my heart.  I sometimes struggle to comprehend which part of losing her was worse in those initial days:  realizing she was gone, and not being able to find her, or finding her four days later and confirming that she was gone forever.  Once we found her the next stages began.  Floating through a fog I recall going through her apartment.  It wasn't frantic.  It was oddly peaceful.  The first day it was just me, in the silence, looking through her things, taking my time to sift through every pocket, every nook and cranny as I slowly folded and packed away her precious things.  When the silence became unbearable I pressed 'play' on her little CD player.  The Sundays album static & silence began to play.  It was oddly perfect, and I felt a sense of peace when I realized I was listening to the last music she had listened to.  I must have played that CD ten times while I was packing her possessions.

The fourty-two years I had with sista were not all perfect.  There was a lot of worry, frustration, sadness, concern.  But, there were also some of the most wonderful moments.  Playing with our Fisher Price 'People' when we were little, not liking the way a specific story line was going, and making a deal to start the People's lives fresh with four simple words:  "Starting now, 'kay?  Go."  Sleepovers in one another's rooms as children with fits of giggles, and then as teenagers with late night heart to hearts.  Listening to music, enjoying good food, going for walks, talking about life, love and our latest thrift store find.  Laughing so hard we would cry - usually at something super weird, something that no one else would understand, let alone find remotely funny.  

When I talk about Shari I can feel my face brightening.  She really was wonderful.  Creative, intelligent, funny and beautiful.  I always felt proud to be her little sister.  Whenever she was in a low point, I always wished she could see herself through my eyes.

I remember after Shari died, a few close friends asked me what I needed, what would make me feel better.  I could only ever think of one thing, and it was something no one could give me:  time.  I needed time to think, cry, remember, breathe, be.  The few weeks I took off from work were a drop in the ocean of the amount of time that I craved.  Life was so busy, a family, a cat, a house, work... life.  I wanted to find a cabin in the woods, near the water, with books to read, food to eat, wine to drink, and just sit... in silence.  

Some magical moments have happened over the past year.  In December someone sent me the clip of sista and I on Speaker's Corner from decades ago.  Seeing us being ridiculous together all those years ago was amazing.  In May a friend of Shari's stumbled across this photo of her, and thought I might like it so he sent it to me.  I had never seen it before, and it is now one of my favourites.  Last month another one of her old friends sent me a video of her from University.  Shari's magnolia tree bloomed for a second time this season.  Now, this may be a result of it being so dry the tree actually thought it died, and then when we started to douse it in water her tree thought it was spring again.  But, I prefer to think it was a lovely sign from sista, of course. ;) During the past six months I have had the gift of time... static & silence.  

I am still processing losing her every single day.  I know I always will be.  It never gets easier, it just gets different.  But, the edges get a little softer, and in the silence there is peace.  

I love you and miss you, always & forever.

jbxo

Girl, you know it's true...

A few months into quarantine Julian got into designing images. This one is my particular favourite. It sums up every pandemic feeling and vibe I had experienced up to that point. 

Let's break it down, shall we? 

• the calm, pink background: represents slowing down, the serenity, the peace
• the throwback font: homage to the past, grieving what once was, but also - kind of fun, because we are just 'being' instead of constantly 'doing', plus consuming way more wine, which makes everything way more funky
• the message: enough said.

The world has certainly changed, and many of us have changed as individuals. Some of it is sad, some of it is scary, some of it is revolutionary, some of it is just, plain lovely. Ultimately I hope it is for the better.

Personally, I am grateful that I had this opportunity to stop. To pause. To go for long, quiet walks and bike rides. To savour tasty wine and meals with my fella. To get to know my children as people. To realize my children are incredibly smart and sensitive humans who have a lot to teach me (for example, the title of this post should actually be: Folks, you know it's true... but they also are too young to understand the Milli Vanilli reference). To become acutely aware of who is in my inner circle, and why. It has changed me. I am not the same person I was in March 2020, and that is a good thing. I started writing again, I started playing guitar again, I started reading books again. I made the decision to leave a company where I have spent almost half of my life to spend more quiet time with my family and figure out what I want to be when I grow up. For all of these things, I am grateful.

But, we are also kind of fucked, aren't we? We are grieving the past, we are scared of the future. We are in the 'in-between' (kinda like The Upside Down in Stranger Things) and hoping that the Mind Flayer doesn't show up. There is uncertainty around the simplest of things: "Will I catch a disease if I go to the the shop to buy chips and dip? But, I really want chips and dip..." (we discovered HeluvaGood french onion dip during quarantine, and... wow). For those of us who have experienced a type of 'awakening' there is the question of - what is next? There is uncertainty, but there is also a whack of excitement and anticipation around the prospect of something new, becoming the 2.0 version of yourself.

For now, in this moment, I have decided to sit here for a bit. As much as I despise this term, I am going to: lean in to this moment. I am going to honour the past, and welcome the future, while being in the now. It is all sorts of weird, and kind of wonderful at the same time.

jbxo

The F word...

I grew up in a home where swearing was absolutely not ok.  We did not swear.   Well, we did not swear in front of my parents.  My mom considered 'fart' to be:  the F word.  We said 'pass gas' instead.  Which, by the way, is so gross - like you can actually picture the biological function involved in 'passing gas'.  Fart just sounds cool.  I was desperate to say fart as a kid.  We secretly suspected that dad swore when he was out and about... doing farm guy stuff.  Someone once told me he swore regularly outside of our home.  I remember finding that quite shocking - but also pretty cool.  No matter what, I still would not swear in front of either of my parents growing up.  When my mom would hear people swear she would say things like:  "How can they kiss their children with that mouth...?"  Meanwhile, I was so deprived of swearing as a youngster that I would fully binge on swear words any moment it was safe to do so, away from home, of course.  I remember having a sleepover at my little friend's house, we couldn't have been any older than 10, when we mindfully decided to have a 'swearing fight' outside.  Her parents were tucked away inside of her house, out of earshot, of course.  It was incredibly liberating.  We stood, two tiny creatures, in her yard on her farm, pointing at one another and stream-of-conscious swearing... connecting every single swear word we could think of - even if they didn't logically belong together.  It was both therapeutic and soul cleansing, even though I worried I might actually be going to hell afterwards.  Interestingly - a thunderstorm rolled up out of nowhere during our swear-fight... coincidence?  We may never know.

I am now a grown up with my own family.  I almost hate to admit it - but I really enjoy swearing.  Nothing adds emphasis to whatever it is you are saying quite like putting the real F word in front of it, or behind it.  The F word makes everything sound bigger, better, cooler, crazier...  For the majority of my children's lives I did not swear in front of them.  I reserved swearing for 'adult' conversations.  Thank goodness I have had the pleasure of working with people who shared my love of the F word.  I could spend eight hours a day swearing at work, and transition into a sweet baby angel while at home with my family.  The odd time Andrew would accidentally let a swear word slip out in front of the kids I would join them in 'mock shock', my eyes wide, mouth agape, a rose blush taking over my cheeks... how could he...?  

As Julian and Nora got older they became fascinated with swearing (as most children do at some point).  This was back when I had them convinced that 'stupid' was a swear word.  They often asked me:  "Mama... did you ever swear?"  I would look at them innocently:  "Oh my... of course not, my sweet pea."

Then, one day, I can't even recall when, it just... happened.  I dropped the F word in the car.  They knew by the ease with which it slipped out of my mouth that it wasn't 'my first time'.  They both looked at me with an expression of absolute shock on their faces.  Andrew thought it was hilarious.  I spent about five seconds trying to convince the kids it was my first swear word EVER, but they knew.  Honestly, I think they were relieved.

Then came the time that my own parents never needed to worry about.  That time when your children start to swear - in front of you, the parent.  The first time I heard each of my children swear, I honestly felt almost sick inside... What had happened?  Where did I go wrong?  How had I failed them?  

This past summer Andrew and Nora went to England - leaving Julian and I in The Well.  We decided to have a weekend getaway in Toronto.  We stayed in my favourite little boutique hotel, and Julian literally spent his life savings on records.  Just the two of us, mother and son, bonding in The Big Smoke.  It was awesome, and very 'grown up'.  As we  casually walked down Queen Street, feeling incredibly free and independent, it happened.  Julian dropped the F bomb.  I didn't want to behave like the shocked mom I was on the inside, so I played it cool, and came up with a deal.  As long as we were in The Big Smoke, on Queen Street, we could both swear as much as we wanted and it didn't matter.  It didn't 'count'.  After that weekend away, the odd swear word would slip out, we would look at one another - and one of us would say it:  "Queen Street".  Although we still physically live in The Well, psychologically we have taken up permanent residence on Queen Street.  It is fucking awesome... (sorry mom).

jbxo