you really have to do the hardest thing.

I haven’t spoken to my parents in two years.

I had to break away from them. From their misunderstandings and I hate to use the word, but their poison.

Sometimes I am so strong. I am so sure of myself.

But around them?

I am a weak willed six year old who will do whatever they say, begging for their affirmation, their affection, their love.

And sometimes I don’t think of them.

But today?

Oh how my heart hurts for my father.

In the winter time, usually when we did the Christmas lights together, (me always on the ladder), his hands would get so so cold. And I would take off his black leather glove, to see his red chapped hand and I would blow all the hot air that I could into those gloves and them slip them back onto his hands.

He would say, ‘you don’t have to do that’. He would say, “hm. Nice and warm.” 

But I wonder if he really knew how much love I was blowing into those gloves. How much I wanted to say to him that I loved him loved him loved him and that I hated how far apart we were.

I have always loved him.

love mom.



We talked about cancer this morning at breakfast. I have no idea why. We talked about prostate cancer and how to test for it.

Then you asked me if it hurts dying.

‘It depends,’ I said.

‘Cancer can hurt, but they give you something called ‘morphine’. It dulls the pain but makes your brain a little crazy.’

You close your eyes, so seriously.. “I hope I don’t get cancer.”

‘Me too honey. But I believe that God can gives us relief. I believe that we can ask  God for a pain-free death.’


Such a serious conversation for an 8 year old.

I love your serious heart.



Your first day of school, of grade three, and I get a phone call at 1:10 telling me you hit the ground and your nose won’t stop bleeding. Your dad was home and at that moment, the sky opened up and it was pouring pouring pouring rain. We drove to the school and I knew as soon as you saw me the tears would come.

You poor thing. A cold cloth on your nose, an ice pack on your forehead, your red sweatshirt covered in blood. One look at me and your sweet blue eyes teared and the lip came out and you were in my arms, on my lap and I just held you, my sweet sweet baby.

You ran out at recess, ran around the corner and bumped into Bobby, a huge 8th grader, bounced off him and hit the gravel, face first. So grateful you were wearing your ballcap because you would have needed stitches. We carried you to the car, tucked you in under a blanket and you cried you were so cold. We tucked you in at home, so worried about your poor head, your poor bruise and after I began washing your face you ran to the bathroom crying because you didn’t want to throw up, crying to me ‘i don’t want to throw up’ and i held you carefully, told you to lean over and go ahead and get it all out. and you did. A lot of blood. Dad came in and I called the doctor and we took you to the emergency.


You poor poor babe.

You took the next day off school, stayed home with me.

And you were fine.


love you


Poem I wrote for you.

gray flecked stones

are making me a path

that laugh.

i know that laugh anywhere.

precious little hands

clutching mine




these fingers of mine

are desperate to hold you

all the time

but you’re slowing slipping away

on your own.




Was your first day of grade three.

We got there late and I helped you pick the last seat in the row so that you weren’t behind Alice. I knew that you two would push each other’s buttons.

Four hours later I got a phone call. You had a collision with Bobby (a huge eighth grader) and you hit the pavement with your face and head. It was pouring rain. Dad and I ran out to the car and drove to the school to get you. I held you and held you as you cried and cried, your poor face was messy with blood and your forehead had a huge purple welt on it. I packed your bag while Dad held you and we took you home and I tucked you into our bed. As soon as i cleaned your face you ran to the washroom, crying because you didn’t want to throw up and I calmed you as best as I could, telling you it was ok, to just go ahead and throw up and you did and there was so much blood, so much mucus and all of your lunch. Dad took over and I called the doctor and we took you to emergency.

You had a concussion.

I felt nothing. No, not nothing. I guess I felt numb. She checked you out, told us to watch you and we took you home. You had soup and crackers and crashed for ten hours. I was so tired. I fell asleep at 9:30. Today I kept you home, just in case.

It never occured to me that you could have brain damage. Or that you could be severely hurt. Does that make sense? It just wasn’t a possibility. I knew you’d be fine.

I’m so tired today.

Your dad and I had a huge fight Saturday night. I wanted him to stay home. He had to work. But he stayed home on Sunday and we got things done. And then on Monday he told me he was resentful that he had to work two jobs. That I would have to go get a job.

I contemplated teaching French at your school. It was part-time but it’s from 8:30-1:30. I know the hours would be longer. I thought about doing banking. I thought about the government.

I don’t want to work. I like my quiet life. I like being here for the both of you. does that mean I’m lazy?

I think we decided we would try me helping Dad during some jobs. He’d charge more and I’d help a few times a month. I keep praying the book will be enough. The book will be enough. But I have to finish it, don’t I?

I haven’t cried yet.

I feel guilt from Dad working two jobs. I feel guilt for your poor injury. I feel guilt because my best friend wants to divorce her husband and can’t decide and I agree with her.

Despite it all. God is here. He is the great I AM. And He’s here and He’s watching over you, keeping you safe with His angels and He’s watching over me and Dad. He’s guiding us and we will trust Him. Because we love Him.

love you baby.

September 1

Hey Baby,

Today you are eight years old. Actually at 8:43pm you will be eight. After 27 3/4 hours of labour.

Do you know that every single night I thank God for you? Do you know that everytime I see you, I thank God?

Your heart is just so beautiful. You are so giving and kind. A little crazy sometimes but sweet. And romantic. When you’re romantic, your ‘horns are back’.

You’re at Calypso today with dad. We’re having cheeseburgers. We bought you a practice pad, two sets of drumsticks and a Lego set that you have yet to open. We also bought you a pocket watch from the Flea Market in NY. I can’t wait to take you to NY. I hope you are enthralled with it as we are.

You start grade 3 on Tuesday. My mind and my heart are overwhelmed.

When I was eight, I had already moved 4 times, had been molested on numerous occasions, was afraid at night when I went to sleep, walked two kilometers to school and back, including lunch, each day. In grade three I did a baton routine with Tammy to the song, ‘Boogie Woogie Dancing Shoes’. I did a public speaking contest on ‘Fingerprints’. My dad had taken me to the police station so I could ask questions and they were patient with me.  I had a hard time in school because I couldn’t grasp french and my friends didn’t want to play with me because I couldn’t play dodgeball well. One night I prayed that God would send me a friend. I remember crying, begging for one. And He did.

He is always faithful.

When I think of how…grown-up my mind was back then, I’m jealous of your innocence now. I pray you never have to feel that pain that I did.

Whatever happens, no matter what, know that we pray for you every single day. Every. Single Day.

You are my little heart walking around outside my chest. And I love you.