A Thing of Beauty

I write a lot of silly stuff on this here on this blog. And I write a lot of heart wrenching stuff. It's the safe place I've carved out for myself to help define my identity after losing it so suddenly when my son passed away.

Slowly, one post at a time, I've found my footing in life again, and I'm ever so grateful for the community that has helped propped me up and helped me grow when I floundered in the darkest sea a parent can swim in.

So when I was asked earlier this year, to give back a little and help other people and a charity with a few blog posts and a picture I thought why not.

All the organizers needed was one little photo. And I've got photos. I mean, I've posted hundreds of them over the life of this little blog.


There are pictures I've tweeted of myself.



There are pictures of me giving birth. Well, not the actual birth because even I don't want to see that. And if anyone had pointed a camera at my stretched out girly parts I'd have likely jumped off the birthing bed to beat them to death with their camera.



Heck, I've posted pictures of my cat giving birth and her placenta. (You are all very welcome.)



I've posted pictures of my armpit hair and proved to my husband (and the world) that I have no shame about being an untamed wildebeest.



I've even posted pictures of me, fresh out of bed, riddled with zits and nary an ounce of pride in sight.



There have been nicer pictures.



And some really bad pictures.



I've even celebrated the holiday season with a portrait or two.

Clearly, I could send along a picture of myself to help a community in need and raise money for charity.

I committed to the project without reading the fine print.  Because I'm bit of an arse that way.  Then I realized, I'd have to get naked on the internet.

Shit got real, real fast.

It's one thing to post pictures of my pit fuzz but it's another to let it all hang out. Literally.

It may not be obvious what with all the pictures I post on this blog, but I am very self conscious about my appearance. Years of growing up the knobby kneed, stringy haired teen who was flat as a board did nothing to boost my self esteem. And just when I was starting to really grow into myself and feel comfortable with my appearance, my son died, and I lost my mind but found about 50 pounds.

I weigh now more than I did when I was nine months pregnant with Fric or Frac.

I discovered the door to my self esteem does not lie in my looking glass.

A culmination of medication, inactivity and injuries have all forced me into taking a good hard look at myself and what I consider beauty to be. It's also forced me to use a wire hanger on more than one occasion to try and force a zipper up on pants that I had to hop up and down to try and  wriggle into.

Participating in a calendar showcasing a woman's natural curves was a leap for me. Mostly because I'm still growing used to this skin I'm in and I'm not really comfortable sharing all this skin with anyone but my husband, my kids, my dad who keeps walking in on me while I'm naked, my waterman who may have seen more of me than he ought to have when he delivers water in the summer, my father-in-law who drove up the drive while I had fallen asleep topless sunbathing, random neighbours driving slowly by as I skinny dip and perhaps a bus full of small children as I flashed them my goods when my robe fell open one morning.

Still. It's not like everyone in the free world has seen my goods. Only a small percentage.

I look at my daughter and my nieces and even my sons and I see the beauty they all shine with and I know that one day someone will try and tarnish that shine with a thoughtless comment or a disparaging remark and it breaks my heart. It happened to me. It happens to us all.

I can't protect the children I love from having their ego bruised or their spirits crushed. Time will bring both, unfortunately. But I can set the example that beauty is reflected from the inside out and no matter how they look, what size they are, or what scars their demons have brought them, they are beautiful. I can teach them that beauty is everywhere, even in an aging mother with cracks in her heart and dimples on her arse.

I choose to see beauty. In my son whose face was frozen and unanimated. In my other son's slack jaw, drooling smiles. In my daughter's budding figure and dimpled cheeks and in my eldest son's broadening shoulders and beautiful smile.

I choose to see beauty, wherever it is, because it is everywhere and it takes all forms, all shapes, all sizes. And I refuse to not feel beautiful. Because how can I teach the children in my life to embrace their beauty when I can't see mine?

So I did it. Amidst protests from some of my in-laws and the disbelieving chuckles of my parents, I got naked.

I posed bare-arsed in front of two total strangers and let them see my beauty. Along with my sagging boobs, my charming belly roll and my jiggling butt cheeks. I may not look like the definition of beauty to some, but I don't mind. Because I feel beautiful.

And it's been a long time coming.

Posing naked in a calendar for charity may not be the path to empowerment for most people. But for me, I overcame my fears about my body image and there is a real beauty in that small act of bravery. One I'm proud of.

And I, personally, think there is no better way to ring in the new year like hanging a calendar filled with beauty on your wall.

So please, head on over to Blogger Body Calendar's site for a sneak peek as well as to purchase your own copy of my jiggling thighs.

Consider it my Christmas gift to you.

Wink.

***And because I'm feeling so darn beautiful these days, I want to help you all feel that way too. Which is why I'm pleased to give away one copy of Karen Walrond's amazing book, The Beauty of Different. This book is a must read and I plan on giving it to everyone I love, who can read. I'd give a copy to Jumby too, but he'll just chew on the pages and drool it to death. Just leave a comment and I'll randomly select a winner on Friday, December 3. Open to anyone who lives on planet Earth. ***

And please, buy a calendar. The proceeds go to support the National Eating Disorders Association and the calendar is a thing of beauty. I promise.

My Thanks

My American friends tell me today is the day I'm to give thanks for all the blessings in my life. I don't want to break it to them, but I did that last month when our Canadian thanksgiving rolled around. Our thanksgivings are similar in that we stuff ourselves silly with dry turkey and then further feast on homemade pies until our waistbands are threatening to cut off all circulation to our legs and we are surrounded by friends and family who alternately amuse and annoy us.

It's family holidays at it's finest.

There is a wee difference in the Canadian thanksgiving versus the American version. Ours is better. We don't use real turkeys. We use unicorn meat. It's a well kept secret. I'm risking my citizenship simply by telling you all this.

The things I do for you.

In keeping with the spirit and celebrating virtually with my American friends, I thought I'd share with you a few of the things I am thankful for in my life. Because one can never give enough thanks for the things in our lives. Or at least, that's what my Grandma always used to tell me.

I'm grateful for the medical system we have here in Alberta and in Canada in general. I'm thankful for each and every person who had a hand in my child's care and who continue to look after my remaining three children to ensure I have another day with my kids when I go to bed at night. Modern medicine gave me almost five years with my son and I cherish each of the days I had with him. And our health care system has saved Jumby's health on more than one occasion. Our health care system may not be perfect but I can't help but be grateful for how it has served my family.

I'm thankful for koolaid. And for having blonde children who were easily manipulated into sitting still while watching cartoons so their mother could colour their hair and freak out their father when he came home.



I'm thankful for each photograph I have of my son and for people who came into our lives and preserved the memories for me. I'm so thankful for people who read this blog and remember they knew my son and send me never before seen photographs of my boy. There are no words to describe the feeling of discovering a new unseen memory of your child when you can no longer make new ones. Thank you Melissa.



I'm thankful for the man who makes this all possible, first by graciously donating his sperm and then by busting his hump to support our family. Boo's a good sport when it comes to my teasing him on this blog and I can only chalk that up to the fact I am a fabulous wife he's got a great sense of humour.

I'm not so thankful for that hairstyle in that picture though.

I'm thankful for my dog. Yes. My dog. He kept me company for years after Bug died and he keeps me warm at night when Boo is away from home. Plus, he loves me best and tends to point his arse cheeks away from me when he farts so, what's not to be thankful for?

I'm thankful for my all my nieces and nephews and the love they shower me with. I'm especially grateful for my nephew, the Worm, who storms into my house, steals my cookies, jumps on my couch and pelts me in the face with snowballs while his mother is at work. I'm even more thankful that he keeps coming back, even when I lick his eyeballs.

I'm thankful, ever so thankful Jumby found me. And that his genetics allow for me to grow out his hair to highlight his awesomeness and to annoy his father. I don't know what we did to deserve this kid in our family, but I'm never giving him back.

And lastly, I'm grateful for Fric and Frac. I'm so thankful I have the two of you. I'm thankful for the people you are and I'm looking forward to meeting the people you will become.

There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not thankful for my kids, the ones still alive and the one who isn't, and for the people who fill my life with love and laughter.

Also, I'm thankful for pie.

Homemade pie, not the store bought crap.

So enjoy your day of thanks America and thank YOU for being filled with so much awesome.

Here's to everything we have to be thankful for, including little boys learning to talk.

I'll Make A Believer Out of You Yet

I'm pretty sure my mother is a liar. And her pants are on fire.

Not that I've seen flames shoot out from her arse cheeks or anything but my instincts are pretty sharp. And where there is smoke (figuratively speaking) there generally is fire. Shooting out from the arse.

(Here's where we all say hello to my mother and tell her how lovely she looks today. Hi Mom!)

My mom had one firm household rule as we grew up and it neared the holiday season.

You BELIEVED in Santa Clause or the fat man didn't come to your house.

(She also had a firm rule about not snooping and shaking any presents that were under the tree but my brother and I liked to believe that rule was flexible. As in, it only applied when my mother's eagle eyes would catch us.)

For eleven months of every year we were a fairly typical family. We kept our skeletons tucked firmly in the back of the closet and tried to keep our freak confined between the walls of our home. But come every December 1, my mother threw caution to the wind and barfed up some serious holiday spirit in every nook and cranny of our home.

We weren't terribly spoiled with gifts as my parents were far from wealthy, but my mom made it happen each and every year regardless of how empty or full her bank account was that year. We were spoiled with an abundance of home baked treats, an extravagantly decorated tree and enough festive decorations everywhere you looked that you could almost believe you were living in Santa's house itself.

For those thirty days of each December, growing up, Santa was alive.

I don't remember what age it was that I stopped believing but I do remember the look on my mother's face when I announced to her that I was on to her game. There is no such thing as Santa. I may as well have kicked her puppy and then told her she looked fat in her jeans. It would have been kinder. She took a second to compose herself and she looked me square in the eye and reminded me, "Tanis. Santa does not bring gifts to children who no longer believe in him."

I was about to open my mouth to argue when it finally dawned on me what she was saying.

Translation: "Kid, if you ruin this for your little sister I will make it my mission to ensure you never see so much as a lump of coal in your stocking for the rest of your days."

From that day on, Santa continues to live. And dammit, I believe. It's become a bit of a family joke how much we all believe in St. Nick when my mother is around. But I never did ruin it for my sister. I'm pretty sure some goober in her grade four class did that for her.

Then I had children. I've fed Santa's reindeer and there is always a plate of cookies and a glass of room temperature milk left out for the big guy himself.

My children have never questioned the veracity of Santa and I have taken great pains to ensure I'm not ever put in the same position I once put my mother in. Santa simply exists, dammit. Over the past few years there may have been some speculation but I was always able to channel my mother and strongly insist Santa only exists if you believe in him and then run for a dark corner to evade any further Christmas related questioning.

But my girl, she's 14. And she attends school with a bunch of delinquents. (My apologies to any towns people reading this. I'm not talking about your child. I swear. I'm talking about the other town kids.) And those delinquents are running around the school looking for Santa believers so they can herd them into small dark corners and pelt them with candy canes while ruining their childhood dreams.

Fric and I were driving home from a volleyball game and somehow, the subject of Santa was broached.

"Mom, some of the kids in my class say their parents have told them Santa doesn't exist any more and they don't get any presents from him under their tree."

I went still. And the look on my mother's face flashed before my eyes in the rear view mirror.

"Oh? Well what do they get under their tree? No presents at all then?"

"Oh no, they still get presents. But things like cash and gift cards. Just nothing from Santa."

"Well, you know what I always tell you. Santa only exists to the people who believe in him. So only the believers get presents from him. So I'm pretty sure as long as you still believe, he'll still keep you on his list." I'm dropping hints like raindrops in a hurricane.

I was pretty proud of myself for a moment, thinking I'd satisfactorily solved the Santa problem. Sometimes I impress even myself with my own parental naivety.

Fric was silent for a moment but she still looked puzzled. I was doing my best to keep my eyes on the road and pretend like her childhood dreams weren't about to evaporate in the middle of our car with the scent of day old fast food clinging in the air.

"But Mom. I still believe."

"I know you do honey. And I'm pretty darn sure Santa knows you still believe in his magic too."

"I mean, I still believe, but Mom, when does Santa stop bringing presents?"

"Stop? Well, he doesn't. He brings them for as long as there are people who believe in the magic of the season." At this point now, I'm running through all the Santa trivia 35 years of watching holiday movies has imparted on me. It was almost as though I could feel the ice cracking beneath my shoes.

"What age did he stop bringing you presents Mom?"

"What? Santa's stopped bringing me presents?" I cried out in great disbelief. Because I am an Academy Award winning actress. It says so on the resume I wrote in my head.

"Very funny. I never see any Santa presents under the tree for you. Or for Dad."

"Well, your father is a nincompoop who doesn't believe in the miracle of St. Nick. Never has. He's a bit of a grinch, I'm afraid," I mock whispered to her like it was some giant secret. As though 14 years of her watching her father roll his eyes at the mentions of Christmas, Santa or elves weren't big enough clues.

"Yes, but you believe. And still, no presents for you." She was staring holes through my soul at this point, I swear. I'd like to point out that in moments like this, I really, really appreciate my sweet non-verbal little boys.

I knew what she was driving at. She was like a poorly trained reporter, trying to steer me into dropping the sound bite she wanted, straight into her lap. I could feel her yank on my maternal ropes and the pressure to not screw up this parental moment was enormous. Which is stupid, because dammit, I don't lie to my kids. Ever. Except apparently, when it comes to f*cking Santa Clause.

"It's just, I don't want to wake up one morning and find no presents under my tree from Santa Clause even though I still really believe in him, Mom." Suddenly, she had puppy dog eyes. Damn, this kid is good.

"That won't happen, Fric. I promise." I mean, not as long as I'm alive anyways.

"Because there would be nothing sadder than when I move out into my very own apartment and am living all by myself, and I wake up on Christmas morning only to find no presents under the tree." My child and her first world problems. Oy.

It was time for a new tactic. Shame. "Well, Christmas isn't about presents you know. It's about giving and the spirit of love and family and Jesus Christ and whatever else the bible says."

"I know, right? But mom, what about when I have my own kids? Do I just believe so then Santa brings my kids presents? How will he know I even have kids? I don't want my kids not to get presents because there really isn't a Santa and I didn't know that and then no one gets presents. That would be horrible!"

She went there. She kicked my puppy and she dangled my unborn grandchildren before my eyes. She's officially killing me now. I'm suddenly feeling guilty for screwing up kids that aren't even a twinkle in her eye yet. Dammit.

"Well as long as your kids believe, Santa will find them. No worries about that, Fric." That'll be YOUR problem in what I hope will be no less than 15 years from now.

She eyed me steadily, and I could tell she was getting slightly irritated by my persistent avoidance technique. "All right, Mom. But since you aren't getting gifts from Santa any more that must mean he doesn't deliver to adults, even if they are believers." (No, honey, that's just because your father is cheap, I wanted to clarify.) "So what age will I be too grown up for Santa?"

And there it was. The long and short of it. All that cramming candy canes into tight spots and making me dance over a bed of hot coals for what amounts to one simple question.

I looked at her and I remembered my mother all those years ago.

"I'm pretty sure kid, that Santa will come see you until you are at least 18. Maybe even longer. He can't visit the adults who believe in him because then he wouldn't have time to deliver to the children who believe in him. So we adults, well, we take one for the team. But Santa only comes to children who believe in him and stop asking their mothers a bunch of irritating questions while she's trying to drive. Are we done?"

Translation: "Listen kid, as long as you keep your big trap shut and don't ruin this for your little brother Jumby (because I'm pretty sure Frac gave up the Santa ghost long before you) you'll keep getting loot under the tree. But you breathe one syllable of this conversation to any child who still believes in Santa and I will personally beat you senseless with a stocking filled with coal. Are you picking up what I'm putting down?"

Fric looked at me shrewdly and for a moment, I thought she may declare the fat man dead. Instead, she looked right into my eyes and declared, "No worries Mom. I believe in Santa."

Just as I exhaled a huge sigh of relief that this conversation was finally over and never to be repeated ever again and was reaching to turn on the radio, my lovely daughter leaned forward and whispered,

"Just so he knows, that new Star Wars wii game would be really cool for Christmas morning. And I've been a very good girl this year. Santa."

Thank God she never asked about the damn tooth fairy.