A Mother’s Education

By the time she was three, my first daughter, an early talker, had shared that people have colours around them, that I would eventually have three children, and not to worry about those who died, for they come back like she did.

“She’s freaking me out,” I told a cousin of mine. “I don’t know how to respond to this stuff.”

My cousin told me to start with a book by Ian Currie: “You Cannot Die.”

As a new mother, I expected that teaching would be part of my role. I had not anticipated the things my children would teach me.

Number one child opened a whole new world of questioning for me. By the time the third (unplanned) baby came along I was ready.

I continue learning.


Our focus this week has been on “What a child knows.” Thanks to all who participated. If you haven’t already read the entries, please take a moment to visit and comment.

Life in Thirds, Sgeoil
What a child knows, CURATING THOUGHTS
Reconnect our inner child, Shilpa Nairy
Sprinkled, one letter UP
In The Now, parallax
What a Child Knows – When I was 5, Musings of a CowCorn (Vakicornius Chocolatus Rex)
Big Little, I Write Her

See you tomorrow for a new challenge!

Three Times Blessed

Recent upheaval has plummeted me into a dark space, where I am not willing to settle. Depression has followed me throughout life, and while I acknowledge it has a place, I am not willing to let it drive. I learned long ago that the only way for me to counter the clouds is to be cognizant of my thoughts and adjust focus.

So, I have decided to dedicate Thursdays to acknowledging my blessings.

Where better to start than with those three little miracles who have inspired me to be a better person, and given me the strength to never give up: my children.

As they are not crazy about me taking their pictures, I’ve chosen some old photos, capturing ages and stages:

Being a mom is a blessing. Having birthed these three a miracle I am ever grateful for.


Sloane's Fladers FieldMy granddaughter paints a row of red flowers with crosses in between.  “Flanders Field” she tells me.  She’s six.

“Your great-great grandfather, my grandfather, was shot in Flanders Field.”

She raises her eyes to meet mine.  “Did he die?”

“No, but he was injured.”

He was crawling across the field when the bullet entered and passed through his stomach exiting in an uncomfortable place, I’d been told.

“It’s why he drank so much,” one of my aunt’s told me.  “To cope with the pain.”

Likely to cope with the PTSD too, I think.  I know my father suffered from it, although no one called it that in those days.

I tell her that my Dad fought in a war too.  His job was to sneak into enemy territory and eke out their ammunition stash and then report back to his unit.

“Who won?”  she asks.

“The good guys,” I say.

She nods her head and listens intently and I think how far removed this sweet soul is from the horrors of wars, and I pray that she will never know it in her lifetime.

Peace.  How long will the sacrifice of our ancestors last?

Are we forgetting?

(Image supplied by Willow Poetry for her challenge:  What Do You See?  Also submitted for my weekly challenge:  sacrifice.  Painting courtesy of Sloane.)



CFFC: Things People Grow

Here in southwest Ontario, we grow corn.  By August we’ve also a grown an appetite for the taste of peaches and cream corn, buttered and salted, right off the cob.

My mother comes from farming roots, but these days all she grows is older.
Blowing Out Candles

We are all farmers, in a sense – planting our seeds, nurturing our crop, hoping for a fruitful harvest.  A mother grows a baby in her womb, raises her, and the cycle repeats.  A grandmother now, I grow slower, and more appreciative.  Ric and I revel in the gift of grandchildren, and relationships that only grow fonder with time:


(For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge:  Things People Grow.)