Quality FAMILY Time.

Four years ago, our Zombie Dishwasher finally gave up the ghost.

Since The Huz was doing most of the cooking, a fair chunk of the dish washing was done by ...yours truly.

But before you burst into tears of pity, let me tell you it hasn't been all bad. Sure, there are times when every single dish, glass, pot, cutlery and Tupperware in the kitchen has been used throughout the day, and every single able-bodied person mysteriously disappears after dinner. We're talking about the horrendous aftermath of breakfast, lunch, dinner and snackies, complete with crusted-on cement masquerading as cereal and the horrors of three day old tuna-sandwich plastic containers arising from the depths of an Eight Grader's school bag.

It's enough to give you the dry heaves (if you're lucky).

Rather than face it alone, I nag. I nag expertly. After a 30+ year career in animation production, making sure we get that commercial through the pipeline on time, under budget and with blow-the-client-away quality, I'm capable of world class nagging - I am a nagspert! Of course, animators are somewhat easier to herd than teenagers.

But eventually, during the first year of my unrelenting nagging to "COME AND HELP WITH THE DISHES", something very interesting began to happen. Dish washing time turned into one-on-one time. As I stood scrubbing and rinsing, my normally reticent teenagers would spill the beans about their day, their friends, their crushes and disappointments. The fresh linen in their hands methodically drying crockery still warm from the sink had a relaxing effect on them. I think it helped that I would stand facing the window, so there was no judgmental eye to cast aspersions. Whichever of my kids happened to be helping would soon begin leaking secrets and we began to know our children as people.

Washing dishes had become a safe place.

But that's not all. The Huz set up some speakers and a turntable in the kitchen and there was music. More than one teenager would join in with the clearing, and stacking and drying as I stood washing. We danced to the Beatles, The Jackson 5 and Elton John! We sang along to Grease and Rocky Horror! Old vinyl records were pulled out and played, the history of music was discussed, memories and stories emerged and our children began to know their parents as people.

Washing dishes had become fun.

There's more. The teenagers invited their friends and boyfriends over, who would stay for dinner and help with the dishes afterwards. Jokes, laughter and philosophical conversation flowed as the dirty dishes passed one by one through my soapy hands to wind up clean and dry in the cupboards.

And some days, most extraordinarily, The Huz and I will put our feet up and relax on the sofa while the kids do the dishes without us.

This story has been ripening in my head for four years. I've just come from the kitchen, singing a slew of Bee Gees songs with the seventeen-year-old girl. The sink is clean, the counter wiped and every dish has been scrubbed, dried and put away....tidied after a fashion.

I know that life isn't perfect; there are still days when no one comes to help and I just don't feel like nagging or washing dishes. On those days they get left in a pile until the next morning, and I'm okay with that.

I will never be tempted to trade my quality family time for a dishwasher. There are still memories waiting to be made washing dishes, and I know that soon enough, it will be just me and The Huz.

Do you have any fun stories about doing housework with your family?

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The Spotter.

This is a story I wrote and read this weekend at my dearest and oldest friend's 50th birthday party.

*   *   *   *   *

Do you know what a spotter is? It's someone who stands across the room on the gymnastics mat, knees bent, arms outstretched and ready.

You run towards them as fast as you can, skip once and round-off back handspring. They're there to guide you, and support you in the more difficult and dangerous acrobatics. Having a spotter gives you confidence until you can do it on your own.

*   *   *   *   *

Dear QQ,

It was 1977. I was fifteen and you were thirteen... but you acted sixteen and I acted fourteen. It somehow seemed to even out.

You went to a private school for girls high on the hill and I went to public high-school down near the train tracks. By rights we never should have met....but meet we did!

We tumbled our way through weekly gymnastics classes at the YMCA where the high walls of school-only friendships didn't exist. Somewhere in those Saturday cartwheels, walkovers and handstands, between the balance beam and the vault, a friendship sprouted that would last a lifetime.

We spotted each other in those days; I wanted to do a back handspring - you would spot me.

You wanted to do an aerial ....wait, no... actually you never needed spotting for that. You could do that and so much more all on your own.

One night we had a sleepover at one of our houses:

"We need to find some boys!" one of us said.

"Boys? I know where there's some boys," said the other. "There's a home for juvenile delinquent boys just behind my house!"

"No way! Let's go sneak in there!"

Off we went and we managed to find our way into the very quiet and dark building. We giggled in the halls, creeping around for a whole ten minutes but found no boys and retreated back to the house for a mid-night snack.

I'm sure the parenting jury is still out on who is a better influence on who! It matters not. One is always there to spot the other.

As high school concluded, gymnastics petered out and I didn't see you for a few years until one night I caught a glimpse of a vivacious blonde in a downtown bar. I was seventeen and you were fifteen.*

*Please never ever tell my own teenage daughters this story.

I called your name and when you saw me you ran right over and hugged me. It was like we'd never been apart.

This phenomenon of timelessness was to endure through the years. You moved to Toronto, I moved to England. For a few months we intersected in Vancouver before you moved back to Toronto and I returned to Montreal. No matter how long we miss each other, nothing changes between us.

There were broken hearts, terrible losses, risks and leaps in our professional lives and also great successes in love and work. Betrayal and weariness wounded other friendships, but never ours.

We lived in different cities, traveled around the world, bought homes and cars, changed jobs and hemlines. Through all this the spotting continued. When I faltered, you reminded me of who I was. When I doubted my abilities you reminded me what I could do.

You were at my side for our wedding, witnessed the birth of our daughter and taught our ten year old son to snorkel while I trembled in the shallows, afraid of sharks. I wonder how you will spot me next?

How can I describe the depth of our friendship? Are there any words that can go there? Loyalty comes close...understanding, care, and love, all evident in abundance. But none of those words is exactly right.

My husband, our children, my mother and brothers, aunts and uncles and even my grandmother before she died, consider you to be part of the family. The meaningfulness, purpose and love that you bring to our lives is unwavering and true. Because you are my spotter, my friend, and my family. You're the closest thing to a sister that I'll ever have. Sister is the word I'm looking for.

So Happy 50th Birthday!

May we have many, many, many more years of spotting each other!

*   *   *   *   *

I've known QQ for 37 years. How long have you known your spotter?

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The BROW Crease.

Kick, kick, kick.

Every time I lay supine the baby growing inside me would wake up. I rolled onto my side and put my hand where I imagined her feet to be. One more month and I would be holding this new little person in my arms.

First babies are game changers. There's a dawning realization that you must now care for another being completely. Eight months into my pregnancy, I looked in the mirror and I noticed something that wasn't there before.

It was...a line.

Just a tiny vertical line nestled between my eyebrows.

About 2 months after my first child was born, I suffered post-natal depression. This manifested as morbid intrusions, where I would imagine some disaster befalling us, like a bomb or a house fire, from which I'd have to save my baby. 

Those episodes were debilitating, they froze me in my tracks, kept me from sleeping, and eating...I was sick.  But my baby thrived in real life.

The line between my eyebrows deepened into a crease.

It took a few years but eventually I recovered from the post-natal depression. With each of my subsequent children, my brow crease became more visible. 

The midnight barfs, the public temper-tantrums, the watching them break-away and get on that yellow school bus without me; all this intensified the crease. 

I began to accept it as a part of my face. 

And now, at just over half a century of my life well lived, I gaze in wonder at these three opinionated and promising teenagers. 

The eldest, who once kicked me so relentlessly in utero, now blows me kisses as she leaves for University. 

The second child, who flung herself around the supermarket floor as a toddler, now dances around the kitchen singing as we cook dinner. 

The third and youngest, our son, who scared us half to death when he fell from the treehouse and fractured his skull in grade 1, now draws endless variations of Spiderman, his tongue poking out in concentration as he sketches.

Each day I pause to look at my reflection, and I know I'm aging. 

My silver streaks brushed up and away from my forehead, the lines and wrinkles sprout out of control.  

I will never again be unfettered and smooth; the bloom of youth has abandoned me. But it doesn't bother me to see it...

...because my brow crease tells everyone the story of how much I care.

And that makes me smile. My life is written all over my face.

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The UN-Bucket List.

You've heard of the Bucket List, a list of things you want to do before you kick the bucket? Well this is my UN-Bucket List.

My trusty assistant, PickleWeasel, will demonstrate!

UN-Bucket List

There must be some shit you never want to do.

I made this list with Listly, so please feel free to vote up or down, or add to it - it's interactive - what's on your UN-Bucket List?

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6 Moments of life.

This is Shelagh. Sometimes she talks me off the ledge.

My brother came to town. He was just sitting on the sofa unwinding and catching me up on his life in Toronto.

The 12 year old boy got his hair cut.

Our 15 year old daughter has copper locks. I was happy to find her without mascara.

I went to see The Huz playing bass in Carolyn Fe's Blues Collective at the House of Jazz. Carolyn always brings a fan onstage.

My friend Kayo at her going-away-dinner. She's leaving Montreal, returning to Japan. We didn't spend enough time together while she was here and it makes me sad.

These are moments of life.

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The Life Path.

I'm usually focused on making good things. I make them for their own sake and most people think I'm nuts for this.

Them: "You spend a lot of time drawing for your blog - how do you make money from that?

Me: "I don't."

I don't do it for money. My work doesn't even reach that many people and I used to wonder about that, but I always came to the conclusion that it's not what really matters. What matters is that I do it. I make stuff.

But lately I've had some doubt. I question the choices I've made; where I put my energy, my time, my creative heart. Did I make the best use of my talents? Did I waste my gifts?

Did I make the world a better place? I don't know...

And so I'm feeling a tiny bit sad. I'm sure it'll lift soon. I guess we all could do with a little self doubt here and there. It forces us to re-examine our path.

For what is a life but the path between two points? I'm prolly just choosing my path.

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Good things come to those who wait.

My Grandma once told me that she had warned Grandpa long ago, “I’ll marry you, but I’m not going to be like the other wives. I’m not going to stay at home!” That was back in 1935.

She definitely had her own ideas about how to do things.

During her life she had three children, worked tirelessly as a seamstress, served her community, fought for women's rights, joined and co-founded multiple organizations and schools, volunteered for UNICEF, became a Citizenship Court Judge, got involved in politics, and received countless honors in recognition of her contribution to the Italian community in Montreal – she even met the Pope once!

Grandma was always busy, busy, busy. Instead of calling her “Bisnonna”, the Italian for “Great-Grandma”, my children gave her the special nickname of “Busy-nonna”. And my grandmother’s notion of time was elastic. While she multi-tasked she paid no attention to the clock and often kept people waiting, not least of which was my Grandpa.

My cousin and I were just reminiscing about this. We both remember our grandfather endlessly waiting for our grandmother. He was a patient and gentle person. After several hours of waiting for her to finish talking on the phone/delegating/checking documents/making pasta, he would always raise both hands and in his Italian accent he would say, “Marrrrrry…come on!” And then he would wait some more.

My Grandpa passed away twenty-one years ago; he was in his eighties. My grandmother had held his face in her hands and told him she loved him as he slipped away. She missed him immeasurably, and believed they would be together again in Heaven…

In the meantime, she kept herself busy. There were weddings, great-grandchildren and always with the community engagements. Grandma lived on and on. In my mind, she became Immortal.

Near the end she was brave…so very brave. As I’ve said before, it hurts to grow so old. But even though it was hard for her, she still kissed us, nodded and smiled, told us we were loved. And then, at the amazing age of 97, she died. So my cousin was saying that at last our Grandpa didn’t have to wait for his Maria any longer.

But if I know my Grandma, he may have to wait just another few minutes.

Time is especially elastic in Heaven!

RIP Maria Marrelli.

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The Birthday Kiss.

Last week my grandmother turned 97. I don't mind telling you that she is really, really old. It's hard to be really old...it hurts. My mom told me that she moved the photograph of my Grandpa so that my Grandma could see it from her pillow. She turned and looked at it wistfully, smiling and nodding, remembering...she believes she'll be with him soon.

But not just yet.

I'll spare you the details of what it truly means to live this long in a body that's giving out, but suffice to say that my Grandma is brave, strong and a real hard ass when it comes to life. She's just not quite ready to let go yet. So the family gathered to celebrate her birthday, and although she was in a lot of pain, she did smile and tell us she loves us. And the youngest of us, my little Nieceling who is not quite two, got up on her tippy toes to give her Great-Grandmother a birthday kiss. Time stood still. The room was spell bound as the two leaned toward one another, the very young and the very elderly; no one wanted to miss the moment by fumbling for their camera.

So I drew it.

UPDATE - June 21, 2012.
My precious Grandma slipped gently away today. She is celebrated, missed and remembered.

RIP Maria Marrelli.

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Death of a child.

Tomorrow I will attend a memorial for the daughter of my friends, lost to leukemia.

The death of one's child is possibly the most profound loss that one might have to endure.
Does it make it any easier if the child is grown up? ...I think not.

I could barely draw this.

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