Funny Kid

One of my Dad’s defining characteristics was his sense of humour. He was a master teaser. This caused him to bring a smile from even the most recalcitrant child. He could find the humour, albeit sometimes dark, in almost any situation. I was lucky enough to inherit just a bit of his knack for wit.

We talk with Norah a lot about her Grandpa Paul. She often asks where he is, and we tell her he is gone, but that he still loves her, and he is in her heart. A few times she has poked at her chest, where her heart is, and said, “I want my Grandpa Paul come out now!”
Dad would appreciate that. Today, Norah told me, “My Grandpa Paul was funny, and I’m funny, too!” I can’t think of a finer gift for Norah from Grandpa.

Nolan Paul

So, we have a baby boy! Nolan Paul joined us on March 24th after some drama and an emergency c-section. Kid already knows how to make an entrance. We now have what everyone over 50 tells me is the “Million-Dollar Family.” I’d never heard the phrase before, but can only assume that it refers to the amount of debt accumulated raising both a boy and a girl – hand-me-downs be damned!

B: Well, there’s only a pink collar and one purple flower on this sleeper.
Teaching: He’ll love it!

Having a healthy child is something I appreciate every day – ten fingers, ten toes, fat cheeks. What more could we ask for? Nolan definitely has the chubby cheeks part down – he was 9lb 7oz when he was born, and at his 8 week checkup was 16 lbs. Some simple math says that at this rate, he will be almost 60 lbs at a year of age! Hey, I said “simple” math.

Norah wasn’t a sleeper. She preferred instead to writhe in pain as her stomach struggled to process her Mom’s milk, throw up said milk, cry because her stomach was empty, and then eat like crazy, causing a stomach ache. She repeated this cycle for four months.

Nolan, however, rarely throws up, and has far fewer stomach issues. He prefers sleeping on Mom or Dad, but can usually be put down after an hour or so of sleep. At night he usually sleeps five hours in a row. So, we look much less bedraggled than we did with Norah — except that now man-to-man defense is required. Laundry piles up. Supper often waits until 8pm. But such is life – this small inconvenience perils in comparison to the payoffs – cuddles and hugs from our kids; funny interactions with Norah; watching them learn and grow. I am not sure what life was full of before having our kids, but it sure doesn’t seem important now. We are so lucky!

So, welcome Nolan Paul – it hasn’t even been three months, but already I can’t imagine life without you!

Norah and Grandpa Paul

Yes, it has been a while.

Today, Norah, now 2.5 years old, had a friend over to play, and was showing her around her room. She pointed to a picture of my Dad on her wall, and said, “That’s my Grandpa Paul. He’s gone.” And, without missing a beat, continued on to show her friend her pajamas, socks, and books.

It is comforting that we have talked about Dad enough that Norah, who was just five months old when he was killed, knows who he is, and talks about him. It helps that I have Dad’s old farm truck on the driveway and Norah sees it every day. It is currently in need of a fuel pump, and every time she sees it, Norah tells me, “Grandpa Paul’s truck’s broken. Daddy fix it!”

Today, my sister and I went to the farm to help mow the cemetery and for her to take one last look at the farm. There is an auction coming up in July and she will be back in Montreal then.

As we stood near his grave, my step-mom drove up with her new boyfriend. I averted my eyes, and chatted with her briefly before making a hasty exit. It seemed so inappropriate, for him to be there. Later in the day he ran the mower at the farm, preparing the yard for the sale. I don’t begrudge her any happiness, but am distraught to see my dad so easily replaced in her life, and still so glaringly absent in mine and my kids.

Norah Helping Mommy

Norah loves helping her mom bake. Lucky for me, because I love eating baking. Seriously, though, B is so good with Norah, and so patient, even when Norah dumps flour on the floor, or jams her hand in the sugar, licking her fingers with ferocity, or smashes eggs, shell and all, in to the batter. I am so lucky to have these two!

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Norah Bundled

Norah ready to face the cold.

Dad’s Truck

I inherited Dad’s truck. It is a 1996 Mazda B3000 that was in rough shape when he drove it, and is in ever rougher, and more dented shape now. In January, seven months after the accident, it was parked, and a few weeks ago, I was told I can have it. If I can get it to run.

After a trip to the farm and a few hours of tinkering — putting on a new serpentine belt (the old one was missing), boosting the battery, and putting air in one tire — I got it running and brought it to my house in the city. However, the work was far from done. The most important thing that needed fixing was the back brakes — and so I set out to do just that.

After pulling the drums off, I took stock of the situation. It was not pretty. Springs were missing. The drums were out of round. The shoes were worn. I went for parts, and $140 later, I had new shoes, drums, and springs. The wheel cylinders didn’t seem to be leaking, so I left them. The e-brake cables were both broken, but I figure an e-brake on an old truck is a luxury. Just like a speedometer. But I digress.

I remember changing the back brake shoes on my 1969 Nova with my dad, and he told me to never take apart both sides at the same time. His advice was to take one side apart, and put it back together before disassembling the other, so that you have a model to look at. When I took apart the first side on the Mazda, I thought to myself, “Well, this looks easy. I should just take both sides apart.” This was the exact thought he cautioned me against. I heard his voice in my head, however, and didn’t. It was a good thing, because I soon ran out of time, and knew it would have to wait until the following weekend.

When I set back to the task today, I didn’t remember anything about how the shoes went together. As my dad predicted, putting the one side back together did require that I look at the other — however, some springs were missing on both sides. But, I was able to get the gist of it, and with the help of a Haynes manual,  I got the first side together. Sorry for the sideways pic.

I resisted putting the drum on until I had the second side done. As is usually the case, the second side went faster, and I put the drum on.

The tires followed – that is, one tire. I still have to fix the slow leak in the other.

Below is a picture of the derelict parts left over…

Now that it has brakes, it is roadworthy! However, there are still many dents and plenty of rust…anyone good with autobody work?

Daydreaming…

Today while doing some reading aloud, Curtis wasn’t paying attention when it came to be his turn. I prompted him, and he explained:

Curtis (sincerely): Sorry, I was daydreaming about eating a sardine sandwich in the harbour on a boat.

Lindsay (pointing to a drool spot on Curtis’s book): And you slobbered a bit, too.

Reading Groups

One part of my new job as Vice-Principal/Learning Resource Teacher at a suburban elementary school (I know, I never mentioned this – things have been hairy) is to do intensive reading groups with students who are reading below grade level. One group I work with has a delightful young man who makes me laugh a lot of the time. Today we were reading a story about mice, when out of nowhere he offered this:

Curtis: Eggs aren’t the only thing that cracks around here. What else cracks around here?

The other students in the group were more than happy to answer.

Lindsay: Chips.

Terry: Cookies.

John: Rocks. I crack rocks. I throw them against the sidewalk and they break.

Curtis: (smugly) See, lots of stuff cracks around here.

We do get some reading done…when I’m not laughing too hard, that is…

Grieving…

Just over a year ago I received a phone call I never imagined getting. My dad was dead. Killed in a farm accident. I was devastated. The morning after the accident I was at the farm, reeling in shock, and my cell phone rang. It was an old friend. He knew my dad, had worked for him, and lived one summer with us at the farm. He asked if it was okay if he came out to the farm. I told him that it was more than okay–  that it would be appreciated. He replied that this was good news, since he was already at the farm. This was typical of the kind of friend he is. Though we don’t see each other as much as when we were younger, he knew I would be hurting, and that he was needed. We spent the morning on the farm, poking around, sharing memories of my Dad, laughing and crying together.

Last Thursday, while in Phoenix, my cell rang, and it was him. He asked what I was doing, and when he found out I was on vacation he ended the call quickly – “Just call me when you get back.” Something seemed to be wrong, so I asked, and he said something was, but that he would talk to me when I got back, and that I should just enjoy my vacation. Our daughter started to fuss, and I let him go, not feeling very comfortable with the situation.

As soon as we got home, I called him, but he wasn’t answering his cell phone. I tried some mutual friends, but no one had heard anything. I checked facebook. Nothing. Finally, I called his in-laws, and learned that his father had been killed in Mexico. He had called me a few minutes after finding out.

Later, I talked to his wife and learned he was in Mexico sorting things out. He was planning to drive back his father’s car once things were dealt with. I offered to fly down to help him drive back, but was assured that he and a mutual friend who went down with him would be fine.

As of now, they have driven three 14-hour days, and in an hour they will arrive in a city six hours from where we live. I am currently on an Air Canada flight to that city, to drive him back the final six hours. Our friend who has spent that last week with him is flying back to his home city, and I didn’t like the idea of him having to drive alone the final stretch.

We are both 31 years old. We graduated from the same high school and University. We are both married with children, have professions we love,and now, we both tragically lost our fathers much too early. And I want to be there for him. I can’t make it better or even okay – nothing can. But friends can help.

A year ago…

It was a year ago this Friday that my Dad was killed in a farming accident. Today, while going through security at the airport, the young man swabbing my splint asked if I was from Truax. I said I was, and asked him if he was from nearby. “No, I’m from Gravelbourg, and Paul, God rest his soul, wrote in our paper. I got to meet him a couple times. Very nice guy.” I managed to say, “Thank you. He was my Dad,” before the tears welled up in my eyes, and I excused myself and bolted for the bathroom to cry in the privacy afforded there.

Today is Father’s Day, and perhaps that is why it is a tough day. Or perhaps it is because I spent the morning watching Norah clamber for her Papa, B’s Dad, who is staying with us right now. She reaches up towards him when she sees him, and happily sits in his arms, enjoying the cuddles, giggling at the tickles. My dad was the best cuddler. The most torturous tickler. And Norah will never know that first hand.

So, no blogging for months, and then this depressing post. I guess that’s just the way it is sometimes. If I’m feeling bloggy later, I’ll tell you about the ambulance ride I took a month ago… It’s been a stellar year on some fronts.