Missing a friend…

I’ve been a bit miserable and cranky lately. Maybe I should say I’ve been “more” miserable and cranky lately. In an effort to feel better, I have been trying to put my finger on the cause of my general malaise. When comparing my life now to times in the past, I feel like I don’t seem to have as many friends as I used to – sure, I may have over 450 on Facebook, but I mean real friends. Friends who you can call and who call you. But, going through the people I see and talk to regularly, not much has changed – sure, friendships evolve, and people’s lives are more hectic at some times than others, but, overall, my friend-pool is pretty much the same size as it always has been.

On the way in from the farm the other day it hit me. I am missing my Dad. I talked to him a lot – on the phone, over email, and in person. And now I don’t have him. The void I am noticing in my life has nothing to do with my current friendships, and everything to do with Dad.

B pointed out how lucky I am to have had such a close relationship with my dad – she reminded me that not many people can really truly call their parent a friend. And I do know how lucky I was to be so close to Dad. However, this “luck” doesn’t really make the pain any less now that he is gone…

(Mis-)Adventures with Norah

After work today, Norah and I ran an errand. She likes to get out of the house as much as possible, and I needed to buy some ductwork to install an air-to-air exchanger, so I bundled her up, packed her into her seat, and headed to the industrial area.

Norah sang happily in the car on the way. I left her in her bucket seat and carried her inside of metal manufacturing shop. We waited a few minutes to get served, and it took a few more to make my layman self understood to the not-so-patient counterman. His impatience was justified given the context, mind you – I was the only one in the building who wasn’t a male contractor over 50. I was the only one in the building who didn’t know what he was talking about. I was the only one in the building who had a baby. I paid and carried Norah to the warehouse to wait for our wall stack, angle boot and pipe saddle to be gathered.

Here Norah finally got impatient. I tried my best to entertain her while maintaining some semblance of dignity. I didn’t think, “Oh, who’s a cute girl? Tickle tickle tickle. That’s daddy’s girl!” would wash with this crowd. Norah was not happy. I had no toys. No tools in my daddy toolbox – or none I wanted to use. I had nothing. Then I recalled B telling me that the only way to keep her happy earlier in the day was to give her the car keys. I knew she would scream when I took them away, but by then we’d be in the car, with the tin loaded, and none of the men who currently looked annoyed at her fussing would be there.

I handed her my keys and she stopped fussing instantly. I smiled to myself. Nicely done, Chris. The counterman came down with the last of my tin and hauled it out to the loading dock. I followed. “Which is yours?” he asked, motioning towards the seven dually 3/4 tons idling nearby. I motioned past the trucks to my car, the rear bumper peeking out from behind a mammoth Dodge. “It’s the car.” An uneasy silence followed. “Just put it down there,” I said, as toughly as I could muster, “I’ve got it.” I carried Norah to the car that I had left unlocked and put her seat in place. She played with the keys contentedly. I went back to the dock and grabbed a cardboard box with the smaller pieces I bought, and took it to the car. Norah smiled when she saw me through the window. I flattened one of the back seats to make room for the 5′ wall stack, and hustled back to the dock. I returned and loaded the last of my wares into the car. Norah smiled, babbling away.

Not wanting to disturb her happiness, I decided to pull a fast one – while she was still holding the keys, I carefully slipped the ignition key off of the ring. She protested slightly, grabbing at the keyless entry when it ever-so-briefly left her hands, but I prevailed. I shut her door and made my way around to the driver’s door. I reached down, grabbed the handle to open it, but it didn’t open. I tried again. Then I recalled a sound that didn’t seem significant to me at the time, but was becoming increasingly significant as my blood pressure rose. As I wrestled the ignition key off of the chain, Norah had pushed the lock button on the keyless entry.

I panicked. I didn’t even have the cell phone. I was going to have to go back into the metal shop, and while everyone working there listened, ask to borrow the phone, and explain to B how I had locked our daughter in the back seat of the car with the keys. My panic lasted about five seconds. Five of the longest seconds I’ve endured. I think if I had had the cell phone, in those five seconds I would have called B. But I didn’t. And I realized I had the car key in my hand. And it would open the door. Or it should. I’d never actually used it for that. But it should. And it did open the door, and I was able to drive away with some semblance of dignity intact. A small piece, anyway.

Granola Kid

Growing up, my parents did their best to provide wholesome food for us. They grew their own grain, ground it into flour, cultivated a massive garden growing everything from asparagus to zucchini, and bought anything they couldn’t grow at Old Fashioned Foods. Baking was sweetened with honey, not white sugar. We learned to appreciate simple treats, like fresh raspberries on ice cream, or, even better, fresh raspberries on granola and ice cream.

Not that I fully embraced this approach to food, mind you. I resented the thick whole wheat bread that seemed to suck the moisture from your mouth while you tried to eat a peanut-butter sandwich. I looked longingly at the processed meat my classmates ate, while I chewed grudgingly through a deer-sausage sandwich with homemade pickles. While I resented the bread then, I sure appreciate it now. And find that the older I get, the more closely I emulate my parents. Norah will grow up eating thick slices of brown bread, organic fruits and veggies, and locally sourced meats, much like I did. Norah will learn the joys of a fresh bowl of granola, much like the one I had last night after making a batch of Mom and Dad’s signature granola. I had forgotten how good homemade granola was until our last visit to see my Mom. Over the two weeks we wolfed down bowl after bowl of granola and I wondered how I lived without it in my daily diet. Since then, I’ve had granola for breakfast most days. And last night B and I made a double batch after Norah went to sleep. For those of you interested or inclined, here is the recipe we used:

3/4 c packed dark brown sugar (we used 1 c in a double batch and it is still sweet enough, I think.)

1/2 c butter

1 tsp. nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp vanilla

6 c oats

1 c each – cashews, slived almonds, walnuts, pecans, sunflower seeds (shelled)

Raisins

Heat butter, brown sugar, and spices. Add vanilla after you take it off the heat.

Mix dry in a big bowl. Add the liquid and mix it up.

Cook on baking sheets at 350 for 15-30 minutes until golden, stirring occasionally while cooking. Add raisins or currents once it is cooled.

There are a lot worse things than being a granola kid, I think…

Laptop Steering Wheel Desk

This is a stupid idea.

And this is a pretty awesome way to respond to such a stupid idea. And yes, it is real.

Popcorn

My dad could eat popcorn in a volume and at a speed unmatched by anyone I know. Except perhaps me. As a kid, I remember dad making three or four batches of popcorn in the hot-air popper, filling our huge bread mixing bowl to the top. We’d sit in the living room or at the kitchen table at the farm devouring the popcorn in all its buttery-salty glory. I’m not sure whether we ate so much because we didn’t always have full meals for supper (or supper at all), or because our quick metabolism enabled us to do so without any noticeable physical side effects. Regardless, following his modeling, I learned to take big handfulls, eat them quickly, and dig in again. It is a habit I haven’t broken yet. Now, when B and I have popcorn, we split it into two bowls. It’s just safer for her that way. Though I do sometimes reach over to her bowl once mine is empty…

A moment of genius…

B spends roughly 8 more hours a day with Norah than I do. While I’m at work, she spends the day playing with Norah, feeding Norah, changing Norah, well, everything Norah – you get the picture. Consequently, I learn about Norah’s new tricks when I get home from work. I see her pull up on the ottoman the fifth time she does it, not the first. I see her sign for milk, or watch her roll the ball after B does. Rarely do I get to be the first to see or do something with Norah.

However, the other day, while Norah and I were eating breakfast (or more to the point while I was eating granola, and she was spitting her rice cereal out at me) I was hit by a stroke of genius. And that doesn’t happen often. When I finished my granola, I took Norah’s bowl of cereal and set it inside my bowl. I took my soup spoon and used it to feed her the cereal. She happily slurped it off the spoon. I grabbed a teaspoon, and continued. She ate the rest of the bowl happily. Nice!

Marital Conversation

Chris: <snuggling up to B before going to sleep> You’re SO warm.

B: Well, I WAS warm. <pulling away>

Chris: Nope, compared to me, you’re still SO warm. <snuggling closer>

B: Compared to you, I’m a lot of things. Infortunately for me, the world doesn’t use you for a standard of measure.

Chris: I take it back. You’re cold. SO cold.

Giving Thanks #8 – Cowlicks

Norah has more hair every day — and every day her cowlick gets bigger. And cuter. Even after a bath and a brush it stands tall. Cutest thing ever.

And, for good measure, a picture that shows that Norah has a good sense of humor — why else would she make that face when we took the picture?

And, since we just had a civic election, I’ll include this pic. Look how wise Norah is! She will use this when she runs for class president at pre-school. I’m already working on her campaign slogans, but not much that is relevant to toddlers rhymes with Norah. Plethora? Fedora? Hmmm…

 

Giving Thanks #7 – The Power of a Word

When Dad was killed, people followed a predictable script when interacting with me: “It’s such a shame,” “It sure is too bad,” “It will get better,” “An accident like this could have happened to anyone” – You get the idea. I know these words were meant to comfort. I know these words came from places of deep sympathy. I know that Dad would say that these people were doing the best they that knew how. But I also know that these words meant very little to me. Not that I didn’t appreciate the sentiment, but these wishes seemed so insignificant. So meaningless, because they did nothing to address the emotional turmoil that I was going through.

However, since that horrible accident at the end of June, there has been one situation that sticks out in my mind where the words said by someone were comforting. Really comforting.

After the accident, we spent a lot of time with our close family friends that we grew up with. Our common experience growing up on the farm created a strong bond, and true to that bond, when we needed them, they were there. One evening before the funeral we had them over to our place in the city for a bar-b-que. I showed my Uncle around our house, and we ended up in the demolished basement, which I had been planning to spend the summer putting back together. I was feeling very overwhelmed by the thought of doing the renovation, and asked him if he could come by when we decided on a floor plan so that he could come and take a look and make sure I wasn’t making rookie mistakes. This is something Dad had offered to do, and I was feeling down about not being able to seek his advice. He said he would be happy to come by.

A few weeks later he was over and I was showing him the taped out floor plan. The only thing I was uncertain about was the bathroom — I thought that to make use of the existing plumbing would be tricky, but didn’t feel confident enough to tackle moving it on my own. He looked at me and said, matter-of-factly, “Well, what we’ll do is just take out the bathroom floor and re-do the plumbing. Then you can put things where you want them. It’s not a big job – it won’t take us any time at all.”

And with that comment – that simple statement – I felt so comforted. So loved. It is so lonely to be without Dad. He was always there to bounce ideas off, to think problems through with, or to tackle big jobs alongside. But the way that my Uncle said “we” when he could have just as easily said “you” was so comforting and so kind. It was the first time I really felt like I could go on living without Dad, because there would be someone there to help fill part of the void left by his death. Amazing the power of a pronoun.

Giving Thanks #6

Norah slept through the night on Saturday night. She didn’t wake at all. This in itself is cause for celebration. But wait, there’s more…

Monday afternoon, when I got home from work, I was holding Norah in the kitchen, watching as Brenda started making supper. I was taking advantage of some stolen cuddle time, kissing her face as she watched her mom. She then turned to me, and said, clear as day, “Dad.” Not “dadadadada” but “Dad.” DAD. What an amazing girl. My heart melted.

The next morning, I changed her diaper, and told her I was going to pick her up. As I took her and started to leave her room, she looked at me and said “up.” Clear as day. Up. Two new words in two days.

“Up,” added to “Dad” from the day before, and “Mom” from last week, brings Norah’s vocabulary up to three words. “Mom” is by far her favourite word – so far she has used it to mean “I want Mom to come feed me” or “Mom, why are you doing this to me?” or “There’s my Mom!” 

How grateful I am that Norah has come into my life!