Growing up in the UK I am accustomed to celebrating mother’s day in March (father’s day is the same day, though), so in a way, I have two days to look forward to. One to share in some small way with my own Mum in March, and the other for myself in May.

Happy mother’s day to all the mothers out there, and all those who have a motherly influence on others. I am so very grateful for these special ladies myself.

A little boy asked his mother, “Why are you crying?” “Because I’m a woman,” she told him. “I don’t understand,” he said. His Mom just hugged him and said, “And you never will.” Later the little boy asked his father, “Why does mother seem to cry for no reason?” “All women cry for no reason,” was all his dad could say.

The little boy grew up and became a man, still wondering why women cry. Finally he put in a call to God. When God got on the phone, he asked, “God, why do women cry so easily?

God said: “When I made the woman she had to be special. I made her shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world, yet gentle enough to give comfort. I gave her an inner strength to endure childbirth and the rejection that many times comes from her children. I gave her a hardness that allows her to keep going when everyone else gives up, and take care of her family through sickness and fatigue without complaining. I gave her the sensitivity to love her children under any and all circumstances, even when her child has hurt her very badly. I gave her strength to carry her husband through his faults and fashioned her from his rib to protect his heart. I gave her wisdom to know that a good husband never hurts his wife, but sometimes tests her strengths and her resolve to stand beside him unfalteringly. And finally, I gave her a tear to shed. This is hers exclusively to use whenever it is needed.”

“You see my son,” said God, “the beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart - the place where love resides.”

I’ve really battled with myself in deciding whether to re-post this one or not. I tend to keep myself to myself, and yet frequently share my innermost thoughts and feelings openly online with the world. This would be another one of them.

I originally wrote this post 12th April 2006. It is the only time I have ever written anything about my biological father who walked out on my Mum when my brother and I were youngsters. I have no qualms declaring that he had two simultaneous affairs and ran off to be with one of them. Having had children of my own, I struggle to understand anything about him; yet at the same time, I have come full circle and left that chapter of my life behind. It’s not the most cohesive post I’ve ever written, but the only post that has left me feeling emotionally drained and in tears.

Here I am recently with my Mum and brother, John. I used to ask if I was adopted all the time.

Today was my father’s birthday. Father: I use the term loosely. And true to his form, I passed it by without a second thought. Sorry, that’s a wee bit harsh, isn’t it? OK, kudos really should be given to him for acknowledging my eighteenth though. Well done. Thanks for the card.

There’s no emotional connection. Certainly no intellectual connection. But thanks for the barrage of stomach problems - likely my only physical connection for a very long time to come. I could count on both hands how many times we’ve ‘met’.

I grew to despise singing Father’s Day songs sang at Church. They should at least be optional participation. Don’t pity me, I really don’t need or want it. I feel nothing, it’s all numb. No, it’s less than numb — there’s a real feeling connected with that. I’m past caring. Quite apathetic, actually.

It’s not all without effort on my part. I tried my best, I made a 2-hour online connection and when it got far too emotively charged for him, he ran for the hills. I know we all have faults, but there has been and wasn’t any attempt made to hide any of his. His vacant commentary was cold and unfeeling; annoyingly frustrating for a twenty-six-year-old seeking out the faceless man behind the words on the screen. I wanted and deserved answers.

Nothing.

I knew I wasn’t to blame. A seventeen-month-old and her six-year-old brother are never to blame. All I wanted was a good, solid reason for the absence of … anything.

Everything.

It was in vain.  Right before he disappeared from Instant Messenger he made some incredulous remarks, and in retaliation, I exclaimed, “You don’t know me. You don’t know what a fabulous person I am. My talents, my interests, my strengths. Me.”

I certainly don’t feel like I missed out not having a father around. I have nothing to compare with. But I will be eternally grateful for the man who stepped up to the responsibility of a father-figure in my mid-teens. Thank you, Denis.

Oh, and by the way - many happy returns.

I will eat my words
A week ago, I said:
“Not buying this year”

Little did I know
We’d buy something on Wednesday
We went to “just look”

Car salesmen disgust
E’er the sickening optimists
I tend to ignore

Me? Hard customer?
I told him we’d sleep on it
He didn’t like that

We both stood to leave
He ran off to speak to boss
Then got in our face

He was desperate
“OK, what if we threw in
free oil changes?

It would be for life”
I was sick of the hounding
“OK fine, do it”

Suddenly he smiled
And I began to stress out
Car payments — again!

Life has been stress-free
Nothing for 3.5 years
We’re slaves, yet again

I broke my own pact
“I’ll ne’er own a minivan!”
Silver! Garage! NOW!

My husband: The one who eats the nasty pretzels when I pick through a bag of Chex Mix; who makes me dinner when I’ve had a rough day despite coming off a 12-hour shift; who runs me a bath in the jetted tub on a weekend morning and tells me to relax…

It’s amazing how time slips by when you’re not really paying attention. Today is our 7th wedding anniversary, we have come through many amazing and strengthening things together and have lived to tell the tale. Incidentally, seven years of marriage should traditionally be marked with a gift of wool or copper. I think I’ll stick with the beautiful flowers I got.

Anyway, I’ve decided to Pay it Forward with another Bloggy Giveaway. Can I get a resounding “ooOoo”? Up for offers this time is a Mars Bar and a wee SURPRISE.

All you have to do is post your caption to the pic below in the comments by midnight (MST) Saturday, 10th May to be entered. Good luck!

ALSO, if anyone is interested, my Pampered Chef consultant is offering 25% off everything if you place an order by 14th May. She just hit her 4th anniversary as a consultant and offered to open it up to friends of clients, not just her clients. If you’re interested, drop me an e-mail and I’ll forward hers to you. If you’re a past host from the last year, you can also add the 10% on top of that. I get no kick-back, just sharing the love.

Corner car/truck lot
Not big enough for Walgreens
We drove passed slowly

[Ian:] “I want a red truck!”
That’s all he ever asks for
Not buying this year

His eyes scanned the lot
“Look [Mum], American Idol!”
It simply said: “Ford”

…in no particular order.

1. It’s really windy, especially on the coast. OK, gale-force winds. Forget Paul Mitchell Freeze & Shine Super Spray girls, it’s no help.

2. You hear the word “sorry” a lot, especially if someone shuffle-steps coming towards you and you both can’t decide what direction to walk in.

3. If you’re looking for the public toilet, call it a toilet not a bathroom. British logic is–there is no bath. And it’s true.

4. Parking spaces are much tighter. One space at Costco could almost fit two (mid-size) cars in the UK.

5. A lot of popular drinks taste slightly different in the UK, like Coke and Dr. Pepper, for instance. Despite even that, what’s more interesting is, there’s more carbonation in the fizzy drinks too. Don’t drop a litre bottle of Coke and then open it slowly, it’ll still spray all over you. Right, Bryan?

6. Heinz has a huge market share in Britain. Look for (low sodium - woohoo) soups a-go-go (as many as Campbell’s. We have Campbell’s too), Heinz beanz, spaghetti, macaroni cheese, ravioli and many others. My question is: where are they here? It’s an American company. I don’t get it.

7. It’s much greener than you’d think. All-year round too. The grass is never dormant.

8. You can’t exit the motorway and get right back on. You have to drive to the next junction (exit) and try and navigate back. Just assume you know where you’re going; or, better yet, take a map.

9. Traffic police don’t monitor your speed on the motorways, traffic cameras do. Watch out for the signposts. If you speed past, they’ll catch you. However, if you have an American license, chances are they’ll drop it. Apparently, we can’t have a trip to Scotland without the big flashy lights going off, it just wouldn’t be the same.

10. Roundabouts are easier to navigate if you use your indicator lights. Failing to do this passing traffic wishing to enter ahead of you could result in a smashy-crashy. (If you’re taking the third exit from the roundabout, keep your right-hand signal on till you get to the one you want, then change it to the left as you exit.)

11. Rather than waving someone on, use your “flashy-flashies”. A quick flash flash is sufficient enough to say, “on ye go, pal.” You can also use them on the motorway to let the lorries (trucks) know they have enough room to move in front of you. Or, if someone is moving slower than you would like in the fast lane, flashy-flashy will politely tell them to move over or be crushed to smitherines.

Point to remember: Never try and get away with passing on the passenger side, they hate that.

12. There’s a minimum amount you have to spend to use your debit card. Don’t worry, it’s only about £3.00 in some places.

13. It’d better to ask a local if you can’t find a toilet in a store where the nearest one is, a lot of smaller stores don’t have them for public use.

Point to consider: It helps if you have a desperate 3-year-old with you at the time.

14. Bonus point: The ground (or street level, or the extra-fancy sounding, Lobby) floor isn’t Floor 1, it’s G (for ground - not just a clever name). A good point to remember if you ever find yourself in a lift.

Back before I left for Scotland, I devised a Bloggie Giveaway. All you had to do was fit a caption to this photo (I know, you love me for posting it again, don’t you?) and Bob’s your uncle.

The winner receives: A British childrens’ book, 2 (British) chocolate bars and a Scotland/tartan notebook.

The winner?

It was a close call! Melisa with, “He thought the Coach said “EAT their defense, not BEAT their defense.”

Congrats :o)

It may be of interest to know that I have not forgotten about the competition I devised. I’ve been busy lazy putting it off. I have everything on my possession and plan on announcing the winner tomorrow.

I don’t have much else to say other than Ian put a massive damper on the day when he lunged his tractor wheel axle at my one of my large, dark brown storage cubes in the living room (after a stern warning) and punctured it. I’ve only had them 4 months. *heaving sigh*

Able to see her
Through an ‘06 letter
She wrote a copy

A headstrong lady
Took things lying down? Not her
She let them have it

Ian had found it
Was in her magazine rack
What a real treasure

Told her I’d found it
Gran smiled and backed up her words
“Yes, all by myself”*

Gran had to have some work done in her flat in 2004. She had asbestos in one of her kitchen and bathroom walls, respectively, and it needed to be removed. She was displaced to another home for three days and the workmen came over and fixed the walls, then, in turn, left her bathroom floor damaged beyond repair.

Since she paid for housing insurance religiously, she first sought relief from them, only to be turned down in writing because her claim didn’t meet guidelines for section such-and-such under clause bah-de-blah of her policy. She/he, ended the letter by stating:

“We must advise, we are not in a position to recommend any payment to you on this occasion. We hope that the above is self-explanatory and would confirm that we are now closing our file.”

My Gran, headstrong and forthright, went about to put right what she thought was an injustice (and quite rightly so) and sent them a letter in response, voicing her opinion and disgust. I am more than happy to share this, highlighting her personality in one easy swoop.

Dear L.D. Smith,

To tell you I am disgusted with your letter is putting it mildly. Why do you not think it is an insured event? I was under the impression that when I took out house insurance that I was covered for things like this, or why would our Council encourage us to deal with a firm as useless as yours? And when I make a claim I’m told I’m not covered; you take the money from an 84-year-old pensioner and do nothing. Are you not ashamed to be conning people in this way? I think I’d be better going to a reputable company that will help people when it’s needed. I guess the shareholders are the people you take care of, not folk like me who made the country safe during the last war*, and then are treated like this.

Not to worry, you might live to be 84 yourself one day and need help. You won’t get it from your firm, that’s for sure.

Sincerely,

Mrs. B. R.

Now you can close your file.

She later got compensation from elsewhere…

I haven’t been able to bring myself to the computer, I just couldn’t face it. I took care of the boys and just got on with my business. Yesterday was especially tough, and with no rationale. If the truth be told, I thought I would be fine; that I would return to Montana and somehow slide slowly back into life. I knew the transition might be a bit rough and I’d probably experience some homesickness, but I had no idea how awful I would feel or just how long it would persist.

I was expecting some culture shock, in fact, I knew it would be inevitable. There really are no similarities between Scotland and Montana — even the grass is bright green this time of year over there. Then again, I’d never seen dead dormant grass before I came to the States.

But it’s not just the feeling of not being somewhere that I know and am drawn to, I now feel disconnected and, if I’m truthful, isolated and maybe even abandoned. Apart from a gaggle of friends, it’s just Bryan, me and the boys here, and there’s nothing like no family around to solidify the reality that you’re in the middle of nowhere. I grew accustomed to seeing my family everyday, especially my Mum, and never really realised how the full impact of not having that connection would affect me.

My Mum had exhausted herself. Ever since Gran was admitted on 30th October last year, she went and visited her every day, relentlessly for five-and-a-half months. She’d buy a weekly bus pass and ride two buses just to get there every day by 3 p.m. A nurse, Paul, later related that they held her in high regard for her dedicated visits. No other patient, I presume, was as fortunate.

The day after I first saw Gran, they moved her into her own room; something I soon realised was not a good sign. They told Mum it was because she had a “little bug” (read: C. difficile), and she did, but I knew better than that. I accepted a while ago that she was dying and I came to terms with it before I even set foot in the hospital. (She didn’t want to move to a hospice, and quite frankly, who can blame her? I wouldn’t have either. When Mum told me that, I said, “think about it though, you’re admitting that you’re done. It’s the last port and call.”] I was even composed during the funeral, which I was not expecting. I felt at peace though, I knew she was around and that she could see us all. It was raining quite heavily that day and the ground was especially sodden. I think Gran had the last laugh though.

Unlike American funerals (which I actually prefer, if you forgive the expression), the pall bearers are the ones to lower the coffin into the ground, it doesn’t sit on a low platform on top of artificial grass, closed from unimagining eyes and the stark reality of the situation.

The cemetery is on a hill overlooking the entire town, with a great view of the coastline and across the (mile-wide) river. It’s beautiful, and I’m sure even a lot more pleasant on a clear day too. Gran’s plot, therefore, is on an upward slant too, which I thought was rather cool, that was, until seven pall bearers had to stand at various locations around the grave site on planks of wood (I know…) in the sopping rain and attempt to lower her coffin into the ground on the slope. As they were steadily lowering it, I’d hazard a guess that about half of them lost their footing on the wet planks and slid a good half a foot, accompanied by a resounding gasp from the women, myself included. Bryan mentioned if it hadn’t have been for the leather strap he was holding that he used to counter-support his weight as he slipped, his grip may have slackened, and well…  Minutes later uncle Billy joked about it saying Gran “was just trying to pull Denis (my step-dad) in there along with her.” We all laughed pretty hard knowing how true that statement could have been.

My Gran’s death isn’t the first for me to experience in the family, but it has impacted me the deepest. It’ll be four weeks tomorrow since she died, and although I’m OK with it, I wasn’t really prepared for realising the entire ramifications of it all.

Days after we arrived home and while we were slowly still unpacking our things (seven suitcases, the majority being baby things, like the playpen, the fold up highchair, the back of Ian’s carseat…), I came across an old letter from her. My Gran has been writing to me since I was eleven (yes, OK twenty-two years), ever since she moved to Australia when she married a native and remained there for the ensuing fifteen years. We used to correspond frequently all throughout my adolescent and not-so-teenagery years too.

I looked at the date and it hit me: it was the last letter she ever wrote to me.

22nd Sept. 2007

She didn’t mention that she was now mostly house-bound and unable to go for her daily brisk walks. She didn’t talk about how she was in remission from the throat cancer after her recent bout of radiation. And she didn’t mention that she now had stomach cancer, if in fact she even knew at that point. As I read through her pages, it hit me: I’d never get another letter from Gran again. Ever. And that, was completely devastating. What a mind-numbing thought.

I was lucky enough to have my Mum and uncle say I was free to take any keepsakes I wished. There weren’t many things left over from when she had her home in Scotland in the 80’s, but a few select trinkets that made many great memories come rushing back. I’d go sleep over at my Gran’s every Saturday night, so I grew up being really close to her; pair that with seeing her usually two to three times a week and being her only grand-daughter and it may give a glimpse into the kind of relationship I had with her.

I am amazed at how grief affects us, me. It’s hard to explain. I’m not sad that she’s passed, but that the physical connection — even just a letter, has gone and won’t be returning. I suppose you could say it has made me view quite a few things differently now, and that’s why I’ve been so absent, at least from here. I just needed time to sort out everything and work through it. I can’t say I won’t have more bad days - especially like yesterday - but I feel better prepared now to tackle them on head first, just like I know she would have.