Mr. Wanton’s new nickname for me!

Having ordered my groceries on-line, I was waiting for the call to go pick them up curbside. No pre-set pick up times out here in the boonies; you go get the groceries immediately when they call.

While I was waiting at home for Sobey’s to call, my three year old grandson called to FaceTime with me. Sometimes he calls, talks for 30 seconds and is done, but this time he was chatty. After a couple of minutes, the landline phone starting ringing. Call display was showing it was the grocery store, so I picked up while still on FaceTime on my cell phone with Charles.

As I was confirming my credit card number with the Sobey’s clerk, I had a sudden urge to use the washroom. ARGH! Why does everything happen at once? Quickly, I finished my Sobey’s business, then told Charles I must end my FaceTime call, so I could go to the bathroom. Charles protested,”No, Baba I want to talk to you.”

“Talk to you later! Love you!” I hung up, feeling like the worst grandma ever!

I had on my “dog pants”; the pants I usually wear at home so when our Labrador Retriever slobbers on me it won’t matter. I grabbed clean yoga capris, pulling them on quickly, as I dashed out to my vehicle.

Mission accomplished, I returned home to spend the next four hours washing everything from the store, putting it away, then making our supper, and finally doing dishes. After supper, Mr. Wanton and I were relaxing, watching TV. I looked down at my legs elevated in the recliner.

“OH MY GOD, my pants are inside-out!”

With no emotion, Mr, Wanton replied, “So? It’s just us here in the house, who cares? It doesn’t matter.”

I jumped out of the recliner like it was an ejection seat.

“I wore these pants uptown!” I shouted.

I spun my body around so my backside was towards Mr. Wanton.

“Can you see the tag? Is there a tag hanging on my butt crack?”

“I can’t see your butt at all; your shirt is so long.”

I tugged my shirt up.

“What about now?”

“Oh yah, I can see the imprint of the brand and size, but the pants have no tag.”

Now, I was laughing, realizing unless someone was close to me they would not see the seams of my pants on the side of my legs. Whew.

I actually had inside-out pants on for the last six hours and didn’t even notice. I asked Mr. Wanton if he thought me going to town in inside-out pants was a sign of being too relaxed, or too stressed? He diplomatically “pleaded the fifth”.

A few days later, it was my birthday. For the first time ever in his life, Mr. Wanton baked a cake.

My parents, my son, and his girlfriend came for an outdoor visit. Mr. Wanton was in and out of the house as he checked on his cake project. My Mom asked him what kind of cake he was making.

“Square“, he said with a smart-ass grin.

“No, it isn’t, it’s a rectangle. Two sides are long. ” I laughed.

“Square, rectangle, same thing.”

I said, “If that cake is a square, then I am hourglass shape!”

“What shape do you think you are?” he asked.

“Rectangle! Just like the cake! A vertical rectangle, with arms and legs, and a head sticking out.”

“Like SpongeBob SquarePants?” he asked.

“Exactly! Except I have a head on top!”

The cake and the birthday visit were both a success.

That night as I collapsed into bed, a voice came out of the dark.

“Goodnight Sponge Baba Inside-out Pants!”

Mr. Wanton’s Wild Ride

Mr. Wanton’s transplant medications make him prone to skin cancer, so for Father’s Day I bought him a SPF 50+ hat. I ordered it from Coolibar.* The package from the USA took over a month to arrive. Yesterday, he wore his hat for the first time.

Headed out to mow the grass, Mr. Wanton had on long pants, a sun protective hoodie, and his new hat. He also had on his “PPE” – a facemask and goggles – not because of any danger but because he has seasonal allergies. He is allergic to every type of vegetation in our rural yard, except spruce. Finally geared up, off he went.

While he was mowing, I was inside vacuuming. I noticed the ride-on lawnmower parked in the shade outside the living room and he was kneeling down doing something beside it. I was unconcerned as he occasionally tunes up the mower mid-job.

About 20 minutes later, he stepped into the house holding up a long, dirty, ripped, and torn rag. I was confused. Why was he showing me the rag he was using while repairing the mower?

“I ran over my hat.”

“THAT’S your hat? Your brand new hat?” I knew the answer but asked anyway, not wanting to believe it.

I started to laugh uncontrollably. I could barely breathe. I managed to gasp, “How?”

“My goggles fogged up because of the heat (31C). I couldn’t see where I was going. I got too close to the edge of the yard. I thought I was going over the 150 foot bank, so I quickly put the mower in reverse. Then I backed into some branches, my hat came off, I ran over it, getting it tangled in the blade. Apparently you can be wearing too much PPE, and be unsafe.”

He smiled; sort of.

Then I remembered how much I paid for the hat. Seventy dollars $US. I picked out that hat specifically because it had the widest brim as well as a cord you could cinch up. If Mr. Wanton was in the boat zipping around the lake and his hat flew off, it would not get blown away. Even though I was still laughing, my eyes welled up with tears at the thought of how much I had spent.

“Don’t order me another hat.”

“Don’t worry, I definitely won’t. You will be getting a $5.00 sombrero from the bargain store instead!”

Mr. Wanton located his old hat in the closet; slapped it on his head. He went out to finish the yard. I finally got control of my convulsive laughter, but one glance at the de-constructed hat on the floor and I started all over again.

Coolibar has lifetime fabric warranty. It might be worth sending the hat back, just to imagine the face of the customer service representative pulling it out of the package…and to anticipate the reply we might receive in return.

*Note: I have no financial interest in the Coolibar sun protection clothing company. I have purchased numerous cotton/bamboo jackets from them over the last decade.  I love my Coolibar hoodies.

Mr. Wanton had a change of heart!

Nearly nine months ago Mr. Wanton, my husband, had a heart transplant. Because of his blood type (A+), he was fortunate to have a relatively short wait on the transplant list. A new heart became available to him less than six months after being placed on the list. Some wait years. Some run out of time.

Of course a heart comes from a deceased donor, unlike some instances when a kidney or a partial liver comes from a living donor. We all have only one heart, no spare parts to share. His heart came from someone who was clinically brain-dead but still had healthy organs. The person’s brain was functionally deceased, which is most often due to some sort of accident such as motor-vehicle incident, or perhaps a drug overdose. The donor organ often comes from a young, otherwise healthy person. We do not know anything about his donor. We may never receive any information about them.

There are no words to describe the depth of gratitude we have for the person who gave my husband the gift of their heart, or their grieving family who ultimately made the final decision for their loved one’s organs to be donated. “Thank you” is just so small.

Though Mr. Wanton was not on the list long, his journey to get there was not an expedient one. He was first diagnosed with heart failure due to a suspected viral cardiomyopathy as a result of a typical seasonal flu virus seven years prior. Then for two years before his transplant he was being kept alive by a mechanical heart pump – an LVAD, which is portable life support often referred to as a “bridge to transplant”. Mr. Wanton was plugged into the wall at night by an electrical cord I called “his leash”. He carried rechargeable batteries the size of VHS tapes on his body during the day to keep the pump flowing, his heart going.

Understandably my focus was on Mr. Wanton for the last few years. He has recovered well. It is now time for us to return to regularly scheduled life. It is time for me, to return to me.

Bad news: we are all dying. Good news: we can still laugh.

We are all going to die. Some of us know when it will happen and some of us do not.

The doctor called with bad news today. The first thing I thought after gently setting the phone down on my desk was should I still order those new sandals on-line?

Summer weather is almost over where I live. I won’t have much time to wear them before the snowflakes fall. My husband is always astonished at how far I push the flip-flop season. As long as there has been no snowfall sticking to the sidewalks and grass I am likely to still slip on my flippies to at least go out in the yard, if not to town.

I wonder if it is worth spending money on something that I might not be around to wear next summer. I suspect this is a weird worry to have; maybe not, who knows? But the sandal concern reminds me of the other day in the car on the way to my doctor’s appointment the underwire in my most loved silver grey bra poked through. Oddly both sides simultaneously peeking up and out of the top of my tank top like two white antennae of some creature living nestled down between my boobs.

bra betrayal

As Mr. Wanton drove down the highway attentively I kept poking the wires back into place, but with the slightest movement of my body, out they would inch again.
“Screw it!” I said, and yanked them out completely.

Mr. Wanton, concentrating on driving as we entered the town limits, was unaware of my struggle until then. He glanced over at me but said nothing.

I held the two large “U” shaped white plastic coated wires up near the rear view mirror so Mr. Wanton could see them. Holding them in one hand, I twirled them around between my pointer finger and thumb.

“I think I could make something out of these. Like, maybe a mobile; see how easily they twirl. Wow, I sound like my Dad.”

I laughed.

Mr. Wanton said, “Yah, you do sound just like your Dad. Maybe give them to him to put in his garage.”

Now we both laughed.

I agreed. “Yah, Dad could add them to his collection of stuff he might need some day.” I took a long deep breath and sighed. “I guess I am going to the clinic floppy today.” I was somewhat confident the doctor might see worse things during his day than me hanging low.

Mr. Wanton, eyes on the road, was oblivious to my level of distress.

I’m sure no one will notice.” he said.

As we continued down the road I remember saying: “I guess I will need a new bra”.

And now I wonder, will I?

And that’s the thing when you get seriously bad medical news with no specific deadline, just vague inclination of impending doom…do you buy the one season shoes?

I didn’t buy the sandals, but I have splurged on a fabulous, lacy, deep raspberry fuchsia pink underwire bra made in France. I hope I get to wear it until the fabric is worn thin and the wire antennae poke up from my cleavage once again.

P.S. Since I posted this, people I love (and who obviously love me) have been sending me messages of concern. No need. I have no idea what is going on medically really, no specifics yet, other than the docs are concerned because I have connective tissue diseases and some preliminary testing points to those illnesses now affecting my heart and lungs. With miracles of modern medicine I hope to be out in the grass in my barefeet and flippies next season, and several to come! 

But seriously folks, no guarantees in life except it will end. What sparked this post is that I was thinking how I much rather it would be later, than sooner.

I love pizza, yoga and my Mom.

You cannot be on social media today without being reminded tomorrow is Mother’s Day in Canada. Like Christmas, Mother’s Day is not a day of celebration for everyone. For many it is a day of remembrance due to the loss of a mother, if not through death perhaps through estrangement. Sadly the reality of life is that days of celebration are not all-inclusive. Even those who are a mother themselves, or those who have a mother, may have reasons not to celebrate.

I do not take the fact I still have a mother for granted (she is nearing eighty, though without a doubt I know she’d rather I say she is just over seventy-five), but as I am reflecting upon Mother’s Day I realize I don’t think I’ve really ever told my Mom what it is I admire the most about her. Today is that day.

My Mom always told me when she finished high school she had only three choices of career: secretary, nurse, or teacher. She was not good at typing and did not want to work around blood, so her choice was obvious. Because there was a serious shortage of teachers when she graduated high school, she became as they were called back then – a “six week wonder”, attending summer school in preparation to teach a class right away in September. My Mom began teaching school in a small rural community in the late 1950s when she was just seventeen years old. She graduated high school at a young age because she had skipped a grade in school.

The fact that she took on the responsibility of teaching, and did the job well is amazing enough, but the fact she continued to do so for decades until her retirement in her mid-fifties makes it even more so. While teaching full-time she also completed her Bachelor of Education degree doing evening and summer school classes. Later in life when I discovered Mom was a life-long insomniac it boggled my mind to realize it had not been easy for her to get up early every school day, teach all day, make supper at home, then continue her own studies in the evening. She had, and continues to have incredible willpower. To me, that strength and perseverance is her most admirable characteristic.

Though some might say it was not so difficult (after all she only had one child of her own) Mom had her share of other worries during the span of her career. By the time I became a teenager, Mom had lost both her parents within a span of two years. Her Dad’s death was a long suffering one due to pancreatic cancer, and her Mom’s a sudden, unexpected one due to a smouldering house fire. Mom’s only sister (separated and with no children of her own) was diagnosed with metastasized breast cancer, surviving for years but often requiring emotional support especially during prolonged hospital stays. Mom never took a leave of absence during these difficult times but continued with her teaching responsibilities, filling familial ones in between.

Another example of Mom’s willpower was when she decided to quit smoking. She had started as a teenager. Remember, back then doctors didn’t even advise pregnant women to stop the habit, and they even smoked inside the medical clinics and hospitals. However, when it was discovered that smoking increased cancer risk, Mom signed up for a seven day smoking cessation workshop for seven consecutive nights. I was around eleven years old then; I still remember she was grumpy and short-tempered for a few days. She was successful though, she never smoked again.

Likewise, when the news reported butter was not good for you and caused high cholesterol – BOOM – Mom stopped eating butter. Mom was diagnosed with osteoporosis at quite a young age, in hindsight probably due to having undiagnosed celiac disease for years. Learning it was important to build bone density via weight-bearing exercise, she began to walk regularly and joined a Curves gym when it opened in her community. During inclement weather she walks indoors on the treadmill. Prior to Curves closing she had registered around 900 workouts, most done in her seventies. I know few people of ANY age who are so diligent with their exercise and nutrition habits as my Mom. When she decides to do something, she does it, period. Without a doubt her strong willpower has served her well. I want her to know it has not gone unobserved.

A few weeks ago I asked my Mom to read a story I’d written for a short story competition. After reading it she sent me an e-mail saying she “loved it”. I asked her to tell me what she loved about the story. It wasn’t enough for me just to hear she loved it, I wanted to know why. I wanted to know she actually loved it, and was not just saying that without reason (except for being my Mom).

We live in a world where the word “love” gets thrown around frequently. Don’t get me wrong, that IS a good thing. I love pizza and can tell you why. I already told you a few blogs ago why I love yoga. Telling someone we love them has extra meaning when we let them know exactly what it is we love about them. According to palliative care experts, at the end of life what people most want to know is that their life mattered, had some meaning, and that they were loved. I don’t think we should wait for the end of life.

I love you Mom. Now you also know one of the reasons why.

A mouth guard, Mr. Wanton, a pretzel & Me

Last week, I did actually have a dry mouth incident that left both Mr. Wanton and I in hysterical laughter. (If you are my mother, you should stop reading right here.) I had been to the dentist and on Friday afternoon (several hours after dental office had closed for the weekend) I put my night mouth guard on just because I was thinking about wearing it again (I hadn’t for quite awhile).

(No, Mr. Wanton did not say that to me. It would have been nice if he had though.)

Anyway, I popped it on my upper teeth. It was a bit snug but still comfortable enough. Then, I went to remove it but it wouldn’t budge. I recalled it always being a bit difficult, so I didn’t panic. Working at the edge again with my finger, I realized how dry my mouth was. I kept pulling at it, trying different locations along my upper gum line and teeth. My mouth and teeth were dry, so I started to panic a little thinking there was no lubrication between the teeth and the guard to help slide it off.

After trying to pry it off for over half an hour, I went to Mr. Wanton in the other room, and said through near tears: “I know this is ridiculous. F*** my life. What bloody next? I got my mouth guard stuck on my teeth and I cannot get it off, it’s Friday and I am going to be stuck like this until Monday when the dental office opens!”

He started to laugh, hard. I was furious at him for laughing at me, but I also realized the ridiculousness of my predicament and I started to laugh uncontrollably as well. Every time I started to say something, we’d both start laughing again. When we finally recovered, he said: “I can drive you to Dr. S’s house to get it off.” Our dentist is a “neighbour” about five miles down the country road. I said “No, I’m sure he doesn’t have dental tools at home.”

Then I saw a light bulb go on over Mr. Wanton’s head. He pulled a kitchen drawer open and took out a butter knife. Holding the knife in the air, he stepped toward me saying: “Here, I’ll do it”. Once again I burst into uncontrollable nervous laughter, but through it I managed to say: “No way, you might break my teeth! I’ll stay like this until Monday.”

(Even though I admit by then the mouth guard was feeling too tight, hurting my gums a bit, and I’m not sure if it was the stress, maniacal laughter, or the mouth guard, but I could feel a headache coming on. I knew there was no way I could possibly keep it on until Monday.)

So, Mr. Wanton said, “Fine then” and wandered off shaking his head. I went into our bedroom, sat on the bed and pried at that thing until finally I felt a glimmer of hope as over a gold crown covered tooth it finally budged enough for me to get a bit of leverage on it. Then with one desperate yank, it came off completely. Perhaps it was smoother there, or not quite as close a fit in that spot. Whew. I threw the mouth guard in the garbage.

The very next day, I took a bite of a pretzel chip, a new product I bought to try, biting it in two. The piece I bit off went to the roof of my mouth and got stuck on my palette, literally lodged there instantly. Like the previous day, I walked over to Mr. Wanton and said: “Would you believe I just got half a pretzel chip stuck on the roof of my mouth?” He started laughing, again. No matter how hard I pushed on it with my tongue it wouldn’t move. I tried water, nothing happened. He said: “Just pull it off!” I said: “Can’t you see I’m trying!” Finally after several attempts I managed to stick my finger on it, getting under an edge and dislodging it. I am now sworn off pretzels and mouth guards…for life.

(I do realize the meme says “pretzel’s” and it SHOULD be “pretzels”….either way you spell it, right or wrong, the pretzels did make me grumpy…..AND anxious.)

I wish it was just an April Fool’s joke….

Waking this morning, my first thought before even opening my eyes was: what day is it today? Which was quickly followed by Saturday – April 1st – April Fool’s Day – also the first day of Sjogren’s Awareness Month.

I was then awake enough to roll over and open my eyes. But before opening my eyes each morning, I first must, ever so gently, rub each of my closed eyelids with a finger. Massaging lightly over the entire surface of my closed eyelid allows it to delicately detach any part of the lid that might be stuck to my cornea due to night time dryness. To most, this would seem a ridiculous and unnecessary activity prior to getting out of bed, however it is crucial for me. After numerous painful rips and damage to my cornea due to dry eyes caused by Sjogren’s Syndrome, I finally remember never to just pop my eyes open upon waking.

Immediately after getting my eyelids open, I reach over for the eye drops on the night table plopping a couple drops into each eye. I do this with a great deal of care as well, not because it is an intricate procedure but because eye drops are so damn expensive they might as well be liquid gold so I dare not waste a single drop with poor aim.

After putting the drops in, my vision appears as though clouded due to light fog permeating the house. There is no fog, and my vision is fine, but the drops I use first thing in morning are to replace the lipid layer in my eye which several years ago the optometrist told me was nearly non-existent. The drops look like milk, and contain lipids which most simplistically are fats, vitamins, and other things that help preserve eye surface health. While I wait for the foggy white vision to dissipate, I sip on a bit of water to quench my dry mouth, and do gentle restorative yoga while still cozy in bed.

Throughout the day I replenish and refresh my eyes a multitude of times with another type of drop which is even more expensive but is lighter and within a few blinks does not cloud my vision. Before going to bed at night I coat my eyes with an ointment prescribed by a specialist which I need to prevent cornea rips during sleep. After the ointment is in and has coated my eye surface, I add a couple drops in each eye of yet another type of eye drop this one a thick gel. I have become fastidious regarding my night rituals, since as you can imagine once my eyes are “gooped up” for the night, all other activities requiring vision must cease.

So why, you may ask, am I telling you about what I do to my eyes? Well, my realization it was both April Fool’s Day and the start of Sjogren’s Awareness Month, also had me wondering what if Sjogren’s was all just a big joke (albeit a perverse, nasty mean one)? How wonderful to wake one morning, maybe even today, to discover it had all been a bad, bad dream. I knew that to be sheer fanciful thinking; I didn’t take the chance to pop my eyelids wide open, risking a tear. It did give me pause for thought though – how would my life be different if I didn’t have Sjogren’s? I can only imagine, but for this month instead of thinking of “what might have been”, I will share with you my “what is”.

P.S. Obviously this website is hosted/shows time on the other side of the world from me, as I see the date as already tomorrow. Time flies fast enough, I don’t like them showing me today is already over when it is’t where I live, and isn’t that all that counts? 🙂

Pumping the brakes on perfectionism…

“The greatest mistake we make is living in constant fear that we will make one.” ~ John C. Maxwell ~

A little more on perfectionism today because it is why I avoided writing the last week or so. The avoidance began after being involved in a discussion about published books and famous authors.

The discussion started after a friend discovered a mistake in pronoun use in a New York Times best-selling novel. I mentioned I was surprised such a mistake had made it past the editors at a large reputable publishing house. All were in agreement.

The talk then turned to mistakes writers make. Another friend mentioned she is appalled when writers use “comma splices”. Everyone involved in the discussion then began to detail errors they have seen in published books. I stood silent.

As the group broke up for the evening, all I could think was: I do not know what a “comma splice” is, oh my God, and I think I’m a writer? I’m not a writer, or I would know what that is.

I drove home pondering if I should continue to write or give it up completely. To be honest, I was ready in that moment to swear off writing forever. (I had done so once before, after a grade 12 English class with a teacher who terrified me. That swearing off of writing lasted twenty years or more.)

This was also not the first time in more recent history I was having anxiety over my writing. I have Facebook “friends” who are published poets, authors, high school and college level English instructors, spoken word artists, lyricists, Ph. D university professors and creative writing instructors, journalists, and English literature majors. The thought has crossed my mind many times that my writing is not up to their standards, and absolutely I admit it is not.

(Even writing the previous sentence I am thinking: I used the word “that” again. Oh no. I am just proving my own point. Of course I am not a “real writer”.)

The next day a friend who is in my writing group phoned me.  I confessed the anxiety I was having because of what occurred the night before. She started laughing and assured me I probably DID know what a comma splice was, I just did not know it by that term. Thanks my friend, I needed to hear your encouraging words.

I took a deep breath; I realized as a reader it is not perfect grammar, punctuation, classic structure, or extensive vocabulary which catches my attention, rather it is authenticity. Granted there are certain standards to be upheld in writing, as in all communication, but I can be forgiving of writers who make some errors if what they have to tell me is authentic. If a piece of writing resonates with me I don’t care if it’s in the form of a cartoon with word bubbles and thought clouds, or a poem with no structure or rhyme.

If I can be forgiving of other writers making mistakes, so must I be forgiving of myself. Part of why I named this blog as I did is because I do want to be wanton, both playful and a bit reckless in my writing. Maybe all along I wanted to send a subliminal message to those seeking perfection in writing – this would not be the place to find it.

 

P.S. “A comma splice is the use of a comma to join two independent clauses. For example: It is nearly half past five, we cannot reach town before dark. Although acceptable in some languages and compulsory in others (e.g. Bulgarian or French), comma splices are usually considered style errors in English.”

the two “P” words….

Can you think of two words that start with “p” and fit together perfectly?

And no, all you innately sexual creatures, once again, I am not thinking of “that”. Remember, I told you before, this is not the place for sexually wanton writing, yet somehow ever since I said that, innuendo continues to appear.

The two seldom verbalized or admitted, but often practiced words, are the reason I have been away from my blog the last seventeen days. Of course I’m referring to procrastination and perfectionism. Usually when I am away from my blog for awhile it is because of one or the other, or both.

Recently I wrote a 2500 word short story for a timed international writing contest, NYC Midnight. One of my Underground Writing Cohort friends had tempted me to give it a whirl. I had a week to complete and submit the story after being assigned a genre, character, and a specific subject to be included.

Thanks to doing the story for the contest I became more self-aware. I discovered I can procrastinate perfectly. I never considered myself a perfectionist before. I now realized I was obviously wrong.

To be fair, the first three days I did have a migraine headache. Apparently people who have Sjogren’s are also prone to migraines at a more frequent rate than other migraine sufferers; hooray for us. Mine start by feeling like a vague sinus headache then build up to full frontal facial pain for three days. Needless to say pain encompassing my entire face is not conducive to my creative pursuits. So, right off the get go I was down to four days.

While I wasn’t sitting at my computer typing out my story I WAS doing what I do best – writing the story in my head. I told Mr. Wanton it would be extremely helpful to me if he, of technological expertise and mechanical invention, could possibly come up with something that could transcribe my thoughts automatically into a word document on my computer. You know, like verbal word transcription, but for my thoughts. He said “that is a bad, bad, idea.” What does he know? Oh yah, I usually tell him what I am thinking. Perhaps his opinion is of value in this instance.

Upon the end of the headache I should have been ready to type up my story, right? Wrong. For the next few days I proceeded to attack my long lost to-do list with a vengeance – the one that sits permanently on my desk, with items dating back to 1999, not all of which are crossed off yet.

Wow – more self-awareness – if I wanted to finally accomplish my least appealing tasks, the long overdue “leftovers” on my to-do list, all I had to do is commit myself to something I wanted to do even less, in this case the short story.

Perfect. I could put off the short story writing, not feeling guilty whatsoever, because I was getting lots of other stuff done. You know, important stuff – like organize my panties and socks, look up random symptoms via Google, watch Adele and Bruno Mars “Careoke” videos on YouTube repeatedly (okay, admittedly that wasn’t on my to-do list but in hindsight it should have been). I accidentally discovered the most seriously underrated motivational technique for overcoming procrastination ever.

So that brings me to this moment. How did I get over my procrastination to write a blog post today? Easy answer, the alternative was the now top priority item on my to-do list – personal income tax. Uh-huh, I definitely found what I can do perfectly every time.

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P.S. In case you are curious, I did complete the short story in eight hours on the seventh day, well before the midnight deadline.

Heartfelt but not Hallmark…

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Valentine’s Day always has me awash in mixed emotions. I suspect I am far from the only one who feels a pull between celebrating, ignoring, or simply acknowledging February 14th.

The cynics say it is just another “Hallmark holiday” – a day that is commercialized to increase sales of certain items such as cards, chocolates, lingerie, champagne, wine, diamonds, and dinners out. Of course, that is true. But, I dare say, the day should not just be for couples who are lovers, sweethearts, or life partners with fat wallets. It can be a day for anyone to remind someone how much they are loved.

If one strictly looks at the day in a romantic sense or in the commercialized way of what one is “supposed” to do, it is easy to become cynical. Viewing it by that definition opens one up to guilt, expectation and even comparison, all feelings we best avoid as no good will come of them.

Mr. Wanton and I used to celebrate Valentine’s Day every year, until his Dad died on that date about twenty-five years ago. The year after the death, I no longer received flowers, we did not go out on a date, and my funny but loving card went unreciprocated.

I was devastated, but pretended it didn’t matter. I made a delicious dinner for us at home, reminding myself what mattered most is that we loved each other and we were together. We never talked about his Dad’s passing then; we still don’t today.

Over the years following his Dad’s death I waited with anticipation for when we would return to our previous traditions of celebration, but it has never happened. Initially, I was hurt because I felt as though I was being punished for something I did not do.

My husband blames our lack of celebration and festivities on February 14th to having three sons born approximately nine months after Valentine’s Day. Mr. Wanton thinks it is hilarious to tell people he used to buy me champagne and roses every Valentine’s but after having three kids as a result of it, he had to put a stop to it.

I don’t laugh when he tells the story. I wish he could speak the real reason, but he can’t. Initially I went out of my way to attempt making February 14th a happy day, choosing just the right card for him, making a special dinner at home with some of his favourites, but then I stopped. Today will be a regular day for Mr. Wanton and I. That’s okay.

So what is the point of this tale of woe, with a seemingly “poor me” theme?

Well, this morning as I woke up and thought about what day it was, I thought about everyone who may not be having the fairy-tale Happy Valentine’s Day “as advertised”. I know there are people at this very moment who are feeling forgotten, unloved, and unworthy. You may be one of them.

I want you to know you are not alone, and you alone are “enough”. I want you to keep your heart soft, even if it hurts. Please don’t let it become hardened. If you don’t have someone to love today, do something you love. I want you to remember even on days you may not receive love, it is still yours to give. Give generously.

xoxoxox