I am Kevin's mother.

And Kevin is 7. Maybe two months ago his teachers at school called me because they were 'concerned', they said. They were 'worried about Kevin's health' because he'd done poorly on a couple language tests. 'He fell asleep in class!' they explained as though it were a sin and completely unheard of for a child to be tired or, God forbid, fall asleep in class. I've met his language teacher; I'm not surprised he fell asleep.

They asked me to take him to the doctor. Who they hell to they think they are? I'm his mother. I know if he needs to go to the doctor or not. Do THEY know Kevin better than I do? I was indignant. So I ignored their request.

But they had planted a seed in my brain so now I was watching Kevin through their eyes; their watchful, scrutinizing, judging eyes. He was still the same loving boy, but perhaps he was more tired than normal. Ok, I concede, he was lethargic and yes wasn't top of his class anymore.

So, the next time his teachers called I tried to not get as offended, and I took him to the doctor.
My friend who's into aromatherapy and stuff said it looked like Kevin had parasites. She said she could give me some herbs for him to take. I like my friend, don't get me wrong, but she stinks like cloves. It smells like the dentist...I can't trust her. I didn't tell her, but I'm just going to give him the medicine the doctors give me.

We see a nursing student at the hospital. She's green. So green that she refers to a list of questions during our consult. This does not impress me. And unfortunately I think I set myself against her. I know I made it hard for her to do her job, but in a sense, I needed her to prove herself to me before I could trust her.

I tell them my name but am henceforth referred to as "Kevin's mother". This is so typical of child-care people, so I'm not surprised, but for once it would be nice to have a name too.

She asks a few questions about why we're there, how Kevin's doing at school, how he's sleeping. Stuff like that. For a 7 year old Kevin does a good job answering her questions. The nurse takes very long, thoughtful, deliberate pauses between questions. I feel like I should have sworn on the Bible first to 'tell the whole truth and nothing but'.

She seems to run out of questions or is hesitant so she looks me in the eye and asks Kevin if he'd like to go play in the waiting area while she 'talked with mommy.' My kids rarely call me Mommy; I look over at Kevin sitting there hunched over in his little Batman t-shirt that I HATE, snot perpetually running down his lip being licked up by his tongue and he looks back at me with a look that says 'Who the hell is this quack?' I smile at my boy and agree with the nurse. 'Go read for a bit--I'll come and get you. K?'

He slips his little body from the examination table and I hand him his book to read. 'See you in a minute.' Watching him answer questions and interact with another adult sheds new light on this kid of mine. I'm so proud of him. I'm so concerned about him. Without asking or insinuating a thing the nurse has undone me by making me look at my son. Really look at him.

She quickly gathers her thoughts and dives into an interrogation period that makes my muscles tighten. I'm aware that my eyes are really wide. I must look defensive. She must realize I feel guilty.

"So, what does Kevin have for breakfast?" Shit.
'Usually....nothing.' The nurse eagerly jots down my words as though they were god's nectar. Or good evidence against a negligent mother. We jump from topic to topic about what he eats, what his little brother eats, what I eat, when we spend time together, what his father does...
I can see the pieces in my brain coming together at about a millisecond faster then they are the nurse's brain, so I find it hard to tell her the truth. Because I know what she'll think.

'His father is unemployed...he's home at the moment. He's looking for anything really. Construction. He does construction.' Oh, I'm falling apart and she knows it. I've guarded myself so well against this attacker but we both know how much this hurts me to talk about. My eyes are still wide in an offensive way, like I'm saying 'Come on! Come on! You wanna fight?'

No. I'm not working right now. We're ok. We're cutting back where we need to. But we're ok.
She asks me what we'd typically have for dinner. I try my best to make No Name chicken fingers seem healthy but now it's just for what's left of my dignity that we pretend chicken finger are a good source of protein.
In the same fashion I reassure her that I know how important the first 2 years are for a baby and that even though we're not eating as well as we'd like I make sure that David, Kevin's little brother, gets what he needs to build a firm foundation for his little life.

She looks at me and paraphrases "So what I'm hearing you say is, you're giving the better food to David, and Kevin eats poorly like you and his father?" Fuck you! Fuck her! What the hell do you WANT me to do? What would YOU suggest?
"Was that decision hard for you to make?"
'WHAT decision?'
"The decision to feed David better than Kevin.'
I'm stunned. I can't believe she just said that. This green, docile nursing student has turned on me. "It wasn't a conscious decision. It wasn't like I thought, hmm which child do I love more to feed better. I know how important the first 2 years are for a baby--Kevin is a good kid. He'll be fine... I didn't really have a choice, did I? ...So, yeah it was a hard 'decision'.' I sarcastically put quotations around my head when I say 'decision'.

This carries on for a a bit longer and with each question I answer she slowly dissects me further to the point of death. She leaves the room for a minute. I call after her 'are you getting the doctor?' I hate myself for being so horrible to her but it's instinctual and I can't control it.
She returns quickly with a stack of hot papers in her hand. She reads them off to me 'Child Pension Plan', 'Food Bank Ontario', 'Salvation Army', 'Feed A Kid' breakfast programs. I nod enthusiastically with that wild eyed look again. I want to kill her and she knows it. She quickly finishes her recommendations and leaves me to 'read over' the literature.

Not waiting for a third assault I put my coat on and grab our things. Kevin is reading in the waiting-room. He's pulled his knees up to his chin and is reading over them. He's tucked himself into the corner of the couch and from where I stood he looks so little. My big boy is so little.

'Come on. Let's go home.' I hold his coat out to him. He's come obediently to put it on. "I'm done?"
'Yup. Let's go. I need to start dinner as soon as we get home.' I squat down in front of him to help him start his zipper. He fumbles a bit but I don't have the patience to wait for his childish fingers.. He looks stiff in his winter jacket and the underside of his runny nose rubs on the top of his collar--I grab his hands and look into his tired eyes. 'We're having macaroni and cheese tonight! You like that?' He smiles from behind his collar and asks 'can I have mine with hot dogs?'

'Yup!' I say excitedly and we gather our things and turn our backs from this place that has exposed me like a criminal and shaken me as mother. Kevin is oblivious to my turmoil and knows not of the literature that burns a shameful hole through my purse.

Wordy words with little value.

There are so many things in this life that I want to do, accomplish, FINISH, start, read, see, smell, experience, be good at, EXCEL at, be known for, teach, learn...
I want to see Paris. I want to read a million books--from classics to contemporary literature; from poetry to prose to plays.
I want to be good at singing--as though it were an instrument. Not just able to carry a tune but GOOD at singing--harmony, scats, spontaneous song, variations, pitch!
I want to play an instrument well--I used to play piano; I sort of play guitar....

I'm right back to the eternal struggle I've always had. I'm mediocre at a lot of things but I don't excel at anything.
I'd like to be that person who is amazing at that 'one thing'.

Oh Claire, yeah she's such a great vocalist.

You know who'd be able to help you with that project? Claire.

Perhaps it's the desire to be honoured by man. Yeah, that's most likely it. But I'm also unsettled in my soul that I'm so many different things. I'm scattered and disjointed and unorganized.
I feel like I'm always going though an upward learning-curve or struggle. Nothing comes easily to me. I just started singing on the worship team and I HATE it that I have to be coached along the ENTIRE way like some child. I've been asked to take pictures for two weddings this summer--and I almost want to say 'no' because I'm not that good. I can't even remember what an f-stop is. I used to, but the convenience of automatic cameras has cleverly robbed me of that skill by feeding into my laziness.

Ohhh how convenient! Now I can stop thinking altogether!

I wish I'd been named something prophetic that was undeniably WHO I was meant to be. Something Celtic for 'writer' or Hebrew for 'artist' or Latin for 'midwife'.

All of you who KNOW your calling and KNOW your place, more or less, Thank Yeshua you are blessed to know! And to all of you who think you're boring because you DO know--that's ridiculous. Don't be silly. You've had the courage to follow the promptings of your heart.

For the rest of us...I'm at a loss of words. We are the wandering children of the earth. The eternal artists who never surrender. Dreamers in denial.

Where is Contentment? Where has she gone to?
Where is Purpose? Has he forgotten me?

Nathaara: Arabic: Writer
Carisa: Latin: Artist
Melatiah: Biblical: Deliverance of the Lord.

The Folly

My body pulsates with hot blood as the physiological gears kick in and the adrenalin hits me snapping me out of the thick fog I had suddenly walked into.



It's February in north eastern Ontario and we're on our way to Toronto. Typical of February, it's mild and gray outside. Roads and walkways are slushy which leads to slippery sidewalks when the temperature drops at night. It's that tricky time between winter and spring that builds false hopes only to dash them to smithereens like an icicles hitting the pavement below.



I feel so awkward. My fingers and toes are cold to the touch and I feel a deep chill in my bones, but inside my jacket I'm sweating from the internal chaos that overrides my senses.
My legs feel prudish clenched together but when I let my knees fall to the sides I feel clumsy and fat and easy. I know I have a very unconvincing smile fixed on my face but if I showed how I really felt I'd be weeping.



Instinct kicks in after the gears in my head process what had been said.
I am cornered like a dirty rabbit in a dirty cage and I can neither escape my cage nor hide my filth. Nor can I turn his eyes away from me.

My mind is racing but my body immobile; instinctual.



I pet his hand as though I weren't churning inside.



I look out the window at the unending pathetic landscape jerking by to distract myself or at least to stop staring at the dash in dumbfoundedness. But then I stop staring out the window as the all too familiar feeling of fighting in the car with my mother floods over me. Feelings of injustice, misunderstanding and teenage defiance confuse my current feelings so I turn away from the window. I don't want to look as wounded as I feel.


Like an injured rabbit in a cage I'm unable to lick my sores in peace and am instead forced to smell the stench of my own shit through someone else's nostrils.



I've lost a lot of blood; I can feel it draining from me. I'm growing tired. And now I'm a cat. And all I want to do it sleep. But I know that once I wake from my escapist slumber I'll be drawn too quickly from that idyllic world only to be reminded of the trouble of this one. And the pain of that drowsy realization isn't worth the pleasure of sleep right now.



The dull roar...no, how typical. It's more like the grating vibration of the wind grabs at the sides of the car while music with a militant beat hammers at the silence carving it into a war zone. Only the rumble of the tires rolling over the pavement at 120 kilometers per hour, the clumsy rattle of an old interior and the irritating tinking of loose change in the cup holder competes with the wind and the warring.



Strong winds shove the car back and forth between the lines in rhythm with my own emotional tug-of-war. I'm indignant! I'm caught. Defend yourself! Surrender... Yet, I know I'm not as wounded as I feel. I know this sore isn't as deep or tender as it used to be. I know I'm acting the way I'm expected to even though in my heart of hearts I see the truth. I see the folly for what it is and it's ok. Time and distance from the North gives me more perspective.



A gentle touch to my arm that has a lingering sense of concern in it's fingertips snaps other gears into place and my heart claims order over my ghosts again.

Hate in an elevator. Beating me up when we're goin' down...

It was a bitterly cold day in Hamilton. The wind was gusting causing the -8 temperature to feel more like -23; I wasn't enjoying running my errands like I usually do. But the sun was shining and I had the pleasant duty to interview a lady from my church for our newsletter.

She had called me the night before, 'Claire!' she yelled into the phone, presumably fearful I couldn't hear her like she couldn't hear me. "Yes, hello Lillian."
'Claire!' she called again, 'you'll need to park at the church. There isn't any parking at my building.'

Since the church was immediately across the street from her apartment this wasn't a problem. I arrived early so I went over my questions with Rebekah, the secretary at the church and my roommate. Finally, just before the appointed time of 1pm I walked across the street and into her building. I rang her apartment, was greeted with an anxious 'the door's open!' with the word 'open' cut off by a buzzing sound as Lillian had eagerly pressed the button to unlock the foyer door too soon.

So far so good.

I pressed and elevator button to go to the 6th floor and surprisingly the door opened almost immediately. A tall elderly woman stepped out and finished up her conversation with another elderly woman, this one short, squat and quiet.
I asked, 'Up or down', and the lady who had stepped out said 'She's going up.' I smiled, said thanks and entered the elevator, quickly pressing 6 so the doors would close.

As I pressed 6 the small old lady became quite agitated, and indicated to me, in Italian or Portuguese, that the 'B' button was already illuminated because she was, in fact, going down.

In retrospect it's odd that the lady leaving the elevator was a) having a conversation with this lady as she left the elevator and b) seemed so certain she was going up.

Anyway, I said 'It's ok. Down.' I indicated to her it was ok if we went down first. She calmed down and we waited for the jerk of the elevator to give us a split-second weightless sensation, when instead the elevator jerked up and our weight was multiplied and shoved down on us.
This generated a flurry of hand gestures and, presumably, swear words from the small lady. She turned to me, clearly blaming me for a mixed up elevator.

Is it just me or don't ALL other elevators across the globe follow the order of the buttons pushed?

As we continued to rise and her voice and animated body language grew more frantic, she ran her chubby little fingers all over the buttons for each floor illuminating every floor between 1 and 6 and then some. Sadly for her the elevator followed orders this time. I hate to think that she had to endure floors 5, 4, 3, 2 and 1 before she got to the basement again.

All this time I was apologizing and giving the international look for 'i-feel-badly-but-it's-not-my-fault' look by shrugging my shoulders as I said 'sorry' and pasting a concerned, upset frown on my face mixed with a pathetic smile to let her know I had good intentions.

This only intensified things and as she lifted the backside of her hand to the level of her face in the international 'I'm-going-to-slap-you' position the doors open to the 6th floor and I escaped unharmed but still enduring an onslaught of verbal abuse.

Lillian was waiting for me at the elevator doors and she giggled and hugged me as I stepped out onto her floor. This unabashed affection was mockingly imitated by my little friend in the elevator. ' HA HA HA HA HA!' she loudly mimicked.

And as the doors closed the sounds of mimicked laughter, multilingual swearing and cursing and body parts being flung about the elevator echoed in the hallway as the elevator made it's descent one floor at a time.