Because That's What You Do

When I was a baby girl my dad would lift me up on the hour so that I could see the cuckoo bird pop out of the cuckoo clock. I felt like I was hundreds of feet in the air when he would let me ride on his shoulders. When I was tired he would pick me up and carry me to bed. I was amazed at his strength when he would fly me around the house like an airplane or hold me upside down by the ankles. And even when he was in the middle of a conversation, if I reached out with stretched arms and said “Daddy, up?” he would hear me and pick me up without missing a beat because that’s what you do when you love your baby girl.

When I was a little girl my dad would sometimes drop me off at school in his police car -even though we lived right across the street, just because he knew it made me feel special. He told me I was smart, not just beautiful - but smart, and he told me often. He pushed me on the swings, took me to fly kites and blew bubbles with me. He sang to me and told me fairytales. He knelt beside my bed and prayed with me. I would stand on top of his feet and he would dance with me and tell me that we would dance like this on my wedding day. And he held my hand, because that’s what you do when you love your little girl. 

When I was a teenage girl my dad would read everything I wrote and edit it for me and then he would read it again, even if I was cramming an eight page essay at midnight. He came to listen to me sing, or play or practice or speak and always told me that he was proud of me. He told me I was beautiful, not just smart - but beautiful when I felt like the ugliest girl at school. And he held me while I cried over the injustices of youth, because that’s what you do when you love your teenage girl.

When I was a young woman, just starting out, my dad would take my car when I wasn’t watching and put gas in it, just because. He would discuss politics, philosophy, religion and current events into the wee hours of the morning with me, often playing devil’s advocate because he knew it challenged me and made me think. He showered my mother with an abundance of love, respect and admiration, demonstrating to me how a man should treat his wife. He encouraged me to take risks, try new things and to see the world. And he offered me his arm to take when walking, because that’s what you do when you love and honour the young lady that is your daughter. 

When I, as a woman, am busy with the day-to-day things of life, my dad calls me to talk, just because. He listens to my failures and successes and tells me that “everything will work out, it always does.” He loves my dog as much as I do and he makes me wheat-free cupcakes as a surprise. He tells me I’m smart and beautiful. He tries to impart the wisdom of financial planning and he comes by my house to fix, build or plant things -often before I even know it needs to be done. He blows bubbles with me as the sun goes down and we talk about the deeper things like faith, love and the meaning of life. And, whenever we part ways, whether on the phone or in person, our last words are always “I love you” because that’s what you do when you love your grown daughter.

When I am. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .because that’s what you do when you love your daughter.

For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. Of what man is there of you, whom if his son ask for bread, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?  -Matthew 7:8-11

My Mom's Story: Part 1- Growing Up in Thornhill

I’m starting this blog for two reasons. The first being that more and more I find I need a writing outlet. I’m inspired by my friends’ blogs and the honesty in their writing so I figured I would give this a try. The second is that its my mom’s 50th birthday coming up and I want to do something in her honour. She doesn’t know I’m doing this and it’s probably best she doesn’t hear about it until it’s done so that she doesn’t put the kaibosh on it out of modesty. My mother is where I will begin. This is not meant to be a biography, yet in order to appreciate what my mother has taught me and how she has inspired me it seems only fitting to look at where she’s come from and how far she has come in her life thus far.


My Mom's Story : Part I - Growing Up in Thornhill

All stories focusing on one’s life seem to begin with the date they came into the world. This seems as good a place as any to start, especially with my mother’s upcoming 50th birthday. My mother was born on July 25, 1961 in Collingwood, Ontario. I won’t go too far into her childhood as I wasn’t there to attest to it and I wouldn’t want to skew another’s memories. However, it seems that she was a curious little kid who was independent and had no inhibitions about leaving her her home and going to visit her grandparents down the street without telling her parents where she was going. She was mature beyond her years and by age six she was certain she was destined to be an only child. Luckily, she was blessed with a baby sister that year who she endeavored to keep out of trouble in the years that followed.
My mom has always had a strong work ethic which I know for certain that she developed growing up in her household. Her parents were from a farming background and they brought that with them to their acreage home in Thornhill, Ontario. There was no sleeping in allowed because there were always chores that could be done around the house and on the property. As there were no boys in the family her dad became an equal opportunist of sorts and made sure his girls were well-rounded in all family tasks. There were no “pink” or “blue” jobs as I’ve heard them referred to recently.
Mom worked equally hard in school. Though she wasn’t one who achieved especially high marks she did excel in art and was athletic, participating in many school teams, her favorite being basketball. Like myself, she struggled in math and also like myself she was bullied and teased about her looks. These two things especially endeared her to me as a child (knowing that she had problems in math but now she paid all the bills and helped me with my math homework and that she was also tormented by her classmates but was now the most beautiful woman I knew). I think it was in these years that she developed her determination. If you want to defeat my mother the worst thing you can do is to tell her that she is not capable of accomplishing something. That’s all the kindling she needs to light a fire and she will burn through any obstacles until she achieves just what you said she couldn’t do. Then she’ll take it a step further and be the best at it too!
Basically, by the time she was 15 years old my Mom was a sweet, mature, independent and well-balanced girl with numerous skills. At this time she also attended and became a confirmed member of The United Church of Canada. That winter her church paired with the nearby Presbyterian Church to billet youth coming from Virginia. Mom of course, in all appropriateness, asked to billet another young woman. However, there were a few local boys there that had come to participate hoping that they could also billet some young American women. One of these boys was the good-natured but more rebellious 17-year-old son of a Presbyterian Church Elder. It was in the church basement that this boy first asked Lee Anne if she’d like to go grab lunch with him at McDonalds. She didn’t answer him. There was another girl named Lee Anne there. She was certain he must be asking that other Lee Anne out.

To be continued. . .