The Tired Mom's Mite

I started today with a meltdown and am finish it feeling refreshed and hopeful. It’s nice when that happens.

Liam has been showing signs of toilet training readiness since before James was born, but I didn’t want to tackle the project until after the baby came. I decided a little while ago that we would try the three-day method, and waited for a weekend (plus a Monday) that weren’t already completely booked with activities. The three-day method requires that you stay home for the whole three days and focus only on potty training. Once the three days have elapsed, the child will be trained. Or so the book says. The calendar was clear this past weekend, so we started on Saturday. And today, Liam was back in a diaper. It’s not that it went terribly. He actually made some progress. It’s just that Mommy is really really tired! After two big accidents this morning, I called Brendan for some moral support. We decided that is was better for everyone’s sanity to just put the diaper on and leave the house. I’m glad I did – we all needed to get out!

For the past couple months, I’ve been going to a mom’s group at St. Mary’s on Wednesdays, so I headed there this morning. We meet in the church basement and the kids play while we visit and read Scripture together or listen to a guest speaker. When we do lectio divina, it’s always using the Gospel for the following Sunday. Today, our Scripture reading was the story of the widow’s mite. In our conversation following the reading, we talked about how difficult it can be to set aside time for prayer, but that the Lord is pleased even with our humble offerings. Caring for infants and toddlers, we will very rarely get the uninterrupted hour of daily prayer we would like – but we can offer what we have.

This idea of giving what we have resonated with me, not only in terms of prayer, but in every facet of my life as a mother. In the midst of my frustration over potty training, I was feeling the depth of my weakness: my fatigue, my impatience, my selfish desire for comfort. I wanted to do better, but I felt I couldn’t give anything more. And then here was this story of the poor widow, who out of her poverty, gave all she had. I was reminded of the beauty of an offering made out of poverty. I’m not perfect, I don’t have endless patience, I yell at my precious wide-eyed toddler and then feel badly about it… but I can still try to do better tomorrow. I can still give all I have, even if I am poor. I know this doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t look after myself – I need time to re-energize and recharge – but more often than not, I will be called to give out of my poverty. There’s a certain comfort in that, when I really stop to think about it. God is pleased with my efforts but he knows they are not enough on their own – so he steps in to make up the difference. He gives me grace to get through the day, friends to give me support and advice, and a husband who comes home early on the days he knows I need it most. So perhaps my poverty isn’t all that poor after all. Or maybe that’s just part of God’s contradictory way: in our weakness, we find strength.    

A few photos of my sweet boys (who make it all worthwhile!):

In their matching jammies from Nana

All Saints party at the Baker's (Liam is a monkey but refused to put the hood part on)

Story time with Liam & James!
(Yes, that's the monkey costume again - he found it in a bag and asked to put it on!)

Over the Sea to Skye

Two years ago, on the first weekend of November, Brendan, Liam and I set out on our first road trip as a family, to the Scottish Isle of Skye. This weekend excursion would set the tone for our entire sojourn in Scotland, providing the opportunity to forge new friendships and solidifying in us the desire to make the absolute most of our time abroad. We both fell immediately in love with Scotland, and this trip, at the outset of our travels, branded the hills in our hearts. Impossible not to love a place this beautiful:

On this second anniversary of our arrival in Scotland, I find myself once again remembering. I’m nostalgic again, perhaps more so this year because the infant now in my arms looks so much like his big brother did two years ago. Dressing James in Liam’s sleepers and seeing the familiar expressions on his little face remind me of my initiation into motherhood, set against the backdrop of our first family adventure. I’m happy to be home, to be settled in our new house, to be able to share my beautiful boys with family and friends, but remembering still evokes in me a longing for what was. I think there are several reasons for this.

Our time in Scotland launched us into family life and was the beginning of my vocation as a mother. I think there’s always a certain romance about the beginning of things, if they are happy things, as these were.

I had never before had the opportunity to travel abroad with such freedom. The prospect of being able to go virtually anywhere we wanted in the UK and on the continent was exciting to me. And I was travelling with Brendan, whose enthusiasm is invigorating.

Stirling is beautiful and I found a home in its beauty. I’ve noticed through the years that most Maritimers I’ve met are particularly identified with their home – home is part of who they are, and they speak of it with affection and reverence. They have a deep appreciation for place, which I had not experienced personally until I discovered Stirling. I love my home, but not so much for the place as for the people – my family and friends make this place special to me. I loved the people I met in Stirling, but I also loved the place. It spoke to me in a way no other place has – I never tired of looking out at Dumyat and seeing the Wallace Monument, of admiring how differently the light painted it each day. Place has new meaning to me now, and although I still think that having a vibrant community can make any place livable, there is something to be said for the character of the place itself.

Because we knew our time abroad was limited, we dedicated ourselves to making the most of it. We were not faced with an indefinite horizon that allowed us to get lazy about how we spent our days. We knew the time was short, so we packed in as much as we could. Having the end in sight inspired us not to waste any time. It’s still possible to live with that kind of purposefulness – after all, life itself has a term, for some shorter than for others – but when the end of a chapter is not so clearly defined, it’s hard to keep up the motivation.

Our time away opened my eyes to the exciting possibilities of life. If we could do this, what else could we do?! I know I can’t always be living for the next exciting adventure, and that to be truly happy, we have to find joy in the simple things, but going to Scotland taught me not to be afraid to think outside the box. Many opportunities will come our way, and I don’t want to be afraid to try something just because it’s out of the ordinary or might require more effort to organize. I don’t want to shut out the possibility of being surprised by the bends our path will take.

Reflecting on the things I learned from our adventures abroad is important to me. We didn’t go to Scotland just to go to Scotland. We went to learn and to grow, and to become a family. I’m grateful for that. And both Brendan and I have given ourselves the challenge to continue along the path of intentional living, so that no matter where we find ourselves as a family, we will always seize opportunities to learn and grow. 

On the Far Shore

On Friday, my family celebrated the life of my Aunt Nelia (wife of my mom’s brother Gregory and mother to my cousin Brendan), who, after a five-year battle with cancer, passed away on October 15^th. She lived in Walla Walla, Washington, but wanted to be buried in Ottawa, next to my Grandpa Phil, who died on Christmas day, 2007.

The funeral was beautiful – a true celebration of life. At the reception following Mass, Greg shared a few words about Nelia and how peacefully she approached her journey home. She was not afraid – she was ready. The heart which had known many sorrows was finally at peace and she was happy. It was so moving to hear Greg speak of her last days, knowing that her race is run. As Greg said, she is now on the far shore.

After a brief reception in the church hall, the family proceeded to the cemetery for the burial service. The celebrant said a few prayers and then we were all invited to pray and say our private goodbyes. As I knelt by the casket I felt a strong sense of peace, as though Nelia were sharing a taste of her newfound gift with me. She always had a generous heart.

The rest of the day was spent at Grandma’s house, the hub of the Bourassa family. We shared food, stories, laughter and tears. I was especially moved by how humbly Greg shared his love for his wife and his grief at losing her. He did not hide his emotion, nor was he overcome by it. He was philosophical about Nelia’s passing, as he is with most things, knowing that she is happy and that his own life will carry on – but he was also candid about the challenges he knows lay ahead, and the heartache of journeying on without the company of his beloved partner.

Since hearing the news of Nelia’s death, I have reflected a lot on how quickly life passes – how momentary it all is in the face of eternity. Nelia’s journey is over now – there’s no second lap, no curtain call. She lives on with God, but her work here is done. No matter how deeply I ponder that reality, the significance of it still seems to elude me. Done. Accomplished. Perhaps this is because being done is only part of the story; we were made for eternity, and although our limited minds feel more comfortable within boundaries, the sense of eternity within us still bucks against the concept of ending. Maybe I find it so hard to conceive of not seeing Nelia again because at the deepest level of my being, I know I will. This knowledge doesn’t make it easy to be separated from a loved one, but it certainly soothes the sting of loss.

I have also been prompted to think about opportunity, outreach and regret. I think it’s common to feel, when someone dies, the longing to go back, to have another chance to know them better, to reach out more often, to show more love. Regrets can bind us with their shackles of hopelessness. I don’t think God wants us to be shackled by our failings – instead he urges us to learn from our shortcomings and choose differently when the opportunity arises to love again, to reach out to someone else, to spend more time this time around. After all, the person we wished we could have loved better is now in the company of perfect love, but those with us here can still benefit from our caring.

I feel for my uncle and cousin, but I know their hearts will heal. They are men of faith, and know well the beautiful truth that through all the changes and challenges of this life, God remains. And I’m sure that Nelia will watch out for them from heaven, making her presence felt in the details of their lives, as she did so aptly here on earth. 

James

Our second son, James Philip Gordon Marshall, was born on September 16^th at 4:38pm. It was a perfect day.

I woke up that morning with Liam at 6:30, after a full night’s sleep (the concept of uninterrupted sleep seems so distant to me now!). Nana, Papa and Daddy were still asleep, so Liam and I went to the basement to watch Thomas and Friends and do a prenatal yoga practice, respectively (!). A couple of hours later, I noticed that the Braxton Hicks contractions which had become so frequent in the last weeks began to feel different. We had planned to go out for breakfast and to Mass with Bill, Susan, Liz and Chris, so I decided to pack my bag for the birthing centre in case we didn’t have time to come home. My contractions continued over the course of breakfast and increased in frequency and intensity during Mass. We went to Blessed Sacrament, and Brendan and I spent most of the Mass in the nursery, where we would hear what was happening upstairs and I could breathe and sway through my contractions without distracting anyone. After Mass I called my midwife to give her an update. We agreed that I should go home and call again when I felt the contractions become a little more intense. About an hour later, we were on our way to the birthing centre.

By 2pm, we were settled in our room and our midwife had measured my progress: I was at 4cm. I felt a rush of relief at that announcement. During my labour with Liam we were sent home from the hospital twice because I was not far enough along to be admitted. This time, I wasn’t even really in pain yet and already at 4cm. I was glad to know that things were progressing well.

My contractions continued regularly for the next hour and a half, increasing in intensity but still not causing me too much pain. We decided then that it would be a good idea to eat, so we chose from the centre’s menu and put on an episode of Arrested Development while we waited for our meal. My labour progressed rapidly in the short time it took to prepare the food. Just as the midwife returned to our room, I had two extremely intense contractions back to back. “Ok, I think I should check you again,” she said calmly. I laid down on the bed, hoping she wouldn’t say 5cm. It was only 3:45 though, so I wasn’t expecting much progress. “7cm!” she announced, smiling. She then called the second midwife to come assist with delivery. The pain was becoming difficult to manage at this point, so the student midwife who was with us drew a bath for me. Getting in the water offered significant relief. The contractions were now excruciating, but I was able to relax completely between each one, which helped me to cope. It wasn’t long before I felt the need to push. I got out of the tub and onto the bed. On one of the first pushes, the midwife realized that the membrane was still intact, so she broke it for me on the next push. I pushed again and out came the baby’s head. A final push and he was born, at 4:38pm. I was on my hands and knees, so they slipped him under me and I was able to hold him right away. I was completely overcome with emotion. I felt triumphant – and so in love with my precious boy.

Brendan and the midwives helped me onto my back for the afterbirth. Brendan cut the umbilical cord and I waited somewhat nervously to deliver the placenta. When it came out a few moments later I was again filled with a sense of relief. This process had been more complicated the first time. Liam had passed meconium in utero, so when he was born, he was immediately whisked away to have his lungs aspirated. One of my midwifes this time around explained to me that having my baby taken from me so abruptly may have caused a surge of adrenaline in my body, which would have stopped the normal course of labour. I would also have missed out on the oxytocin (a labour inducing hormone) that is released in a mother’s body when she holds her baby immediately after birth. Perhaps for these reasons, or possibly others, my placenta stayed put after Liam was born. When 30 minutes had elapsed, the doctor reached in to get it, which put me into shock. Needless to say, I did not want to repeat that experience, especially without an epidural! So delivering James’ placenta was the crowning of a perfect birth experience!

For the next two hours, I held my baby to my breast and waited for him to nurse. He needed a bit of help, but eventually he figured it out. I enjoyed those first few hours of his life – watching him open and close his eyes, suckle gently, and begin to take in the world outside the womb. Brendan’s parents brought Liam to see us during that time. He was immediately interested in the baby, wanting to touch James’ tiny hands and nose, and placing his own ball cap on the baby’s head. After our visitors left and James had finished his first feed, the midwives checked him out. He weighed in at 7lbs 13oz, and measured 21 inches. They found him to be perfectly healthy, and since I was also doing well, we were allowed to go home. We pulled into our driveway with our new baby at 8:15pm, just 12 hours after I felt the first hint of labour. And although I had contractions for about 8 hours, I was only in pain for the last hour. I had hoped for an easier labour this second time around and I certainly got it!

Bill and Susan stayed with us for the first week of James’ life, which was a tremendous help. All I did that first week was look after my baby (making sure, of course, to let Liam know that I was still his mama too!) – Susan kept the household running masterfully while I slept and nursed my newborn. I recovered very quickly from the birth and felt well enough in the second week to start going back to some of my regular activities with Liam – playgroups, outings to the park, and so on. I’m grateful for how smoothly the transition has gone.

I wondered, before James was born, what it would be like to love another baby. Now I’ve experienced what I had heard other moms say: your heart grows exponentially with the gift of each child. I love my little James so much. I am honoured to be his mother, to be entrusted with his precious soul, and I look forward to getting to know him as he grows.  

Day 1

Day 4

Liam loves to hold his baby brother!

Nana & Papa with their grandsons

James and his Uncle Pat

James at one month (Oct 16)

Turning Two

Today is Liam’s second birthday.

Here’s a brief account of his birth, which I wrote for his baby book:

On Friday, September 3^rd, Daddy and I were watching a movie at the Baker’s when I started to have regular contractions. We went back to Mamma & Papa’s after the movie and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I got up and paced downstairs, keeping track of the frequency and duration of each contraction. Sometime after midnight, I decided it was time to go to the hospital. I got Daddy up and we drove to the Montfort. It was a very uncomfortable drive!

When we arrived at the hospital, the nurse told us I could not be admitted, because I was only dilated to 1cm. We didn’t want to go all the way back to Embrun, so we snuck into Great-Grandma’s house while she was sleeping. In the morning, she was surprised to see visitors in her house!

I only slept from about 5-7am on Saturday morning, so I was very tired that day. The contractions had kept me up all night, but slowed down during the day. Nana & Papa and some other members of Daddy’s family were in town and we had plans to go out for dinner with them that evening. Nothing seemed to have progressed, so we met them at their hotel as planned, and walked together to a nearby Italian restaurant for a lovely meal. My contractions started up again around 5pm, and by the time dinner was over, things seemed to be in full swing. I had to stop talking and focus on my breathing during each one, which made me hopeful that this was the real thing! We said goodbye to everyone right after dessert and went back to Great-Grandma’s where I could be more comfortable while we waited for you. We watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, and when it ended, I decided it was time to make another trip to the hospital.

To my great disappointment, I still couldn’t be admitted! I had labored for so long and nothing had changed! The nurse gave me some medicine to help me sleep, and Daddy took me back to Great-Grandma’s, tired and tearful. I did manage to sleep for a few hours, but was awoken again by contractions. I decided to draw a bath, and spent several hours in Great-Grandma’s tub.

On Sunday morning, I called Mamma & Papa and asked them to come to Great-Grandma’s to be with us. They came after church and made a nice breakfast, but I couldn’t eat anything. I was still in the tub at that point, but decided that if I didn’t get out then, you might just be born right there! So I mustered all my strength and courage, and Daddy and I made our third trip to the hospital, just after noon. This time we stayed.

By the time we got to our hospital room, I was at 4cm. I was so tired and the contractions so painful that I decided to have an epidural. The anesthesiologist happened to be available right then, so I was quickly made more comfortable. When the pain went away I was able to get some much-needed rest.

I slept on and off for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Nana & Papa came in for a short visit, and Daddy stayed by my bedside to keep me company. Sometime in the evening, I started to feel pain again. The anesthesiologist came back to give me a boost of medicine, but the pain stayed.

Finally, it was time for you to come. I pushed and pushed, hoping that you would come out quickly! When your head came out, the doctor saw that your umbilical cord was around your neck, so he cut it right away. A couple more pushes and you came sailing out, at 12:52am on Monday, September 6^th. It happened so fast that it seemed to me you had flown right up into the doctor’s arms! You were immediately taken by the nurses, who had to check your lungs. Daddy and I waited and waited to hear you cry, holding our breath until we heard your voice. Then a nurse brought you to me and I saw your precious little face for the very first time. I felt so much love for you!

You had to go to another room then, so that the nurses could monitor your breathing, but they soon brought you back so that I could feed you. You latched on well – I was so proud of you! When you had eaten, they took you again, and finally brought you back to me around 5am on Monday morning. Daddy and I were so happy to see you and excited to finally start getting to know this beautiful little boy God had given us.

Day 1

As I await the birth of our second child, I can’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia at the close of these two years of belonging only to Liam. He will no longer be an only child, absorbing all the love and attention his Mommy and Daddy have to offer. Part of me worries that I’ll miss him – that my focus on the new baby will mean overlooking the wonderful little things about my first-born that now hold me spellbound… I’m sure that once James is born, I will realize how silly this concern is. Of course I’ll have enough love for both of them! Love is expansive, and grows to meet the need. No doubt these feelings will pass as soon as I hold my new baby in my arms and realize that my heart has grown more than I could have imagined. I suppose, then, the best way to channel what I’m feeling at the moment is to cherish these last few days of Liam’s only-childhood and give thanks for the boy who first made me a mother. 

4 months

12 months

20 months

23 months

Liam's Birthday Party

Photos courtesy of Jenna Gernon

Liam’s birthday is on September 6^th, but we chose to celebrate early this year, given his little brother’s imminent arrival. We threw a party on Saturday, September 1^st, attended by grandparents, great-grandparents, aunt, uncles, cousins, godparents, old friends and new friends. The party was our first opportunity to host such a large group in our new home (about 25 people), and both Brendan and I considered it to be a great success. It was fun to have a house full of people – to look around at various moments throughout the afternoon and see one smiling face after another. Liam seemed to enjoy himself too. He was revved up by the company of other kids, but not to the point of acting crazy or having a fit. A few times I noticed him pull away from all the activity to push his little cars along the edge of the sofa, as he does when he’s home alone with me. I took this to be an indication that although he enjoys being sociable, he needs a few moments of quiet every once in a while to regroup.

My favourite moment of the party was watching my boy beam as we sang Happy Birthday and brought him cupcakes. I didn’t expect him to realize we were singing to him, but he did. He stood on a chair at the table, smiling broadly, eyes alight with anticipation of dessert. I also enjoyed opening gifts with him and seeing the other kids swarm the tissue filled bags, eager to show Liam the things they were giving him. Once the gifts were open upstairs, we brought everyone down to the basement, where our gift to Liam – a train table – was set up. Brendan had covered the table with a sheet and once Liam came down, we unveiled it in front of him. He immediately knew what to do – the idea of the gift came from our many trips to Mrs. Tiggy Winkle’s to play with the train table there. The other kids didn’t skip a beat – within seconds they were all crowded around the table playing with the trains and trucks.    

The house was quiet again before 9pm, and with Liam sound asleep and Brendan out to see a friend’s band, I had some time to myself before going to bed. I took the opportunity to jot down a few notes about Liam in his notebook and start a new one for James. These two years have gone by so quickly, and now my baby is about to become a big brother… I can’t wait to see him begin this new chapter of his life!  

Resistance Training

Liam is growing a will. And with judgment and maturity acquired over nearly two whole years of life, he now wishes to assert himself. Enter Toddling Tyrant.

Yesterday he made it his mission to oppose me at every turn. He began the day by waking up at 5:30 with his grouch face on. Later in the morning, I thought he might like to go to the park, but he wanted to drive his ride-on trucks through the neighbour’s garden instead. When we finally did set out for the park, he wanted to change course before we got there and walk towards the busiest street in town. I insisted on the park and he ran around whining.

As I sat on a swing watching Liam wrestle with his bad mood, it occurred to me that motherhood is something like resistance training. The surest way to build muscle is to exercise it against some kind of resistance – our bodies become stronger when faced with an opposing force. Listening to my two-year-old whine, I couldn’t help but feel tired of being opposed. Then I realized that motherhood constantly pits a woman against an opposing force… or two, or many… Toddler wills become child wills, which evolve into teenage wills (the most pernicious of all!) – and as a child grows, he tests the substance of his individuality against his parents, resulting in opposition. I couldn’t help but sigh at the thought of this. I imagined myself a few years down the road with a house full of kids, throwing myself on my bed and lamenting, “Why can’t they just do what I say?!” But just as resistance training is good for muscles, I think it’s also good for the soul. If patience and generosity always came easily, would I really grow into a truly patient and generous person? I have to sweat it out in the gym of parenthood to bulk up my virtues. Someone who is effortlessly virtuous is kind of like those skinny-fat people – the ones who don’t put on weight, so they look reasonable fit, but they’re actually kind of soft and flabby. I want to have a robust character, not a skinny-fat one. And so the resistance is good for me, even though it’s hard. It’s good for Liam too, to be faced with opposition from me – we strengthen each other, soften each other’s rough edges, and learn how to live harmoniously by sometimes doing battle.

Fortunately for me, last night Brendan and I had planned a date. I gleefully drove Liam to his Auntie Liz and Uncle Chris’, where he behaved like an angel (my mom had warned me that kids often save their worst behaviour for their parents – aren’t we lucky?!). B and I enjoyed a great evening together, and as we drove back to pick up our boy, I found myself looking forward to scooping his sleepy little self into my arms. He may spend a large portion of his growing up life opposing me, but I’m willing to undergo the training so that I can always be strong enough to love him anyway.  

Displaying his persistent will to go outside...

If Mom won't help me with my shoes, I'll put them on myself!

Visitors from Abroad

Among the many great gifts we received from our Marshall Adventures Abroad (as this blog was originally titled), the friendships we forged along the way remain preeminent. Last summer, we had the good fortune of meeting up with Ian and Elanor, an American couple who were our neighbours in Scotland and who happened to be visiting family in Maine while we were on holiday in New Brunswick. We spent a couple of days together, picking up where we left off in Scotland, as though no time had passed in the narrative of our friendship.

This summer, another friendship begun in Scotland saw its continuation on this side of the pond. Chris, a former classmate of Brendan’s, along with his girlfriend Alexandra, came to stay with us. Chris is Italian and Alex is Swiss-American. They were vacationing together in Vermont with the American side of her family, and decided to take a short trip up north to visit us. It was great to see Chris again and to meet Alex. Chris remarked when he arrived that people who make friends abroad often say, “You should come visit my home!” but it rarely happens – we were fortunate to fall outside that norm.

Our guests arrived last Saturday afternoon and left for New York City on Monday morning. It was a quick but memorable visit, complete with a tour of downtown Ottawa, good conversation, great meals, and of course, scotch, which Chris had brought from Stirling for Brendan. We parted ways having very much enjoyed our weekend, and hoping to find ourselves again under the same roof somewhere down the road.  

In the Peace Tower, Parliament Hill

Granny's 80th Birthday

My dad’s mom turned 80 on August 8^th. To celebrate the occasion, the Cogan clan gathered at Jennifer (my dad’s sister) and José’s house in Montreal. We were all there, save three cousins (two of whom were in other parts of the country and one overseas), which is a special occurrence in a large family. We congregated in Montreal on the afternoon of Saturday, August 18^th and shared a fantastic meal, orchestrated principally by Granny’s two daughters, Jennifer and Brenna. After dinner we gathered in the living room and my dad, the family orator, delivered a simple but meaningful tribute to his mom. To honour her, he compiled a list of titles which represented her many qualities and talents, including devoted wife and mother, thoughtful neighbour, seamstress, swim instructor, ringer of the dinner time cowbell, etc. The list stirred up memories in all of us – things we associate with Granny without even realizing it. The atmosphere of appreciation in the room reminded me of how important a mother really is to all members of her family. She binds them together, and her qualities, character, talents, and values make an impact on all of them. Granny did not (and still doesn’t) set out to impress people with her qualities and attributes – she simply did what she thought was best for her family, and what she felt would contribute to everyone’s happiness – but they make an impressive list nonetheless! In her quiet but firm way, she worked together with Grandad to build a solid foundation for her family, pouring herself into her five children, molding them into people of character. I hope that looking around the room that evening, she felt satisfied with the fruit her efforts have born. I sense that Granny genuinely doesn’t realize how important her role has been in her family, but I hope that she was able to perceive, as we acknowledged, confirmed and added to my dad’s list, just how much we love and appreciate her.

Left to right: Chris, Jennifer, Sean, Brenna, Tim
Ian, Mary

After the toast, Jennifer presented Granny with a gift from the family (a beautiful peridot pendant and earrings) and laughter rang out loud and long over a certain Google search undertaken by Brenna about tradition surrounding the August birthstone (those of us who were present will remember well ;). We then enjoyed a delicious red velvet birthday cake and stayed up late talking and laughing. Our hosts had invited us all to spend the night in their spacious home, so we gradually trickled off to bed, until even the most enthusiastic conversationalists (i.e. my husband) decided it was time to retire.

The next day began bright and early for those of us with babies (and for my mom, who has a habit of waking up obscenely early), so we took the little ones outside to avoid waking up the rest of the family. As more and more people emerged from their bedrooms, breakfast was laid out and the previous night’s activity of eating carried on seamlessly. A family photo was taken after breakfast, and then we Marshall’s said our goodbyes. Most of the others stayed for another few hours, and more food was brought out. Hunger is forbidden at family functions!!!

Granny & Grandad's Clan
(photos courtesy of Joel)

A few days later, Granny sent us all a message expressing her gratitude for the event. I’m glad she enjoyed herself so much. It was a great weekend all around, and a pleasure to celebrate someone who means so much to all of us. 

The Cottage

For as long as I can remember, Cumberland Point has been part of the landscape of my childhood. My grandparents acquired the little red farmhouse on Cumberland Point Road when my mom was a child and the family lived in Fredericton. It was already over a hundred years old at the time, and was sold to them by Burtis MacLean, who had purchased it from Archie Reese, who was born there. My parents bought it just before Grandpa passed away, to keep it in the family.

Year after year, we would arrive at the cottage road-worn but happy, to be greeted by hugs and kisses from Grandma and Grandpa Bourassa. We would wake up every morning to the smell of coffee and a bowl of Grandpa’s porridge, then curl up on the Nest to thumb through an old Reader’s Digest for the hundredth time (RD’s from 1995 can still be found on the bookshelf above the Nest). Sometime mid-morning we would make our way to the beach, often staying there all day. Grandpa always had projects on the go, with which my dad helped, and Grandma and Mom looked after meals, which were copious, but we kids spent our days playing. I was always happy when Grandma and Grandpa would come down to the beach, Grandma in her swimsuit and sunglasses and Grandpa in his trunks and unbuttoned Hawaiian t-shirt. I liked knowing that they were taking some time to relax and enjoy the afternoon sun. Sometimes we would have lunch on the beach – I remember one meal during which Baby Leah discovered that sand could be a yummy topping for crackers!

After dinner we would often light a bonfire by the beach, roast marshmallows, and sing songs we learned from Grandma and Grandpa, huddling closer and closer to the fire as the night got cooler. On other nights, we would sit around the table, playing cards and eating popcorn. Sometimes I would lie awake in bed listening to the comforting sound of rain on the tin roof, but most often I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Deep and restorative sleep was a given at the cottage.

Things happen much the same way now as they did then. Grandpa passed away in 2007, and Grandma hasn’t been to the cottage since their last trip together, but I always think of them when I’m there – as I suspect we all do. I can still see nearly eighty-year-old Grandpa on the roof of his shed, working intently, my dad alongside him praying he wouldn’t fall. My dad now follows in Grandpa’s footsteps, seeming to enjoy his holiday all the more when there are jobs to be done.

One of this year's jobs

There are always lots of people at the cottage. Our family alone makes for a good-sized group, and we are often joined by friends, either spending their holidays there or just passing through. This year Liam and I were there with my parents and three brothers, as well as Leah and Chris. Brendan had to go back to work after our time with his family, and the Genest’s had their holiday before ours, but everyone is hoping that next summer will find us all there at once. There’s something about being at the cottage together that strengthens family bonds – perhaps it’s all the time we spend playing and talking and enjoying each other’s company, away from the things that demand attention in our respective homes. The cottage houses many fond memories for all of us and being back every summer reminds us of shared laughs and meaningful moments.

This year's Clampet picture, before B left (taken by Dad)

The first of many rounds of Settlers of Catan

The Nest

Pat learning to water ski

For me, the best part of being at the cottage this year was seeing Liam enjoy the place I grew up loving. After having gotten used to the beach in Aylmer and at Bay du Vin, he felt immediately at home on Grand Lake. He also enjoyed swimming with his special new floatie (which I would highly recommend to any parents of toddlers!). He seemed very confident in the water and swam all the way out to the raft with me several times. When he wasn’t on the beach, he was playing up at the cottage, running around with his auntie and uncles and lapping up floods of affection. 

I’m so glad that summers at Cumberland Point will begin to populate the memories of my children, marking milestones and defining life’s chapters, as they have for me.