Four Generations.

In the true meaning of Family Day weekend, the five of us headed to my parents’ cottage where we descended on them and my 86 year old grandmother.  We managed to take over every inch of living space with mittens, hats, snowsuits, boots, toys, books and clothes.  Like goldfish, my children can expand themselves as much as their captivity allows.

With three busy boys the weekend was filled with skiing, tobogganing, playing in the snow, and long walks with the dog.  Once they tumbled inside with their cheeks frost-nipped and fingers stiff with cold, rounds of card games, picture books and make-believe kept the cottage buzzing with activity.

And the noise.  Oh, the noise.

The boys’ sounds are less like a symphony and more like a heavy metal band.  But through the fighting, the tears, the whining, the screeching and the giggling, the meaning of Family Day rang true.

My grandmother turned to me and told me that she remembers these days – being a young mother with three small boys.  Her look told me that she understood it all: the worry, the tiredness, the joy, the frustrations, the all-consuming love.

She knows what I am feeling.  She knows because she’s been there.

Being supported this weekend by my mother and grandmother, I didn’t feel so alone.  The pressures of mothering didn’t seem so overwhelming.

I felt lightened.  I felt connected.  I felt blessed.

 

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