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I once thought that everyday was Wednesday. I was naïve; I was three. In myfresh, three year old mind it made sense. One day as I was enjoying SesameStreet, a question a rose in my head I wonder what day it is? This show's sogood; I never want to miss it. I asked my mother- the knower of all knowledge
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(isn't this what children thought of their mothers?) She replied "Wednesday".The next day as I was playing with 'guys', (a name I gave my fisher price littlepeople toys) I realized out of the corner of my eye that Sesame Street was on.The light bulb inside my head went on everyday must be Wednesday. A few monthspassed by, everyday was still Wednesday. It wasn't until my ballet classesstarted on Saturday that I became curious if Saturday is ballet day, then someof Wednesday must be in Saturday too because Sesame Street is on today. What'sthis? More than one day in a week? It took me a while to adjust to Saturdays,but after having an enlightening discussion with my mother, other days of theweek slowly bubbled and formed themselves at the top of my pot of possibilities.Everything seems possible when you're new to the world. My love and appreciation for Mother Nature sprouted at the age of three. We hada well-sized backyard for my sisters and I to play our adventures in and around.We took advantage of our open back yard; I took special advantage of myproximity to a toilet whenever nature called, I simply did as I had seen ourkitties do many times. I squatted my little tush, close to the ground under myfavourite pine tree and marked my territory. This seemed totally natural andnormal to me. I guess I truly was a nature girl right from the start. One sadday I learned the concept of social acceptability, as I made the foolish mistakeof leaving my mark in a neat little pile on the bottom step of our front porch.Our mailman was just approaching as my mother spotted my neat little gift anddid what she could in her power to intercept the mailman and avoid a nastyincident. My mother was somewhat successful, but I'm sure this episode stillhaunts our mailman and to this day he still steps carefully as he nears ourproperty. As luck would have it, we sometimes pass by each other on my route toschool. Oh the joys of being a mailman. The first time I tried to lie to my mother, she was more amused than she wasoutraged. I had been left alone in the kitchen while my mother was gardeningjust outside out back door. My stepfather was at work and my grandma had takenmy sisters Caitlin and Sarah out to the movies. I was three, and alone in thekitchen, supplied with bread, a knife and a jar of peanut butter, dangerousingredients for a curious girl. I thoroughly spread the peanut butter on myslices of bread. Just as I was about to close the jar up, again, that light inmy head started to flash. I began to spread the peanut butter over the counter,and then slowly I made my ways down the front of the counter. I even continuedonto the chair I was standing on. I was about to reach the floor when my mothercaught me red handed. Thoughtlessly, the first words that came out of her mouthcreated the form of a question "Cairis, who did this?" There I was standing inthe kitchen, knife in hand with peanut butter on my chubby cheeks, trying toformulate the best solution to this predicament. Does she think I didn't do it?Let's go with that then, but who, who did this? "Caitie…Sarah…you did it mommy!"She smiled at me, realizing she had brought that upon herself. We both laughedit off as I licked my fingers clean of mischief, but I let her clean up my mess.As a child, the memories with my biological father seemed only to exist in thesummer time. My dad reminds me of warm weather. Maybe he felt more motivated inthe summer to drive to Georgetown to pick us up, or maybe the summer just feltright to be with him. If he did make the attempt to fulfill his promise oftaking us for the weekend, most of the time he came on Saturday and was one totwo hours late. We were lucky if he even came at all. It was depressing beinghis child, but I don't think Caitlin and I realized this until we were older.The best feeling in the world was watching my dad's maroon coloured mini-vanpull up in front of 14 Draper St. We would rush our excited bodies down thestairs yelling "Daaaaad", our smiles never failed. He'd wrap us in his arms andkiss us on our cheeks, as we inhaled the smell of his Craven A cigarettes. Thesmell seemed appealing to us, it was of a time when cigarettes meant nothingmore to us than the scent of our father. When we did spend a night with our dad,he was the best to us. He would allow Caitlin and I to walk to 'the store', allby ourselves, to purchase as much candy that our sweet tooth's could chew andour pockets could carry; candy our mother would never let us have. Caitlin and Ifelt independent and even though we couldnt label this feeling at the time,looking back on it now we can both agree that this was our first experience withthe feeling of liberation. Just before bedtime our dad would give us hisover-sized t-shirts for us to sleep in. They too, had the smell of dad. Ourbedroom was the newly renovated attic my dad made for our weekend visits.(That's what he told us, but I have this feeling it was for our sister Rheannaconsidering she moved all of her belongings up to it) He was always one to beworking on projects around the house. The attic's walls and ceiling were madeespecially for us to write on. We would write notes back and forth, stories, orthe names of the boys we had crushes on. Although the attic was a special placefor us, Caitlin and I have sometimes thought that the size of the atticrepresented the amount of space that our dad had for us in his life. The mosttraumatic episode we ever encountered with our dad used to constantly play backover and over in my head. Caitlin and I had made plans with our dad for aweekend visit, my mother thought differently. Before she had reached the door,Caitie and I had already let him in. She simply said, "you don't give us childsupport, you don't see your children". They argued back and forth until itbecame physical and some how our father had ended up behind our locked door. Myfather tried to force himself in and he eventually broke open the door. To thisday that piece remains absent. Our distressed mother called the police and whenthe tall man in an army suit arrived, our older sister Sarah took us upstairs toremove us from this upsetting situation. We could hear our father crying,pleading for my mother to let us go with him. The sounds of his saddened heartonly made our cries louder. Things were finally worked out and Sarah endedcoming back to his house in Toronto with us. That was the most intense episode Iever witnessed, but believe me, there were some that were almost as extreme.My father, although he certainly attempted fatherhood, was not successful.Caitlin and I truly have been scarred by his negligence. He was young when hehad us, and I feel that he had his priorities backwards when we were children,but in my experience, age does not necessarily define ones maturity. In thecase of my father, his rugged beard, and wrinkled skin was misleading. As I seeit now, he was just as much a child as Caitlin and I were.Before I continue, I must make it clear that I have two families, my mother'sside and my father's side. I am currently living and have been with my motherSusan, my stepfather Chris and seven siblings for almost 1 years. I have twoolder sisters; Sarah and Caitlin and also three younger sisters; Phaidra, Lillyand Estelle, and to his luck, a younger brother named Rowan. All of thesesiblings are from my mother and the three fathers she had us with. Caitlin is myonly full sister and younger siblings, along with Sarah are my half siblings. Itseems wrong to say this because a name should not be one to label the type ofrelationship we all share with each other. These are my own flesh and bloodsthat have been in my life for 1 years. Whether or not we have differentfathers, we are all family and this is truly all that matters. This is my familyI grew up with.My father's side has always been distant. That's not to say that I love or carefor them any different, but our relationship has consisted of weeks and sometimes almost a year without even speaking. They're still my family; they'veunfortunately been limited to visits and phone calls due to the lack of effortfrom our father. I'm not pointing any fingers at the cause of this misfortune;Rheanna, Olivia, Gabriel and now Elliot are just as precious as the family Ilive with now. After my father had Caitlin and I, a few years down the road hemarried Connie, his first wife and had Rheanna and Olivia with her. My sisterslived with our father, and I secretly resented them for that. I don't rememberseeing many pictures of Caitlin and I around the house. I used to hate lookingat the fridge at my dad's house because it was covered with drawings and lettersthat Rheanna and Olivia had given to our dad. There were always new pictures ofthem on the fridge, and a story to go along with them. These frustrationsthough, were never at the top of my head, I was so young that I didn't know howto care or express my feelings of bitterness. Being their older sister was sucha climax in my weekend visits with them. I felt so honoured that they wanted tobe with me every breathing moment I was there. I would eat, play and haveslumber parties with them. I was new at being a big sister, but they knew how torecognize me as their sister. I was on a high every time I was at their house.When my father moved to Nova Scotia for a movie he was shooting, brought alonghis partner Shelly of three years who was pregnant with his first boy, soon tobe named Gabriel. After visiting his house there, my mind began to open up tothe possibility of moving. After Gabriel was born, I did just that. I moved toWindsor, Nova Scotia for the second semester of my grade nine year. It was anovernight decision that was driven by the fight I had had with my mother (who Ithought was evil at that time). It was a life-changing excursion that I had beenable to pursue for the first time. I lived with my father Ian, Shelly and my newbrother Gabriel. I loved being able to see my dad every day, not to mention livewith our family. I spent hours with Gabriel on a daily basis. I wanted him toget to know me, Cairis, as his older sister. I wanted him to breathe me in, toget use to me being with him every day. I was given the responsibility of takingcare of him on days Shelly was busy, or when both she and my dad went out forthe night.In the middle of July, a week before I was going to move back to Ontario, mysisters left for their two-week vacation at summer camp. They had recently movedinto our house in Windsor, so I was able to live with them as sisters for ashort period of time. Our five-hour road trip to their camp was exactly that,five hours. No one really spoke and I started to regret even coming. They didn'tseem to appreciate my company, but then again, I'm sure they didn't realize thatwould have been the last time they could see me before I moved. When we finallyarrived at their camp. I had been nicotine less for five hours but was excitedto be with them for their first time there, but they were so caught up in theexcitement that before I had even spoken a word to them, Rheanna and Oliviahopped out of the 'woody' and took off; My dad behind them, carrying their bags.I assumed they were coming back to say goodbye, but when my dad returned alone,I felt empty. It was a lonely drive home and a slap in the face that even when Iattempt to better our relationship, it can't just be a one-way procedure. Nordoes it take a car ride to boost their interest in me. That was three years agothough, I have been back to visit several times since then. Our concern for theimprovement in the family's relationship has become aware to all of us. Althoughwe're not doing everything in our power to make it the best, we're working withwhat we are doing. I feel happier now. I feel like a big sister that's beinglooked up to again.It's hard to believe that my sister Caitlin and I used to hate each other. I'msure we're not the only pair of sisters that have overcome our immaturity;that's exactly what we did, matured. We both recognized that we had similarqualities and characteristics that brought balance and friendship. Soul sistershad sprouted from our vocabulary, so we brought it's meaning to life.The Christmas of 18 was the first official holiday Caitlin and I had spentwith our father; every year before this one Christmas was spent at my mother'shouse; no exceptions. It was the years of empty memories and unspent Christmas'sthat provided Caitie and I with the opportunity to share Christmas with ourfather. We had a difficult time getting down to the city, but in the end, ourhectic travel was well worth our outcome. Caitlin and I were so used to ourtraditional Christmas at our mother's that we didn't know what to expect fromthis. Making my father smile and watching him inhale his four daughters in thesame room, for such a meaningful event, made me realize that I had neverconsumed such a warm feeling. Caitlin and I had brought such joy to our fatherwith our physical being. He made us feel beautiful. My dad and Shelly left onBoxing Day for a Christmas party, which left Caitlin and I alone at their housefor a few hours until our parents came to pick us up. We bustled around with ourgifts and spent most of our time listening to the new 'Mase' cd Caitlin hadgiven me. We had picked out our favourite song and continuously listened to it,laughing about it the whole time. The verses "if you had twenty-four hours tolive just think where would you go? What would you do? Who would you screw? Andwho would you want to notify? Or would your ass deny that your ass about todie?" was the highlight of our night. We would each take turns imitating Mase,until one of us fell to the floor laughing. Eventually time crept up on us, sowe decided to go outside to enjoy our last cigarette together until our parentscame to the house to pick us up. Unfortunately Caitlin and I were so caught upin our music that we forgot to unlock the door before leaving the house. Whenthe door shut behind us, we were shut out from our bags, gifts and a warmfireplace. Instead we were outside alone in the cold with only one thing keepingour spirits high. Mase. We sat on the front porch smoking our voices away andpatiently awaiting the arrival of our tardy parents in the dead of the coldnight. Caitlin and I seem to behold the power to create humour out of anysituation. Sometimes when humour seems to be the only way you can escape from anemotional roller coaster.On the day of Kevin's funeral, there were no words to express how any of usfelt. Maybe it was more to the fact that none of us really knew what to say.Caitlin and I had some how managed to escape from the disheartening faces andquiet conversations to have a moment with ourselves. We shared shortconversations to reminisce and reflect upon the loss of Kevin, a wonderfulfriend and big brother to us. We spoke of the viewing the day before and agreedthat Kevin's brother Tommy had similar facial features that reminded us of Kevin(and later that day we would soon come to realize that he was very attractive).We were trying to imagine ourselves in the places of Kevin's siblings, Cindy andTommy, standing in the reception line greeting friends and family of theirs. Icouldn't visualize myself trying to display my thanks and appreciation for suchan unfortunate occurrence. To lighten our moment up, Caitlin and I lit upcigarettes and started small talk. Unnoticeably, our family slowly crept theirway over to us, disrupting what was a time for us to fall back on each other(and smoke with out the feeling of guilt). It was my mother, my sisters Phaidraand Estelle with our little brother Rowan. I was so irritated that I quicklysnapped and spoke with a serious, persuasive voice "Phaidra, could you pleasetake buck-teeth and mullet back to the car?" Suddenly, a burst of laughter arose from the hearts of us, the saddened, and even tears of satisfaction formedin our eyes. Estelle and Rowan didn't appreciate their swiftly producednicknames, but I could tell that the rest of us enjoyed the refreshing giggle.What I know was malicious at the time, only seemed to help us create and enjoy amoment of laughter, a time to take a break from our cold day. I understood thatit was a cruel thing to speak; considering we were at a funeral but it seemed totake the steal thoughts of death from our heads (and a stirred a good laugh inour stomachs).I've tried to imagine myself living without my ten siblings, but the pictureisn't that clear. When I try to explain to those who ask about my family Ireceive gasps of "oh my, it must be insane living with such a big family" buttruth is that the process is natural and never really feels insane at all. It'sall I know. Our family is a growing tree. Suffice to say that the family unitgrows and adjusts as an organic composite of lives. We all help each other togrow. The babies are looked after by the mother; the toddlers are cared for bytheir elder siblings and thus the growing continues. Especially in times ofgrief, your family are the ones you need to have with you. Their physical touch,or the sound of their voices can almost always be the cure during times ofdistress. Being one of the daughters that was entitled to being a role model, ora shoulder to cry on, I felt at some times I was not the best of help but morelike I was abusing my role as a big sister. Sometimes I am a voiceless inserious or sensitive conversations. I have yet to start project 'talk-a-lot',but if you're looking for a person to escape with, I am always free for a laugh.Although it was a responsibility of watching over the young ones, assisting inthe nurturing of my siblings, I would feel privileged that my parents trusted meenough to take on parent-like responsibilities.One of the wonderful results of growing up in a large family is the constantdesire to grow. As a child you are ever trying to grow your vocabulary tocommunicate with your siblings, and then crawl faster, toddle further,understand games better all in order to participate on the level of your oldersiblings. This effect advances the learning process to such an outcome that itis very apparent in the academic and hypothetical abilities of many of thechildren in bigger families (not just my own) Even the older siblings arelearning an incredible life skill in learning to nurture and care for youngerchildren.The first time I became physical with my mother, I was fifteen years old. I waswhat society labelled as a disturbed teenager, who thought they were damned bytheir parents. In his case, I can agree on feeling distressed but I have neverfelt like my parents were out to get me. We were simply and still are differenthuman beings with different opinions about the process of a teenager growing upin a world of questions and concerns that could seriously change the path ofdevelopment. My issues came varying from the mental abuse I had suffered fromboth my mother and father or the loss of my godmother, to my hectic livingenvironment with my family. In this case, I was a fifteen year old that had thedesire to drink a six of Blue beer in the parking lot at the bottom of mystreet. It was foolish of me to think for one moment that my mother wouldn'tfind out about this particular event. While I was outside having a cigarette onmy front curb, my mother had decided to transform herself into an investigator(one of her many talents). She had found my supply of beer and coolers in myroom, and removed them without my consent. Not that I had a very strong reasonfor me to have alcoholic beverages in my room, but I was an inexperiencedteenager trying the lenience my mother out for the first time. I think this wasthe first time that feeling of hatred and power collided inside of my troubledmind. I couldn't seem to find an alternative solution in fighting for theretrieval of my alcohol. I tried to do everything in my physical power and Itruly believe that if it wasn't for a friend who rescued me from such an awfulevent that I might have done some serious damage to my mother. In a heated moment of fury, anger and pain the thought or effects of youroutcome don't seem to faze you. It's like their mentally blocked because thereis a wall of thoughts, which contain intense moments of conflicts gathered fromall throughout your life; standing there, just fighting off all the positivethoughts that try to break past your wall of negativity. In my case, all ofthese feelings were of my mother and our unresolved issues that we hadencountered during the span of my life as her daughter. It's very challengingtrying to articulate how my feelings of love and hate for this woman, my mother,actually feel inside my body. There is a constant war-taking place within myself; I seem to be trying to fight off the influence of my mother. She, likeeveryone else, has both damaging and constructive characteristics. Some of theseI have all ready found within me, and others I can feel forming. Maybe in theprocess of others coming across this discovery, there are hopeful results, butin my situation I feel like an innocent animal that has been crept up on by itspray. My biggest fear has some how managed to find it's way inside of me; and away out may be questionable. Once it's in there, it can start affecting allparts of your existence with in days. I think the worst part about having yourmother grow inside of you, is having others recognize she's in there too. It'sno longer a secret; I've started to become like my mother. During the years of my childhood, I don't think my mother had much control overme, especially not of my eating habits. As a child, you would almost always findme with my hands and mouth occupied with a delicious treat I had found myself. Iused to find pleasure in licking butter off my fingers, until some one caughtme, pinched my cheeks and said "oh Cairis, you're so cute". No one seemed tofind my eating habits a problem. Was this because I was only a child, and maybemy family thought that it wouldn't affect me later on in life? Or was it becausemy family was too indolent to try and stop me from my bizarre eating behaviour.Whatever the case, I now find myself, an almost nineteen-year-old swallowingapple cider vinegar pills with every meal, concerned about my body image. I havethe genes of my mother large hips, large breasts and dancer legs. I am startingto doubt that your metabolism can ever change. I lie in bed some mornings recuperating from my sleep; I think about what I atethe night before and fuss about it my covers with disappointment. Then I'llthink about the breakfasts to come, and I look forward to food again (I usuallydo). The immoderation of my food intake as a child has severely influenced thelack of control I now have as a young adult. Although I have been known to eathealthy, some times my sweet tooth gets the best of me and allows me to indulgein desserts without the feeling of guilt, although it always seems to find me inthe morning. Most mornings I remove myself from my bed, a struggle most of thetime, but I get out. I'll stand in front of my mirror, naked, and run my handsover my body, feeling the curves and contour of my body. I take deep breaths,inhaling who I am, as beautiful woman uncovering the many appealing features ofmy body. Even though I know I am beautiful, I can still see my mother in me andher silhouette is still a growing part. I can't help but notice all of the stuff I have while sitting on my bed, stonedfrom my afternoon dubee. I have so many belongings; shelves stocked withbottles, sprays, creams and a cactus. I have drawers full of art supplies, hairdye, hats and mittens. My room is over flowing with years of pictures, recycledpaper and hand-me-down clothes. Only one person comes to mind when I sit inastonishment. I am picking up my mothers fault of not being able to let thingsgo. I am a saver, a keeper for life and I can't help but hold my motherresponsible for this. Our house is filled wall to wall with baskets of clothes,washed, waiting the day they make their way to their owner, shelves of booksabout art history and architecture. Boxes of movies, some even still unseen. Ourhouse is the result of an un-prioritized list of business to be finished. I havea lifetime supply of items just waiting for their departure from my room, butsadly to say, I don't think I will ever part with any of these things. I don'tknow what it'd be like, letting a piece of me go, and to be quite honest I amafraid. If there's anyone who likes to sleep, it's my family. Even my cats have asleeping problem; we're both a bad influence on each other. I can't help butnotice that all of us have an obstacle in the way of our waking routine. I musttouch on the fact that my mother had been known to stay awake until the weehours of the morning and then have an afternoon awakening. This method she livesby started when my sisters and I were of younger ages and were unaware thatone-day, we too, would be women of the night. When I was a child walking homefor lunch it would be a disappointment to find our mother still in bed, and ourstomachs lunch less. We would then try to find an easy-make lunch of some kindto stop the noises from our tummies. At times our mother would awake to findthat we had made ourselves lunch, sometimes making her incensed that we had usedour stove, but as we saw it we were displaying our level of independence at ayoung age. Our only concern was eating a lunch and returning to school on time;something I still have trouble doing now. My relationship with my mother has definitely had a turning point. I havealways thought that being honest is the best quality you could find in arelationship, and so with my mother and I, this is what I share with her. I knowshe appreciates my openness, and I too appreciate her spirit of patience withme. She and I now have an understanding relationship. I think she treats me likean adult that hopefully in return we continue sharing the need of respect foreach other. My mother has recently started to display some qualities of mine,and I am starting to rethink who is growing inside of whom.
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