In all of these challenges, there is no question that the hardest part of our life together has been raising our two children. I cannot tell you the number of times the Carpenter and I have looked across the room at one another, (usually after reprimanding one child or settling an argument between them both) and silently reflected on how two casual sexual encounters ended up turning our relaxed lifestyle of freedom and limited luxury into a frantic, tumultuous life of scheduled frenzy and exhaustive expense.

One can only conclude that sex is the root of this issue. It’s a good thing that since having children, that is the scarcest element of our marriage. (Yep, I said it.) The very beings created by one intimate act of love have done everything they can to ensure that pattern is not repeated.

To be fair, I don’t solely blame the children. I blame the person who schedules 6:00 am hockey practices on both Saturdays and Sundays. That guy must really hate us. Nothing says birth control like minor hockey, am I right?

The Carpenter and I strive at the start of every September, when school, sports and club activities begin, to ensure that we are still a couple at the end of the seasons for all of the above. To that end, somewhere in the mayhem of every day, we try to carve out a little time to nurture our relationship. This sacred time can be as simple as a kiss, as gentle as the delivery of a cup of tea, or as quick as a tea towel shot directly across the backside of the poor sap stuck washing the dinner dishes. My personal preference is the short-lived embrace known as the snuggle, or as my children loving refer to it; “oh gross, they’re at it again.”

Leading by example, the Carpenter and I figure that showing affection to one another teaches the children to understand that, despite their efforts to divide and conquer our union (like when they hear “no” to a request presented to Mom, that means they cannot then run to Dad to see if his answer is different), they will always be met with a united front. That united front will occasionally embrace. Deal with it.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like my husband and I are throwing the cereal boxes off the kitchen table and making passionate love on the harvest table while the children are downstairs watching Nickelodeon, (sigh).  Honestly, I’d just have to lug the vacuum cleaner upstairs to pick up the Cheerios before the cat ate them any ways, and that is an obvious deterrent.

Leading by mushy example, my spouse and I hope our children will be grossed out frequently by the image of their parent’s public displays of affection. We also hope that our children will learn the most important lesson of all: that a healthy relationship is based on respect, trust and honesty. Nothing less will do.

If we teach our children anything, I want them to know what love is and why they deserve nothing less too.

But first: the back-story.

When I was a kid, I hated the fable of the three little pigs. It scared me for a number of reasons.  I believe English majors would call it foreshadowing, but I digress. Perhaps this was my personal prophecy.  (Admit it, you are afraid of where this column is going.)

The story is a simple tale of three little pigs, a family of brothers who leave their mother’s home in search of their own place in the world. Realizing that you are nothing without debt in real estate, each of the pigs cut a deal to build their own homes.  The first pig had his home made of straw and the second pig used wood. They were doomed. But the third pig had the good sense to get a trade, (as opposed to a history degree) and thus become a successful bricklayer. My husband, the Carpenter declares this the wisest pig, because surely the brick home had a concrete foundation.  Naturally.

Yet the moral of this tale is not what annoyed me; it was the dialogue. I mean, here is this great big, heavy-breathing wolf threatening to huff and puff and blow their wee houses down, and the best these three even-toed ungulates could offer was “not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.”

Really? That’s the best comeback they had? Who says that?

Whenever a schoolteacher would read this story aloud to my class, I would be so annoyed at that phrase and the irritating shrill voice narrators used to repeat it.

I don’t know if you believe in all this power of intention business, but I suppose my disdain for the chinny-chin-chin remark created some universal karma to foreshadow my personal secret: I am a chin hair plucker. There I said it.

I don’t know when this evil strand of silver floss decided to protrude out of my chin, but I suspect it followed just shortly after if I realized that if I did not hold my head high and proper, my chin had the audacity to blend in with yet another chin.  Ah yes, the pre-menopausal years are very hot, indeed.

I am not a vain woman, but a thick strand of chin hair is not attractive, especially when it grows like Chia pet on my face and, if not tamed, could invite others of its’ species.

For Christmas, I asked for a magnified mirror so that I could see nab the chin hair and clamp it with tweezers, (the Carpenter was perplexed by that request), because goodness knows the human-eye cannot find the chin hair at close range. It is in an impossible task.

There I stood in the bathroom with a microscopic mirror and tweezers, reflecting the personal horror of every open pore, rogue eyebrow and a mole that only Cindy Crawford could endure. I became the big bad wolf. Chinney-chin-chin, for sure.

Perhaps that was too much information.  Perhaps the pigs were right. Shut your door and stay inside and tell no one what you do behind closed doors.

Yet hearts are resilient, young ones especially. Their survival depends on it. The challenge is to raise a healthy child with a delicate balance of compassion and empathy for others with a strong sense of respect and integrity for their own self.  In other words, you must teach your heart how to dodge traffic but still have the courage to merge.

But what if your heart cannot read signals and signs as well as others hearts can? It’s rhythm prefer to run around the cars. What if the obstacles in their path seem genetically predisposed to make their route all that much more treacherous? Think 401 in rush hour.

Sometimes, I confess, if I had have known how hard raising children would be, I might not have had the courage to do it.

We like to romanticize youth as this carefree time in our lives when our biggest worry was to get home before the streetlights came on. It’s a lie we tell ourselves.  I have yet to meet an adult who does not bear some childhood scars of his or her own.

As parents we have to remember that our past is not our children’s future. We have to let our hearts run, fall down, get bruised, and learn to stand tall again. They have to learn the hard way. We do too. No matter how old we are there is always more to learn in this life.

Recently, I watched one of my hearts try to merge into the difficult traffic of a girl pack. My daughter was determined to fit in to a girls recreational club. I should mention that she is the heart that beats to her own drum, the child who does not fit in the typical box. Yet she has the purest spirit and a determined soul, and my job is not to squash it, but encourage it. So despite my own reservations, I took her to an environment that I knew was not for her.

I swear this little girl pack sensed my child’s awkwardness immediately and they made sure, both verbally and in that silent grace that young girls master quickly to make sure that my daughter knew she was not welcomed. In this traffic, my heart could not merge.

I had to watch from behind a double-mirrored window. It was like watching a car wreck; I couldn’t turn away. My heart was in there.

It was a devastating, necessary life lesson for my young heart and my adult one too. There were hot, angry tears; hers in the car ride home, mine behind a locked bathroom door later.

I believe there is always a reason, a lesson in these moments. My daughter taught me what only she could: to be ourselves we have to take risks. The bravest hearts allow their own heartbeat to set the rhythm of their life, on their own terms. They don’t merge into traffic; they rise above it.  They pave their own path.

Would I have the courage to be a parent again? Doubtful. Would I do it anyways?

Absolutely. My heart is totally in it.

Alzheimer’s disease robbed me of my Nana before I was old enough to experience her feisty spirit and sharp humour.

The disease robbed her of a relationship with me too. By the time I turned the age of six, maybe even earlier, she was fading. She could not attend my ballet recitals or school plays and our visits were short and awkward. We knew we were to spend time together, but neither one of us had any real idea why. I was too young to appreciate or understand our connection and she was too far-gone to make sense of it.

Most of my memories involve visits to the nursing home on Sunday afternoons.  Dad and I would go together. Though I wanted to see Nana, I didn’t like going to that place full of strangers who looked sad that I wasn’t there to visit them. Some residents would stretch their thin hands out toward me to tousle my hair and I knew to smile and be polite. They meant me no harm, but I was terrified. Everything smelled funny. I hated that place.

Nana had a room on an assisted living floor and my Granddad, her spouse of more than sixty years, lived on another floor upstairs. It seemed so unfair that they were separated, but Nana didn’t have a clue.  When her husband would leave after visiting her room, Nana would ask my father whom that nice gentleman was.

Then she’d turn to the large window that overlooked the parking lot and say things like; “It looks like there is a storm coming in off the lake. You’d better be careful driving home.”

I would look at my Dad as if this woman had lost her marbles, but he would smile at her and say, “Don’t worry Mom, I have the car and we’ll take our time.” She would return his smile, and look at me, never questioning who I was or why he’d brought a child along, but I knew I didn’t fit in her frame of time. She would turn and look back out the window at her lake and hum a tune quietly to herself.

We would leave her there, happy in her memory, a former life of more than twenty years passed. She wasn’t in a nursing home. She was standing in front of her large window at her cottage overlooking Ril Lake, in Muskoka’s Lake of Bays.  In her view was the landscape of a never-ending summer, of warm sun and motorboats, gin and tonic with friends on the porch, card games and ice cream.

Alzheimer’s took my Nana’s mind, slowly and cruelly, but it didn’t take away the imprint of her fondest place in time. Her heart held that, and her eyes could see it as clear as day.

I share this story with you because January is Alzheimer’s awareness month across Canada.  I hope you will take a minute to read our section about this illness and learn the facts.  Alzheimer’s is not just an elderly persons’ disease nor is it a normal part of the aging process.  Know the signs. Be proactive.

Alzheimer’s took both my grandmothers, but it taught me this: love lasts longer than any memory could.

When the germs infiltrate your family, contaminating every corner of your home until no one is left standing to make tea for anyone else flat out on the sofa, you know the meaning of the adage, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Delirious with fevers and heavy with chest colds, there is little interest in anything more than falling over into a haze of chemically induced sleep.  This is okay unless you have young children who also require some attention. Then, as parents, you must tag-team to coordinate medical dosages of both the children and yourselves, so that someone is alert enough to handle the vomiting child at 3 am. The Carpenter and I keep a memo pad by the medicine station (also known as the kitchen counter), to track which person got what medicine at what time. Safety first. Sleep later.

(Can I just say, single parents, you have my utmost respect).

Then there is the issue of who looks less frightening to do the emergency food and drug run. The winner has to go to the dreaded drug store and stand before a plethora of medicine labels to determine the individual needs of everyone in the family. It is crucial that they remember to get ginger ale too.  Here is the financial stress. No wonder drug stores are big money.

The tension builds as I refuse to take over-the-counter medications, insistent that my homeopathic options will work. There is nothing the Carpenter enjoys more than proving me wrong.  Unfortunately, this last time, he was very much right. My regimen of Echinacea, multi-vitamins, Vitamin C drinks and preventative flu products and OCD hand washing didn’t do squat. I hit the floor faster than everyone in the family.

It was not an attractive downfall, might I add? There is the Man Cold and then there is the Kelly Cold. You see, unlike my workaholic spouse, I will admit defeat. I know rest is vital in the fight for health. I even have special pajamas for such an occasion: red flannels with white polar bears (very sexy).

I can only imagine the destruction I cause to our marital bed when I climb in it wreaking of vapor rub that is slathered all over my chest and yes, even the balls of my pink furry-socked feet.  Oh yeah baby, come to bed. Cough. Sniffle.

With little balls of icky tissue stuffed under my pillow and a nice puddle of drool on the pillow, thanks to the coma-induced sleep of that hot lemon concoction I drank before bed, I am sure that morning brings a sight that would induce nightmares in lesser men.

Privacy is non-existent with the flu too. You discuss things like bodily functions and the colour of nasal output. I have even been known to walk in to the bathroom while the Carpenter bends over the sink draining his sinuses with a netty pot, just to chat.  Yep. We’re keeping the burning flame of love alive, (hack).

You know you’ve hit your all-time relationship low when you consider the question, “do you want a cup of tea?” as foreplay.

Marriage is work; in sickness and in health, one glass of flat ginger ale at a time.

Let me set the scene: A married couple, united in love but as opposite as any two people could be sit across from one another at the dining room table working individually on the set-up of their new wireless computer tablet devices, (thanks to Santa). Each one has their mobile phone, the coordinating tablet and instructions in several foreign languages spread out before them.  Collectively, they have one goal in mind – to synchronize the devices to improve their communication efficiency (cough).

Marriage is all about communication, they reason, thus devices to make the art of communicating more efficient and fast should be easy to coordinate.

The initial excitement of having two new techie toys to play with accidentally encourages a small flicker of competition between this otherwise calm couple whose respect for one another means they would never, ever compete to be the smartest person in the relationship.  One talent they share is a stubborn need to be right, respectfully, of course. Otherwise, they are very laid back people who appreciate one another’s individual talents and have even been known to champion one another’s strengths.

For instance, the spouse whose work requires use of technology all day and has a slightly alarming addiction to her mobile device is more, shall we say, technologically savvy. She has to be. It’s part of her career.

Meanwhile, the other spouse happens to work with power tools all day and considers his mobile device to be an annoyance that causes nothing more than distraction and frustration allowing stupid people to ask him stupid questions while he is doing important man work, (hmph).

To the casual observer, this scene should be obvious. The woman with the new tablet device, bound by a technology addiction is sort of like a rat in an obstacle course looking for the cheese at the end. She will figure this device out, no matter what. When she cannot, she will complain that if it were an iPad, it would be far easier, while her spouse will ignore her passive aggressive remarks that this is not the brand of tablet she wanted.

In the spirit of friendly competition, the male partner believes he will conquer his tablet device without the aid of instructions, because since Ikea created furniture with an Allen key, no man worth is his masculine chops would dare to read the directions to anything.

Diligently, this couple clicks away on the invisible keypad, testing their mobile phones, putting fingerprints all over their pristine tablet pads. They each shoo away their inquisitive children, encouraging them to go plug themselves in to their own video games because that’s the right thing to do.

Suddenly, the energy at the table is electric.  The mystery is unraveling. Without a word, the urgency to champion the technology first becomes evident. It is a race to the finish. Who will figure out how to coordinate their devices faster? Who will win the ultimate ability to “messenger” their spouse’s device first?

Silently, the wife lifts her fully functioning tablet, angles it carefully and with the click of the photo feature snaps the image of her less than amused spouse.  He didn’t see it coming. He did not smile.

And that was the end of their communication for approximately 24 hours. Sometimes, silence is necessary.

I don’t need much incentive to be paranoid. I come by it rather naturally. Chicken Little’s sky may be falling, but in my world, I’ve decided to see the hole in the ozone layer for what lies beyond.

That sounds wrong.  Look, let’s be honest. I don’t have a clue what the world has in store for me or for you and I am trying to accept that powerless sense of fate. Yet, I don’t plan to buy into the hype and hysteria that everything is about to come to an end, because the way I look at it, there isn’t’ much I can do about it any way. Does that make me a pessimist?

I mean, there is some telltale signs that our civilization as we know it is in dire straits.  First of all, what the heck was my darling John Cusack doing in that horrible end of the world movie, 2012 anyway?  Never mind, I still adore him. I’ll take that guy over Brad Pitt any day, (you know, in case you were ordering ahead for me, like a good friend would).

But if you are looking for signs that the human race is in trouble, look no further than your flat-screen.  More than a few million viewers witnessed the Kardashian wedding.  That’s proof enough for me.  A few zillion more bought a magazine featuring naked photos of Lindsay Lohan, the alcoholic childhood star that Disney produced. Nice.  We do love our train wrecks, don’t we?

While I could wax poetically about why this is a disheartening fact, I would prefer to see the positive. Bear with me; this is sort of a new thing for me, the whole “glass-half-full concept. It takes practice and a great deal more effort for me than you know, unless you are the Carpenter, my ever-optimistic spouse.

The Carpenter refuses to search for answers, deeper meanings, universal signs or blessings in disguise. He takes every minute as it comes, however it arrives and then lets it pass. No retrospection required.  He doesn’t analyze a thing. The man baffles me.

I’m taking a page from him in 2012. In fact, I am so determined to be as chilled, relaxed, and unflappable as he is that I may actually break his calm demeanor.

Let’s start with back fat. Yes ladies, I said it: back fat. You know, those wings of flabby padding that highlight the delicate features of your shoulder blades?  Yep. That’s it. I am going to accept those pillows as the burgeoning foundation of my angelic wings.  It might not be the Victoria Secret wings I used to long for, but this is 2012. These are realism wings. Hallelujah to self-acceptance.

Yes, I am going to be a radical in 2012 and I am not even going to apologize for it. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is. Yeah, only excuse me, because I’m not sorry. Darn it, the whole rudeness thing might take me some time, forgive me. Ugh.

Oh forget it. Here’s what I know about 2012: it’s going to be whatever we make it. Let’s smarten up. Let’s love more and get happy. Let’s flap our fat wings and spread some joy. It’s 2012, eat potato chips and lighten up.

I am perplexed by the expanse of naked wall adjacent to our kitchen. It is a sign of the times that times are changing, and with that change, the holidays feel a little less, well, merry.

Every Christmas this wall space has been designated prime real estate, spared of cheesy holiday décor for a display known as the Wall of Love. Pretty ribbons used to string every Christmas card, holiday note, photo card or family newsletter here to celebrate our eclectic collection of family and friends. The wall was like a shrine, reminding us that Christmas is not about stuff; it is about the ultimate gift of love.

Our Christmas gallery exhibit used to feature adorable images of new babies in Santa hats or families in goofy matching sweaters. We love the pictures of the embarrassed family pets shamefully dressed like elves, (with a revengeful look in their eyes that suggests somebody is going to soil their owner’s carpet later).

I love the annual card from Barbados of my cousin’s children on the beach, with palm trees instead of Evergreens. My adorable niece in the southern United States sends me pictures of her green Christmas and makes me realize that distance really does make the heart grow fonder, but it makes it hurt no less. My cousin in England always sends me a hand-written note that takes several people to decode because her handwriting is indecipherable, but it is always a good read once we figure it out.

There are the naughty cartoon cards and inappropriate jokes from my pals who love a good laugh.

The most treasured cards come from people I love who have had a difficult year where life or loss have challenged their faith in everything, and yet, they insist on carrying on; survivors. They remind me to appreciate this holiday and reflect on those who will be missed.

Now my naked wall is a statement of the times. Virtual Christmas cards have replaced paper greetings. This year we got a grand total of eight cards. Sigh. I know why; we are all too busy, too rushed, too tired. But then, I hear from my friends more now than ever through social media sites, email, text messaging and Skype. Friendship is more immediate from a distance. For that I am grateful. It just leaves me with a stark wall.

Time to inject a little “merry” into my Christmas.  I’m going to take a sledgehammer to the wall and start a kitchen renovation project.  (The Carpenter just fainted. Sigh.) I’m totally kidding.

Look, Christmas is just one day a year, but the reason we get all manic about it is because we want to feel the spirit of the season every day. We want to feel that human connection.

My wish for all this Christmas is that you consciously choose love: give love, receive some and heck, make some too.  Remember, it is better to give than receive, but you only get what you give.  Merry Christmas.

I am asking Santa for a reliable crew to help the Carpenter get a few things finished around the house. To inspire Santa, I’ve written a parody of my favorite flirty Christmas song. If you, like me, love your spouse and his inability to finish a project, or perhaps, if you are the “un-finishee” who could really use a little help, and are not afraid to admit it, might I suggest you join me in this chorus?

Ahem…mi, mi, mi. Ready?

Santa baby, slip a plumber under the tree for me,

I’ve been such a patient wife

Santa baby, just toss him down the chimney tonight

Santa sweetie, if I could have an electrician too,

That would do

I’ll wait up for him dear

Santa honey, I’ll show him our fuse panel tonight.

Think of all the renovations I’ve missed

Think of the poor Carpenter’s attempts to resist

Next year it would be oh so good

If the unfinished bathroom was ticked off my list

(please do, please do)

Santa honey, I’d like a sauna that gets really hot

And really that’s not a lot,

I’ve been an angel all year

Santa baby, slide some cedar down chimney tonight

Santa cutie, there’s one little thing I really do need, the deed

To an unlimited credit line

Santa sweetie, drop that down the chimney tonight.

Santa baby, fill my stocking with gift certificates, to outlets

Hardwood flooring would be fine

Santa sweetie, stuff that down the chimney tonight

Come inside and you will see,

The place is like a bomb went off all around me

I really do believe that you

Would want a finished bathroom for me too,

(you do, you do)

Santa baby, forgot to mention ceramic tile, a pile

To finish two rooms at once,

Santa lovie, gently lower it down the chimney tonight.

You see? It really is better to give than receive. And since marriage is give and take, I will give the Carpenter a crew and he can even take the credit. Sweet.

Merry Christmas to my Carpenter, the hardest working man I know and my very best friend.

You know, they say that behind every great man is an even greater woman. In the case of jolly old Santa, Mrs. Claus is the epitome of the strong woman behind this cholesterol-challenged man. Imagine what a day in her life is like.

Mrs. Claus’s fridge calendar must be a colour-coded masterpiece of organization. It has to be. How else could she do it all?  Because we all know she does it all.

I adore Santa, but I am willing to bet he is a high-maintenance spouse. Given the nature of his stressful job, he needs an emotionally stable woman. Since no such creature exists, he chose to marry a dutiful woman who quietly supports his neurosis by keeping his work and home life balanced.

The Claus homestead surely must be worthy of Martha Stewart, beautifully decorated and filled with the aroma of fresh baked bread and sauces brewing. But Mrs. Claus uses her bread-maker to get the job done nowadays and has the crock-pot cooking dinner because it’s not like she has time to cook spare ribs any other way.

Like most women who have entrepreneurial spouses, I bet she is the bookkeeper, human resource manager and social committee of his enterprise. With a small army of elves to manage, imagine that drama.

From online banking and remembering the birthdays of the elf staff, vet schedules for the reindeer and booking Santa’s cardiologist appointments, Mrs. Claus probably also monitors his blood pressure and remembers to get the red suit dry-cleaned before every public appearance (and I’m willing to bet chimney soot doesn’t come out easily).

It can’t be easy to be married to a celebrity like Santa Claus either. Everybody wants a piece of her man. Just think of all those young girls trying to sit on his knee. It’s appalling.

Yet, I am confident that Mrs. Claus would not be jealous. She would be comfortable in her skin, proud of her curves. She would be happy with her soft white hair. She knows being a postmenopausal woman is sexy, because it comes with wisdom, confidence and ultimately, control of the television remote. (Santa can’t stay awake past 9:30 pm anymore and that’s when the good television shows come on).

I picture Mrs. Claus as being the model of an old-fashioned woman in modern times.  Don’t let her dowdy costume fool you. I firmly believe Mrs. Claus has a closet of clothes with the tags still on them hiding in the back behind her flowery dresses where her husband cannot see her indulgences.  She might be a proper, upstanding woman, but she is a female after all.

Mrs. Claus must have a stash of chocolates in the cupboard over the fridge and every once in awhile I hope she ends her day with a shot of Baileys in her hot cocoa, not because she needs it, but because she can.  She deserves it.

You may say Mrs. Claus is a fictional character, but I know better. Mrs. Claus is every woman and she is so much more than the woman behind the man.

This Christmas, while I wait for Santa to make his way to our home, I am going to raise a toast to Mrs. Claus, a class act of a lady without a first name.