My Man Has a Cold

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Helena Smrcek

The winter months brought a break in our farm routines, and a vacation. Warmth, sand and sea, I felt simply spoiled. 

But two nights before we were scheduled to head back home I sneezed. I took antihistamine and went to bed. 

At breakfast the sneezing returned.

The flight home was a little trying. I popped a gum in my mouth and tried to cope with the ear ache. Who gets a cold in Mexico?

Next day I dragged myself out of bed, went to the barn, milked the goat, fed the chickens, unpacked, sorted the laundry, checked the fridge. After I dropped our daughter off at her school, I got groceries, then switched the laundry, made cheese, shoved another load into the washing machine, figured out dinner, and wished someone would blow the gloomy fog away, or at least make me a tea. 

Following morning my darling husband turned over and complained he didn’t sleep. While I set a cup of coffee in front of him, he wore a sheepish grin, then proceeded to play a recording of me—snoring.

With a triumphant glee, he turned up the volume so neither of our kids accidentally missed his clandestine achievement. I was ready to snatch the eggs and bacon, his sick and snoring wife made him, and feed his breakfast to the dogs. 

Next morning, he woke me up with a simple statement. I made him sick.

I could take it no longer. Not only I was sick for five days, and he didn’t even offer to make me tea, but instead secretly recorded me, as if he worked for the CIA, and now accused me of causing his illness? What was his problem? I got up and went to the kitchen to make me some java. 

A few moment later he joined me, and asked in a weak voice if I could make him a tea, and did I have anything he could take.

He sighed heavily. He had a headache. Where did I put the Advil? Kleenex box? Thermometer? Something for his sinuses?

I point to the HydraSense, not ready to talk. He asked how to use it. I explained in as few words as possible. My husband, who seemed to have landed from Mars only a few short minutes ago, proceeded to press the tip and sprayed the Eucalyptus all over the counter.

When I protest, he moved the operation to the sofa and started to administer his medicine. Of course he sprayed himself in the eye. I couldn't help but laugh. He froze, then joined me, tearing up, due to the burning liquid. 

To make him feel better I admitted his cold is truly much worse than mine. I filled the teapot, stirred in some honey, and grabbed his mug. He thanked me, and asked if I could make him chicken soup.

I recalled the short video explaining man-cold that landed on my Face Book page a few months ago, and suddenly I felt lonely no more. There is a sisterhood out there, that understands me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLj7fj-3L78

Let's Be Real about Christmas

One of my favourite childhood memories is the Advent calendar. Each morning in December I opened a window, and got a piece of chocolate. Sometimes Grandma took me to mass. When we came home, the house smelled of tangerines, frankincense, and fresh pine needles. Grandpa and I set up the Nativity Scene. Christmas was magical, filled with wondrous expectations. 

As I grew older reality chipped away at the illusion. It began with a paper calendar, with numbered windows, but no chocolate. The Santa mystery was revealed. There were gifts my siblings and I snooped out, and never received. The fight my mom and dad had over my Grandma and Grandpa coming to dinner, and the silent treatment that preceded the Christmas Eve feast. 

The most stressful holiday tradition was my mothers’ parents’ annual Christmas Day dinner. Dad hated to go. His opinion of the socialist government, embodied by my mother’s family, was no secret. Fights ensued. My stomach in knots I couldn’t wait to go home. Then mother would be silent for weeks. 

Things got stranger yet. Our first Christmas in an Austrian refugee house Grandma’s catholic traditions came to life once more. There were shoe boxes delivered by missionaries, who also brought us the Good News. I grasped the irony of the past family gatherings of professing atheists, celebrating birth of Christ. My mother cried. She missed them. My father was mad. We have left everything behind, because of communists, like them. 

But the festive season took on another meaning that year. I considered it my first real Christmas, and purposed to celebrate the holidays in a new light, and start new traditions. 

Yet the family drama continued, bringing on more stomach knots. One year it was my sister’s drinking boyfriend, then my father’s gallbladder attack, the phone mother unplugged so we couldn’t wish them Merry Christmas, yet another one of my sister’s boyfriends, this one absent, causing her a meltdown, subsequently blamed on me and my family. 

I found professional help. When my psychologist asked what I really wanted, I told her a normal family. She said I would never get that. Then we prayed, and she freed me, making it clear that I was only responsible for my behaviour. 

Thinking of my children, and their memories, I searched for balance. We made a few changes. Not everyone was happy. But as I edited my Christmas expectations, I learnt to say no. Those who didn’t think my family deserved to be happy and enjoy the holidays, didn’t need to come. Harsh and selfish, perhaps. But as the years went on, we developed new traditions, centered around our faith, peace and love. 

I cherish the Christmas season, still sending out cards. We host parties, cook our giant home-grown turkeys, make time to go to church, and sleep in on Christmas Day. 

Be good to yourself, my mentor used to say, and at first I thought it was a bit strange. But now I understand. So, be good to yourself, and say no to invitations that don’t bring you joy. Buy an Advent calendar, and as you claim your daily chocolate, think of the sweetness of God in your life. Play your favourite Christmas music, and eat the cookies. Indulge in the wonder of the season, and cherish those you love. It’s one big birthday party after all. He chose to come to us, Emanuel, God with Us. Let us celebrate and rejoice, with no guilt, because life is too short for needless drama. 

Have a truly Merry Christmas, may your holidays be blessed, filled with love, kindness and peace. 

How Big Is Your Shovel?

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Helena Smrcek

Frolicking horses, cute kittens, flocks of chickens—misleading images of farm life. Honestly, no one advertises the other side of nature. 

Cleaning Rosie’s stall is part of my mornings. I love her milk. The other presents—not so much. Shovel in hand, I worked around my Queen of Goats the other day, her watchful eye ensuring I didn’t miss a thing, while my thoughts took me back to a long-ago conversation. 

I have met Doctor Joel Freeman at Write!Canada. His credentials astounded me. A man with a long list of qualifications, achievements and involvements, yet when we sat down to talk, he was happy, open, and ready to listen. 

His interest in my life was so disarming, that I, uncharacteristically so, opened up and shared my struggles. I told him about my family, church involvement, work, and my fear. People around me would often say I had too much going on, but I wrestled to give up any one thing. Was I missing God’s best? Was I in His will? 

He listened, then looked me in the eyes, and said. “I have three questions. First. How is your relationship with God?” 

Honestly I didn’t expect that. My bad. He had served as an NBA chaplain. “I’d say good,” I answered, knowing that I’d never be as good a Christina as I could be, but I live by His mercy. 

“Great,” Freeman nodded. “How is your relationship with your husband?” 

Both of us triple-A personalities, our relationship has never been boring. Without going into details, I answered, “I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

“And how is your relationship with your children?” He asked. 

All the parenting stress, rush and heartaches aside, our kids have never gave us grief. We truly blessed with these two, now young adult people, in our lives. My answer was easy. “Great.” 

He smiled and said. “It’s the size of your shovel.” 

I was little puzzled at first, but he continued to explain. 

“God gives each one of us a shovel. Some people get a small shovel, and some a large one. The ones with the small shovel look at you and wonder how you could do all these things, but as long as your three primary relationship are in order, and your health is good, keep on going. You aren’t doing anything wrong.” 

This was one of the most freeing conversations of my life. A heavy weight lifted of my chest and guilt slowly dissipated. Here was an accomplished man, giving me permission to be myself. 

So, on the days I feel overwhelmed and question my sanity, I remind myself that I chose this life. As gratitude replaces dread, I sprinkle fresh wood shavings onto Rosie’s floor, making her home worthy of the queen she is, and silently thank God for giving me the opportunity and strength to do this. God has granted me this freedom, He gave me a shovel, it’s up to me to use it, and live my life to the fullest. No regrets.