Franky the snowmound.

I had lost my Christmas spirit. It was going strong for awhile and then it just left me, like a crack mom abandons their baby.

IT’S BACK. Thank goodness. And not a minute too soon.

It started with this morning’s festive activities. I wasn’t going to church but I kind of wanted to something “reflective” anyway. So I bundled up, put some Jars of Clay Christmas tunes on the iPod, and headed out back with my shovel.

I went out with the intent of building a snowman. I ended up spending close to two hours outside trying to break the icy top layer of the hills and get to the good snow underneath. Needless to say after all that effort I was left with a snow… mound.

A couple weeks ago I told my Dad that he was on his own this Christmas. He usually throws money at me and I buy all the presents for my Mom, wrap them and just get him to sign some of the tags. But this year I was on strike, he will soon be on his own I wanted him to try his hand at Christmas shopping.

This afternoon I finally got the courage to ask him what he bought Mom for Christmas (keep in mind this is the eve of Christmas Eve). He replied with “… nothing yet.”

Ugh. My Dad is the kind of guy who will buy birthday presents at the 24 hour gas station the night before. Magazines and peanuts, thanks pops.

He went on to say “Maybe I’ll just put some money in a card.” Here’s where I flip, because one: you don’t do that on Christmas, two: my Mom would lose it, three: my Mom doesn’t need a card of money from my Dad because she could just drive to the bank and get it from their account herself and four: YOU DON’T DO THAT ON CHRISTMAS.

I headed back downstairs resolved to the fact that my parents would probably ruin my Christmas over this when I was suddenly filled with the CHRISTMAS SPIRIT. You can fix this! it said. You don’t have to be the bitch who didn’t fix Christmas.

So I trudged back up and gave my Dad the secret weapon. A present sure to make my Mom teary and filled with love.

Earlier this month a book came out about the midwives of Newfoundland’s past. There was really only a hospital in St. John’s (and maybe Corner Brook?) so midwives were an integral part of Newfoundland’s well-being.

My great-grandmother, my Mom’s maternal grandmother, was a midwife. She didn’t have an easy life. She was raised in an orphanage and was also deaf. When she was very young she was sent to Nova Scotia to a special school for the deaf.

In the end she did what most women couldn’t accomplish until the 1970s. She got her certification for midwifery from a school in Chicago, got married, raised five boys and one girl (my S’ville Nanny), all the while birthing babies across the island (including my Mom).

There’s a section of this new book about my great-grandmother and thus an instant tear jerker for my Mom. I [obviously] never met my great-grandmother, but I am very interested to read about the sort of work she did. I’ll definitely update with a review. :)

And so I am refilled with the Christmas spirit. And to extend that Christmas spirit to you I offer you:

FRANKY THE SNOWMOUND: WITH CHOCOLATE EYES, CARROT NOSE AND A RED GRAPED MOUTH