Monday, July 13, 2009
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Rot-erator
Fridges are a marvellous invention; no?
You go to the far faraway grocery store and spend five hundred or so of your easily-come-by spare change. You come home set for a healthy week of fresh fruits, veggies, and dairy-type products.
You eat quite a bit of it, but it's always surprising how the back of the fridge always recedes into the wall behind it, and the strawberries, mushrooms, sour cream, and apples start making babies with each other. Bad babies.
When the kids yell "snack time!" some ten days after shopping day, the pickin's are a little slim and you get down on your haunches to peer behind the fur coats into the narnia beyond. That's when you recognize that the fur is actually growing on what was your groceries just a coupla days ago.
You're glad you are doing your part to stimulate the economy. Just a few weeks ago, you bought a composter so that after the groceries brief vacation in the refridgerater, they can go make their contribution to the world in another way- return to the soil from whence they came. Now you've invested in two big gadgets to not make use of your produce. The fridge, which is so much fun to fill up when you've spent fifty hours collecting the stuff, lengthened your arms by fifteen inches hauling the stuff, and made a special trip to the city far faraway to acquire the stuff. After this easy stuff, you get to empty the Rot-erater and carry it to the composter.
Or if you're lazy; you could just leave your fridge door open and make it an all-in-one. You'd save yourself a couple of bothersome steps.
(You might have to move though. Or be prepared to plant tomatoes in your kitchen after all that stuff composts. Or be willing to share your abode with rodents, bugs, and all manner of neighbourhood dogs and cockroach.)
I don't personally recommend it; but it's your Rot-erater.
If you're fortunate enough to own one.
**NO! silly. It's not my fridge up there in the photos. Not the clean one, and not the disgusting one. not even the strawberries between the two of them. My camera is on leave with eldest daughter who seems to have sprouted some photography talent and seems in high demand with the locals. Strawberries are yummy! So is vanilla yogurt. I don't usually let those things rot too readily. It's the half lemon in a tupperware in the recesses of the fridge. The lone carrot from the summer of '07. That portabella mushroom the husband was going to barbeque. two weeks ago....
Monday, July 06, 2009
Wanna Be
A few nights ago some women (circa high school grad; 1985) met for dinner and conversation. I was amazed and inspired to hear that three out of the six women present had a disturbing habit of rising with (or before) the sun and hitting the elements for some hard core cardio.
I was duly impressed. All that discipline. Muscle. Anti-flub proactivity. All that energy- producing, happiness promoting endorphin production.
My husband is of equal baffling persuasion; having been known to swim one hundred laps at the pool before breakfast for years on end.
This morning at 6:00 am, he convinced me to accompany him and the dog on an early morning walk. I didn't want to. I didn't even want to be vertical, never mind mobile. But I did it; thinking that I wouldn't mind experiencing that energy rush and that positive chemical reaction. Seemed like an excellent way to approach a new week. I had often engaged in daydreams and fantasies about being one of those people and I suspected that actually starting was an important element of the process.
I felt ill.
My feet hurt where the callouses on my heels were beginning to crack. My eyes hurt. My arms felt weak. My toes felt pinched. The sense of fatigue was as yucky as when my babies insisted on nursing at the most inconvenient of times.
Almost four hours later- absolutely no change. I feel like I walked across town on my eyeballs.
Dinner and conversation I can do; but beyond that I may just settle for the cheering section when it comes to my early morning heroes. I'm pretty sure that produces a lot more feel good endorphins...
I was duly impressed. All that discipline. Muscle. Anti-flub proactivity. All that energy- producing, happiness promoting endorphin production.
My husband is of equal baffling persuasion; having been known to swim one hundred laps at the pool before breakfast for years on end.
This morning at 6:00 am, he convinced me to accompany him and the dog on an early morning walk. I didn't want to. I didn't even want to be vertical, never mind mobile. But I did it; thinking that I wouldn't mind experiencing that energy rush and that positive chemical reaction. Seemed like an excellent way to approach a new week. I had often engaged in daydreams and fantasies about being one of those people and I suspected that actually starting was an important element of the process.
I felt ill.
My feet hurt where the callouses on my heels were beginning to crack. My eyes hurt. My arms felt weak. My toes felt pinched. The sense of fatigue was as yucky as when my babies insisted on nursing at the most inconvenient of times.
Almost four hours later- absolutely no change. I feel like I walked across town on my eyeballs.
Dinner and conversation I can do; but beyond that I may just settle for the cheering section when it comes to my early morning heroes. I'm pretty sure that produces a lot more feel good endorphins...
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Canadian Shield Safari
First sighting: a wee bunny hopping towards grandma's lush garden.... Little does he know of Aganetha the Horrible.
Families of goslings marching in the ditches along the long highway that leads us to the lake. Huge ravens waiting for the oppurtunity to bully lunch out of some smaller being. Gorgeous deer and spotted fawns.
At the cabin; a very, very tall tree blown over in a wind storm provides an instant project for a handy guy with a chainsaw. What weakened that tree? A very industrious woodpecker, who had carved out an impressive suite inside the trunk and tucked her two wee offspring inside.
Unfortunately; they did not survive the fall, but did wet my own appetite for learning more of this hardworking bird.
And on the drive home? A black bear. Slowly padding his way across the road, disappearing his furry self into the tall grasses of the opposite ditch.
*
A long winter? Indeed.
But what a beautiful foray into this summer's new season of life.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Happy Birthday, Canada
Kids these days.
Our third annual trek to the Winnipeg Zoo for Canada Day. Eldest opted for staying home and sleeping in instead of heading out at 8:15 with us crowd-beating keeners. Some certain other children refused to have their photo taken, or mumbled obscenities like: "I'm bored. How many Aminals do we have to see before we get to go home...?"
The sights were luscious as usual. Too bad for the poor wee mouse that we happened upon along the path. Must have seen a really big prairie dog and dropped dead of fright? Or did he feel so inferior to the bright plumage around him that he gave in to his dark side and called it a life?
Or. Maybe he told his mother that he was bored.
At the zoo.
hmmmm...
Nothing a bit of sugar and fat can't straighten out in a nano second.
Brunch.
9:15 in the zoo munchie station.
Traditions are good. Kids are too, I hear.
Judging from the amount of pregnant bellies and miniscule humans around the place, I'm going to go ahead and speculate that word has not gotten out that babies turn into children who whine.
Might need to blow up that photo of the mousie...
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Autobiography of a Face
by Lucy Grealy
(summer reading ;) Let it begin! )
"I used to think truth was eternal, that once I knew, once I saw, it would be with me forever, a constant by which everything else could be measured. I know now that this isn't so, that most truths are inherently unretainable, that we have to work hard all our lives to remember the most basic things. Society is no help. It tells us again and again that we can most be ourselves by acting and looking like someone else......."
Sometimes in this thing called Life, there is nothing so relieving as to read someone else's thoughts as confirmation of one's own. A validation of shared perceptions.
It often frustrates me that I seem to learn something; to see it as a revelation-- only to discover a very short time later that my life has not changed perceptibly to accomodate this new way of seeing things. I've often blamed my inferior intelligence for seemingly needing to learn the very same thing over and over and over again.
inherently unretainable. That made me crave the release of tears of gratitude....
(summer reading ;) Let it begin! )
"I used to think truth was eternal, that once I knew, once I saw, it would be with me forever, a constant by which everything else could be measured. I know now that this isn't so, that most truths are inherently unretainable, that we have to work hard all our lives to remember the most basic things. Society is no help. It tells us again and again that we can most be ourselves by acting and looking like someone else......."
Sometimes in this thing called Life, there is nothing so relieving as to read someone else's thoughts as confirmation of one's own. A validation of shared perceptions.
It often frustrates me that I seem to learn something; to see it as a revelation-- only to discover a very short time later that my life has not changed perceptibly to accomodate this new way of seeing things. I've often blamed my inferior intelligence for seemingly needing to learn the very same thing over and over and over again.
inherently unretainable. That made me crave the release of tears of gratitude....
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Got a Pulse? Apply Here.
I've been at this for a long time. In grade six I was a rookie; for sure. By the time I was twenty-four, having lived independently for some years and employed as a respite caregiver for disabled children, I'd like to think that I had already learned a thing or two and could be trusted to function reasonably well with people's children.
It was right about then that an overly involved, overly-attentive-to-details mother instructed me very specifically on how to cook macaroni and cheese straight out of the box.
I believe that my tongue may still carry the imprint of my teeth.
I'm forty-one now, and I've been working on raising four children of my own for almost fifteen years now. Simultaneously, I've wiped and fed a trillion or more of other people's children.
Recently, a mother showed me how to change her offsprig from sweatpants into shorts. That there was no zipper and that they simply slid off or on.
I wonder how I've managed all these years.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Dear Ol' Dad
I don't usually get the point of buying a gift for my husband on Father's Day. I figure that I have my own dad, and he's got kids of his own that ought to be honouring him.
This year I reversed things a little. I kind of neglected my own father, and looked after my kid's daddy instead. After our maiden overnighter in the tent trailer (right in the comfort of our own driveway!), I had fun surprising Brian with a fancy schmancy new coffee maker that we immediately put to the test.
The boys had a few things to share with their daddy as well. Sam drew some pictures of favourite things to do with daddy; or things that daddy loves to do.
Golf.
Camping.
Backyard campfires.
Swimming!
Not to be outdone; Micah had also made his respectful father a greeting card fit for the Hallmark Hall of Fame.
Heh, heh.....
Loverly.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Hi-WHAT-is?
.......in time, she discovers that her attempt at balance was sorely misguided and poorly orchestrated. A hiatus was indeed a wise direction; but sadly... she took a break from all the wrong things.
If I had a lick of sense in me, I would have taken a break from dishes, laundry, sweeping, vacuuming, sorting, carrying, stacking, loading, mowing, dusting, and child-rearing. It turns out that those are the things that actually take up all my time, regardless of whether a bag or two hundred get sewn in their midst. Honestly. A woman who spends as much time as I do CLEANING should live in a perfect environment.
I think I'll start auctioning again. The highest bidder by 6:00 pm can take care of all the dishes. I'll need someone around here all day long to sweep- that happens at least six times between dawn and dusk.
If this idea catches on, I could grab a couple hours and maybe head back to the sewing room!
Seriously, folks. Has anybody ever dwelt on the fact that housework is really depressing? So unrewarding? So temporary? I'm guessing they have; judging from the numbers of middle-aged women I've seen around town with wadded up dish cloths permanently rammed between their lips. And that only sort of muffles their screams....
Now, before you inundate my comment box with chides about how my children ought to be decked out in denim and suspenders scrubbing and mopping and submitting and easing my load...I know. Okay?! And the neat thing is that I'm not at all defensive.
Have I mentioned that I hate conflict? And nagging?
And that everyone else's kid within a thousand mile radius is also welcome in my home? (okay, maybe just a little defensive. Sometimes.) AND that there's only one bathroom to service the multitudes?
Anyhoo. Back to the idea of hiatus. I think I was onto the right idea, and I know it's pretty normal for abnormal people to feel depressed after a big project like that winds down. It doesn't mean that I have to like it. I know it's pretty normal to have the repetitive, mundane, endless tasks of home and family wear a gal down. But that doesn't make it any less discouraging.
And you know what else is scarey? All this depressiong stuff has resurrected my
couch obsession. So now Ispend waste too much time on usedwinnipeg.com looking for my dream couch. (for pennies, of course).
hmmm... I still think taking a break was the right thing to do. I just wish the yucky in between part would go away now.
If I had a lick of sense in me, I would have taken a break from dishes, laundry, sweeping, vacuuming, sorting, carrying, stacking, loading, mowing, dusting, and child-rearing. It turns out that those are the things that actually take up all my time, regardless of whether a bag or two hundred get sewn in their midst. Honestly. A woman who spends as much time as I do CLEANING should live in a perfect environment.
I think I'll start auctioning again. The highest bidder by 6:00 pm can take care of all the dishes. I'll need someone around here all day long to sweep- that happens at least six times between dawn and dusk.
If this idea catches on, I could grab a couple hours and maybe head back to the sewing room!
Seriously, folks. Has anybody ever dwelt on the fact that housework is really depressing? So unrewarding? So temporary? I'm guessing they have; judging from the numbers of middle-aged women I've seen around town with wadded up dish cloths permanently rammed between their lips. And that only sort of muffles their screams....
Now, before you inundate my comment box with chides about how my children ought to be decked out in denim and suspenders scrubbing and mopping and submitting and easing my load...I know. Okay?! And the neat thing is that I'm not at all defensive.
Have I mentioned that I hate conflict? And nagging?
And that everyone else's kid within a thousand mile radius is also welcome in my home? (okay, maybe just a little defensive. Sometimes.) AND that there's only one bathroom to service the multitudes?
Anyhoo. Back to the idea of hiatus. I think I was onto the right idea, and I know it's pretty normal for abnormal people to feel depressed after a big project like that winds down. It doesn't mean that I have to like it. I know it's pretty normal to have the repetitive, mundane, endless tasks of home and family wear a gal down. But that doesn't make it any less discouraging.
And you know what else is scarey? All this depressiong stuff has resurrected my
couch obsession. So now I
hmmm... I still think taking a break was the right thing to do. I just wish the yucky in between part would go away now.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I'd Rather Be Chubby Than Thin and Unhappy
It's a big seller. The idea that if you could just lose that five to five hundred pesky pounds, you would find that gaping empty internal spot plugged and you could finally move on with your life. Your life can't begin while you're hauling that around. And if you try; and even if you succeed; no one will take you seriously because your fat will speak of your failure for you. You'll be given away before you've quite begun.
However.
That's advertising. And they don't really give a darn about your personal happiness- they'd just like you to fund them in pursuits of their own. So, they get pretty good at convincing you that if you'd just be skinny; then you'd be happy. It's just that easy.
Truthfully; people who are unhappy with chub are pretty much exactly the same when they sleek down. Maybe their unhappiness transfers a bit-- no longer is the fat holding them back from a happy and fulfilling life; but now something else has swiftly slid into position to make them yearn for better times and fuel their "if only"s. People can and do change their shape, but you find that the nice ones usually stay pretty nice; and that misery seems to haunt the miserable even in their size what-evahs.
Conversely, (Frighteningly), I still think the thin packaging does makes them more tolerable.
With all the clever marketing we've been subject to, we just expect thin people to be smarter, more pleasant, more worthwhile, more productive, more enviable. We put up with more filler because we're so sure that the really great stuff is just around the corner.
Of course, all that optimism is short-lived because for all the pretty packaging in the world, there's only so much agony we'll subject ourselves to. Still, it's disturbing how we're willing to make allowances for people in more acceptable bodies than for really great people with rolls.
Yeah, I'd rather be a little lumpy, have a few laughs, and enjoy my funny little life than be an anxious bone rack who is beginning to suspect that the great cookie jar (filled with handy 100 calorie snack packets!) at the end of the celery-and-pumpkin-peel-diet isn't all it's cracked up to be.
*You can hold me to absolutely nothing that I just said in this post. By tomorrow by 1:00 or 2:00 or midnight, I might tell you that there is absolutely nothing more important or endorphin boosting than losing some poundage. I may tell you most convincingly that if I could justlosesomeweight I would be soooo much happier! more interesting! successful! thin!
**This is probably also an excellent time to refresh everyone's mind that I am crazy.
Not a little bit; but totally, dangerously crazy.
However.
That's advertising. And they don't really give a darn about your personal happiness- they'd just like you to fund them in pursuits of their own. So, they get pretty good at convincing you that if you'd just be skinny; then you'd be happy. It's just that easy.
Truthfully; people who are unhappy with chub are pretty much exactly the same when they sleek down. Maybe their unhappiness transfers a bit-- no longer is the fat holding them back from a happy and fulfilling life; but now something else has swiftly slid into position to make them yearn for better times and fuel their "if only"s. People can and do change their shape, but you find that the nice ones usually stay pretty nice; and that misery seems to haunt the miserable even in their size what-evahs.
Conversely, (Frighteningly), I still think the thin packaging does makes them more tolerable.
With all the clever marketing we've been subject to, we just expect thin people to be smarter, more pleasant, more worthwhile, more productive, more enviable. We put up with more filler because we're so sure that the really great stuff is just around the corner.
Of course, all that optimism is short-lived because for all the pretty packaging in the world, there's only so much agony we'll subject ourselves to. Still, it's disturbing how we're willing to make allowances for people in more acceptable bodies than for really great people with rolls.
Yeah, I'd rather be a little lumpy, have a few laughs, and enjoy my funny little life than be an anxious bone rack who is beginning to suspect that the great cookie jar (filled with handy 100 calorie snack packets!) at the end of the celery-and-pumpkin-peel-diet isn't all it's cracked up to be.
*You can hold me to absolutely nothing that I just said in this post. By tomorrow by 1:00 or 2:00 or midnight, I might tell you that there is absolutely nothing more important or endorphin boosting than losing some poundage. I may tell you most convincingly that if I could justlosesomeweight I would be soooo much happier! more interesting! successful! thin!
**This is probably also an excellent time to refresh everyone's mind that I am crazy.
Not a little bit; but totally, dangerously crazy.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Why I Am The Biggest Loser Who Ever Walked Planet Earth.
I had to borrow the family vintage-but-not-in-a-good-way farm truck to drive downtown to meet some friends for a fortieth birthday shindig. Not that I wasn't willing to do that for a dear friend. It wasn't any trouble- mostly a pleasure; what with the plywood box built onto the back of the hog-mobile that totally obscured my rear view mirror and the fact that the Delta Hotel inexplicably got moved by several blocks without anyone sending me the memo.
Nothing a quick crank of the steering wheel (yes, quick. It's a half tonne. Those things are spor-- tea.) into a gas station couldn't remedy in a nano second. The guy with the orange mohawk and pierced everypart was surprisingly helpful. I was grateful that he pointed me in the right direction before the large man who had peed himself quite made it to the counter to barter for cigarrettes. Or knife the guy. I didn't stick around long enough to find out.
350 St Mary.
No problem.
No parking.
No problem.
There's the parkade.
Have you ever noticed how big a half-tonne is? They really shouldn't use the word "half" on a vehicle like that. Apparently, I made the height restrictions though, because those plywood side bits on the box held fast. After some savvy sharp underground parkade style turns, I slid into the first available parking stall and made my way into the Delta.
hmmmmm...... The room was reserved under the name "Dianna". I've never actually met Dianna, but we do share a friend. Who turned forty. Who we wanted to mutually celebrate.
But when I failed to produce a surname for the said Dianna, I don't think the hotel attendant cared that I had heard of Dianna, or shared a friend with her, or wanted to eat some cake with anyone of any age whatsoever.
My cell phone?
At home.
Uncharged. (anyone seen my charging cable? Anyone?)
Pay Phone.
No problem.
Employ credit card to telephone town faraway from whence my friend and her friends had driven from. Interrogate her family and make wild promises if they divulge the surname of the mysterious Dianna.
Re-approach the lobby with head held high and necessary information at hand.
Am rewarded with less suspicion and breathe a little easier with hotel room number in reach. Plunge hand into pocket and pull out stub that reads: Place On Dash Of Vehicle.
Begin to suspect that I may be the biggest loser who ever walked the face of the earth.
Choose denial.
Proceed with celebratory measures.
Eat Masawwa.
And Baked Expectations.
Laugh.
Love.
But all the while have poorly repressed phantom thoughts of a farm truck deep in the bowels of a parkade. Convince several friends that accompaniment to this underworld will develop their character, exercise their respiratory capacities, and prove to me their undying devotion. Slip my hand into my pocket to retrieve parking slip. Come up empty.
Put truck in reverse. Successfully maneuver large boxy vehicle out of spot. Find exit. Begin to perspire ever so slightly, remembering the absence of the parking stub, which ought to have been left on the dash if the biggest loser in all the world hadn't been part of this particular story.
Pull up to parkade cashier upright-coffin-like-closet-thingie. Wish I had my parking stubby. Casually glance at the price list: evening rate: $5.00 Day rate: $10.00 Lost Tickets: $25.05.
Oh.
Dang.
Glance up at large red sign in creepy-cashier-box-type-dwelling:
"Attendant Temporarily Unavailable. Back In Five Minutes".
Shut off large rural type vehicle.
With a bill of $25.05 soon to come my way, I'd best save what fuel I could.
Wait five minutes.
Wait another five minutes. (I'm not making any of this up)
Notice the occasional vehicle enter the parkade and speculate on the possibility of squeezing out the "in" door before it folds down on the wooden box, first crushing the truck with a sickening crunch, then closing in on me. Remember that I have left loved ones at home who might miss me, and who might at this very moment be wondering why I've not returned home.
Begin to speculate on dying in a parkade from too much stale air and exhaust.
Consider napping.
Imagine bad guys coming.
Hallucinate a panting and rabid Cujo-esque hound slathering his putrid drool across my windshield and pounding in my passenger side window with his brute strength fueled by a relentless appetite for my blood.
Try to find my confidence.
Engage in a fantasy about making a scene with the cashier when he does indeed arrive. It has been twenty minutes of waiting beside a five minute sign to pay a twenty-five dollar fine. If I threaten to report him for taking more than five minutes to pee, he will have to let me out of the parkade for free, I reason. I try to imagine being assertive and firm in my respectful and intimidating place behind the wheel of a 1981 farm truck. With a wooden box.
The honking of a horn behind me breaks my reverie.
Poor girl in a respectable car behind me can't see the sign and thinks I've passed out behind the wheel.
I hop out of myhigh horse benchseat, down to the dusty concrete, and with my confident, assertive arm, wave her attention to the "five minute" sign.
She shouts back: "Just drive forward- there's no one there, and the door will open as you approach it!"
Which indeed it did.
Nothing a quick crank of the steering wheel (yes, quick. It's a half tonne. Those things are spor-- tea.) into a gas station couldn't remedy in a nano second. The guy with the orange mohawk and pierced everypart was surprisingly helpful. I was grateful that he pointed me in the right direction before the large man who had peed himself quite made it to the counter to barter for cigarrettes. Or knife the guy. I didn't stick around long enough to find out.
350 St Mary.
No problem.
No parking.
No problem.
There's the parkade.
Have you ever noticed how big a half-tonne is? They really shouldn't use the word "half" on a vehicle like that. Apparently, I made the height restrictions though, because those plywood side bits on the box held fast. After some savvy sharp underground parkade style turns, I slid into the first available parking stall and made my way into the Delta.
hmmmmm...... The room was reserved under the name "Dianna". I've never actually met Dianna, but we do share a friend. Who turned forty. Who we wanted to mutually celebrate.
But when I failed to produce a surname for the said Dianna, I don't think the hotel attendant cared that I had heard of Dianna, or shared a friend with her, or wanted to eat some cake with anyone of any age whatsoever.
My cell phone?
At home.
Uncharged. (anyone seen my charging cable? Anyone?)
Pay Phone.
No problem.
Employ credit card to telephone town faraway from whence my friend and her friends had driven from. Interrogate her family and make wild promises if they divulge the surname of the mysterious Dianna.
Re-approach the lobby with head held high and necessary information at hand.
Am rewarded with less suspicion and breathe a little easier with hotel room number in reach. Plunge hand into pocket and pull out stub that reads: Place On Dash Of Vehicle.
Begin to suspect that I may be the biggest loser who ever walked the face of the earth.
Choose denial.
Proceed with celebratory measures.
Eat Masawwa.
And Baked Expectations.
Laugh.
Love.
But all the while have poorly repressed phantom thoughts of a farm truck deep in the bowels of a parkade. Convince several friends that accompaniment to this underworld will develop their character, exercise their respiratory capacities, and prove to me their undying devotion. Slip my hand into my pocket to retrieve parking slip. Come up empty.
Put truck in reverse. Successfully maneuver large boxy vehicle out of spot. Find exit. Begin to perspire ever so slightly, remembering the absence of the parking stub, which ought to have been left on the dash if the biggest loser in all the world hadn't been part of this particular story.
Pull up to parkade cashier upright-coffin-like-closet-thingie. Wish I had my parking stubby. Casually glance at the price list: evening rate: $5.00 Day rate: $10.00 Lost Tickets: $25.05.
Oh.
Dang.
Glance up at large red sign in creepy-cashier-box-type-dwelling:
"Attendant Temporarily Unavailable. Back In Five Minutes".
Shut off large rural type vehicle.
With a bill of $25.05 soon to come my way, I'd best save what fuel I could.
Wait five minutes.
Wait another five minutes. (I'm not making any of this up)
Notice the occasional vehicle enter the parkade and speculate on the possibility of squeezing out the "in" door before it folds down on the wooden box, first crushing the truck with a sickening crunch, then closing in on me. Remember that I have left loved ones at home who might miss me, and who might at this very moment be wondering why I've not returned home.
Begin to speculate on dying in a parkade from too much stale air and exhaust.
Consider napping.
Imagine bad guys coming.
Hallucinate a panting and rabid Cujo-esque hound slathering his putrid drool across my windshield and pounding in my passenger side window with his brute strength fueled by a relentless appetite for my blood.
Try to find my confidence.
Engage in a fantasy about making a scene with the cashier when he does indeed arrive. It has been twenty minutes of waiting beside a five minute sign to pay a twenty-five dollar fine. If I threaten to report him for taking more than five minutes to pee, he will have to let me out of the parkade for free, I reason. I try to imagine being assertive and firm in my respectful and intimidating place behind the wheel of a 1981 farm truck. With a wooden box.
The honking of a horn behind me breaks my reverie.
Poor girl in a respectable car behind me can't see the sign and thinks I've passed out behind the wheel.
I hop out of my
She shouts back: "Just drive forward- there's no one there, and the door will open as you approach it!"
Which indeed it did.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Oh. And.
Remember that fascinating story about not finding a basketball game at the University of Manitoba campus?
Kid comes home from school a few days later and makes a wee correction.
University of Winnipeg.
*to protect the innocent, I feel it prudent to mention that she was given the wrong information by some innocent third party. (wouldn't want to make my kid look bad on the world wide web) Apparently some other unhappy mother-of-basketball player was also seen wandering the campus of the U of M. It's a small comfort to know that I could definitely NOT have found said game. And had I known which university to drive to, I would definitely never have made U of W by 5:15. So, it's all good then, eh?
Kid comes home from school a few days later and makes a wee correction.
University of Winnipeg.
*to protect the innocent, I feel it prudent to mention that she was given the wrong information by some innocent third party. (wouldn't want to make my kid look bad on the world wide web) Apparently some other unhappy mother-of-basketball player was also seen wandering the campus of the U of M. It's a small comfort to know that I could definitely NOT have found said game. And had I known which university to drive to, I would definitely never have made U of W by 5:15. So, it's all good then, eh?
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Why Fix What Aint Broke....?
... Is what I imagine my kitty cat Wilbur was thinking after yesterday's events.
It was a perfectly sunny Saturday morning, and I had been out tomming all night long. (ah, what a night). I came in for a big breakfast before my daylong nap, and my person put my food bowl way up high out of my reach. She weedled and shoved me into some sort of plastic box with a handle and then we went for a ride. (doesn't she know that I don't like rides? Does she think I've turned dog?)
I swear that just this morning, I had a perfectly good set of testicles just hanging around. Absolutely nothing wrong with them. (testicle, testicle... wherefor art thou testicle...) When I woke up, there was nothing there but a sort of vacancy. An unusual breeziness. An ache.
Why would they call it "getting fixed"? They were never broken! All I know is that I started out perfect, and after I got fixed, I was all busted up and missing parts. This is soooooo messed up.
I'm going to have to go out and find myself some fig leaves or some sensible humans or something.
fixed. hmmmmph.
It was a perfectly sunny Saturday morning, and I had been out tomming all night long. (ah, what a night). I came in for a big breakfast before my daylong nap, and my person put my food bowl way up high out of my reach. She weedled and shoved me into some sort of plastic box with a handle and then we went for a ride. (doesn't she know that I don't like rides? Does she think I've turned dog?)
I swear that just this morning, I had a perfectly good set of testicles just hanging around. Absolutely nothing wrong with them. (testicle, testicle... wherefor art thou testicle...) When I woke up, there was nothing there but a sort of vacancy. An unusual breeziness. An ache.
Why would they call it "getting fixed"? They were never broken! All I know is that I started out perfect, and after I got fixed, I was all busted up and missing parts. This is soooooo messed up.
I'm going to have to go out and find myself some fig leaves or some sensible humans or something.
fixed. hmmmmph.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
How To Deal With The Annoying Jingle Jangle Heaviness of Money In Your Pockets/Purse/Bank Account
- Enroll your daughter in spring basketball. Write out a cheque for the privelege.
- Since this is not a school sports event, each game will involve a trip to the city. Each time at a completely new location.
- Don't ever get e-mails about the games. Rely on your daughter, her inbox, and whatshehearsatschool.
- Make sure that no one car pools. Ensure that your daughter offers rides to no one. Encourage her never to ask other players for rides.
- Own only one vehicle, and make it a van. That way you get to spend more money on gas.
- Try to get to the games that involve you getting to the city by 5:15. Even when you work til 5:30 and the city is 30 minutes away.
- this is great, because then you can pay your other daughter to finish your daycare day for you. That should help to lighten your wallet.
- Additionally, your child will be starving, so this is a great time to load her up on salt, sugar, fat, paper, and plastic at any number of drive-through locations.
- I really like the nights when the information is particularly succinct: Game. University of Manitoba. (I'm sure the place is tiny. I think we'll just drive over there and look around for a kid carrying a basketball)
- Park in a parkade. That way you get to use those annoying toonie bits that weigh so much.
- Check gymnasiums in two or three buildings. Ask gym desk attendents, but don't have too much information, such as: What the heck the name of the organization that you are playing with. It's more fun that way.
- Receive helpful information about which hallways to traverse, and where courts might possibly exist.
- Enjoy a convocation on your walk over to some other gymnasium.
- Remember that you never actually finished your degree. Wonder if you would be less stupid if you had finished. Wonder if it would help you find a gymnasium. Without grad caps.
- Rage on your way back to the parkade. Mentally plan to set aside some money for your child's unresolved life issues. (It all started back on that day when my mom couldn't find the right gym, and I never had my chance to really excel!)
- Consider stopping at Old Navy to buy your kid a bunch of clothes that she doesn't need just to have something new to feel guilty about. Fantacize about buying a lot of gin and menthols.
- DRIVE home instead. Fill up the tank along the way. Remember that it's time to pay for summer camp and that your other two kids need new running shoes.
- Begin to chew your cuticles.
- Notice that your wallet is considerably lighter.
- Now you know. These instructions can be used in any order whatsoever. They are fool proof.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Some Random-ness
Must say, it feels nice to spend two days enjoying the sunshine with the kiddies, and then spending the evening not thinking about when to squeeze in a few more minutes hours to complete a bag and get it posted.
A difficult decision to make, and a painful thing to release, but still it feels right. And delicious to take a little pressure off. Even pleasant pressure; as I love to sew. But the arms racing around the clock at a dizzying speed (even as my own arms race in competition) always makes morning come before I feel quite prepared for it.
But today-- my kitchen looks nearly prepared for the mania of morning. My living room is nearly devoid of toys. My bags are all posted. And for anyone living here in Hoo-Ville, I would suggest that you spend either Thursday or Friday over at the high school watching the drama that I've just come home from. Some of these kids really amazed me. Not to mention made me laugh my buttocks off. (*sigh* if only it were so easy.....)
It's wonderful to live in a small town such as Hoo-Ville. You'd be amazed what one can experience. Just last week we were at a Jazz Night just two blocks from our house, and I'd swear that I'd fallen right off the sturdy Bible belt and landed in New Orleans. Mar-Dee- Gras!! The high school jazz band itself was stellar- I couldn't believe their talent. And then a jazz soloist named Katherine Penfold; an amazing man on the keyboard and another male-type miracle worker on the string bass made music that made me want to weep. Seriously folks. All this in Hoo-Ville.
Yes, indeedy. The sun is shining in more than just one way. The freckles have come out; along with the rhubarb, the peonies, the strollers, and the smell of fresh cut grass. It seems the whole world has come back from the dead.
And I gotta say, it sure feels good.
A difficult decision to make, and a painful thing to release, but still it feels right. And delicious to take a little pressure off. Even pleasant pressure; as I love to sew. But the arms racing around the clock at a dizzying speed (even as my own arms race in competition) always makes morning come before I feel quite prepared for it.
But today-- my kitchen looks nearly prepared for the mania of morning. My living room is nearly devoid of toys. My bags are all posted. And for anyone living here in Hoo-Ville, I would suggest that you spend either Thursday or Friday over at the high school watching the drama that I've just come home from. Some of these kids really amazed me. Not to mention made me laugh my buttocks off. (*sigh* if only it were so easy.....)
It's wonderful to live in a small town such as Hoo-Ville. You'd be amazed what one can experience. Just last week we were at a Jazz Night just two blocks from our house, and I'd swear that I'd fallen right off the sturdy Bible belt and landed in New Orleans. Mar-Dee- Gras!! The high school jazz band itself was stellar- I couldn't believe their talent. And then a jazz soloist named Katherine Penfold; an amazing man on the keyboard and another male-type miracle worker on the string bass made music that made me want to weep. Seriously folks. All this in Hoo-Ville.
Yes, indeedy. The sun is shining in more than just one way. The freckles have come out; along with the rhubarb, the peonies, the strollers, and the smell of fresh cut grass. It seems the whole world has come back from the dead.
And I gotta say, it sure feels good.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Some of my Worst Things
are: being assertive; being decisive; and making phone calls.
These faults are particularily a nuisance when my children are having problems. Like say, when a daughter gets hit by a car and has chronic back pain that MPIC seems to have stopped believing; the physiotherapist doesn't seem to be alleviating; the chiropractor didn't seem to help either; and running, jumping, and falling seem to exacerbate. Which is why I felt rather frustrated yesterday when daughter came home from school early, short of breath, and in pain from attempting to run the 1600 meter race. The frustration only spawned into anxiety after spending two hours at the Pan Am Sports Medicine Clinic and having another professional give some more conflicting advice. Keep active. Run. Make it hurt. Keep it limber.
If I were decisive and assertive, I would have remembered at that point to remind the Doc that this was the very reason we had gone to great lengths to get his opinion on this day. That she has indeed been keeping active, and receiving treatment since that fateful February day. That the activeness was now causing her to feel short of breath. Pained in her back, ribs, and neck.
Here's a sampling of advice:
(please pardon me if I indulge in slight exaggerations or cynicism)
Chiro: "Please take these products that MPIC will pay for. A special pillow. A back brace. An obus form- a huge, unsightly chair pad to carry from class to class with you in school." (At the age of 14. In Junior High. Right.)
Then, please drive to my office roughly three times a week for eternity or until MPIC stops paying for it. I will tell you have you have scoliosis, although no one has ever noted this before. I will tell you how much you are improving because of all the hard work that I am doing. Then I will order you some more products for MPIC to pay for."
(hmmm. oppurtunist? Or am I wildly suspicious and untrusting?)
Physio:
Come back when you feel the need.
MPIC:
"You are going to physio too sporadically. We question whether you are following their advice. We think you are trying to "take us for a ride". We are putting on our resentful voices now and reminding you that it has been over a year and chiro and physio don't seem to be working. Maybe its our fault? Maybe we're not following their advice?"
Sports Medicine:
"Make it hurt. Ice it. Stretch it. Move it."
Okay, so we've definitely got the "make it hurt" part down. However, it doesn't seem to be leading to an alleviation of the symptoms.
The child's neck crackles and cracks like popcorn. She has dull pain from head to butt. She has headaches most days. Her neck is sore.
What would a decisive, assertive, phone-calling mama do?
These faults are particularily a nuisance when my children are having problems. Like say, when a daughter gets hit by a car and has chronic back pain that MPIC seems to have stopped believing; the physiotherapist doesn't seem to be alleviating; the chiropractor didn't seem to help either; and running, jumping, and falling seem to exacerbate. Which is why I felt rather frustrated yesterday when daughter came home from school early, short of breath, and in pain from attempting to run the 1600 meter race. The frustration only spawned into anxiety after spending two hours at the Pan Am Sports Medicine Clinic and having another professional give some more conflicting advice. Keep active. Run. Make it hurt. Keep it limber.
If I were decisive and assertive, I would have remembered at that point to remind the Doc that this was the very reason we had gone to great lengths to get his opinion on this day. That she has indeed been keeping active, and receiving treatment since that fateful February day. That the activeness was now causing her to feel short of breath. Pained in her back, ribs, and neck.
Here's a sampling of advice:
(please pardon me if I indulge in slight exaggerations or cynicism)
Chiro: "Please take these products that MPIC will pay for. A special pillow. A back brace. An obus form- a huge, unsightly chair pad to carry from class to class with you in school." (At the age of 14. In Junior High. Right.)
Then, please drive to my office roughly three times a week for eternity or until MPIC stops paying for it. I will tell you have you have scoliosis, although no one has ever noted this before. I will tell you how much you are improving because of all the hard work that I am doing. Then I will order you some more products for MPIC to pay for."
(hmmm. oppurtunist? Or am I wildly suspicious and untrusting?)
Physio:
Come back when you feel the need.
MPIC:
"You are going to physio too sporadically. We question whether you are following their advice. We think you are trying to "take us for a ride". We are putting on our resentful voices now and reminding you that it has been over a year and chiro and physio don't seem to be working. Maybe its our fault? Maybe we're not following their advice?"
Sports Medicine:
"Make it hurt. Ice it. Stretch it. Move it."
Okay, so we've definitely got the "make it hurt" part down. However, it doesn't seem to be leading to an alleviation of the symptoms.
The child's neck crackles and cracks like popcorn. She has dull pain from head to butt. She has headaches most days. Her neck is sore.
What would a decisive, assertive, phone-calling mama do?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Yummy Stuff I Could Eat Every Day...
....and usually do.
- crunchy peanut butter
- Brian's mom's plum or apricot jam
- french vanilla yogurt
- seedy bread
- cheddar cheese; sliced really thin
- oatmeal cookies
- black licorice
- bread crusts (I'm not fussy. I'll eat your kids' bread crusts too.)
Optional:
- Anything roasted. ie: cauliflower, potato, carrots
- Anything with a bit of grilled cheese on it. Especially the crunchy bits.
- soft things like ice cream or chocolate pudding
- dark chocolate. Really dark.
- seeds and nuts. All of them.
- coffee beans
Stuff I could probably live without:
- shrimp
- curry
- onions that still have any crunch left to them.
- steak
- rare meat
- garlic cheese
- smokies
- meatloaf
- chips. I like chips, but I could live without them.
- wonder bread
- all cereal containing marshmallow bits; coloured bits; stuff that squishes; or turns your milk an unholy colour
- milk; for that matter. I like soy milk better.
This is a reciprocal exercise. I showed you mine, now you have to show me yours.
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Who We Think We Wish We Were
Driving past a snowy, bendy creek late this winter, I noticed a pair of cross-country skiers winding their way along the frozen water's edge. I recognized in myself an old, familiar voice that reminded me that my ideal self loved cross-country skiing along the edge of creeks.
Here's the thing: I like the idea of that person. I like the package. I don't actually ski.
Which got me thinking about all the ways we berate ourselves for not turning out more like the picture we'd grown in our minds.
It's even more vague when there's no clear picture in the first place. I was never one of those kids who lined up worksheets in a row and played teacher all day long; or knew just what picture to draw under the caption: "What I'd Like to Be When I Grow Up". At grad when my smart and clear-minded friends headed off to university to pursue the carreers of their choice; I was pretty sure that my judgement day had come. No more hiding my lack of ability to become anything; anyone at all.
What followed was many years of jobs in a variety of caregiving roles; which I enjoyed quite a lot and felt largely competent in. At one point, I was working on a hospital ward with severely disabled children. I felt honoured to have been hired into this role; and valued my relationships with the patients.
But what stands out in my mind during this part of my working life is the afternoon that I got caught up sewing up a tiny quilt; just for the fun of it. I didn't want to go to work when it was time to do so. I just wanted to stay in my cozy apartment and watch the pieces of stripe and polka dot take on a brand new shape.
I'm not eighteen anymore. I'm in my forties, and I still find myself wondering what I would like to be when I grow up. Not that I'm unhappy in my current life. I think I'm well suited to where life finds me now.
But I'd like to be surprised by a lack of mundane in this life. By directions that thrill and amaze me. Challenge compacancy. Promote social justice. I'd like life to morph into continuously interesting directions and never relax into a predictable routine that is comfortable; but kind of boring.
Sometimes I feel like that seventeen year old grad, looking around and wondering.... what now? When will my stage manager show up and hand me a program or a flashlight or something?
In any case, I don't think I'll take up cross-country skiing any time soon, although I still love the image. I may indulge myself in daydreams of a huge room to spread out in; full of colours and patterns and books and papers and buttons and lots of sunlight.
But the who that I think I wish I were isn't discontent. And this dream of a large sunny work studio doesn't coincide with my picture of social justice; because I'm aware of how ridiculously wealthy I already am. And to afford a large peaceful studio would require lucrative work hours; which negates the whole "peaceful" part of the fantasy.
The who I wish I were is content. Grateful. Doesn't get bored, irritable, and grumpy. (Not even when there are roughly eleven and a half months of winter in the longest year of Manitoba history).
Maybe I should take up cross-country skiing after all.
In May.
Here's the thing: I like the idea of that person. I like the package. I don't actually ski.
Which got me thinking about all the ways we berate ourselves for not turning out more like the picture we'd grown in our minds.
It's even more vague when there's no clear picture in the first place. I was never one of those kids who lined up worksheets in a row and played teacher all day long; or knew just what picture to draw under the caption: "What I'd Like to Be When I Grow Up". At grad when my smart and clear-minded friends headed off to university to pursue the carreers of their choice; I was pretty sure that my judgement day had come. No more hiding my lack of ability to become anything; anyone at all.
What followed was many years of jobs in a variety of caregiving roles; which I enjoyed quite a lot and felt largely competent in. At one point, I was working on a hospital ward with severely disabled children. I felt honoured to have been hired into this role; and valued my relationships with the patients.
But what stands out in my mind during this part of my working life is the afternoon that I got caught up sewing up a tiny quilt; just for the fun of it. I didn't want to go to work when it was time to do so. I just wanted to stay in my cozy apartment and watch the pieces of stripe and polka dot take on a brand new shape.
I'm not eighteen anymore. I'm in my forties, and I still find myself wondering what I would like to be when I grow up. Not that I'm unhappy in my current life. I think I'm well suited to where life finds me now.
But I'd like to be surprised by a lack of mundane in this life. By directions that thrill and amaze me. Challenge compacancy. Promote social justice. I'd like life to morph into continuously interesting directions and never relax into a predictable routine that is comfortable; but kind of boring.
Sometimes I feel like that seventeen year old grad, looking around and wondering.... what now? When will my stage manager show up and hand me a program or a flashlight or something?
In any case, I don't think I'll take up cross-country skiing any time soon, although I still love the image. I may indulge myself in daydreams of a huge room to spread out in; full of colours and patterns and books and papers and buttons and lots of sunlight.
But the who that I think I wish I were isn't discontent. And this dream of a large sunny work studio doesn't coincide with my picture of social justice; because I'm aware of how ridiculously wealthy I already am. And to afford a large peaceful studio would require lucrative work hours; which negates the whole "peaceful" part of the fantasy.
The who I wish I were is content. Grateful. Doesn't get bored, irritable, and grumpy. (Not even when there are roughly eleven and a half months of winter in the longest year of Manitoba history).
Maybe I should take up cross-country skiing after all.
In May.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Lord, Help Me to Built a Healthy Child
By: Audrey Jeanne Roberts
For it is easier to build a child then to repair an adult.
Help me praise more than criticize, encourage more than nag.
Discipline, not punish, and model good behavior,
Rather than simply demand it.
Help me break the habit of automatically saying "No",when I could just as easily say "Yes",
and to remember a hug given before it's asked for is ten times more valuable!
Help me earn their respect as I lead a life consistent
with the principles I value.
Lord, give me the courage to teach them right from wrong
and help them discover their own special destinies.
Help me to freely join in their silliness, share in their laughter,
delight in their joys and keep their confidences.
Remind me daily to draw upon their own strength to heal their
wounds and comfort their sorrows.
Most of all, Lord, help me really listen for the hidden thoughts and needs
that often lie behind their requests and give me the key to their heart that
it may be opened wide to all life's wonders and possibilities.
(thank you Ruthie)
For it is easier to build a child then to repair an adult.
Help me praise more than criticize, encourage more than nag.
Discipline, not punish, and model good behavior,
Rather than simply demand it.
Help me break the habit of automatically saying "No",when I could just as easily say "Yes",
and to remember a hug given before it's asked for is ten times more valuable!
Help me earn their respect as I lead a life consistent
with the principles I value.
Lord, give me the courage to teach them right from wrong
and help them discover their own special destinies.
Help me to freely join in their silliness, share in their laughter,
delight in their joys and keep their confidences.
Remind me daily to draw upon their own strength to heal their
wounds and comfort their sorrows.
Most of all, Lord, help me really listen for the hidden thoughts and needs
that often lie behind their requests and give me the key to their heart that
it may be opened wide to all life's wonders and possibilities.
(thank you Ruthie)
Saturday, May 09, 2009
More Thoughts on Mothering...
...On the eve of Mother's Day.
I'm not a gifts kind of a person. I mean that it doesn't mean a whole lot to me if some thing gets purchased from some store to commemorate a calendar holiday. I have a weird attitude about cut flowers- although I find them lovely to the eye, I can't stand that they are just dying away on my table, their splendor seeping away from them by the moment. Cards are nice; but they are even nicer when they come to you simply because someone thought it was perfect. Not the crapitsmothersdaygottagetacard kind of card.
So, it is odd, even to me, that I have Mother's Day on the brain this year.
But this year, I want to be appreciated. I want to be noticed. I want to be worth some effort.
I wonder if its' because I'm noticing the start of a new era in parenting. I've noticed the "Oh Mom------ You're SToooooooooooPid and annoying" expression popping up a little more lately. I've noticed that my innocent questions are more irritating than they used to be. I notice that its way more embarrassing if I want to be a parent driver, or a volunteer or some school activity than it was a little while ago. I've noticed that I am apparently getting more stupid, yet this somehow also involves the sense that I'm a little greedy with my "millions", and should hand out funds with a little less parental resistence.
I know it's normal. I also know that I have great kids.
But now I also know that adults have all the same tender feelings as kids do, and when offspring get snarly, it pinches at my heart. I want to be above all that, and not take their hormone-marinading reactions personally; but I also want my children to know that they have the power to hurt people with their words and reactions and I want them to practise "playing nice" right here at home. Start with their mama.
I didn't have a close relationship with my mother. She didn't tell me all the things I'd need to know to navigate those years, and all the years to come. We never talked about periods, boys, puberty, breasts, stranger danger, parties, love, emotions, expectations, or even what we loved about one another. I think my mother did the best she could at the time, and I have a great deal that I deeply appreciate about her. But. I don't have a role model of how to parent with open communication, relationship, and all the good stuff that I see glimpses of with my own kids.
I don't want to lose it.
Tomorrow is mother's day. I'm having my own mother over, and I hope I can leave her with some words that show her that I appreciate all she did for me. A safe home to grow up in. Hot, nutritious food. A green lifestyle. A purple bedspread.
I bet I hurt her too.
I bet I still do.
It's fragile and precious, this family thing.
I hope yours is happy. And when it's not; I hope you can find something to smile about anyhow.
Happy Mother's Day.
(I have some awesome pics of Sam and a card he made for me, but blogger hates me. It won't reply to my numerous e-mails begging for help, and it most certainly won't publish my pictures)
I'm not a gifts kind of a person. I mean that it doesn't mean a whole lot to me if some thing gets purchased from some store to commemorate a calendar holiday. I have a weird attitude about cut flowers- although I find them lovely to the eye, I can't stand that they are just dying away on my table, their splendor seeping away from them by the moment. Cards are nice; but they are even nicer when they come to you simply because someone thought it was perfect. Not the crapitsmothersdaygottagetacard kind of card.
So, it is odd, even to me, that I have Mother's Day on the brain this year.
But this year, I want to be appreciated. I want to be noticed. I want to be worth some effort.
I wonder if its' because I'm noticing the start of a new era in parenting. I've noticed the "Oh Mom------ You're SToooooooooooPid and annoying" expression popping up a little more lately. I've noticed that my innocent questions are more irritating than they used to be. I notice that its way more embarrassing if I want to be a parent driver, or a volunteer or some school activity than it was a little while ago. I've noticed that I am apparently getting more stupid, yet this somehow also involves the sense that I'm a little greedy with my "millions", and should hand out funds with a little less parental resistence.
I know it's normal. I also know that I have great kids.
But now I also know that adults have all the same tender feelings as kids do, and when offspring get snarly, it pinches at my heart. I want to be above all that, and not take their hormone-marinading reactions personally; but I also want my children to know that they have the power to hurt people with their words and reactions and I want them to practise "playing nice" right here at home. Start with their mama.
I didn't have a close relationship with my mother. She didn't tell me all the things I'd need to know to navigate those years, and all the years to come. We never talked about periods, boys, puberty, breasts, stranger danger, parties, love, emotions, expectations, or even what we loved about one another. I think my mother did the best she could at the time, and I have a great deal that I deeply appreciate about her. But. I don't have a role model of how to parent with open communication, relationship, and all the good stuff that I see glimpses of with my own kids.
I don't want to lose it.
Tomorrow is mother's day. I'm having my own mother over, and I hope I can leave her with some words that show her that I appreciate all she did for me. A safe home to grow up in. Hot, nutritious food. A green lifestyle. A purple bedspread.
I bet I hurt her too.
I bet I still do.
It's fragile and precious, this family thing.
I hope yours is happy. And when it's not; I hope you can find something to smile about anyhow.
Happy Mother's Day.
(I have some awesome pics of Sam and a card he made for me, but blogger hates me. It won't reply to my numerous e-mails begging for help, and it most certainly won't publish my pictures)
Monday, May 04, 2009
Mama Mia
Sometimes I really hate being a mom.
I don't mean that I hate being a mom, because I love it with all my heart. But when my heart feels like it is cracking and blistering and I'm supposed to be the mama who knows how to make it all better.... well sometimes I just hate that because I'm just a person. I've got my own owies and questions and places that could use a band-aid and a kiss. I could use a hand on my forehead at night and a prayer for the power of a loving God to flow through me. (I could also use a personal house-cleaner and laundress, but I digress.)
When my daughter worries about her friendsandtheirparentsandtheendoftheworldandifshe'llsleepthatnightandwillthefloodcome?andtestsandbrothersandherdadandwhethereveryoneinthewholeworldwillbehappyandokay...
I wish there were something that I could do or say that would settle her fluttering heart.
When the athlete-jocks at school tell my sweet and tender boy that they hope he just can't make it to the soccer game; I want to make everyone play nice. I want to show my boy a picture of his beautiful heart, and how vital it is for all the meaningful relationships he'll have in this lifetime. How soccer moves and swift kicks won't make him any more loving or kind or good. I want the world to stop looking at the outside, to stop valueing tough and smart; quick and independent.
Sometimes I just hate being a mom.
I hate that I won't teach them everything they need to know. Won't give them a perfect picture of a loving Father God. Hate that I get snappy and impatient- seeing them as extensions of ME instead of the beautiful separate entities that they are. I hate knowing that I'm going to hurt them, let them down, bruise their hearts. At times I'll expect too little. Set the bar too low.
But I will nurture my children.
I will value relationship over performance.
And they will break my heart.
I will break theirs.
And I hate that.
When my first daughter was little, I just wanted to be like Mother Bear on the television story "Little Bear". She was so patient and kind and never over-tired. She didn't overreact. She knew what lessons to teach; and which could wait. She was child-centred without raising a spoilt little emporer child. She laughed softly. Planned picnics. Baked cakes.
Well, my mother bear does come out- but not in that warm and cuddley, cartoon character kind of way. More like the ferocious bear who wants to give my childrens' friends a piece of her mind when they are being hurtful. More like feeling that I am capable of killing something with a single growl and sharp-clawed swipe. More like.... I'd like to find a nice dark cave and wake up when it's warmer and sunnier and life feels more optimistic.
Being a mom isn't all that romantic. It brings you in touch with your most base nature. Your shortcomings and hang-ups and wanna-be's. Plus you're not so old that you don't remember how it feels to be fourteen. thirteen. eleven. (six?) Their realities are just as valid and worthy of understanding and respect as your own. Which requires some maturity. And patience. And a lot of deep breathing.
So, sometimes I just hate being a mommy because I love it with everything that I am, and little else is as important to me as sending these people out into their lives with a sound and healthy, responsible and loving response to their environments. All these human beings; born of my womb- a skin and blood part of me, and not me at all.
(May the God of love move in and through me.
May I depend on that power and not on my own.
May our hearts always remain soft- and may we forgive ourselves and others.)
I've been told that the opposite of love is not hate but apathy.
As a mother I know for sure that I am not apathetic........
***
Sometimes I really love being a mommy.
When my kids tell me stuff that happens at school.
When my boy draws a hilarious cartoon.
When he tells me he loves me before he leaves for school.
When my daughter admits that her friends thinks she has a "cool mom".
When we all share a belly laugh.
When someone cleans up without being told.
When we apologize.
When all four giggle together despite themselves.
When we discuss anything.
When we sit at the fire.
When my daughter slips in beside me at church on Sundays.
When I observe them in their social contexts, and see what lovely people they are becoming.
There isn't a book in the world that could prepare a woman for what happens to her heart when it splits into one, two, three, four or more pieces; grow legs, and then walk around outside of her body.
The most marvellously wonderful frightening exhilerating frustrating rewarding experience she could never possibly imagine.
How I love it and hate it.
I don't mean that I hate being a mom, because I love it with all my heart. But when my heart feels like it is cracking and blistering and I'm supposed to be the mama who knows how to make it all better.... well sometimes I just hate that because I'm just a person. I've got my own owies and questions and places that could use a band-aid and a kiss. I could use a hand on my forehead at night and a prayer for the power of a loving God to flow through me. (I could also use a personal house-cleaner and laundress, but I digress.)
When my daughter worries about her friendsandtheirparentsandtheendoftheworldandifshe'llsleepthatnightandwillthefloodcome?andtestsandbrothersandherdadandwhethereveryoneinthewholeworldwillbehappyandokay...
I wish there were something that I could do or say that would settle her fluttering heart.
When the athlete-jocks at school tell my sweet and tender boy that they hope he just can't make it to the soccer game; I want to make everyone play nice. I want to show my boy a picture of his beautiful heart, and how vital it is for all the meaningful relationships he'll have in this lifetime. How soccer moves and swift kicks won't make him any more loving or kind or good. I want the world to stop looking at the outside, to stop valueing tough and smart; quick and independent.
Sometimes I just hate being a mom.
I hate that I won't teach them everything they need to know. Won't give them a perfect picture of a loving Father God. Hate that I get snappy and impatient- seeing them as extensions of ME instead of the beautiful separate entities that they are. I hate knowing that I'm going to hurt them, let them down, bruise their hearts. At times I'll expect too little. Set the bar too low.
But I will nurture my children.
I will value relationship over performance.
And they will break my heart.
I will break theirs.
And I hate that.
When my first daughter was little, I just wanted to be like Mother Bear on the television story "Little Bear". She was so patient and kind and never over-tired. She didn't overreact. She knew what lessons to teach; and which could wait. She was child-centred without raising a spoilt little emporer child. She laughed softly. Planned picnics. Baked cakes.
Well, my mother bear does come out- but not in that warm and cuddley, cartoon character kind of way. More like the ferocious bear who wants to give my childrens' friends a piece of her mind when they are being hurtful. More like feeling that I am capable of killing something with a single growl and sharp-clawed swipe. More like.... I'd like to find a nice dark cave and wake up when it's warmer and sunnier and life feels more optimistic.
Being a mom isn't all that romantic. It brings you in touch with your most base nature. Your shortcomings and hang-ups and wanna-be's. Plus you're not so old that you don't remember how it feels to be fourteen. thirteen. eleven. (six?) Their realities are just as valid and worthy of understanding and respect as your own. Which requires some maturity. And patience. And a lot of deep breathing.
So, sometimes I just hate being a mommy because I love it with everything that I am, and little else is as important to me as sending these people out into their lives with a sound and healthy, responsible and loving response to their environments. All these human beings; born of my womb- a skin and blood part of me, and not me at all.
(May the God of love move in and through me.
May I depend on that power and not on my own.
May our hearts always remain soft- and may we forgive ourselves and others.)
I've been told that the opposite of love is not hate but apathy.
As a mother I know for sure that I am not apathetic........
***
Sometimes I really love being a mommy.
When my kids tell me stuff that happens at school.
When my boy draws a hilarious cartoon.
When he tells me he loves me before he leaves for school.
When my daughter admits that her friends thinks she has a "cool mom".
When we all share a belly laugh.
When someone cleans up without being told.
When we apologize.
When all four giggle together despite themselves.
When we discuss anything.
When we sit at the fire.
When my daughter slips in beside me at church on Sundays.
When I observe them in their social contexts, and see what lovely people they are becoming.
There isn't a book in the world that could prepare a woman for what happens to her heart when it splits into one, two, three, four or more pieces; grow legs, and then walk around outside of her body.
The most marvellously wonderful frightening exhilerating frustrating rewarding experience she could never possibly imagine.
How I love it and hate it.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Shhhhhhhh........
I hate to jinx myself or anything; but it's 1:30 in the afternoon of the day in which my house will be filled with adult merriment by 6:30 pm. All the children are sleeping!!!!!!!!!!!!! Or at a birthday party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If you feel your walls shaking; that's just me doing the happy dance.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Movin' Up
So, I'd love to show you all the pictures of rock climbing, kayaking, backpacking, and well-digging that I've been busy with; but blogger won't allow me to upload pictures. Some sort of penance, I'm sure for neglecting my blog for so long.
So, let's talk mechanics.
We were given the oppurtunity to test drive a new-to-you van this weekend. Now, I knew what to look for in a van if I ever had a viable occasion to do so. In three long winters of zero heat on the passenger side of the caravan, working whilst I had some feeling left in my fingers; I've had plenty of time to compile a list of what to look for in the next family-totin'-mobile. After the fingers went blue and numb, I'd bury myself in the wool and chenille blanket that became a permanent part of the front passenger seat and dream of better days to come in some other van. Very romantic; that chennille.
My daughter had her own list, so the two of us set off on a ride together. She was most delighted to find that the speakers for the stereo were more than decorative; that the CD player was more than ornamental; and that Hot 103 was not exclusive to rusted caravans. We discovered cup holders without blobbed up gum; ashtray devoid of crumpled lotto tickets; carpet (There's carpet in vans?! I thought they came in gravel!), a hatch that opens without a hatchet; blinkers that turn off after you navigate a turn; a speedometer needle that varies its position depending on the acceleration; and a fully functioning gas meter. We found seats that recline; fans that blow; headlights that shine brighter than two teensey weensy pinholes in the dark.
We thought we had truly arrived now.
We celebrated by buying large packets of toilet paper at the most local Wal-Mart. Instead of cramming them past two bucket seats and launching them in the general direction of the rear bench seat, we sauvely santered towards the hatch and casually flicked that sucker open. What luxury. I gazed around me oh-so-subtle to see who was gazing at us in open wonderment and envy. Imagine a hatch that opens. Without hail mary's, tricks, hatchets, or anything.
Yup, we're movin' up in the world.
We'll likely be asked to be on some sort of tour of homes or something. Just so people can come around and see this van of ours. I think the van will likely overshadow the shifting deck; the muddy driveway, and the window trimming ever-so-slightly rotting off the side of the house.
I just hope we don't start intimidating common folk; is all.
So, let's talk mechanics.
We were given the oppurtunity to test drive a new-to-you van this weekend. Now, I knew what to look for in a van if I ever had a viable occasion to do so. In three long winters of zero heat on the passenger side of the caravan, working whilst I had some feeling left in my fingers; I've had plenty of time to compile a list of what to look for in the next family-totin'-mobile. After the fingers went blue and numb, I'd bury myself in the wool and chenille blanket that became a permanent part of the front passenger seat and dream of better days to come in some other van. Very romantic; that chennille.
My daughter had her own list, so the two of us set off on a ride together. She was most delighted to find that the speakers for the stereo were more than decorative; that the CD player was more than ornamental; and that Hot 103 was not exclusive to rusted caravans. We discovered cup holders without blobbed up gum; ashtray devoid of crumpled lotto tickets; carpet (There's carpet in vans?! I thought they came in gravel!), a hatch that opens without a hatchet; blinkers that turn off after you navigate a turn; a speedometer needle that varies its position depending on the acceleration; and a fully functioning gas meter. We found seats that recline; fans that blow; headlights that shine brighter than two teensey weensy pinholes in the dark.
We thought we had truly arrived now.
We celebrated by buying large packets of toilet paper at the most local Wal-Mart. Instead of cramming them past two bucket seats and launching them in the general direction of the rear bench seat, we sauvely santered towards the hatch and casually flicked that sucker open. What luxury. I gazed around me oh-so-subtle to see who was gazing at us in open wonderment and envy. Imagine a hatch that opens. Without hail mary's, tricks, hatchets, or anything.
Yup, we're movin' up in the world.
We'll likely be asked to be on some sort of tour of homes or something. Just so people can come around and see this van of ours. I think the van will likely overshadow the shifting deck; the muddy driveway, and the window trimming ever-so-slightly rotting off the side of the house.
I just hope we don't start intimidating common folk; is all.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Ruined For The Ordinary World
Criminy.
What a load of wonder came to me on this day.
Almost too good to be true.
If I'd found all of this myself in some thrift shop, they would have had to cart me out on a gurney. There's only so much a girl can take.
(thanks, Kim Z)
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Just FYI
Now, slapping one or two alarm clocks off instead of making them one's taskmaster has its merits. I should know. It's a discipline that I strive to practise daily.
When I do rise from my slumber, I find that the seven minute beauty routine is quite adequate. This includes the morning pee, parking the glasses on the nose, and throwing on some clothes (if it's on the floor from the day before; I can sometimes cut the routine down to six minutes), and getting the morning breath brushed away before the baby kissing begins.
Here's the thing. This morning the Crest splashed back. I slapped the lid on the tartar fighting tube and a tiny speck of mouth-tingley stuff flew up and landed directly into my left eye.
Do not try this at home.
Especially when you are due to begin work in fewer than two minutes.
I'm just sayin'.
When I do rise from my slumber, I find that the seven minute beauty routine is quite adequate. This includes the morning pee, parking the glasses on the nose, and throwing on some clothes (if it's on the floor from the day before; I can sometimes cut the routine down to six minutes), and getting the morning breath brushed away before the baby kissing begins.
Here's the thing. This morning the Crest splashed back. I slapped the lid on the tartar fighting tube and a tiny speck of mouth-tingley stuff flew up and landed directly into my left eye.
Do not try this at home.
Especially when you are due to begin work in fewer than two minutes.
I'm just sayin'.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Git Yerself a really BIG Calendar
hmmmm.............
I wonder if I had a calendar that actually spanned the broad side of a freight truck, would I manage to keep better track of everything?
Life and unpaid bills (meant to pay that on time, but shoved said item in drawer on friday afternoon of tapas and didn't see it again in a fortnight...)
Appointments and kid schedules... (WHAT? A basketball game tonight?! At Red River College Campus at, like... THE OTHER END OF THE CITY AND YOU HAVE TO BE THERE TEN MINUTES AFTER THE END OF MY WORKDAY?!
Physio? Neurology? Family birthday?
Parents. Darn. forgot about them for a couple days weeks there. They are super important to me. I value that I still have them. Should they get pencilled in?!
Cat. Needed neutering about a year ago...
When did the kids get bathed?
Honey Nut cheerios.
Milk.
People get their lawn mowers tuned up?!
Bags.
Books.
Deposits.
Allowance.
Simplify?? *Enter maniacal laughter*
I have a fridge calendar, but I find that the squares are a little too small to write in the names of the children that I'm expecting; the appointments for the kids that I ought not to forget; the nights one or the other of the girls are baby-sitting; what's up at youth; what bills are due; birthdays that I'll forget anyway, even if I write them out a thousand times; voice lessons, swimming lessons, soccer season, bag pick-ups, fabric drop-offs, family reunions, arrivals.... departures....
So I bought a daybook.
A nice, pricey full page one from Chapters. I was so excited I could hardly breathe.
But here's the thing. You can see only one or two days at a time, and somehow that makes me feel claustrophic. I need to see a week, at least. How else am I going to know what to start worrying and procrastinating about?? If I look at one day, then the next day turn the page and see something like: Cardiac Surgery, 2:00 pm. How on earth am I going to prepare for that?!
So, I bought a bigger calendar for my fridge. The Mom's Ultimate Family Fridge Calendar.
For all its pomp and promise; stickers and recipes.... It's deceitful! My too small fridge calendar has squares that are 4x4 cm. This one is 6 x 3.5cm. Inadequate.
Inadequate, I tell thee!
So, what do I do.
Have one fridge calendar for all the daycare stuff, and the Mom's Ultimate for all the other stuff? Do I hire help? Get smarter? Sleep less?
Maybe Martha with her staff of several billion was onto something when she published a complicated magazine about the wisdom of simplifying one's life .
I suppose I'll have to spend more money and time on that so that I can learn how to exist with fewer than three calendars...
Friday, April 17, 2009
Pathetic, Apathetic, or Just Dragging Myself Along?
I have a great life. I don't have really good reasons to be in the place where my most favourite thing to do is sleep. But the reality is that lately, I'm sort of disappointed when morning comes.
When this happens, I like to take particular note of the exceptional, ordinary goodness around me.
Like this Easter bread. Which my neighbor on the next block over gave to me because she said that I am special. I happen to know that she "knighted" other women as special, and gave them Easter bread as well; but when I got that delicacy (and ate... YUM...) I truly felt special. Without a word of a lie, that was the best Easter bread I've ever eaten. (I hope my mother never reads this.... Sorry, Mom. You've been outdone. Besides; you never gave me any. So there.)
And these two vintage table cloths. Would you believe me if I told you that there was one of the parcel cards in our postal box that said "come in and see the postmaster"? Well.... there was. And when Brian went in, she gave him these tablecloths.
They were for me.
And the Darfur project.
Isn't that incredibly unusual and wonderful?
Good night. I think I'm tired but I don't really care if I am or not....
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
pffffft
In some weird twist of negative energy surges.... Motors are burning out all around me.
Two weeks ago, I burnt out the blender.
Last week, both of my hand blenders went Pffffffffffffffffftttttttt!!!!!!! with a small but impressive puff of grey smoke.
This morning?
The coffee maker.
Just sat there all black and quiet and immovable.
Not a hiss or a pfff, or a trickle.
Not an aroma or a scent of hopefulness for the day.
I'm trying to fill the gap with animal crackers and instant Taster's Choice.
I know.
How completely, disgustingly wrong.
Must take children for walk.
Must stop at gas station for dark stuff that looks like coffee. Smells reminicent of coffee. Tastes sort of like coffee.
Woe is me.
Two weeks ago, I burnt out the blender.
Last week, both of my hand blenders went Pffffffffffffffffftttttttt!!!!!!! with a small but impressive puff of grey smoke.
This morning?
The coffee maker.
Just sat there all black and quiet and immovable.
Not a hiss or a pfff, or a trickle.
Not an aroma or a scent of hopefulness for the day.
I'm trying to fill the gap with animal crackers and instant Taster's Choice.
I know.
How completely, disgustingly wrong.
Must take children for walk.
Must stop at gas station for dark stuff that looks like coffee. Smells reminicent of coffee. Tastes sort of like coffee.
Woe is me.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
She Says.... Nothing
How come when I have something to say, there is zero possibility of me sitting down and pounding it out? And when I have nothing to say, I'm sitting at my laptop telling myself; "Here's your chance! Say it! Say it!
And then its gone.
Ever feel like you got your 15 minutes at the mike and the curtain people are waving at you from the sidelines that its time to exit stage left? But it looks kind of dusty and boring over at stage left, so you linger....
And then its gone.
Ever feel like you got your 15 minutes at the mike and the curtain people are waving at you from the sidelines that its time to exit stage left? But it looks kind of dusty and boring over at stage left, so you linger....
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
The Red Knight
Remember Robin Williams in The Fisher King?
"Robin Williams portrays Parry, a former professor of medieval history, who lives in a remarkable world of his own creation in order to insulate himself from a tragedy in his past. "
William's character survives a tragedy so horrible that in order to survive, his mind has created a construct of unreal proportions that help him to not bring the actual event back into his conscious mind. When events occur that begin to bring him in touch with that tragedy; he becomes haunted and terrified by the vision of the "Red Knight" which is really the embodiment of his character's pain. The movie shows this horrible beast galloping towards him, nostrils flared, dust billowing. Terrifying.
It amazes me how the mind and body co-conspire to protect one another and enable survival. When something is unbearable, our minds and bodies communicate in their own language, and come up with a way to help each other out.
I have a Red Knight.
It roars up behind me;and I feel its hot breath on me. My body instinctively tightens into its flight or fight response.
Behind the thunder of those mighty hooves are pictures of other things; the hot breath of something else. Equally intimidating. At least as frightening.
And as my mind re-routes to it's favoured coping mechanisms, I am dimly aware of its processes. The hooves thundering in my ears, and dust rising to my own flared nostrils, it becomes painfully difficult to become still enough to simply be aware. To trust that the Knight will thunder by without shattering me in its pathway. To risk that whatever follows this manifestation of horrer will not be bigger and more ravaging than the Knight himself.
The Knight himself is here to protect me from what lays beyond.
So we duck into doorways, we three. My body, my mind, and some other third part that watches from above. For moments at a time we can see the pictures clearly. Then the Knight scares the ever living heck out of us, and we split off into our roles once again.
Insulated, Surviving.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Something For Everyone....
Bah. What's a little water between countries?
Now, it's a bit weird that people around here make a point of driving across the border into North Dakota to sleep in a hotel room, swim around in a pool, stew in a hot tub, and shop in stores we can't find in Winnipeg. Grand Forks is tiny, and not particularily urban; but it's not here, and there's something really fun about that for all of us.
Treats.
Time with auntie Kathy, who always exhuberently provides hair and nail treatments to anyone patient enough to be interested.
Ice cream from Cold Stone.
Lego from Target.
Real life retail oppurtunities for the girls; usually reserved for on-line longings.
For Brian? The Food Channel.
And me?
*deep sigh*
Gut wrenching. Real life. Suck you in and refuse to let you go..... Even as you find yourself wandering through a mall for the sake of your offspring.... Your brain remains where you'd left it: In a book.
by Marya Hornbacher.
I became.... And AM utterly transfixed. Moved. Astounded.
Through the Red River sloshing over Interstate #29, back into a snowstorm pounding Manitoba at the start of spring break.
hmmmmmmm...
Well. It is nearer Chapters; where I can get more of Marya Hornbacher. A little tonne of snow can't stop some amazing reading.
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