I think I would have made a great obituary writer. There’s something sort of maudlin about the job, yes, but it’s also such an honour. You’re really saying people’s last goodbyes for them, aren’t you? You’re saying goodbye to all of the people the family may not have remembered to notify - an old bowling partner, the guy who sold you your fruit, your childhood sweetheart, the one you haven’t seen in 50 years. All of these people who made up your thoughts and pulled all of the little threads of your day into a tight, warm tapestry. They may mean nothing to your great aunt Myrtle who you haven’t seen in 27 years but they meant something to you.
The anniversary of my Grandfather’s death was yesterday. I have thought of him every single day, probably a little more than I should. Especially at this time of year not only because it is the anniversary of his death but it was also his favourite season - Remembrance Day. I will forever be grateful that he had a chance to pin one last poppy to his jacket lapel before he died, to recite ‘In Flander’s Fields’ with his hat over his heart. He was the first, best man that I ever knew. Solid and good, quiet and patient. With a slightly inappropriate sense of humour and a relationship with Jersey Milk chocolate bars I never fully understood.. A lot was going on in my life when he died, a lot of selfish small stuff that I can’t even really remember anymore. But I remember his obituary. It was fair, a good representation of his ’stats’ just like it should be. I wish I had written it. So I hope you will forgive me, readers, for this small indulgence. This is what I would have written, could have written, wish I’d written.
Joe McGuire - from the old Irish Block and more importantly from the Monday night Bridge Club where he always managed to win more than he lost- has died. He died exactly as he would have wanted - really quickly and near the toilet. His best friend, his dog Benji, watched over him all afternoon and remains faithfully his alone. He had eight crazy, wonderful children (6 daughters - names here 2 sons - names here) that loved him. Some more than others it might be said, but Joe knew he was loved enough. Joe was a good friend, a hard worker, a seriously tough debater. He really should have been dead 10 years ago, but there’s nothing like a good Merlot to keep you around a little longer. He was a good son to parents that loved him. His childhood was spent on the farm working and praying. Joe didn’t grow to believe in God but was raised to believe in good.
Joe was in the military for most of his life. He travelled with his family all over the world, saw things we will none of us ever see, lived a bigger life than most of us have ever imagined, but still preferred Sunday night roast beef dinner and watching the hockey game with all of his people to anything else. He was a good Grandfather - the kind that never cooks for you or helps you wash up or teaches you manners but lets you jump in the big piles of leaves he just raked, reads you stories long after you’re old enough to read for yourself and teaches you to play the harmonica. His catalogue of dirty limericks and songs were legendary. As was his ability to see into the heart of a thing, his quiet way of knowing how to love a girl best.
Mostly though Joe was husband to Gerry. Gerry drove him crazy. She had her hair and nails done every third day or so. She never kept her receipts even though Joe was an accountant and dreamt in receipts. She gossiped too much for him (even though he always secretly listened) cried over everything from a cracked teapot to a newly budded tree in spring. She fought crazed nonsensical wars with his daughters, nagged his sons and fussed over his grandchildren. But she smelled sweeter than any other woman he ever knew, carried his Juicy Fruit gum for him in her purse when he was trying to quit smoking and best of all…gave him permission to want something else from life. Gave him his family, and his friends and his fun. Their love may not always have been right, but it was the only love he ever wanted. Dearest Grandpa, you are missed and remembered.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Matthew is…tired of playing these head games. Moving out as of tomorrow morning.
Allison is…missing her Dad today - R.I.P. July 14th, 1997.
Jackie is…looking forward to getting rid of all the emotional baggage - so long Daniel!
James is…on his way home from Qatar with very little money and too many memories.
Facebook. I don’t know how many of you have signed up for this little social experiment but let me tell you, it can be incredibly addictive. This is what happens, essentially - you get your own profile, you find some old friends that haven’t seen you or heard from you in 1000 years, then find more friends…and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on…It’s a great idea, really. I’ve bumped into (or hunted down) a whole slew of people I hadn’t heard from in years. People who knew me way back when - when I was in grade eight and looked like a middle aged Laura Bush, when I was in high school and wore tie-dyed shirts and fought for Amnesty International, when I was in Switzerland and behaved like an incredible drunken fool. And I get to see who they’ve turned themselves into - the amazing part being how few people really change, the core of who they are is still so integrally them. Mostly.
It is nice to see them all, read about their kids, their spouses, their home improvement projects. Plus, everyone seems to have these handy little photo albums to browse through -very voyeuristic but I’m kind of like that so it suits me well.
So yes, it’s a wonderful little system and all of that, reconnecting us to people from across the globe as we never could really have been reconnected before. But there’s a downside. A surreal, slightly off-putting downside to tell you the truth. You see, there’s just no filter on Facebook. People forget they don’t actually know you anymore, don’t know things like what you take in your coffee or how you spend your Thanksgiving. Yet here they are, spilling all of their emotional beans all over the Internet. Inviting you into their dramas - and in a way, all of their friends’ dramas - without knowing much at all about you other than you used to both really enjoy the Footloose soundtrack.
But there’s just no way around getting involved in their emotional beans - especially when they drop intriguing little one liners like “Victoria is…finally ready to just do it already!! I’m not afraid anymore!!” Well now I just need to find out more, don’t I? What was Victoria afraid of, and how is she getting past it? Naturally one becomes quite the Internet detective - once offered the first little tidbit I must then delve deeper into the ‘Profile’ for any sort of helpful clues, look at pictures for hints to solve the mystery, read Wall postings (which are little notes sent back and forth on people’s profiles available for public consumption) and generally stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. But it’s just so darn tempting!
And everyone seems to want you to know as much as they can tell you about their lives, good, bad or ridiculous. Something along the lines of a twenty-four hour commercial starring you as the main product. Not my strong suit - I generally get a lot of emails from people who knew me way-back-when querying; “Holy Heck, are all of those kids YOURS??” and then one or two from some old acquaintances who knew me as a Nanny in Switzerland; “I can’t believe you had kids!! I’m so scared for them - you were AWFUL with children!!”. (I’m better now, I swear!) So pretty much no showing off for me.
The verdict is still out for Facebook in my opinion. It’s really fantastic in a way to find all of these people you remember from when you were five or fifteen or twenty-five. To know who really DID become a doctor like he’d always dreamed, who is living in Amsterdam with her husband and who is divorcing her childhood sweetheart. But in a way, I miss the people I thought they would turn out to be. Better, worse or indifferent. And do I really want my MAJOR crush of grades nine through twelve to see a picture of me washing dishes with a towel on my head at eight months pregnant? You decide…
Allison is…missing her Dad today - R.I.P. July 14th, 1997.
Jackie is…looking forward to getting rid of all the emotional baggage - so long Daniel!
James is…on his way home from Qatar with very little money and too many memories.
Facebook. I don’t know how many of you have signed up for this little social experiment but let me tell you, it can be incredibly addictive. This is what happens, essentially - you get your own profile, you find some old friends that haven’t seen you or heard from you in 1000 years, then find more friends…and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on…It’s a great idea, really. I’ve bumped into (or hunted down) a whole slew of people I hadn’t heard from in years. People who knew me way back when - when I was in grade eight and looked like a middle aged Laura Bush, when I was in high school and wore tie-dyed shirts and fought for Amnesty International, when I was in Switzerland and behaved like an incredible drunken fool. And I get to see who they’ve turned themselves into - the amazing part being how few people really change, the core of who they are is still so integrally them. Mostly.
It is nice to see them all, read about their kids, their spouses, their home improvement projects. Plus, everyone seems to have these handy little photo albums to browse through -very voyeuristic but I’m kind of like that so it suits me well.
So yes, it’s a wonderful little system and all of that, reconnecting us to people from across the globe as we never could really have been reconnected before. But there’s a downside. A surreal, slightly off-putting downside to tell you the truth. You see, there’s just no filter on Facebook. People forget they don’t actually know you anymore, don’t know things like what you take in your coffee or how you spend your Thanksgiving. Yet here they are, spilling all of their emotional beans all over the Internet. Inviting you into their dramas - and in a way, all of their friends’ dramas - without knowing much at all about you other than you used to both really enjoy the Footloose soundtrack.
But there’s just no way around getting involved in their emotional beans - especially when they drop intriguing little one liners like “Victoria is…finally ready to just do it already!! I’m not afraid anymore!!” Well now I just need to find out more, don’t I? What was Victoria afraid of, and how is she getting past it? Naturally one becomes quite the Internet detective - once offered the first little tidbit I must then delve deeper into the ‘Profile’ for any sort of helpful clues, look at pictures for hints to solve the mystery, read Wall postings (which are little notes sent back and forth on people’s profiles available for public consumption) and generally stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. But it’s just so darn tempting!
And everyone seems to want you to know as much as they can tell you about their lives, good, bad or ridiculous. Something along the lines of a twenty-four hour commercial starring you as the main product. Not my strong suit - I generally get a lot of emails from people who knew me way-back-when querying; “Holy Heck, are all of those kids YOURS??” and then one or two from some old acquaintances who knew me as a Nanny in Switzerland; “I can’t believe you had kids!! I’m so scared for them - you were AWFUL with children!!”. (I’m better now, I swear!) So pretty much no showing off for me.
The verdict is still out for Facebook in my opinion. It’s really fantastic in a way to find all of these people you remember from when you were five or fifteen or twenty-five. To know who really DID become a doctor like he’d always dreamed, who is living in Amsterdam with her husband and who is divorcing her childhood sweetheart. But in a way, I miss the people I thought they would turn out to be. Better, worse or indifferent. And do I really want my MAJOR crush of grades nine through twelve to see a picture of me washing dishes with a towel on my head at eight months pregnant? You decide…
Cyber Dating Tips for Men
First off, let me remind everyone that I am no dater. Even when I was considered slightly more dateable I still wasn’t really a dater. But that isn’t to say I’m not aware of certain dating practices, certain customs that need to be adhered to. Certain products that generally need to be purchased and/or applied before the thing itself can be embarked upon. Like aftershave and body sprays. Perhaps a stick of gum to help one’s garlic breath in a pinch.
So there it is - I’m fairly in tune with what need and needn’t be considered on a date. Plus I’ve half-heartedly thrown my hat into the ring at least a dozen times or so in x-amount of years so I’m up to snuff on all of the latest and greatest in the art of seduction (or at least the art of the second call). I may not be considered an expert, but let’s just say I could well be considered an expert observer. And lately I’ve been expertly observing…cyber-dating.
I’ve come to discover it’s not really for me honestly. Not that I’ve ever really tried it, of course (I’m a liar) but I have this friend of mine (no I don’t) and she told me all about it so that’s how I know (I know because I went on two horrendous dates and worse, received more than enough horrendous emails and searched through some rather sketchy profiles, more than enough to last me a lifetime). Not enough to have me ironing any of the better blouses, in the end.
I do think one of the greatest benefits of cyber-dating is the chance it affords all of the best people. You know who I mean - the fellas out there who are shy, or quiet or don’t really know how to carry a tune and therefore feel a little out of sorts in social situations. To me, I feel like these men could really shine on the internet. If they could just figure out the age-old Freudian question of what women want... Or even figure out how to fit the best bits of modest, sweet, kind them within the 200 word paramenter set forth by the Cyber-dating Gods. Cause I’m telling you, fellas - from what I’ve seen, you could use a little help. I was looking through some profiles the other night for ‘research’ (and also on the off chance that Russell Crowe is single and living within 50 miles of the Owen Sound area) and they all started to blend together. A lot of the same catch phrases were being regurgitated - “No head games”, “Loves to travel”, “Long walks on the beach”, “Looking for Cameron Diaz look-alike”. Couple that with the slightly menacing mug shot of you staring unsmilingly into the camera, frequently wearing an ill chosen top (or even worse, no top at all…even if you are Gerard Butler, you still need to wear a top otherwise you seem like a bit of a braggart)…it’s not enough to make a woman - a quality woman - want to send out a smile or nudge or pinch or whatever.
So here you go fellas. A little advice to take or leave from a professional observer. This ones for you - a few tips on what to write, what not to mention, and why a picture of you alone with a great big smile is best (preferably outside and during the day - although I don’t know why).
First off, never -I mean NEVER - mention any sort of ex-girlfriend, good bad or indifferent. Here’s a little secret about us women - we all appreciate a certain skill, or prowess if you will - in the, umm…boudoir. But we’d prefer to think you were born with that skill than imagine your having perfected it with scads of practice.
Be specific about the things you love to do - biking, movies or otherwise - and for God’s sake don’t brag about all of the travelling you’ve done! It’s like one of those people who brags about having a small nose. If you’re secretly hoping for a Cameron Diaz look-alike, don’t ask for one. You’ll put off all the best gals. Even the non-Cameron Diaz ones.
Don’t dumb yourself down or try to sound any smarter than you really are. If you’re terrible at programming the dvd player, admit it - nothing is more attractive than a man who can laugh at himself. If you have kids…this could be split decision but in my opinion don’t bring them up. If you’re a great dad, that’s great - but shouldn’t really be used as a selling point.
Most importantly, though, just keep it light. I would imagine that treating your little advertisement as a first date would be a great jumping point. So remember - you don’t walk into a restaurant on your first date and blurt out “I’m still trying to get over my last relationship, I’m looking for something long-term with an active, thin woman who loves deep sea fishing and I’ve been through years of therapy due to some unresolved issues with my absentee dad.”, do you?
So there it is - I’m fairly in tune with what need and needn’t be considered on a date. Plus I’ve half-heartedly thrown my hat into the ring at least a dozen times or so in x-amount of years so I’m up to snuff on all of the latest and greatest in the art of seduction (or at least the art of the second call). I may not be considered an expert, but let’s just say I could well be considered an expert observer. And lately I’ve been expertly observing…cyber-dating.
I’ve come to discover it’s not really for me honestly. Not that I’ve ever really tried it, of course (I’m a liar) but I have this friend of mine (no I don’t) and she told me all about it so that’s how I know (I know because I went on two horrendous dates and worse, received more than enough horrendous emails and searched through some rather sketchy profiles, more than enough to last me a lifetime). Not enough to have me ironing any of the better blouses, in the end.
I do think one of the greatest benefits of cyber-dating is the chance it affords all of the best people. You know who I mean - the fellas out there who are shy, or quiet or don’t really know how to carry a tune and therefore feel a little out of sorts in social situations. To me, I feel like these men could really shine on the internet. If they could just figure out the age-old Freudian question of what women want... Or even figure out how to fit the best bits of modest, sweet, kind them within the 200 word paramenter set forth by the Cyber-dating Gods. Cause I’m telling you, fellas - from what I’ve seen, you could use a little help. I was looking through some profiles the other night for ‘research’ (and also on the off chance that Russell Crowe is single and living within 50 miles of the Owen Sound area) and they all started to blend together. A lot of the same catch phrases were being regurgitated - “No head games”, “Loves to travel”, “Long walks on the beach”, “Looking for Cameron Diaz look-alike”. Couple that with the slightly menacing mug shot of you staring unsmilingly into the camera, frequently wearing an ill chosen top (or even worse, no top at all…even if you are Gerard Butler, you still need to wear a top otherwise you seem like a bit of a braggart)…it’s not enough to make a woman - a quality woman - want to send out a smile or nudge or pinch or whatever.
So here you go fellas. A little advice to take or leave from a professional observer. This ones for you - a few tips on what to write, what not to mention, and why a picture of you alone with a great big smile is best (preferably outside and during the day - although I don’t know why).
First off, never -I mean NEVER - mention any sort of ex-girlfriend, good bad or indifferent. Here’s a little secret about us women - we all appreciate a certain skill, or prowess if you will - in the, umm…boudoir. But we’d prefer to think you were born with that skill than imagine your having perfected it with scads of practice.
Be specific about the things you love to do - biking, movies or otherwise - and for God’s sake don’t brag about all of the travelling you’ve done! It’s like one of those people who brags about having a small nose. If you’re secretly hoping for a Cameron Diaz look-alike, don’t ask for one. You’ll put off all the best gals. Even the non-Cameron Diaz ones.
Don’t dumb yourself down or try to sound any smarter than you really are. If you’re terrible at programming the dvd player, admit it - nothing is more attractive than a man who can laugh at himself. If you have kids…this could be split decision but in my opinion don’t bring them up. If you’re a great dad, that’s great - but shouldn’t really be used as a selling point.
Most importantly, though, just keep it light. I would imagine that treating your little advertisement as a first date would be a great jumping point. So remember - you don’t walk into a restaurant on your first date and blurt out “I’m still trying to get over my last relationship, I’m looking for something long-term with an active, thin woman who loves deep sea fishing and I’ve been through years of therapy due to some unresolved issues with my absentee dad.”, do you?
My Dog Lily
I have a dog named Lily. She is named Lily because I failed to produce a daughter, and my sons thought a dog named Lily was really the next best thing. Lily is one of those dogs that cost around $35 at the Humane Society rather than $1000 from a dog breeder. I hadn’t really been looking forward to a dog - especially considering I had already managed to kill off a few beta fish and a turtle (which are notoriously difficult to kill, by the way) - but the boys had begged so there I was. Stuck. When we got to the Humane Society there were about a dozen huge, snarling barking dogs who were making it perfectly clear they weren’t fond of this pretend doggy jail. I had a feeling one or two in particular had been in real doggy jail, by the looks of their scarred snouts and world-weary eyes. The nice thing to do would have been to adopt one of those dogs. But…there lay Lily. Silent in her little cage, staring up at us with those big sad eyes - eyes which I now know she uses to manipulate me at will. We were all goners.
Lily will be turning 4 tomorrow when Ben turns 12 (we consider her to be born on the day we found her - don’t try to wrap your heads around the mechanics of that one). Which means that she is 28. My problem is that I think she might be looking to start dating. Twenty-eight may seem a little old to just be getting started, but that’s our Lily. She’s very chaste, I must admit. A careful girl. Plus, she’s had a volatile 2 year relationship with Mattie (our cat) that can be quite violent and emotionally draining at times, so you can see why it’s taken her awhile. I don’t want to come right out and say Mattie is physically abusive, but…I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, if you know what I mean. I myself live in almost constant fear that he will suffocate me in my sleep.
I’ve started to notice that Lily gets quite a few looks from the other dogs when we’re out on our morning walks, from both the males and the females. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t blame them really - Lily is quite good-looking. And I think she knows it. She’s slender with curvy legs, a fabulous black and tan coat and a great looking tail. She’s a half breed, our Lily, at the very least. I would say she’s got around six breeds going on there. I tried to explain to her that being a mixed-breed is cool and exotic, like Cher, but then people ask me what breed of dog she is (right in front of her!) - and there she goes, sleeping on my bed in the middle of the afternoon. Which can only mean depression. She seems to have gotten over it, though, and I think it’s because of all the canine attention she’s been getting on the street. She’s very unique looking - sort of like the Catherine Zeta Jones of dogs amongst a bunch of Britney Spears. A head-turner. The other dog-walkers are having difficulty getting their dogs to ‘heel’ properly - Lily is just too much of a temptation.
I’d like to see her go on a few doggy dates at the park or something. Get out there a bit and have a little fun. Maybe it would help her with her unnatural fixation on not just one, but all four of my boys. I personally think it’s the ‘forbidden fruit’ complex. She knows they’re from a different species but - well, they’re just so darn cute! I wonder if she makes up little revenge scenarios in her head like “Oh, you just wait and see! One of these days I will have grown up past your knee and then it will just be too darn late! I will have found myself a Great Dane - PURE BRED, mind you - and I won’t have any time for you anymore!”
So I think my plan of action will be to get her out for a walk early mornings, around 6:30 which seems to be the ‘happy hour’ of dogs. Certainly the quality seems to improve greatly at that hour for whatever reason. Yes, despite my earlier reservations, I think Lily dating is a fine idea, really fine. After all, one of the women of the house should be going on dates - better her than me!
Lily will be turning 4 tomorrow when Ben turns 12 (we consider her to be born on the day we found her - don’t try to wrap your heads around the mechanics of that one). Which means that she is 28. My problem is that I think she might be looking to start dating. Twenty-eight may seem a little old to just be getting started, but that’s our Lily. She’s very chaste, I must admit. A careful girl. Plus, she’s had a volatile 2 year relationship with Mattie (our cat) that can be quite violent and emotionally draining at times, so you can see why it’s taken her awhile. I don’t want to come right out and say Mattie is physically abusive, but…I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, if you know what I mean. I myself live in almost constant fear that he will suffocate me in my sleep.
I’ve started to notice that Lily gets quite a few looks from the other dogs when we’re out on our morning walks, from both the males and the females. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t blame them really - Lily is quite good-looking. And I think she knows it. She’s slender with curvy legs, a fabulous black and tan coat and a great looking tail. She’s a half breed, our Lily, at the very least. I would say she’s got around six breeds going on there. I tried to explain to her that being a mixed-breed is cool and exotic, like Cher, but then people ask me what breed of dog she is (right in front of her!) - and there she goes, sleeping on my bed in the middle of the afternoon. Which can only mean depression. She seems to have gotten over it, though, and I think it’s because of all the canine attention she’s been getting on the street. She’s very unique looking - sort of like the Catherine Zeta Jones of dogs amongst a bunch of Britney Spears. A head-turner. The other dog-walkers are having difficulty getting their dogs to ‘heel’ properly - Lily is just too much of a temptation.
I’d like to see her go on a few doggy dates at the park or something. Get out there a bit and have a little fun. Maybe it would help her with her unnatural fixation on not just one, but all four of my boys. I personally think it’s the ‘forbidden fruit’ complex. She knows they’re from a different species but - well, they’re just so darn cute! I wonder if she makes up little revenge scenarios in her head like “Oh, you just wait and see! One of these days I will have grown up past your knee and then it will just be too darn late! I will have found myself a Great Dane - PURE BRED, mind you - and I won’t have any time for you anymore!”
So I think my plan of action will be to get her out for a walk early mornings, around 6:30 which seems to be the ‘happy hour’ of dogs. Certainly the quality seems to improve greatly at that hour for whatever reason. Yes, despite my earlier reservations, I think Lily dating is a fine idea, really fine. After all, one of the women of the house should be going on dates - better her than me!
Jack
My son Jack is eight years old now. He is the tallest boy in his class. He is the only one of my sons who manages to be serious and funny at the same time almost all of the time. Jack is a thinker and a watcher. If he doesn’t like you after the first five minutes of knowing you - well then, I’m sorry my friend but he’s never going to like you. Luckily for Jack he is also a surprisingly good judge of character.
There are a million and a half wonderful things I can see in Jack’s future. Things like being loved, being successful, owning a house filled with seventeen cats, twelve dogs and three turtles. Plus the odd bird thrown in here and there because he can never have a pet bird when he’s living in my house - they are wholly unsettling creatures, I must tell you. Menacing. Predatory. It’s the price Jack must pay for having me as a Mom. And not the only price, I’m sure.
So Jack‘s page is very much a blank page of uncomplicated promise in my eyes. But it‘s not the way he looks to me that worries me these days. It‘s the way he looks at himself. Already. You see, Jack is an average-sized boy, which means he is not skinny. He doesn’t have a ’weight issue’ at all. He’s not obese, not hefty, not out of shape. He’s pretty much just not skinny. Normally I wouldn’t think anything of this - after all, four boys mean four very different little builds and anyways, boys don’t care about that stuff at all, do they? Oh, they sure as heck fire do. Now Jack is an exhaustingly active boy, he loves life and is exuberant and good-natured - really I can say without a word of conceit that he is one of the easiest children in the entire world to love. But he can’t seem to get past this idea, this little seed being re-planted daily in his mind that there is something changing about him and not in a good way. A seed I can never seem to dig up or kill or bury someplace else. “Wow, Jack has gotten really BIG.”, one of our family friends will comment. “He’s going to be a really BIG guy, isn’t he?” “He’s not built like the other boys at all.”
I’ll generally try to shrug these comments off on his behalf, say something like “Yeah, he’s a pretty tall kid, I don’t know where he got that from because his father and I are both such shorties.”, but usually people will persist. “No - I don’t mean tall...”, they’ll sometimes elaborate - and I don’t hear much past that point because I’m busy visualizing myself stabbing them in the eye with my nail clippers (the only weapon I ever seem to have at the ready). It seems to come at him from all ends these days - he came home from his Dad’s house one weekend, embarrassed and sullen and refused to tell me why. He turned down his ice cream sundae for dessert - a precedent of earth-shattering proportions for anyone in our house - and went out to the front yard after dinner to run some laps around the driveway. These crazy, driven, silent, angry laps that scared me with their red-faced intensity. Finally he confessed (not to me but to his brothers who, I might add with no small amount of pride, were just as concerned). His new nickname at his Dad’s house was ‘chubs’ and he thought he should ‘stop eating ice cream and try to exercise more because I think my belly is too wide’. If only his Dad had been there…I had my nail clippers poised and at the ready for a fight.
For the most part, I must admit Jack’s mind is elsewhere. There are still matters far more pressing than this for him, thank goodness. Who’s turn on the wii being at the forefront, naturally. And there are big things to be done every day, firecrackers to be let off in the living room (another story for another day) and snowballs to save in the freezer. Especially on the weekend when it’s just us and we lull ourselves into a false sense of complacency and he wanders the house comfortable in his own skin.
But then he’s back at school. And it’s Wednesday and he’s grown out of an old pair of jeans. And then there it is again - that look. Of humiliation, of panic. Of anger. I’ve given him too much oatmeal for breakfast, he says, why did I do that? So we lose that morning, I suppose. A bit of the battle gone. Lost. But I promise you…we are going to win that war.
There are a million and a half wonderful things I can see in Jack’s future. Things like being loved, being successful, owning a house filled with seventeen cats, twelve dogs and three turtles. Plus the odd bird thrown in here and there because he can never have a pet bird when he’s living in my house - they are wholly unsettling creatures, I must tell you. Menacing. Predatory. It’s the price Jack must pay for having me as a Mom. And not the only price, I’m sure.
So Jack‘s page is very much a blank page of uncomplicated promise in my eyes. But it‘s not the way he looks to me that worries me these days. It‘s the way he looks at himself. Already. You see, Jack is an average-sized boy, which means he is not skinny. He doesn’t have a ’weight issue’ at all. He’s not obese, not hefty, not out of shape. He’s pretty much just not skinny. Normally I wouldn’t think anything of this - after all, four boys mean four very different little builds and anyways, boys don’t care about that stuff at all, do they? Oh, they sure as heck fire do. Now Jack is an exhaustingly active boy, he loves life and is exuberant and good-natured - really I can say without a word of conceit that he is one of the easiest children in the entire world to love. But he can’t seem to get past this idea, this little seed being re-planted daily in his mind that there is something changing about him and not in a good way. A seed I can never seem to dig up or kill or bury someplace else. “Wow, Jack has gotten really BIG.”, one of our family friends will comment. “He’s going to be a really BIG guy, isn’t he?” “He’s not built like the other boys at all.”
I’ll generally try to shrug these comments off on his behalf, say something like “Yeah, he’s a pretty tall kid, I don’t know where he got that from because his father and I are both such shorties.”, but usually people will persist. “No - I don’t mean tall...”, they’ll sometimes elaborate - and I don’t hear much past that point because I’m busy visualizing myself stabbing them in the eye with my nail clippers (the only weapon I ever seem to have at the ready). It seems to come at him from all ends these days - he came home from his Dad’s house one weekend, embarrassed and sullen and refused to tell me why. He turned down his ice cream sundae for dessert - a precedent of earth-shattering proportions for anyone in our house - and went out to the front yard after dinner to run some laps around the driveway. These crazy, driven, silent, angry laps that scared me with their red-faced intensity. Finally he confessed (not to me but to his brothers who, I might add with no small amount of pride, were just as concerned). His new nickname at his Dad’s house was ‘chubs’ and he thought he should ‘stop eating ice cream and try to exercise more because I think my belly is too wide’. If only his Dad had been there…I had my nail clippers poised and at the ready for a fight.
For the most part, I must admit Jack’s mind is elsewhere. There are still matters far more pressing than this for him, thank goodness. Who’s turn on the wii being at the forefront, naturally. And there are big things to be done every day, firecrackers to be let off in the living room (another story for another day) and snowballs to save in the freezer. Especially on the weekend when it’s just us and we lull ourselves into a false sense of complacency and he wanders the house comfortable in his own skin.
But then he’s back at school. And it’s Wednesday and he’s grown out of an old pair of jeans. And then there it is again - that look. Of humiliation, of panic. Of anger. I’ve given him too much oatmeal for breakfast, he says, why did I do that? So we lose that morning, I suppose. A bit of the battle gone. Lost. But I promise you…we are going to win that war.
Monday, September 3, 2007
At the Movies
Do people really like to be known as avid ‘film-goers’? Well, maybe ‘film-goers’ are alright because films sound so fancy - not like ‘movies’ at all really. And I think ‘films’ are considered to be on a different level, aren’t they? Sort of in the same way being an ‘adult’ (pronounced ah-DULT, of course) is not really the same thing as being a ‘grown-up’. Ah-DULT’s enjoy films as a brief respite from reading thick dusty novels, drinking brandy from warm snifters or smoking a pipe while playing the cello. It’s not really their main scene, as such, but if there’s something good on at the ‘cinema’ (read, Cineplex), something with subtitles and obscure symbolism then…Well, alright, old boy. Just this once, tut, tut!
I’m all for the high end movies as well - in fact here in Owen Sound we’re lucky enough to have a gallery that brings us to the cinema for some really thought-provoking films. They always seem to be available on a rainy Sunday afternoon, too, which sets the scene nicely. Through them I’ve seen some of my favourite movies - Hotel Rwanda, The Painted Veil, Dear Frankie (you really need to see this one, I promise you) - all alone in the dark and munching on chocolate almonds. Pure bliss. My only complaint is that the other ah-DULTs never seem to get snacks - who watches movies without snacks, I ask you?
So yes, I do enjoy ‘films’. But I really, really enjoy ‘movies’ too. Just as much as I enjoy books and music and warm brandy. Actually, I detest warm brandy, but you get my drift. There’s a certain artistic snobbery attached to film these days. It’s still not quite as bad as television, I hear, but it’s getting worse. Nobody wants to admit that their children watch television - which is what mine are doing right now, by the way - and if they do watch television it’s only PBS. Or the Discovery channel. Never more than 20 minutes a day at most. And never the Simpson’s. EVER!! I myself took the kids to see the Simpson’s movie. Read from that what you will.
A lot of people associate certain smells with their past, or certain music. I do that as well (oranges and sweet almonds make me think of my room in Switzerland; Danny Boy brings me back to my Grandpa’s funeral) - but there are also certain movies that evoke instant memories for me. Like ’Bridget Jones’ Diary’. It may sound cliché, but the first weekend my husband had taken the kids and I was completely alone for the first time in about 7 years, Bridget helped me. I watched it over and over again, (I think I even perfected her ‘All By Myself’ solo from the opening credits) not feeling any better or worse about my situation, just focused on where I was. Sitting on a couch that was now mine and mine alone, huddled under a quilt my Nana had bought me for my birthday. And watching Bridget finally find her Mr. Darcy at 33 or whatever. It made me feel - safe. And sort of strong.
Back further, when Callum was 2 and Ben was a newborn. Every morning at around 5 o’clock Callum would wake me up to go downstairs and watch 101 Dalmations. It was winter, the floors were cold and Callum was wearing his Winnie the Pooh slippers. Little Ben was curled up asleep, fleecy warm under our mutual blanket asleep. A light snow was falling and I was so tired I didn’t think I could carry on. But then I would hear Callum warble “Cruella Da Bil! Cruella Da Bil!” with his little lisp. And I could indeed carry on.
So many memories of mine come with a movie soundtrack - such as all of the women in my family sobbing wildly during “Steel Magnolias” (there’s that inexplicable sense of comraderie that comes from twenty women with snotty noses), or watching “Hallowe’en” with my boyfriend at 18 in the dark in my parent’s rec room (for obvious reasons) and the first time I watched “Stepmom” after my kids had a Stepmom. To see all of my un-named, slightly selfish fears acted out by Miss Susan Sarandon was…maybe not fun but noteworthy. The movies didn’t change anything for me, but they seemed to help me earmark moments I wanted for later. Moments like being a 15 year old girl who’s fighting with her step father. For the 10 000th time and she’s tired and misunderstood and a little lonely. But later, when she’s watching Out of Africa alone, her stepfather finds her. She knows he hates this movie, but he stays for the whole four hours. Just with her. To get to know what she likes, to let her know all that she is becoming to him without saying a word. That, right there, is show biz, folks.
I’m all for the high end movies as well - in fact here in Owen Sound we’re lucky enough to have a gallery that brings us to the cinema for some really thought-provoking films. They always seem to be available on a rainy Sunday afternoon, too, which sets the scene nicely. Through them I’ve seen some of my favourite movies - Hotel Rwanda, The Painted Veil, Dear Frankie (you really need to see this one, I promise you) - all alone in the dark and munching on chocolate almonds. Pure bliss. My only complaint is that the other ah-DULTs never seem to get snacks - who watches movies without snacks, I ask you?
So yes, I do enjoy ‘films’. But I really, really enjoy ‘movies’ too. Just as much as I enjoy books and music and warm brandy. Actually, I detest warm brandy, but you get my drift. There’s a certain artistic snobbery attached to film these days. It’s still not quite as bad as television, I hear, but it’s getting worse. Nobody wants to admit that their children watch television - which is what mine are doing right now, by the way - and if they do watch television it’s only PBS. Or the Discovery channel. Never more than 20 minutes a day at most. And never the Simpson’s. EVER!! I myself took the kids to see the Simpson’s movie. Read from that what you will.
A lot of people associate certain smells with their past, or certain music. I do that as well (oranges and sweet almonds make me think of my room in Switzerland; Danny Boy brings me back to my Grandpa’s funeral) - but there are also certain movies that evoke instant memories for me. Like ’Bridget Jones’ Diary’. It may sound cliché, but the first weekend my husband had taken the kids and I was completely alone for the first time in about 7 years, Bridget helped me. I watched it over and over again, (I think I even perfected her ‘All By Myself’ solo from the opening credits) not feeling any better or worse about my situation, just focused on where I was. Sitting on a couch that was now mine and mine alone, huddled under a quilt my Nana had bought me for my birthday. And watching Bridget finally find her Mr. Darcy at 33 or whatever. It made me feel - safe. And sort of strong.
Back further, when Callum was 2 and Ben was a newborn. Every morning at around 5 o’clock Callum would wake me up to go downstairs and watch 101 Dalmations. It was winter, the floors were cold and Callum was wearing his Winnie the Pooh slippers. Little Ben was curled up asleep, fleecy warm under our mutual blanket asleep. A light snow was falling and I was so tired I didn’t think I could carry on. But then I would hear Callum warble “Cruella Da Bil! Cruella Da Bil!” with his little lisp. And I could indeed carry on.
So many memories of mine come with a movie soundtrack - such as all of the women in my family sobbing wildly during “Steel Magnolias” (there’s that inexplicable sense of comraderie that comes from twenty women with snotty noses), or watching “Hallowe’en” with my boyfriend at 18 in the dark in my parent’s rec room (for obvious reasons) and the first time I watched “Stepmom” after my kids had a Stepmom. To see all of my un-named, slightly selfish fears acted out by Miss Susan Sarandon was…maybe not fun but noteworthy. The movies didn’t change anything for me, but they seemed to help me earmark moments I wanted for later. Moments like being a 15 year old girl who’s fighting with her step father. For the 10 000th time and she’s tired and misunderstood and a little lonely. But later, when she’s watching Out of Africa alone, her stepfather finds her. She knows he hates this movie, but he stays for the whole four hours. Just with her. To get to know what she likes, to let her know all that she is becoming to him without saying a word. That, right there, is show biz, folks.
Homecoming
When I was a little girl, we lived with my Nana and Grandpa. We’re good old Irish stock (read, incredibly prolific) who liked to host as many people as possible as often as possible. Nana was a baker, and she generally started on the pies, cakes, cookies and biscuits around Monday night. Apparently, the idea was that people always feel welcome if you‘ve baked them a pie - makes good sense to me. I loved that buzzing sensation running through the house before ‘the visitors’ descended. The excitement, the sense of ceremony attached to even the most mundane, the attention to detail. Changing of sheets, washing of floors, folding of laundry, mowing of lawn. We wanted to put our best foot forward for the visitors, only give them a glimpse of the shiniest part of our lives so that we could go back to eating off of t.v. trays in front of the television on Monday.
That’s the feeling our entire town has been experiencing for the last few weeks - longer if you’re a decent citizen. Which I’m not really. The gussying up of our entire town. I think we look quite pretty, don’t you? Our flowers are in full bloom, our lawns are mowed, our streets are clean. I didn’t get a chance to head down to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, but I was half-expecting, half-hoping the vendors would all be wearing pink and blue bowties. In fact, I have half a mind to start baking a few pies for our visitors - it seems only cordial, don’t you think? Because we want to give these visitors - or ‘ the leavers’ as I like to call them - a great impression of our fair city. Or town, whatever we are. Rather like a jilted lover whose ex-boyfriend has come to town - you better get out the big guns, right? You’d better look your best, paste on a smile that says; “Really, we’re all doing just fine without you!” or “Go ahead - move to the big city! See if you like it any better there!” By the way, these were my suggestions for slogans rather than “The Sound is Calling You Home.” Not bad, eh? Apparently not the red carpet treatment we want to convey, though.
It’s funny, having all of these people coming home has made me think about my homecoming five years ago. How scared I was, how alone I felt, the strange sense of déjà vu that comes from things changing only slightly from your girlhood. But - it felt right. And warm. It’s been a while now, and the city (Seriously, is it a city? I can never remember.) and I have grown into a comfortable sort of marriage. The honeymoon period is over -the first rotten winter ended that phase - but I’m past the ‘seven year itch’ point. I no longer consider up and leaving at every bad turn, because this is where I’m supposed to be. Despite the rotten winters, the feeling of isolation that comes with every January 1st, the crippling absence of either a Gap or an Ikea…
Okay, before I scare ‘the leavers’ away again, I have a few ideas about some activities that have helped me settle in here. The may not be on the official itinerary, but they’ve certainly made me fall into a pretty deep and lasting love with the area - which for me is nothing short of a miracle (I’m not much of a settler). Here goes -
Head down to the River Café and sit in the window, drink a Chai latte and eat a toblerone shortbread cookie. Or any of our other fine cafes, actually; I just really like those cookies. Go for a walk early in the morning through the Mill Dam and past the Jubilee Bridge - be sure to go early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. I don’t know why it makes a difference but it does. Visit my curtains at Homeology - you see, I’ve been waiting for these particular curtains to go on sale for awhile now (front window, great floral pattern on a sort of creamy background) and I like to visit them. This is also a warning to let people know those particular curtains are spoken for! If you have children take them to the old-wishing-well-that’s-not-a-well at Harrison Park. Tell them that a troll lives at the bottom, and when they approach it to check (because they will) make distinct growling noises behind them. My Grandpa told me that thirty years ago and I believed him for twenty.
Mostly though, the one thing ‘the leavers’ should do is remember. Remember what it was like to live here, remember what you loved about it and why you still come home. And then you can head back to your big fancy city because we’re fine, just fine!!
That’s the feeling our entire town has been experiencing for the last few weeks - longer if you’re a decent citizen. Which I’m not really. The gussying up of our entire town. I think we look quite pretty, don’t you? Our flowers are in full bloom, our lawns are mowed, our streets are clean. I didn’t get a chance to head down to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, but I was half-expecting, half-hoping the vendors would all be wearing pink and blue bowties. In fact, I have half a mind to start baking a few pies for our visitors - it seems only cordial, don’t you think? Because we want to give these visitors - or ‘ the leavers’ as I like to call them - a great impression of our fair city. Or town, whatever we are. Rather like a jilted lover whose ex-boyfriend has come to town - you better get out the big guns, right? You’d better look your best, paste on a smile that says; “Really, we’re all doing just fine without you!” or “Go ahead - move to the big city! See if you like it any better there!” By the way, these were my suggestions for slogans rather than “The Sound is Calling You Home.” Not bad, eh? Apparently not the red carpet treatment we want to convey, though.
It’s funny, having all of these people coming home has made me think about my homecoming five years ago. How scared I was, how alone I felt, the strange sense of déjà vu that comes from things changing only slightly from your girlhood. But - it felt right. And warm. It’s been a while now, and the city (Seriously, is it a city? I can never remember.) and I have grown into a comfortable sort of marriage. The honeymoon period is over -the first rotten winter ended that phase - but I’m past the ‘seven year itch’ point. I no longer consider up and leaving at every bad turn, because this is where I’m supposed to be. Despite the rotten winters, the feeling of isolation that comes with every January 1st, the crippling absence of either a Gap or an Ikea…
Okay, before I scare ‘the leavers’ away again, I have a few ideas about some activities that have helped me settle in here. The may not be on the official itinerary, but they’ve certainly made me fall into a pretty deep and lasting love with the area - which for me is nothing short of a miracle (I’m not much of a settler). Here goes -
Head down to the River Café and sit in the window, drink a Chai latte and eat a toblerone shortbread cookie. Or any of our other fine cafes, actually; I just really like those cookies. Go for a walk early in the morning through the Mill Dam and past the Jubilee Bridge - be sure to go early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. I don’t know why it makes a difference but it does. Visit my curtains at Homeology - you see, I’ve been waiting for these particular curtains to go on sale for awhile now (front window, great floral pattern on a sort of creamy background) and I like to visit them. This is also a warning to let people know those particular curtains are spoken for! If you have children take them to the old-wishing-well-that’s-not-a-well at Harrison Park. Tell them that a troll lives at the bottom, and when they approach it to check (because they will) make distinct growling noises behind them. My Grandpa told me that thirty years ago and I believed him for twenty.
Mostly though, the one thing ‘the leavers’ should do is remember. Remember what it was like to live here, remember what you loved about it and why you still come home. And then you can head back to your big fancy city because we’re fine, just fine!!
Grown-up Fears?
Since I’ve started spending more and more time alone, I’ve noticed a few things. First of all, the Simpson’s are always on some channel somewhere. And second of all - the mind came play some pretty convincing tricks on you. Sure there are little mind games you play with yourself in a room full of people (“Did that man in house wares just wink at me?” “Did that woman over there just sneer at me?”) and so on and so forth. But when you’re alone in a dark room at 2:15 am - the mind chicanery is simply off the charts.
We all dealt with the monster-under-my-bed mindset when we were small children, I’m sure. I know for a fact that there was something…sinister going on under my bed other than broken toys and forgotten socks. When my girlfriends and I had sleepovers together, our ‘monsters’ were our main source of entertainment (that and the tracks 6 through 9 of the ‘Grease’ soundtrack). We would gratefully confess to our deepest, darkest secrets and eat dill pickle chips in the dark. Some of these stories stay with me still. One friend in particular - we’ll call her Shannon because that was her name - told me she was sure that there was a man with a machete living in her basement. He would wait until the whole family was asleep and trace his machete around the edges of their beds, lopping off any limbs that may hang over the edge of the mattress. To this day I still sleep in a neatly tucked ball, making sure not to drape over the sides in any way - after all, one can never be too sure, right?
My ‘monster’ was not quite as blood-thirsty, thank goodness. But he was stealthy, I’ll tell you. The rule was (and how I ever came up with this ‘rule’ is beyond me) that I had exactly half an hour to fall asleep. He couldn’t touch me in dream world, you see. Naturally. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, he would reach up slowly with his purple furry arm - yes, I was the only child on record to have ‘Grimace’ the McDonald’s character trapped under her bed - and drag me under into his world. Sure I protected myself by placing my stuffed animals in a strategic perimeter around me but still I only slept about 75 hours total for three years. And finally grew out of Grimace by process of elimination - I checked under my bed and in my closet ritualistically every single night. I’ve only just stopped now because the mess under there scares me more than the monsters.
What about as an adult? We should all have grown out of the mind tricks, right? But sometimes it’s just not our fault. Like when you fall asleep with your bedside lamp on and when you wake up it’s off. Off! You’re alone in the house, you know for SURE you didn’t wake up once. How did it turn itself off? Is it a ghost? Well, if it is a ghost at least it’s energy conscious. And then there are the late night, creaking footsteps, the tapping at your window that sounds nothing like a tree regardless of what everyone tells you or a sudden inexplicable drop in temperature (did you see the Sixth Sense?). I swear, the only reason I got a dog was to cover up all of these late night fears. “It was the dog” - is a resounding refrain in our house.
The thing about my dog is, she plays mental tricks on me herself. I don’t thinks she means to but…Sometimes? When I’m getting changed in my room and she’s lying on the bed watching me with her big unblinking brown eyes - there‘s something that‘s just not right. Especially when I’ve been alone in the house for some time and I’ve started to talk to her just to hear the sound of my own voice - “What are we doing today, Lily?” “Should we go for a walk or do you just want to hang out here?” - she starts to seem; human. Not in a good way. Like one of those Shaggy D.A. dog/human combos. Somewhere inside her doggy body may lurk Tim Allen in a three piece suit. And they’re both judging me I climb out of my pyjamas at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday. She watches me so intently that I can’t help saying “What?” self-consciously before covering up. And sending her out to the backyard. Where I can only assume she transforms back into just being a dog.
The only plus side to all of this? When one of the boys comes down in the night and is SURE there is a vampire watching him from a tree across the street - I believe him.
We all dealt with the monster-under-my-bed mindset when we were small children, I’m sure. I know for a fact that there was something…sinister going on under my bed other than broken toys and forgotten socks. When my girlfriends and I had sleepovers together, our ‘monsters’ were our main source of entertainment (that and the tracks 6 through 9 of the ‘Grease’ soundtrack). We would gratefully confess to our deepest, darkest secrets and eat dill pickle chips in the dark. Some of these stories stay with me still. One friend in particular - we’ll call her Shannon because that was her name - told me she was sure that there was a man with a machete living in her basement. He would wait until the whole family was asleep and trace his machete around the edges of their beds, lopping off any limbs that may hang over the edge of the mattress. To this day I still sleep in a neatly tucked ball, making sure not to drape over the sides in any way - after all, one can never be too sure, right?
My ‘monster’ was not quite as blood-thirsty, thank goodness. But he was stealthy, I’ll tell you. The rule was (and how I ever came up with this ‘rule’ is beyond me) that I had exactly half an hour to fall asleep. He couldn’t touch me in dream world, you see. Naturally. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, he would reach up slowly with his purple furry arm - yes, I was the only child on record to have ‘Grimace’ the McDonald’s character trapped under her bed - and drag me under into his world. Sure I protected myself by placing my stuffed animals in a strategic perimeter around me but still I only slept about 75 hours total for three years. And finally grew out of Grimace by process of elimination - I checked under my bed and in my closet ritualistically every single night. I’ve only just stopped now because the mess under there scares me more than the monsters.
What about as an adult? We should all have grown out of the mind tricks, right? But sometimes it’s just not our fault. Like when you fall asleep with your bedside lamp on and when you wake up it’s off. Off! You’re alone in the house, you know for SURE you didn’t wake up once. How did it turn itself off? Is it a ghost? Well, if it is a ghost at least it’s energy conscious. And then there are the late night, creaking footsteps, the tapping at your window that sounds nothing like a tree regardless of what everyone tells you or a sudden inexplicable drop in temperature (did you see the Sixth Sense?). I swear, the only reason I got a dog was to cover up all of these late night fears. “It was the dog” - is a resounding refrain in our house.
The thing about my dog is, she plays mental tricks on me herself. I don’t thinks she means to but…Sometimes? When I’m getting changed in my room and she’s lying on the bed watching me with her big unblinking brown eyes - there‘s something that‘s just not right. Especially when I’ve been alone in the house for some time and I’ve started to talk to her just to hear the sound of my own voice - “What are we doing today, Lily?” “Should we go for a walk or do you just want to hang out here?” - she starts to seem; human. Not in a good way. Like one of those Shaggy D.A. dog/human combos. Somewhere inside her doggy body may lurk Tim Allen in a three piece suit. And they’re both judging me I climb out of my pyjamas at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday. She watches me so intently that I can’t help saying “What?” self-consciously before covering up. And sending her out to the backyard. Where I can only assume she transforms back into just being a dog.
The only plus side to all of this? When one of the boys comes down in the night and is SURE there is a vampire watching him from a tree across the street - I believe him.
My Birthday
This coming Saturday I will turn thirty-five. Which anyone whose anyone knows means you are no longer in your early thirties. Now I realize in the grand scheme of things, thirty-five is young-ish. Not a huge deal. Or as one of my very best friends would say ‘that ain’t nothing but a chicken wing’. So it shouldn’t be bothering me - especially since I’ve looked thirty-five since I was about eighteen. But it is. It really, really is.
Thirty-five feels as though I should ’be’ somewhere. Maybe solid or something. Dependable. With back-ups of linens and good cutlery. And a library - yes, someone who is thirty-five should definitely have a library in their home as opposed to piles of paperbacks under their bed. Possibly even a fireplace too. I think if I were being graded on life - and I really wish there was a grading system to follow to give one an idea about successes, failures, choices and such - I would be pulling about a C-. Or a C plus. Depending on how much emphasis is put on a self-deprecating sense of humour. And I would definitely get points for my sunny sensibility.
But do you know what I want for my birthday (other than a Vespa, of course)? I want to drop my ‘game face’ for one day. Let go of the sunny sensibility. For just one darn day. I want to take every dark, depressing crappy thought that I keep hidden in the tiniest pocket of my mind out for a good polish. Just ruminate in self-pity. Feel completely and luxuriously just plain sorry for myself. So happy birthday to me then - and to all of you, sort of. You now get to share in my great big old rainy day of melancholy.
Let’s get started, shall we? First of all, I really hate these stupid ‘milestone’ birthdays. They just never work out for me in any way, shape or form. I always end up feeling like the only girl in my group not invited to prom. Wait - except for my nineteenth birthday. That one (from what I’ve heard) was legendary. Sort of a pity I can only remember about seventeen minutes of it. All of the other ones, though…not so much.
For instance there was my sweet sixteen. I had spent months - years even - memorizing ‘Sixteen Going On Seventeen’ from the Sound of Music. ‘Sixteen Candles’ was my favourite movie. I had circled a few used cars in my dad’s Auto Trader just in case. Not that I expected a car or anything but it’s always nice to be well-informed, right? Do you want to know what we did? We went camping. Just me, my brothers and my parents (who incidentally got to sleep in the camper while I slept in a tent beside my explosively gassy brothers). My birthday dinner was some KFC and a candle melting in a fly ridden banana cream pie. With a can of warm diet coke. No dancing in the gazebo with Rolph before he became a Nazi. No pretty pink dress. Just mosquito bites and a wet tent. Sweet.
Then there was my twenty-first. All I can say about that one is this - my friends all had a drunken, raucous good time. I sipped iced tea in the corner, rubbing my pregnant belly. Not fun.
Which brings us to my thirtieth. Which was the weekend after I left my husband. It almost completely passed me by as I packed and cried and bought myself a present that I pretended was from him. My mother took me out for crab cakes and chardonnay the next day, a tense afternoon while we both tried to avoid discussing the huge elephant in the room. Of course I didn’t hear from a single friend because, at that point, I didn’t have a single friends. Saying ‘divorce’ was sort of like yelling ‘stampede!’. I didn’t feel thirty - I felt sixty.
Okay, that’s it. Enough. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really feel like feeling sorry for myself any more. After all, there’s pretty much no way this birthday can be worse than any of those, right? So what if I have to bake my own cake, make my own dinner, buy my own presents (don’t ask)? This is the first year the boys will all be home, thank goodness. I’m sure I can bully them into being thoughtful. Plus, I can spend the day counting my blessings. Hilarious, cool kids, a few choice loyal friends, a snug little house that I love, shiny hair and all of my teeth. And a job that pays me to complain about my life every week! Life is pretty darn good, I’d say. Or at least, good enough.
Thirty-five feels as though I should ’be’ somewhere. Maybe solid or something. Dependable. With back-ups of linens and good cutlery. And a library - yes, someone who is thirty-five should definitely have a library in their home as opposed to piles of paperbacks under their bed. Possibly even a fireplace too. I think if I were being graded on life - and I really wish there was a grading system to follow to give one an idea about successes, failures, choices and such - I would be pulling about a C-. Or a C plus. Depending on how much emphasis is put on a self-deprecating sense of humour. And I would definitely get points for my sunny sensibility.
But do you know what I want for my birthday (other than a Vespa, of course)? I want to drop my ‘game face’ for one day. Let go of the sunny sensibility. For just one darn day. I want to take every dark, depressing crappy thought that I keep hidden in the tiniest pocket of my mind out for a good polish. Just ruminate in self-pity. Feel completely and luxuriously just plain sorry for myself. So happy birthday to me then - and to all of you, sort of. You now get to share in my great big old rainy day of melancholy.
Let’s get started, shall we? First of all, I really hate these stupid ‘milestone’ birthdays. They just never work out for me in any way, shape or form. I always end up feeling like the only girl in my group not invited to prom. Wait - except for my nineteenth birthday. That one (from what I’ve heard) was legendary. Sort of a pity I can only remember about seventeen minutes of it. All of the other ones, though…not so much.
For instance there was my sweet sixteen. I had spent months - years even - memorizing ‘Sixteen Going On Seventeen’ from the Sound of Music. ‘Sixteen Candles’ was my favourite movie. I had circled a few used cars in my dad’s Auto Trader just in case. Not that I expected a car or anything but it’s always nice to be well-informed, right? Do you want to know what we did? We went camping. Just me, my brothers and my parents (who incidentally got to sleep in the camper while I slept in a tent beside my explosively gassy brothers). My birthday dinner was some KFC and a candle melting in a fly ridden banana cream pie. With a can of warm diet coke. No dancing in the gazebo with Rolph before he became a Nazi. No pretty pink dress. Just mosquito bites and a wet tent. Sweet.
Then there was my twenty-first. All I can say about that one is this - my friends all had a drunken, raucous good time. I sipped iced tea in the corner, rubbing my pregnant belly. Not fun.
Which brings us to my thirtieth. Which was the weekend after I left my husband. It almost completely passed me by as I packed and cried and bought myself a present that I pretended was from him. My mother took me out for crab cakes and chardonnay the next day, a tense afternoon while we both tried to avoid discussing the huge elephant in the room. Of course I didn’t hear from a single friend because, at that point, I didn’t have a single friends. Saying ‘divorce’ was sort of like yelling ‘stampede!’. I didn’t feel thirty - I felt sixty.
Okay, that’s it. Enough. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really feel like feeling sorry for myself any more. After all, there’s pretty much no way this birthday can be worse than any of those, right? So what if I have to bake my own cake, make my own dinner, buy my own presents (don’t ask)? This is the first year the boys will all be home, thank goodness. I’m sure I can bully them into being thoughtful. Plus, I can spend the day counting my blessings. Hilarious, cool kids, a few choice loyal friends, a snug little house that I love, shiny hair and all of my teeth. And a job that pays me to complain about my life every week! Life is pretty darn good, I’d say. Or at least, good enough.
Weighty Issues
The other day I was on the phone with a girlfriend who is considering giving up on men. Apparently she’s had it - had it with the primping, had it with the settling for whatever comes her way, had it with the mind games and the disappointed expectations. “That’s it”, she declared. “I’m going to spend the winter letting myself get all fat and stop caring about how I look.”
Now I don’t think she meant anything by that. I really don’t. The sheer audacity of it, though! This is someone who has spent her entire life as a thin pretty woman. Someone who has never struggled with obesity, the freshman fifteen or even the premenstrual five. So to her, I suppose, it would seem as though just letting yourself get fat is the easiest thing in the world to do. As though it’s a choice a good 55% of us women have made.
I am someone the population at large would consider overweight. And no, I don’t mean that I’m a size 8 who wants to lose 10 pounds. I’m not one of those women who has always been overweight - which I think can be a little tougher in it’s own way. No, unfortunately for me, I was ‘considered a handsome woman in my day‘. I was never a thin girl, but I was thinner. And yes, the four kids haven’t helped my weight, the divorce, the stress of being a single mom, blah, blah, blah. But I’m guessing all of that wonderful chocolate and second - or third - cupcake after the kids have gone to bed probably didn’t help either. And the almost crippling inability to stick to one exercise program at a time - will it be yoga this week? Or belly dancing? Or how about just early morning walks? Or maybe I should just lay on the couch and watch Dawson’s Creek.
You might think I feel rotten about this ‘failure’, this letting down of my self. Not really. It’s like anything else, I suppose, something I need to figure out on my own. If only I could get strep throat again! That had to be the best diet I was ever on! I still like to look nice - sometimes. But even when I was thinner I only ever cared about looking nice some of the time. I tend to be more of a non-conformist about aesthetics - that is until I want to look really pretty and shiny for a party. Then it’s bring on the bronzer! A few months back, I was heading out to this really swanky party with some friends - all of us plus size gals. We were getting ready at my house, blaring some reggae and drinking wine, doing each other’s hair. I felt fabulous. I was wearing a great dress, had bought a perfect hand painted silk scarf to tie around my throat, was wearing these great strappy sandals. Everything around me seemed to buzz with possibility. Inside my little safe place, I was happy. Once outside though…there was a sort of slipping down when we arrived that had nothing to do with the way I looked and everything to do with the looks I felt I was getting (they weren‘t exactly cat-calling for me), a feeling for a moment like maybe we weren’t all that and a bag of chips. Like maybe I looked a little ridiculous. But, wine helped. Five bottles of wine helped more. I danced the night away, laughed, ate and had a wonderful time.
What did this tell me? That maybe it isn’t the extra weight that embarrasses me. Like maybe it’s other people’s embarrassment for me that does me in. Sends me back to the track suits. Do I want to lose weight? Of course I do - sometimes. But the reasons that I want to lose weight are a little goofy - things like “I want to be able to cross my legs and look dainty” or “I want to be able to wear knee high boots and not look like I’ve been sausaged into them”. And I do miss the male attention aspect - but not as much as I miss my size 10 pencil skirts. Which is sort of funny because I think the weight gain had everything to do with men - it is a very comfortable cocoon for me, a nice warm shelter which always manages to be stocked with the best treats. Besides, there’s something welcoming about carrying a little - or a lot - of extra weight. Nurturing. It seems to naturally suit one side of my lifestyle - the homebody, the baker of pies and cooker of dinners, the Mom in me. And the other side of me - the one that gets a little good behaviour time on Saturdays to cut loose and have a few drinks - isn’t ready for a full revolt just yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s coming - I bet she’s waiting in the wings with some new Nike cross trainers and top of the line workout gear ready to pounce. Oh well - perhaps it’s finally time. Or not.
Now I don’t think she meant anything by that. I really don’t. The sheer audacity of it, though! This is someone who has spent her entire life as a thin pretty woman. Someone who has never struggled with obesity, the freshman fifteen or even the premenstrual five. So to her, I suppose, it would seem as though just letting yourself get fat is the easiest thing in the world to do. As though it’s a choice a good 55% of us women have made.
I am someone the population at large would consider overweight. And no, I don’t mean that I’m a size 8 who wants to lose 10 pounds. I’m not one of those women who has always been overweight - which I think can be a little tougher in it’s own way. No, unfortunately for me, I was ‘considered a handsome woman in my day‘. I was never a thin girl, but I was thinner. And yes, the four kids haven’t helped my weight, the divorce, the stress of being a single mom, blah, blah, blah. But I’m guessing all of that wonderful chocolate and second - or third - cupcake after the kids have gone to bed probably didn’t help either. And the almost crippling inability to stick to one exercise program at a time - will it be yoga this week? Or belly dancing? Or how about just early morning walks? Or maybe I should just lay on the couch and watch Dawson’s Creek.
You might think I feel rotten about this ‘failure’, this letting down of my self. Not really. It’s like anything else, I suppose, something I need to figure out on my own. If only I could get strep throat again! That had to be the best diet I was ever on! I still like to look nice - sometimes. But even when I was thinner I only ever cared about looking nice some of the time. I tend to be more of a non-conformist about aesthetics - that is until I want to look really pretty and shiny for a party. Then it’s bring on the bronzer! A few months back, I was heading out to this really swanky party with some friends - all of us plus size gals. We were getting ready at my house, blaring some reggae and drinking wine, doing each other’s hair. I felt fabulous. I was wearing a great dress, had bought a perfect hand painted silk scarf to tie around my throat, was wearing these great strappy sandals. Everything around me seemed to buzz with possibility. Inside my little safe place, I was happy. Once outside though…there was a sort of slipping down when we arrived that had nothing to do with the way I looked and everything to do with the looks I felt I was getting (they weren‘t exactly cat-calling for me), a feeling for a moment like maybe we weren’t all that and a bag of chips. Like maybe I looked a little ridiculous. But, wine helped. Five bottles of wine helped more. I danced the night away, laughed, ate and had a wonderful time.
What did this tell me? That maybe it isn’t the extra weight that embarrasses me. Like maybe it’s other people’s embarrassment for me that does me in. Sends me back to the track suits. Do I want to lose weight? Of course I do - sometimes. But the reasons that I want to lose weight are a little goofy - things like “I want to be able to cross my legs and look dainty” or “I want to be able to wear knee high boots and not look like I’ve been sausaged into them”. And I do miss the male attention aspect - but not as much as I miss my size 10 pencil skirts. Which is sort of funny because I think the weight gain had everything to do with men - it is a very comfortable cocoon for me, a nice warm shelter which always manages to be stocked with the best treats. Besides, there’s something welcoming about carrying a little - or a lot - of extra weight. Nurturing. It seems to naturally suit one side of my lifestyle - the homebody, the baker of pies and cooker of dinners, the Mom in me. And the other side of me - the one that gets a little good behaviour time on Saturdays to cut loose and have a few drinks - isn’t ready for a full revolt just yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s coming - I bet she’s waiting in the wings with some new Nike cross trainers and top of the line workout gear ready to pounce. Oh well - perhaps it’s finally time. Or not.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Goodbye Again
I remember perfectly the day I left home. I was nineteen, and I was heading to Switzerland to be an au pair for a year. My parents, grandparents and my aunt and uncle all took me to the airport for the big send off, waving goodbye to their intrepid voyager. My grandparents cried, my aunt and uncle both hugged me tight (and both slipped a $20 in my pocket, woo hoo!), my step dad went quiet and a little abrupt - a telltale sign for him that things were getting mushy. And my Mom - well, she was heartbroken. I can still see her tear-stained yet somehow streak free face like it was yesterday. For my part, I cried hysterically throughout the entire seven hour flight to Zurich (other than during meal time - Swiss Air really does a lovely on-flight meal). Yes I was frightened and alone, but at the same time part of me felt strangely liberated. This was going to be my year. I was going to see things none of us had seen. Sure I didn’t speak the language, knew exactly one person in the entire country and was about to live with some strange foreign family for a year. But it felt incredibly brave to me, and I had always wanted so badly to be brave.
Now I’m back, obviously, and settled so deep into my small town that I will probably never leave. And this time it’s my Mother who will be waving goodbye. My parents are moving to California, about two hours outside San Francisco. They have lived within two hours of me my entire adult life - not to mention all of the times I’ve moved back home for a brief respite. I like to refer to that as my ‘homing pigeon’ phase. As everyone knows, having parents who live close by can sometimes feel like a mixed blessing. They’re always within shouting distance if there’s a problem which can often mean that it’s difficult to stand on your own two feet. Plus, they don’t really have to give you enough notice to clean your house before their visit, which means that they see where you live in all manners of ill-repair. And when you mess things up royally and you’d rather they didn’t know - they know. Believe me, they ALWAYS know.
But, on the whole, we’ve grown into a pretty familiar existence my parents and I. One that I’m just now realizing is going to end. Every Christmas is spent together, in their house or mine (and that’s always a tricky decision because their house is much bigger but I bring a bit of a population increase, what with the kids and the pets). Every year my Mom and I shop for back-to-school things for my sons, which invariably means that they are outfitted much better than I could ever do on my own. As my Mom says - Old Navy is where the parents have to shop, Gap is where the grandparents get to shop. She’s great for all the extras, my mom. She gets them the cool backpacks, the nicer running shoes, good jewelry (she really wants the boys to have a bit of bling, which means they all have necklaces). And I get to buy the school supplies and lunchables. Because that’s the stuff I can afford.
It’s more than the financial stuff though. My parents are often my company. When winter hits along with a major case of the doldrums, I always head to my parents house and hang out with my step dad. The great thing about him is that he allows me to be as sloth-like as I choose. We watch HGTV almost 24-7, and when we tire of that we watch romantic comedies. His favorite is the Wedding Date - pretty funny considering he’s a big macho electrician who also loves ‘the Nascar’. We eat lots of chocolate and just hang in our sweats letting the full depression of February wash over us. It may not sound fun, but it is fun. As for my Mom - she’s always with me. And she’s the only other person out there who gets jazzed to hear every single waking detail of my kid’s lives. Believe me, no one else is that interested. She likes to be here for everything - Hallowe’en, first day of school, last day of school, Christmas concerts, everything. And I am just now realizing that, as of three weeks, I’ll be doing these completely solo.
There is a plus side to their move. The kids and I are heading down there for a much-needed vacation in October, which will be wonderful. And my parents will get to explore a different part of the world, check out wine country and all of that. I suppose I’m heading into the unknown as well, a world I’ve thought I’ve been part of for a long time but am just now fully entering. The world of really doing it on my own. And I feel - brave again.
I’d love to hear from you! Email me at jrmmcguire@yahoo.ca or visit my website at jrmmcguire.blogspot.com. Cheers - and good luck Mom and Dad!
Now I’m back, obviously, and settled so deep into my small town that I will probably never leave. And this time it’s my Mother who will be waving goodbye. My parents are moving to California, about two hours outside San Francisco. They have lived within two hours of me my entire adult life - not to mention all of the times I’ve moved back home for a brief respite. I like to refer to that as my ‘homing pigeon’ phase. As everyone knows, having parents who live close by can sometimes feel like a mixed blessing. They’re always within shouting distance if there’s a problem which can often mean that it’s difficult to stand on your own two feet. Plus, they don’t really have to give you enough notice to clean your house before their visit, which means that they see where you live in all manners of ill-repair. And when you mess things up royally and you’d rather they didn’t know - they know. Believe me, they ALWAYS know.
But, on the whole, we’ve grown into a pretty familiar existence my parents and I. One that I’m just now realizing is going to end. Every Christmas is spent together, in their house or mine (and that’s always a tricky decision because their house is much bigger but I bring a bit of a population increase, what with the kids and the pets). Every year my Mom and I shop for back-to-school things for my sons, which invariably means that they are outfitted much better than I could ever do on my own. As my Mom says - Old Navy is where the parents have to shop, Gap is where the grandparents get to shop. She’s great for all the extras, my mom. She gets them the cool backpacks, the nicer running shoes, good jewelry (she really wants the boys to have a bit of bling, which means they all have necklaces). And I get to buy the school supplies and lunchables. Because that’s the stuff I can afford.
It’s more than the financial stuff though. My parents are often my company. When winter hits along with a major case of the doldrums, I always head to my parents house and hang out with my step dad. The great thing about him is that he allows me to be as sloth-like as I choose. We watch HGTV almost 24-7, and when we tire of that we watch romantic comedies. His favorite is the Wedding Date - pretty funny considering he’s a big macho electrician who also loves ‘the Nascar’. We eat lots of chocolate and just hang in our sweats letting the full depression of February wash over us. It may not sound fun, but it is fun. As for my Mom - she’s always with me. And she’s the only other person out there who gets jazzed to hear every single waking detail of my kid’s lives. Believe me, no one else is that interested. She likes to be here for everything - Hallowe’en, first day of school, last day of school, Christmas concerts, everything. And I am just now realizing that, as of three weeks, I’ll be doing these completely solo.
There is a plus side to their move. The kids and I are heading down there for a much-needed vacation in October, which will be wonderful. And my parents will get to explore a different part of the world, check out wine country and all of that. I suppose I’m heading into the unknown as well, a world I’ve thought I’ve been part of for a long time but am just now fully entering. The world of really doing it on my own. And I feel - brave again.
I’d love to hear from you! Email me at jrmmcguire@yahoo.ca or visit my website at jrmmcguire.blogspot.com. Cheers - and good luck Mom and Dad!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
I’m bored. What are we doing today? There’s nothing to do. Barbequed burgers AGAIN? Ah, the sounds of summer. If you have a preteen, these sounds of sulky boredom are about as familiar to summer as the sounds of lawnmowers or grasshoppers. I now have two ‘preteen‘ sons - actually, one is now a real teen but I‘ve decided not to accept this, so there you go - and my goodness, life is boring, isn‘t it? Hiking is boring, their brothers are boring, I believe I may even secretly be boring. In the beginning, it seems like a clean slate. The first few days of summer are pretty giddy for them, they stay up late doing nothing, wake up late, eat and then skateboard around looking depressed. I mean, really, what could be more fun than that? But shockingly, the sweet taste of freedom turns sour. For all of us. I want them to be ‘stand-up’ citizens and do some volunteering of their time, maybe pushing the elderly infirm around in wheelchairs or playing checkers with some old men in hats, that sort of thing. They want to hang out in their room and ‘jam’ with their guitar and drums. The same song over, and over, and over again. But it’s a really good song, guys, don’t get me wrong! Or hang out with their friends so that they can all look incredibly sophisticated and bored together (while drinking juice boxes, mind you).
The thing is, they don’t know what’s coming, the poor souls. They don’t know that in the next few years their lives are going to change, their friends will change, we will change. There are going to be a lot of decisions to be made for them in coming years about futures, girls, drinking, drugs. Right now is that magical time between. When they’re still just boys with little or no facial hair and voices that crackle a bit when they’re excited (sorry guys, it’s true). So my mission this summer, besides finding one of those really cool looking retro bikes with a basket on the front (let me know if you see one!), is to make it count. I’m going to force these boys to enjoy every last ounce of their childhood if it kills me! So I’ve come up with a sort of list to give me a hand - nothing fancy, nothing expensive, nothing difficult (except for #2 which might require a working knowledge of drills and such). So if you’re feeling a little stuck, go right ahead and rip off some of these ideas. And great good luck to us all!
1. Head to the beach just after dinner on a windy night. Let yourselves fall backwards into gigantic waves. Don’t care how you look while doing this one, and for Pete’s sake, don’t let anyone take a picture!
2. Build Your Own Go-Kart. Or at least hire someone to build it according to your specs. Or even better, let them do it with their friends while you bring them lemonade and cookies. Yes, I’ve always wanted to be a little like June Cleaver.
3. Sleep under the stars with astrology charts, flash lights and mounds of junk food. Bring bug spray and earplugs (so you don’t hear all of the little animals scurrying up to you in the night)
4. Go for a midnight hike. Actually try to stay quiet and listen to the sounds of nature at your feet, even if you’re really scared of owls (not that I am, naturally.)
5. Head to the library, each of you pick out your favourite book - or one you think the other person would love - and swap. Don’t complain if you have to read Captain Underpants - don’t punish him with a Danielle Steel.
6. Stay in bed on a rainy day with popcorn, movies, a journal and some drawing paper. Hang out in your jammies with no expectations, nowhere else to be, and no one else you’d rather be with. Just be.
7. Each of you choose a favourite hobby - gardening for you? Skateboarding for him? - and try your level best to learn as much as you can. Because all you’re really trying to do is ‘know’ each other beyond, Mom-cries-at-movies and Son-hates-to-bathe. You may be surprised.
8. Pick somewhere on the map you’ve never been within an hour’s drive and explore, explore, explore. Take your own food, your own water etc. and be a backpacker for the day.
9. Make a movie. Write your own script, make costumes, make backdrops completely commit yourself to the project. Accept that your part in the movie will be small, and that you may be killed off quite gruesomely by Act 2.
10. Lay in the grass, looking up at the sky, and remember what those last few breaths of childhood felt like. Make him remember too.
The thing is, they don’t know what’s coming, the poor souls. They don’t know that in the next few years their lives are going to change, their friends will change, we will change. There are going to be a lot of decisions to be made for them in coming years about futures, girls, drinking, drugs. Right now is that magical time between. When they’re still just boys with little or no facial hair and voices that crackle a bit when they’re excited (sorry guys, it’s true). So my mission this summer, besides finding one of those really cool looking retro bikes with a basket on the front (let me know if you see one!), is to make it count. I’m going to force these boys to enjoy every last ounce of their childhood if it kills me! So I’ve come up with a sort of list to give me a hand - nothing fancy, nothing expensive, nothing difficult (except for #2 which might require a working knowledge of drills and such). So if you’re feeling a little stuck, go right ahead and rip off some of these ideas. And great good luck to us all!
1. Head to the beach just after dinner on a windy night. Let yourselves fall backwards into gigantic waves. Don’t care how you look while doing this one, and for Pete’s sake, don’t let anyone take a picture!
2. Build Your Own Go-Kart. Or at least hire someone to build it according to your specs. Or even better, let them do it with their friends while you bring them lemonade and cookies. Yes, I’ve always wanted to be a little like June Cleaver.
3. Sleep under the stars with astrology charts, flash lights and mounds of junk food. Bring bug spray and earplugs (so you don’t hear all of the little animals scurrying up to you in the night)
4. Go for a midnight hike. Actually try to stay quiet and listen to the sounds of nature at your feet, even if you’re really scared of owls (not that I am, naturally.)
5. Head to the library, each of you pick out your favourite book - or one you think the other person would love - and swap. Don’t complain if you have to read Captain Underpants - don’t punish him with a Danielle Steel.
6. Stay in bed on a rainy day with popcorn, movies, a journal and some drawing paper. Hang out in your jammies with no expectations, nowhere else to be, and no one else you’d rather be with. Just be.
7. Each of you choose a favourite hobby - gardening for you? Skateboarding for him? - and try your level best to learn as much as you can. Because all you’re really trying to do is ‘know’ each other beyond, Mom-cries-at-movies and Son-hates-to-bathe. You may be surprised.
8. Pick somewhere on the map you’ve never been within an hour’s drive and explore, explore, explore. Take your own food, your own water etc. and be a backpacker for the day.
9. Make a movie. Write your own script, make costumes, make backdrops completely commit yourself to the project. Accept that your part in the movie will be small, and that you may be killed off quite gruesomely by Act 2.
10. Lay in the grass, looking up at the sky, and remember what those last few breaths of childhood felt like. Make him remember too.
The other day I began a pros and cons list to help me decide if I do, indeed, like summer. I feel like I like summer. Every year I get pretty excited about the arrival of summer, I become full of plans and paint my toenails and such. Outings to the beach - heavenly! Picnics by the river - glorious! Warm pies cooling on the windowsill while the children paint out of doors - oh wondrous joy! And, on the pros side, I really enjoy the eating habits of summer. The little bits of this and that and everything - like potato salad, corn bread, barbeque chicken, peach pie - instead of a structured meal. Because I have recently discovered that I cannot commit to anything, even the idea of one particular meal. Plus, people tend to be drinking outside a little more, and I’m always a fan of that.
But the cons side, if I’m to be honest, is beginning to snowball on me. For instance - I am just not a gardener. Heck, I’m not even a mower of lawns. And somewhere inside me is this intrepid spirit of a gardener begging to be let loose, putting on her big floppy hat and sliding into her crocs with hedge trimmers at the ready. This gardener inside me is a bit of a nag. And has a British accent for whatever reason. She wants me to get up earlier in the morning, trim things and turn dirt and wave at the early morning joggers, sharing a smug little satisfied smile at our industrious natures. How hard could it be, she’ll ask me. Maybe it’s sort of like breastfeeding - people talk about it like it’s brain surgery, it scares you off, then you do it and it’s the most natural thing in the world. Give it a try… Unfortunately, she’s just never going to win out against the other me, the one snoring in bed and hitting the snooze button until the last possible minute. That would also be the ‘me’ who tells herself that those white lacy weeds running amok all over her yard are Mother Nature’s masterpiece. Who are we to call them weeds?
Another con - every year around this time I start to remember the promises I made to myself last year around this time, start remembering the fantasies I had about the woman I would be. In my white sundress or cute capris and t-shirt, with thinner legs, longer hair and fewer lines. And every year I realize that isn’t going to happen. I’m still the same woman who drives as far as possible down the beach so no unsuspecting onlooker will be subjected to visions of me frog jumping through the waves in my ill-fitting black maillot. Because I’m not giving up the jumping in the waves with the boys bit- that definitely goes on the pro side.
So far the heat is a pro not a con, but who knows how long that will hold out? I don’t have air conditioning but I do have nature’s A.C. - lots of trees. They still do the trick pretty nicely. But soon the trees are going to give out on me, their branches are going to start drooping and pouting in the heat. They’re going to go on strike, and that’s when the fans will come out. You start hearing about it everywhere you go - everyone is talking about opening windows in the morning, closing them mid afternoon, opening again in the evening at the right time, fans in the windows, fans on the floors, fans in the bedrooms…It’s like Morse code for the sweaty.
When it comes right down to it, my problems with summer have nothing to do with summer and everything to do with becoming aware of my shortcomings. Sticky countertops that will never get smooth, approximately 8 more fruit flies buzzing about the kitchen than are socially acceptable, not enough lessons for the kids and too much ice cream for me. Then there’s all the shaving of parts, sunburns in incredibly awkward places, messier hair than usual. People on dates who look so happy that you can’t even silently heckle them - at least in the winter they’re holed up at home by the fire, most likely snuggling in private. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But as many cons as there are, I have a good feeling they’ll never turn me completely. Especially since next year I plan to look incredible, I’m going to have lost some weight, grown my hair, I’ll have a fantastic tan….
But the cons side, if I’m to be honest, is beginning to snowball on me. For instance - I am just not a gardener. Heck, I’m not even a mower of lawns. And somewhere inside me is this intrepid spirit of a gardener begging to be let loose, putting on her big floppy hat and sliding into her crocs with hedge trimmers at the ready. This gardener inside me is a bit of a nag. And has a British accent for whatever reason. She wants me to get up earlier in the morning, trim things and turn dirt and wave at the early morning joggers, sharing a smug little satisfied smile at our industrious natures. How hard could it be, she’ll ask me. Maybe it’s sort of like breastfeeding - people talk about it like it’s brain surgery, it scares you off, then you do it and it’s the most natural thing in the world. Give it a try… Unfortunately, she’s just never going to win out against the other me, the one snoring in bed and hitting the snooze button until the last possible minute. That would also be the ‘me’ who tells herself that those white lacy weeds running amok all over her yard are Mother Nature’s masterpiece. Who are we to call them weeds?
Another con - every year around this time I start to remember the promises I made to myself last year around this time, start remembering the fantasies I had about the woman I would be. In my white sundress or cute capris and t-shirt, with thinner legs, longer hair and fewer lines. And every year I realize that isn’t going to happen. I’m still the same woman who drives as far as possible down the beach so no unsuspecting onlooker will be subjected to visions of me frog jumping through the waves in my ill-fitting black maillot. Because I’m not giving up the jumping in the waves with the boys bit- that definitely goes on the pro side.
So far the heat is a pro not a con, but who knows how long that will hold out? I don’t have air conditioning but I do have nature’s A.C. - lots of trees. They still do the trick pretty nicely. But soon the trees are going to give out on me, their branches are going to start drooping and pouting in the heat. They’re going to go on strike, and that’s when the fans will come out. You start hearing about it everywhere you go - everyone is talking about opening windows in the morning, closing them mid afternoon, opening again in the evening at the right time, fans in the windows, fans on the floors, fans in the bedrooms…It’s like Morse code for the sweaty.
When it comes right down to it, my problems with summer have nothing to do with summer and everything to do with becoming aware of my shortcomings. Sticky countertops that will never get smooth, approximately 8 more fruit flies buzzing about the kitchen than are socially acceptable, not enough lessons for the kids and too much ice cream for me. Then there’s all the shaving of parts, sunburns in incredibly awkward places, messier hair than usual. People on dates who look so happy that you can’t even silently heckle them - at least in the winter they’re holed up at home by the fire, most likely snuggling in private. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But as many cons as there are, I have a good feeling they’ll never turn me completely. Especially since next year I plan to look incredible, I’m going to have lost some weight, grown my hair, I’ll have a fantastic tan….
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Break Up
I consider myself to have had ample experience with ‘break-ups’. There was my husband, after all, the Moby Dick of break-ups, the kind of thing you think is never going to be over or better, but then one day it just…is. You wake up one morning after a good night’s sleep - maybe the first good night’s sleep you’ve had in years - and you realize that you don’t miss him. And it no longer bothers you that he DEFINITELY doesn’t miss you. So the next time he comes to pick up the kids you can chat or possibly even have coffee because now you’re going to be friends. The other ‘stuff’ is over. Hallelujah!!
So what does one do when the break-up is with a friend? You see, this is my problem - I almost hate to admit it, but the man break-up thing doesn’t really ever affect me anymore. Because we can compartmentalize dates and boyfriends and relationships all the way into marriage - and then sometimes even after that. Your girlfriends, though…They know you. They are the ones who normally stand the test of time, who pick up your kids from school if you’re running late or bake you cookies if you’re sad. They’re the cream in your coffee. They’re everywhere, in every pocket of your life.
But as with everything else, sometimes it just…ends. And I really hate that. Especially when there’s just the tiniest little possibility that it was my fault. I definitely hate to be at fault (which is a little disconcerting considering how frequently I AM at fault). Sometimes you are at different times in your life, sometimes you have just run out of new stories to tell each other or sometimes there’s just too much - crap. Am I allowed to say crap? Because that’s the only name for it. Crap. So you break-up.
Not that you call it a break-up - no, only romantic relationships get titles. Or actual official endings. The phone calls trickle away, a week or so goes by when you both think about calling and mutter under your breath “Wait a minute; I’m always the one that calls!! It’s her turn now!” and then you pretend to not care. And mention not caring to your husbands 30 or 40 times over the next few days. The week ebbs away, another comes and goes, then a month, and with the start of the new month you’ve broken up. It’s official - I believe one month to be the official best friend break-up time period.
When you go through your break-up with a friend, there is no social consideration, I must tell you. Hallmark has yet to come out with a card that says - “Hey, it’s too bad you and your best friend just broke up, go eat some chocolate.”. Not that I really need Hallmark to remind me to eat chocolate, but you get my drift. People in general don’t really acknowledge this ending of all endings. Because it really ends, doesn’t it? Sometimes with your ex-boyfriend or husband you can say, “Look, I know we aren’t in love any more but we’re still friends, so let’s go for a drink.” You can’t call your ex-best friend and say “Look, I know we’re not friends any more - but can we still hang out sometime?”. Not that I haven’t considered calling, but I think it might seem a little…
At some point or another, you are both probably going to get a new best friend, or at least good friend. She will probably have one before you, prepare yourself. And that is just the worst. Not that you don’t want your ex-friend to be happy - or at least you should, somewhere deep, deep down within your heart - you just can’t quite stomach seeing them wander around town with their jaunty matching purses, the purse YOU had been about to buy. Especially since you need to accept that the first time you run into each other, you are going to be alone and looking lonely and exhausted - it’s just the way the world works, don’t fight it.
The truth is, we are all going to lose friends along the way. Whether it’s their fault, your fault or someone else’s fault (my personal preference - I really don’t like to take the blame), it happens. The important thing is to let yourself accept this loss the same way you accept everything else. With a lot of whining, crying, wine and fattening foods. It’s really the only way.
So what does one do when the break-up is with a friend? You see, this is my problem - I almost hate to admit it, but the man break-up thing doesn’t really ever affect me anymore. Because we can compartmentalize dates and boyfriends and relationships all the way into marriage - and then sometimes even after that. Your girlfriends, though…They know you. They are the ones who normally stand the test of time, who pick up your kids from school if you’re running late or bake you cookies if you’re sad. They’re the cream in your coffee. They’re everywhere, in every pocket of your life.
But as with everything else, sometimes it just…ends. And I really hate that. Especially when there’s just the tiniest little possibility that it was my fault. I definitely hate to be at fault (which is a little disconcerting considering how frequently I AM at fault). Sometimes you are at different times in your life, sometimes you have just run out of new stories to tell each other or sometimes there’s just too much - crap. Am I allowed to say crap? Because that’s the only name for it. Crap. So you break-up.
Not that you call it a break-up - no, only romantic relationships get titles. Or actual official endings. The phone calls trickle away, a week or so goes by when you both think about calling and mutter under your breath “Wait a minute; I’m always the one that calls!! It’s her turn now!” and then you pretend to not care. And mention not caring to your husbands 30 or 40 times over the next few days. The week ebbs away, another comes and goes, then a month, and with the start of the new month you’ve broken up. It’s official - I believe one month to be the official best friend break-up time period.
When you go through your break-up with a friend, there is no social consideration, I must tell you. Hallmark has yet to come out with a card that says - “Hey, it’s too bad you and your best friend just broke up, go eat some chocolate.”. Not that I really need Hallmark to remind me to eat chocolate, but you get my drift. People in general don’t really acknowledge this ending of all endings. Because it really ends, doesn’t it? Sometimes with your ex-boyfriend or husband you can say, “Look, I know we aren’t in love any more but we’re still friends, so let’s go for a drink.” You can’t call your ex-best friend and say “Look, I know we’re not friends any more - but can we still hang out sometime?”. Not that I haven’t considered calling, but I think it might seem a little…
At some point or another, you are both probably going to get a new best friend, or at least good friend. She will probably have one before you, prepare yourself. And that is just the worst. Not that you don’t want your ex-friend to be happy - or at least you should, somewhere deep, deep down within your heart - you just can’t quite stomach seeing them wander around town with their jaunty matching purses, the purse YOU had been about to buy. Especially since you need to accept that the first time you run into each other, you are going to be alone and looking lonely and exhausted - it’s just the way the world works, don’t fight it.
The truth is, we are all going to lose friends along the way. Whether it’s their fault, your fault or someone else’s fault (my personal preference - I really don’t like to take the blame), it happens. The important thing is to let yourself accept this loss the same way you accept everything else. With a lot of whining, crying, wine and fattening foods. It’s really the only way.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Blame It On Harlequin!!
I started reading Harlequin Romances when I was about 12 or 13. I had been reading the Sweet Valley High series before then (remember the Wakefield twins, Jessica and Elizabeth?) but found I was ready to move on. You see, while I did enjoy reading about Elizabeth and her steady, sweetheart of a boyfriend Todd, they didn’t seem in any hurry to ‘close the deal’. And my curiosity was killing me (although not really bringing me any closer to actual flesh and bone boys). I was ready for some bodice-ripping good clean fun. Enter Harlequin.
I will admit I took a lot of comfort in the standard romance novel formula. Possibly far more than I should. I sort of liked the idea that there were really only six or seven regurgitated stories, basically half a dozen ways of falling in love. And that they generally took place somewhere a little cooler than where I lived (sorry, Owen Sounders). As most of us know the stories all go something like this;
-Pretty Girl owns cute shop, Swarthy Man comes along and buys up half the town. They hate each other, he kisses her roughly and she simpers. All ends well.
-Beautiful Girl and Handsome Man were in love once and ended it badly over a misunderstanding. He comes back, rich, to punish her. Meets his son who looks just like him (gasp!). He’s a little bossy but they fall back in love. But not until after he kisses her roughly.
-Simple Girl has amnesia. I actually always hated this story line so I will spare you the details. Needless to say at some point, despite her obvious mental incapacitation, he kisses her roughly.
- The Sheik kidnaps Haughty Girl and holds her for ransom. They fall in love after he kisses her roughly a whole lot more than the Western guys are allowed.
-My all-time favourite. The ‘Jenny Craig’ story line. When Chubby-with-Potential Girl is about eighteen and she meets Him. The thirty-six year old (he’s ALWAYS thirty-six) who’s business partners with her father. He hurts her in some brutal yet somehow forgivable way and leaves. She is devastated and goes on a two year ‘frump’ diet of limp hair and no food. She comes out the other end as a butterfly, with a killer figure, a great boyfriend (who is always blond and named either Even or Stephen - if you’re a blond guy in the books, you’re never getting the girl) a cool job and nice apartment. The Man comes back, puts on a tux and kisses her roughly. Bye bye Evan and cool apartment.
There are other elements, of course. Our heroine is beautiful but never trendy, her hair is always timeless. She would never sport a shag or a mullet or a Rachel. She is never seeking love, she is always sought out. And although she may not have any money, when the Greek tycoon comes along and forces her to accompany him to his villa in Crete (else he turn in her 2-bit loveable crook of a brother), she manages to have an amazing wardrobe.
Which is why we love her.
As for our hero - well, he’s always kind of a jerk, isn’t he? Sure, he has great abs and wide hair-free shoulders. But he’s also bossy and mean and arrogant. With a soft, warm centre.
So right there. That is why I’m single. And contemplating a major class action suit against Harlequin (as well as a really harsh letter to the Sweet Valley High series). How dare they give me - give US, sisters! - the impression that this is what we should expect? That every angry, bossy handsome dark haired man out there is really only waiting for us to put on a cocktail dress and give him some love? That if we could only stop looking for love, the Greek tycoon would end up on our doorstep (on the dead end street, mind you) to sweep us off our feet? That we should all hold out for a wealthy, arrogant, dark, autocratic man and keep all those perfectly nice balding, funny next-door neighbour fellas as our buddies? Who the heck do they end up with, I ask you?
Okay, here it is, girls. Time for some hard truths. Bossy is just bossy. Even if it’s attached to a really nice frame. If some guy keeps kissing you roughly do me a favour, and call the cops. It’s actually against the law. Give Evan or Stephen a chance, it’s not his fault if he’s blond. Or even bald!
It’s nice to know that, in real life, there are millions of ways to fall in love. That’s not to say that Harlequin doesn’t still owe us. I think a year’s worth of free books could be a start.
I will admit I took a lot of comfort in the standard romance novel formula. Possibly far more than I should. I sort of liked the idea that there were really only six or seven regurgitated stories, basically half a dozen ways of falling in love. And that they generally took place somewhere a little cooler than where I lived (sorry, Owen Sounders). As most of us know the stories all go something like this;
-Pretty Girl owns cute shop, Swarthy Man comes along and buys up half the town. They hate each other, he kisses her roughly and she simpers. All ends well.
-Beautiful Girl and Handsome Man were in love once and ended it badly over a misunderstanding. He comes back, rich, to punish her. Meets his son who looks just like him (gasp!). He’s a little bossy but they fall back in love. But not until after he kisses her roughly.
-Simple Girl has amnesia. I actually always hated this story line so I will spare you the details. Needless to say at some point, despite her obvious mental incapacitation, he kisses her roughly.
- The Sheik kidnaps Haughty Girl and holds her for ransom. They fall in love after he kisses her roughly a whole lot more than the Western guys are allowed.
-My all-time favourite. The ‘Jenny Craig’ story line. When Chubby-with-Potential Girl is about eighteen and she meets Him. The thirty-six year old (he’s ALWAYS thirty-six) who’s business partners with her father. He hurts her in some brutal yet somehow forgivable way and leaves. She is devastated and goes on a two year ‘frump’ diet of limp hair and no food. She comes out the other end as a butterfly, with a killer figure, a great boyfriend (who is always blond and named either Even or Stephen - if you’re a blond guy in the books, you’re never getting the girl) a cool job and nice apartment. The Man comes back, puts on a tux and kisses her roughly. Bye bye Evan and cool apartment.
There are other elements, of course. Our heroine is beautiful but never trendy, her hair is always timeless. She would never sport a shag or a mullet or a Rachel. She is never seeking love, she is always sought out. And although she may not have any money, when the Greek tycoon comes along and forces her to accompany him to his villa in Crete (else he turn in her 2-bit loveable crook of a brother), she manages to have an amazing wardrobe.
Which is why we love her.
As for our hero - well, he’s always kind of a jerk, isn’t he? Sure, he has great abs and wide hair-free shoulders. But he’s also bossy and mean and arrogant. With a soft, warm centre.
So right there. That is why I’m single. And contemplating a major class action suit against Harlequin (as well as a really harsh letter to the Sweet Valley High series). How dare they give me - give US, sisters! - the impression that this is what we should expect? That every angry, bossy handsome dark haired man out there is really only waiting for us to put on a cocktail dress and give him some love? That if we could only stop looking for love, the Greek tycoon would end up on our doorstep (on the dead end street, mind you) to sweep us off our feet? That we should all hold out for a wealthy, arrogant, dark, autocratic man and keep all those perfectly nice balding, funny next-door neighbour fellas as our buddies? Who the heck do they end up with, I ask you?
Okay, here it is, girls. Time for some hard truths. Bossy is just bossy. Even if it’s attached to a really nice frame. If some guy keeps kissing you roughly do me a favour, and call the cops. It’s actually against the law. Give Evan or Stephen a chance, it’s not his fault if he’s blond. Or even bald!
It’s nice to know that, in real life, there are millions of ways to fall in love. That’s not to say that Harlequin doesn’t still owe us. I think a year’s worth of free books could be a start.
A tribute to my Uncle Dexter, passed away June 5, 2007
You know, you can tell so much about a person by their laugh. Some people have a sort of little twitter, some people hide their laughter behind their hand, some never even laugh at all.
Our Dexter had a HUGE laugh. The kind that stopped people in their tracks, mid-sentence when they heard it. It was infectious, and singular and full of happiness. We all heard it often, for different reasons. Whether he was laughing at a slightly off-colour joke, a story amongst the many stories of us, or laughing at himself it was always there. His trademark.
Dexter was passionate about so many things, but mostly he was passionate about - all of us. The people who drove him crazy, who made him laugh, who made him proud. The people who sent him on errands to the airport for midnight pick-ups or to the corner store for chocolate and diet pop.
So much of our time in this great big whirling dervish of a family is spent fighting. Or crying. Dexter was the one who made us all laugh at ourselves through our anger or tears with his outrageousness. For a man who looked so serious, so studious, he was the best fun around. Especially if you were a teenager - he understood your angst, real or imagined. How many of us here were introduced to rock music - and in particular the rock ballads - by Dexter? How many of us were horrified/impressed by his very…original dancing at the family weddings? Or forced to get up and get dancing regardless of how cranky or teenager-y we were trying to be? The only way for him to have fun was to force YOU to have fun. And eventually, no matter how you might resist, it was always fun.
As much as he loved to dance, loved to fish, loved to read, REALLY loved Bette Midler, there was one he loved above all else. Rose. The one he lost before he knew, I think, it was quite possible to lose her. Before any of us really knew it was possible to lose her. She was who he was, in most ways. They were the same person - so much so that the younger kids thought they shared one name, Rosandex. They knew how to make the most of the ridiculously short time they were allowed. Together they travelled, ate, swam, read, lived and loved. And most of all, gave us two of the kindest, best people I know. They left us with Michael and Katie. And millions of memories small, huge difficult and cherished. Memories filled with music, laughter, heartache and even more irreverent laughter.
As well as Dexter’s incredibly good fried chicken - that tasted just as good cold as it did hot, incidentally.
I don’t know if you were ready to go, Dexter, because I am not you. I don’t know if you’d said all of your goodbyes or put all of your demons to rest. But I do know there is someone who waits for you, someone wonderful and kind and yours. And there are so many of us here who you loved for who we were and who you knew we would one day be. So for all of us,
Thank you, we love you and goodbye.
Our Dexter had a HUGE laugh. The kind that stopped people in their tracks, mid-sentence when they heard it. It was infectious, and singular and full of happiness. We all heard it often, for different reasons. Whether he was laughing at a slightly off-colour joke, a story amongst the many stories of us, or laughing at himself it was always there. His trademark.
Dexter was passionate about so many things, but mostly he was passionate about - all of us. The people who drove him crazy, who made him laugh, who made him proud. The people who sent him on errands to the airport for midnight pick-ups or to the corner store for chocolate and diet pop.
So much of our time in this great big whirling dervish of a family is spent fighting. Or crying. Dexter was the one who made us all laugh at ourselves through our anger or tears with his outrageousness. For a man who looked so serious, so studious, he was the best fun around. Especially if you were a teenager - he understood your angst, real or imagined. How many of us here were introduced to rock music - and in particular the rock ballads - by Dexter? How many of us were horrified/impressed by his very…original dancing at the family weddings? Or forced to get up and get dancing regardless of how cranky or teenager-y we were trying to be? The only way for him to have fun was to force YOU to have fun. And eventually, no matter how you might resist, it was always fun.
As much as he loved to dance, loved to fish, loved to read, REALLY loved Bette Midler, there was one he loved above all else. Rose. The one he lost before he knew, I think, it was quite possible to lose her. Before any of us really knew it was possible to lose her. She was who he was, in most ways. They were the same person - so much so that the younger kids thought they shared one name, Rosandex. They knew how to make the most of the ridiculously short time they were allowed. Together they travelled, ate, swam, read, lived and loved. And most of all, gave us two of the kindest, best people I know. They left us with Michael and Katie. And millions of memories small, huge difficult and cherished. Memories filled with music, laughter, heartache and even more irreverent laughter.
As well as Dexter’s incredibly good fried chicken - that tasted just as good cold as it did hot, incidentally.
I don’t know if you were ready to go, Dexter, because I am not you. I don’t know if you’d said all of your goodbyes or put all of your demons to rest. But I do know there is someone who waits for you, someone wonderful and kind and yours. And there are so many of us here who you loved for who we were and who you knew we would one day be. So for all of us,
Thank you, we love you and goodbye.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Ben
At some point or another I’ve started noticing little bits of me filtering into each of my kids. For instance Callum has my sense of humour (lucky, lucky boy), Jack has inherited my particular talent of tripping over nothing and breaking limbs (not so lucky boy) and Nathan - well, neither Nathan nor I seem to have a real sense of social boundaries. Things like close talking, or leaving enough ‘dance space’. Or just plain old too much talking. And Ben? Ben…has inherited my nose. Which is not a bad thing.
Ben is my second oldest boy, neither youngest nor oldest nor even officially middle. He is kind and handsome and thoughtful. And he is the one son of mine of whom I have felt the least sure. It isn’t that we aren’t close to each other - or at least, I hope it isn’t about that. I love Ben as much as the other boys with the same sort of singular list I carry in my heart for each of them, a list that will always be theirs and theirs alone. The problem isn’t loving him enough; no, my problem lies in getting him enough. In becoming more sure than I am now.
I am not a brilliant woman (I can actually feel you all nodding in agreement and I will try not to hold it against you). I am smart enough, funny enough and (sometimes) kind enough. Ben is a brilliant boy. He is single minded in his pursuits, of which there are many. Whereas I have a few pursuits which I forget about once there’s a good show or book in front of me. Ben is one of those people that can quote parts of the dictionary to you, can bend over a creek and watch the same fish go by for hours until his slender little back is burnt in the sun, who bounces a basketball a thousand times in a row until it bounces the way he wants it to. He would eat the same meal for dinner (meatballs in sauce, mashed potatoes and carrots) every single night and wear the same Led Zeppelin t-shirt, shorts and shoes every day. I can barely make it through one meal without wanting something different.
Our one saving grace seems to be his quirkiness - thank God because that’s all I’ve got. Quirks. When he was a little boy he was deathly - DEATHLY - afraid of flies. If one landed near him he was inconsolable for hours. He is almost irrationally emotional, and I too have had a moment or two of overwhelming emotion. A day. When we bake together he ties his apron - yes, he will wear an apron for me and how great is that? - tightly and trimly around his middle. He also likes to wear robes and slippers. I don’t, but I really love that he does - and I especially love that he walks around in said robe and slippers and hums to himself just like my Grandpa used to. It’s different and precious.
I must admit that there have been times when I have felt judged by Ben. He is very - moral. And I don’t mean to make that seem like a bad thing. I’m glad he has a fine sense of morals. I just wish he wouldn’t use them against me. Like the time I got a speeding ticket (or would have if I hadn’t cried my eyes out until the policeman, terrified, told me to ‘just go’.) and Ben looked at me with censure in his eyes, muttering “You’re a really bad driver, Mom.” I’m really not. Or every once in a while he will catch my mother and I gossiping in the kitchen with a glass of wine - not that we do that very often. He will look at us with this sort of world-weary impatience and ask “Who are you two talking about THIS time?”. We usually stop then. Or go red, or both. Because we don’t want to look bad in his eyes. Especially since he is almost always such an incredibly ‘good’ boy. Such a good boy, in fact, that when he feels like being a ‘bad’ boy he feels a sort of justification. “I deserve this”, his eyes will say to me as he slowly beats his younger brother to a pulp. “I am really good a lot of the time and you need to give me this moment to act out.” Which I never do.
Here’s the thing - a lot of the time it’s true, I don’t really get Ben. I don’t share a lot of his interests or many of his passions. I don’t see a lot of myself in him. But at the end of the day I think it’s really okay. I think the wanting to get him is as important as actually getting him. Being proud of who he is, letting him become even more of who he’ll be every time I encourage him or just allow him to be. Especially when who he’ll be, I’m certain, is better than me.
Ben is my second oldest boy, neither youngest nor oldest nor even officially middle. He is kind and handsome and thoughtful. And he is the one son of mine of whom I have felt the least sure. It isn’t that we aren’t close to each other - or at least, I hope it isn’t about that. I love Ben as much as the other boys with the same sort of singular list I carry in my heart for each of them, a list that will always be theirs and theirs alone. The problem isn’t loving him enough; no, my problem lies in getting him enough. In becoming more sure than I am now.
I am not a brilliant woman (I can actually feel you all nodding in agreement and I will try not to hold it against you). I am smart enough, funny enough and (sometimes) kind enough. Ben is a brilliant boy. He is single minded in his pursuits, of which there are many. Whereas I have a few pursuits which I forget about once there’s a good show or book in front of me. Ben is one of those people that can quote parts of the dictionary to you, can bend over a creek and watch the same fish go by for hours until his slender little back is burnt in the sun, who bounces a basketball a thousand times in a row until it bounces the way he wants it to. He would eat the same meal for dinner (meatballs in sauce, mashed potatoes and carrots) every single night and wear the same Led Zeppelin t-shirt, shorts and shoes every day. I can barely make it through one meal without wanting something different.
Our one saving grace seems to be his quirkiness - thank God because that’s all I’ve got. Quirks. When he was a little boy he was deathly - DEATHLY - afraid of flies. If one landed near him he was inconsolable for hours. He is almost irrationally emotional, and I too have had a moment or two of overwhelming emotion. A day. When we bake together he ties his apron - yes, he will wear an apron for me and how great is that? - tightly and trimly around his middle. He also likes to wear robes and slippers. I don’t, but I really love that he does - and I especially love that he walks around in said robe and slippers and hums to himself just like my Grandpa used to. It’s different and precious.
I must admit that there have been times when I have felt judged by Ben. He is very - moral. And I don’t mean to make that seem like a bad thing. I’m glad he has a fine sense of morals. I just wish he wouldn’t use them against me. Like the time I got a speeding ticket (or would have if I hadn’t cried my eyes out until the policeman, terrified, told me to ‘just go’.) and Ben looked at me with censure in his eyes, muttering “You’re a really bad driver, Mom.” I’m really not. Or every once in a while he will catch my mother and I gossiping in the kitchen with a glass of wine - not that we do that very often. He will look at us with this sort of world-weary impatience and ask “Who are you two talking about THIS time?”. We usually stop then. Or go red, or both. Because we don’t want to look bad in his eyes. Especially since he is almost always such an incredibly ‘good’ boy. Such a good boy, in fact, that when he feels like being a ‘bad’ boy he feels a sort of justification. “I deserve this”, his eyes will say to me as he slowly beats his younger brother to a pulp. “I am really good a lot of the time and you need to give me this moment to act out.” Which I never do.
Here’s the thing - a lot of the time it’s true, I don’t really get Ben. I don’t share a lot of his interests or many of his passions. I don’t see a lot of myself in him. But at the end of the day I think it’s really okay. I think the wanting to get him is as important as actually getting him. Being proud of who he is, letting him become even more of who he’ll be every time I encourage him or just allow him to be. Especially when who he’ll be, I’m certain, is better than me.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Back waxing????
Summer is coming, and pretty soon we’ll all be seeing a lot more of each other. In more ways than one. As all of my magazines keep reminding me, we won’t be able to hide behind long dark yards of clothes any more. Which really has me thinking about only two things. I need to start back into my half-hearted yoga regimen pretty soon. And, perhaps even more importantly, all of the men out there need to start waxing their backs. Seriously.
I don’t think it should be a legislative issue at this point, although any candidate who might want to add this matter to their platform would certainly have my support. It’s just that - I think male back-waxing should be a sort of assumption at this stage of the game. Like anti-perspirant or after shave. Hey, if about 95% of women are willing to shave their legs every second day BARE MINIMUM, there should be nary a man out there who still makes us suffer through the hair patches, hair vest, hair shirt, hair coat or the Wookie. It’s really just a question of common courtesy. And in my opinion back-waxing is the very least you can do (I’d also like to eradicate the speedo and the sandals with socks, but those are other columns for other days).
Here’s the thing; every woman out there -and I really mean pretty much EVERY woman - is primping in some way or another. Even if it’s just moisturizing or blow-drying your hair it’s primping. Most of us, of course, have signed up for the more intense primping programs. Like pedicures, manicures, highlights, lowlights, makeovers, make-unders, self tanners, eyelash curlers…and the list goes on. A lot of these things are wonderfully soothing but some are…well. I don’t want to scare any of the men off with wax horror stories. Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face.
Even someone like me, someone who is seen out in public in flavoured chapstick and a pony tail most days. It may seem like a bit of a blank page at first glance. But really, if you only knew the upkeep that needs to go on behind the scenes. It’s not a blank page, it’s more like a plain dust jacket for a really long novel. Because looking basically decent is a far cry from basic.
In the last few years I think most of us have become familiar with a new phenomenon called the ‘metro-sexual’. For those of you who don’t know, it’s basically men who primp. A lot of regular Joes out there tend to disparage this lot as effeminate or ridiculous or foolish. The truth is, I think the metro-sexual makes the regular Joe a little nervous. I think there are a few men who don’t want this particular cat let out of it’s huge bag. Because we women are a pretty accepting group for the most part (now, now, fellas, don’t snicker). So it takes you about two hours to get ready for a party and it takes him three minutes to put on that outfit you laid out for him, so what? So what if he never shaves on the weekends, wears the same dirty baseball cap to dinner that he wore to mow the lawn, that his favourite outfit is worn boxer shorts and a dirty t-shirt? Scruff is adorable, right? Well, maybe not. Maybe these other men, the ones who smell unbelievably wonderful, who’s outfits are probably even better than anything you would have chosen, maybe they’re on to something. Scruff is fine and dandy, but what if? With a little work and a little consideration, what if you could make your fella look better, and cleaner, and even smell prettier? So far the men have had it pretty darn easy. But I sense there may be a change a-comin’.
Here it is, fellas. I’m really doing you a favour in the long run. Think about the few seconds of minute - well, considerable; okay, excruciating pain balanced against the reward. Think about how great you’ll look at the beach this summer. Or how appreciative the lady in your life will be if you comply…nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And hey, nobody’s asking you to give up being manly. Especially not me. Body hair is great on a man, neigh on indispensable. There’s nothing like a little five o’clock shadow, some hairy forearms or slightly furry legs. We want you to be men, after all. Just men with nice, smooth backs. And possibly moisturized feet. Who smell great. And have neatly trimmed nails…
I don’t think it should be a legislative issue at this point, although any candidate who might want to add this matter to their platform would certainly have my support. It’s just that - I think male back-waxing should be a sort of assumption at this stage of the game. Like anti-perspirant or after shave. Hey, if about 95% of women are willing to shave their legs every second day BARE MINIMUM, there should be nary a man out there who still makes us suffer through the hair patches, hair vest, hair shirt, hair coat or the Wookie. It’s really just a question of common courtesy. And in my opinion back-waxing is the very least you can do (I’d also like to eradicate the speedo and the sandals with socks, but those are other columns for other days).
Here’s the thing; every woman out there -and I really mean pretty much EVERY woman - is primping in some way or another. Even if it’s just moisturizing or blow-drying your hair it’s primping. Most of us, of course, have signed up for the more intense primping programs. Like pedicures, manicures, highlights, lowlights, makeovers, make-unders, self tanners, eyelash curlers…and the list goes on. A lot of these things are wonderfully soothing but some are…well. I don’t want to scare any of the men off with wax horror stories. Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face.
Even someone like me, someone who is seen out in public in flavoured chapstick and a pony tail most days. It may seem like a bit of a blank page at first glance. But really, if you only knew the upkeep that needs to go on behind the scenes. It’s not a blank page, it’s more like a plain dust jacket for a really long novel. Because looking basically decent is a far cry from basic.
In the last few years I think most of us have become familiar with a new phenomenon called the ‘metro-sexual’. For those of you who don’t know, it’s basically men who primp. A lot of regular Joes out there tend to disparage this lot as effeminate or ridiculous or foolish. The truth is, I think the metro-sexual makes the regular Joe a little nervous. I think there are a few men who don’t want this particular cat let out of it’s huge bag. Because we women are a pretty accepting group for the most part (now, now, fellas, don’t snicker). So it takes you about two hours to get ready for a party and it takes him three minutes to put on that outfit you laid out for him, so what? So what if he never shaves on the weekends, wears the same dirty baseball cap to dinner that he wore to mow the lawn, that his favourite outfit is worn boxer shorts and a dirty t-shirt? Scruff is adorable, right? Well, maybe not. Maybe these other men, the ones who smell unbelievably wonderful, who’s outfits are probably even better than anything you would have chosen, maybe they’re on to something. Scruff is fine and dandy, but what if? With a little work and a little consideration, what if you could make your fella look better, and cleaner, and even smell prettier? So far the men have had it pretty darn easy. But I sense there may be a change a-comin’.
Here it is, fellas. I’m really doing you a favour in the long run. Think about the few seconds of minute - well, considerable; okay, excruciating pain balanced against the reward. Think about how great you’ll look at the beach this summer. Or how appreciative the lady in your life will be if you comply…nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And hey, nobody’s asking you to give up being manly. Especially not me. Body hair is great on a man, neigh on indispensable. There’s nothing like a little five o’clock shadow, some hairy forearms or slightly furry legs. We want you to be men, after all. Just men with nice, smooth backs. And possibly moisturized feet. Who smell great. And have neatly trimmed nails…
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Mother's Day
This Sunday is Mother’s Day. Now did everyone read that perfectly clearly? This Sunday is MOTHER’S DAY! It’s a day for us, the moms. Not that we care, naturally. No, seriously, it’s fine if you just call. Or drop in if you have a minute. It’s not as though we should figure into your plans, what with having given birth to you and raised you and all. A card would be nice, but only if you really want to give us a card. You don’t have to, though. Do whatever is in your heart. The heart we gave you.
I’ve been a Mom for - what? - about thirteen Mother’s Days. I remember my first one like it was yesterday. Callum was about four months old and his Dad and I were out at the mall shopping. Normally I’m not really a ‘gift hoarder’ if you will, but I figured I was in for a pretty good haul this year. Between the breast-feeding and diaper changing and the loss of my misspent youth, I calculated that I would be in for a whole outfit - shoes included - at least, maybe even a dinner out at a restaurant besides Wendy’s. My fella went for a ‘wander’ around the mall (in the general vicinity of the Gap! Yeah!) and called out for me to pick up a card for his Mom while I was getting a card for my Mom.
That’s right. I hadn’t really figured on this Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday) being his first as well. He got his Mother a card, a few flowers and a plate of Weiner Schnitzel at the local German eatery. I got a takeout container. We broke up a few years later. I still swear that had nothing to do with it.
As the years have passed the boys have grown and each year they find a new way to surprise me. Not always pleasantly - like the year after my divorce when Mother’s Day sort of snuck up on us and we sat around, startled, for the entire day not knowing what to do, or the infamous year when one of them (and I won‘t say who) asked why I got 2 special days in a year. Uh-huh. - but usually they can be counted on for some enforced thoughtfulness. They try to fight a little less, stay a bit cleaner, recognize my ‘beauty’ as best they can without gagging. I love every saccharine sweet second of it. I love Nathan’s bouquets of dandelions wilting in a mug of warm water on my kitchen sink, the soggy overflowing bowl of Cap’n Crunch Jack serves me in bed, Ben’s Popsicle stick framed class photo, with his usual sweet poem, the delicate stained glass butterfly Callum made for my bedroom. I love every unselfish moment of Mother’s Day. Which is this Sunday.
Now here is the question of the day - how do you go about being a pampered Mom on Mother’s Day and still manage to be a good daughter? You see, this is a tough one in my case because I have two brothers who just sort of…suck at Mother’s Day. And birthdays. And Christmas. And Groundhog Day. So it falls to me to make a decent go of it for Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday). I don’t mind, really. Actually, I don’t mind at all. She certainly deserves it. It’s just that…sometimes, when I’m in her kitchen and my sons are in the backyard playing while her sons are on their you-know-whats watching football or whatever, waiting for their dinner to be prepared and served to them on a silver platter, I can’t help but think;
“Why am I the one in the kitchen sautéing the bleep-bleep mushrooms for the steaks? I’m a mother too, darn it! I want to be pampered! Wahh, wahh!”
But you know what? My mother does a million tiny and huge things that help me be the wonderful mother I undoubtedly am (right?). Like cutting up watermelon for those darn litter-less lunches, buying me that blouse she knows I can’t afford, taking me for pedicures, doing the dishes while she forces me to have a bubble bath, telling me I ‘deserve better’ (this applies to soo many situations, believe you me). And what am I doing for her? Well, I did bring her a really nice bottle of wine…okay fine. I’ll keep the petulant whining down to a minimum this year. Because she’s a great Mom, who doesn’t always know that she’s a great Mom and who helps me to be a sort-of great Mom. But next year, I think we should go sans-men to some sort of fantastic spa for Mother’s Day.
Which is this Sunday. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
I’ve been a Mom for - what? - about thirteen Mother’s Days. I remember my first one like it was yesterday. Callum was about four months old and his Dad and I were out at the mall shopping. Normally I’m not really a ‘gift hoarder’ if you will, but I figured I was in for a pretty good haul this year. Between the breast-feeding and diaper changing and the loss of my misspent youth, I calculated that I would be in for a whole outfit - shoes included - at least, maybe even a dinner out at a restaurant besides Wendy’s. My fella went for a ‘wander’ around the mall (in the general vicinity of the Gap! Yeah!) and called out for me to pick up a card for his Mom while I was getting a card for my Mom.
That’s right. I hadn’t really figured on this Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday) being his first as well. He got his Mother a card, a few flowers and a plate of Weiner Schnitzel at the local German eatery. I got a takeout container. We broke up a few years later. I still swear that had nothing to do with it.
As the years have passed the boys have grown and each year they find a new way to surprise me. Not always pleasantly - like the year after my divorce when Mother’s Day sort of snuck up on us and we sat around, startled, for the entire day not knowing what to do, or the infamous year when one of them (and I won‘t say who) asked why I got 2 special days in a year. Uh-huh. - but usually they can be counted on for some enforced thoughtfulness. They try to fight a little less, stay a bit cleaner, recognize my ‘beauty’ as best they can without gagging. I love every saccharine sweet second of it. I love Nathan’s bouquets of dandelions wilting in a mug of warm water on my kitchen sink, the soggy overflowing bowl of Cap’n Crunch Jack serves me in bed, Ben’s Popsicle stick framed class photo, with his usual sweet poem, the delicate stained glass butterfly Callum made for my bedroom. I love every unselfish moment of Mother’s Day. Which is this Sunday.
Now here is the question of the day - how do you go about being a pampered Mom on Mother’s Day and still manage to be a good daughter? You see, this is a tough one in my case because I have two brothers who just sort of…suck at Mother’s Day. And birthdays. And Christmas. And Groundhog Day. So it falls to me to make a decent go of it for Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday). I don’t mind, really. Actually, I don’t mind at all. She certainly deserves it. It’s just that…sometimes, when I’m in her kitchen and my sons are in the backyard playing while her sons are on their you-know-whats watching football or whatever, waiting for their dinner to be prepared and served to them on a silver platter, I can’t help but think;
“Why am I the one in the kitchen sautéing the bleep-bleep mushrooms for the steaks? I’m a mother too, darn it! I want to be pampered! Wahh, wahh!”
But you know what? My mother does a million tiny and huge things that help me be the wonderful mother I undoubtedly am (right?). Like cutting up watermelon for those darn litter-less lunches, buying me that blouse she knows I can’t afford, taking me for pedicures, doing the dishes while she forces me to have a bubble bath, telling me I ‘deserve better’ (this applies to soo many situations, believe you me). And what am I doing for her? Well, I did bring her a really nice bottle of wine…okay fine. I’ll keep the petulant whining down to a minimum this year. Because she’s a great Mom, who doesn’t always know that she’s a great Mom and who helps me to be a sort-of great Mom. But next year, I think we should go sans-men to some sort of fantastic spa for Mother’s Day.
Which is this Sunday. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Sun Times Column May 1st
There are a few things I’m good at, and quite a few at which I’m not so great. I make a fantastic pumpkin loaf, have excellent taste in scented candles and possess a natural instinct for when a show will be cancelled. Survivor is my next bet. The list of things at which I am not so accomplished - well, this isn’t the day for that particular list. But if there is one accomplishment I have mastered it is this - I am an excellent third wheel. Impressive, no?
You may ask, who in their right mind would want to master such a lost art? Well, I’ll tell you. Some of us who have remained single for an almost obscene amount of time need to integrate. Girls nights are fun, and giggly and full of wine and cheese and all of that, but they’re limited. Eventually, especially if you move in tiny social circles as I do myself, you must learn to ingratiate yourself with the male of the species. In my experience, some beer and any foods with melted cheeses should have you well on your way. But to be a welcome addition to a couple - it requires finesse, my friend.
You can’t seem too clingy to either male or female. Or dominate the conversation - or seem like a victim. We‘ve gotten a bad rap over the years, we third wheels- there is an instant resentment that you must beat down with wit and charm. But there’s value in what we do, really. A good third wheel will always be on her (or his) best behaviour, always pick up the slack in a dull conversation, always encourage you to get along. As with everything else there are rules that should be adhered to if done right. You must choose your ‘dates’ carefully. No Friday nights, because that’s real date night. No New Year’s Eve, because that’s just terribly sad (believe me, I know.). Obviously no Valentine’s Day, but I tend to be busy eating a lot of fine chocolate and drinking a lot of cheap wine that night. I recently had to attend a family wedding with a couple - not because there wasn’t a date of my own to be had, but because I would not subject a virtual stranger to such a McGuire-dense event. It would scare away the normals. The three of us ended up sharing a hotel room - not in a dirty way - so that meant that my friend and I were able to get ready together, laughing and primping like we did when we were girls and needed much less primping. And her adorable husband lay on his bed smiling, enjoying this rare glimpse into the secret life of girl-talk.
What on earth is the appeal for the man in all of this? Well, said husband told me that night, actually, that it was an ego boost. He said that he gets to take two beautiful women to the wedding (aw, shucks) and that we are both in such good moods that we’re more fun to be around. Personally, I suspect it also has something to do with the attention. Whenever I’m out with a girlfriend and her husband, every little kindness is amplified and praised. Like a precious only chid of two doting parents. When he holds the door for us, fetches a glass of wine, gallantly offers to pay for dinner, we both smile and say thank you, and isn’t it nice that chivalry, in fact, is not dead? He’s such a good boy! Also, our conversations are different from the ones he probably has with his friends. With us, he can talk about his emotionally unavailable father, or his upcoming knee surgery or his overstuffed Christmas list. Or the time he cried for hours when his dog died. Or how much he secretly hates hockey (you’d be surprised, my friend, how many times I’ve heard that). He gets to be ‘one of the girls’ for the night.
As for me? You’re probably thinking ‘Why bother?’. Well, I’m not much of a dater, and in a way this is sort of like fake dating. It’s a way of staying connected but still separate. A glimpse into the men my boys could very well grow into - what are they like? What do they worry about? What makes them happy? How much do they love their moms? Seriously, what the heck is with the fascination with video games? I get answers to questions I can’t ask the boys (When did you start to like girls? When is it normal to need more alone time? Why must they wrestle to convey every emotion?), and I get to keep great friends close and make a few great new friends in the process. Ain’t life grand?
You may ask, who in their right mind would want to master such a lost art? Well, I’ll tell you. Some of us who have remained single for an almost obscene amount of time need to integrate. Girls nights are fun, and giggly and full of wine and cheese and all of that, but they’re limited. Eventually, especially if you move in tiny social circles as I do myself, you must learn to ingratiate yourself with the male of the species. In my experience, some beer and any foods with melted cheeses should have you well on your way. But to be a welcome addition to a couple - it requires finesse, my friend.
You can’t seem too clingy to either male or female. Or dominate the conversation - or seem like a victim. We‘ve gotten a bad rap over the years, we third wheels- there is an instant resentment that you must beat down with wit and charm. But there’s value in what we do, really. A good third wheel will always be on her (or his) best behaviour, always pick up the slack in a dull conversation, always encourage you to get along. As with everything else there are rules that should be adhered to if done right. You must choose your ‘dates’ carefully. No Friday nights, because that’s real date night. No New Year’s Eve, because that’s just terribly sad (believe me, I know.). Obviously no Valentine’s Day, but I tend to be busy eating a lot of fine chocolate and drinking a lot of cheap wine that night. I recently had to attend a family wedding with a couple - not because there wasn’t a date of my own to be had, but because I would not subject a virtual stranger to such a McGuire-dense event. It would scare away the normals. The three of us ended up sharing a hotel room - not in a dirty way - so that meant that my friend and I were able to get ready together, laughing and primping like we did when we were girls and needed much less primping. And her adorable husband lay on his bed smiling, enjoying this rare glimpse into the secret life of girl-talk.
What on earth is the appeal for the man in all of this? Well, said husband told me that night, actually, that it was an ego boost. He said that he gets to take two beautiful women to the wedding (aw, shucks) and that we are both in such good moods that we’re more fun to be around. Personally, I suspect it also has something to do with the attention. Whenever I’m out with a girlfriend and her husband, every little kindness is amplified and praised. Like a precious only chid of two doting parents. When he holds the door for us, fetches a glass of wine, gallantly offers to pay for dinner, we both smile and say thank you, and isn’t it nice that chivalry, in fact, is not dead? He’s such a good boy! Also, our conversations are different from the ones he probably has with his friends. With us, he can talk about his emotionally unavailable father, or his upcoming knee surgery or his overstuffed Christmas list. Or the time he cried for hours when his dog died. Or how much he secretly hates hockey (you’d be surprised, my friend, how many times I’ve heard that). He gets to be ‘one of the girls’ for the night.
As for me? You’re probably thinking ‘Why bother?’. Well, I’m not much of a dater, and in a way this is sort of like fake dating. It’s a way of staying connected but still separate. A glimpse into the men my boys could very well grow into - what are they like? What do they worry about? What makes them happy? How much do they love their moms? Seriously, what the heck is with the fascination with video games? I get answers to questions I can’t ask the boys (When did you start to like girls? When is it normal to need more alone time? Why must they wrestle to convey every emotion?), and I get to keep great friends close and make a few great new friends in the process. Ain’t life grand?
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