The Boy in the Mirror

The other day when I brought Eli to the mirror, he smiled broadly at the little boy reflecting back at him. The little boy smiled back, and Eli cooed. The little boy made the same face, mouth open in a coo-a-goo and Eli and the boy in the mirror both bobbed their heads and laughed at the exact same time.

Do You ever get used to such a place?

I just started reading Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence which I'm sure I read years ago, yet it all seems brand new. Perhaps when I read it I was too young and immature to understand it. Now, as you all know, I am old and wise. The breadth of my comprehension is unfathomable. Ha Ha Ha. I seriously hope you know I am joking when I say that. Of course I am still young and immature, just with perhaps a bit more knowledge than I had the day before and the day before...

Anyways, I just read this passage, where an elderly Hagar Shipley is in a retirement home that her son and daughter in law are hoping to convince her to move into. She has just met one of the residents of the retirement home:

"Do you--" I hesitate. "Do you ever get used to such a place?"

She laughs then, a short bitter laugh I recognize and comprehend at once.

"Do you get used to life?" She says. "Can you answer me that? It all comes as a surprise. You get your first period, and you're amazed --I can have babies now--such a thing! When the children come, you think --Is it mine? Did it come out of me? Who could believe it? When you can't have them anymore, what a shock --It's finished --so soon?"

This passage really struck me. Perhaps it is the passage of time that I am being hit with, how quickly we move from adolescense to womanhood. How so often we rush ourselves through these stages in our lives. We are so anxious to see the next sequence of our life unfold that we don't stop often enough to cherish today. And no, I have not gotten used to any of it. It seems that just as you start to comprehend one stage of your life you have already moved onto the next, which is perhaps one of the reasons I am cherishing Eli so much. It is a chance for me to embrace motherhood without being overcome by the newness of it.

A Dream ------------This------------ Big!

For the past few years I have talked more about writing than I have actually written. I have read every YA book I could get my hands on, trying to figure out what I can about this elusive craft. I have attended meetings sporadically, looking for and finding inspiration. But I have not been able to find the uninterrupted stretch of time necessary to focus on writing. Now Eli has reached the blessed stage of afternoon naps and I find myself with a few beautiful uninterupted hours of mommy-time. I can't not write. I have been dreaming about this opportunity for too long to let it slip by; to let my life slip into easy mediocricy. But when people ask me what I am writing about I get all squirmy and skittish. It still feels so personal, so fragile.
Last night I went to the Children's Literature Roundtable, where Sheree Fitch was the featured speaker. She was so inspiring. She talked about each persons need to find a safe place to express themselves. Many people who want to write, don't. Not because they don't have time (although that is often the excuse) What really stops people is fear of failure, having a dream of something ---------------------this big--------------------, and not being able to live up to that high expectation. I realized listening to her how true her words were. I have a very big dream for my writing, but I have to start with a little dream and build on it. I wish I had tape recorded her talk, or in the very least brought a pen to write notes. (Read this 1999 interview to be inspired by Sheree Fitch) A lot of what Sheree Fitch said last night echoed the advice of my friend Jessica, a succesful artist. I wished Jessica had been there with me, to nudge me at key moments and with a look of true friendship say with her eyes "See, isn't that what I've been telling you..." And I could have looked back at Jess, and without saying anything she would know that I do know what she means.

Confession: I am the Messy Desk Girl

There is paper and bills and boxes and lists and photos strewn all over my desk. I was sitting at this mess of a desk yesterday afternoon after having coffee with a friend. I was determined to start writing. I have been on maternity leave for three months now. That means I have only nine months left (and less if James decides to take a few months of paternity leave himself) to write the book that I am hoping will launch my career. I tried to shut out all distractions and focus on putting the story to the page. I couldn't do it. I can not work at a messy desk and I can not clean my desk without looking at each item stacked beside me and determining it's usefulness in my life.
In my work at the University bookstore (pre-maternity leave) some of my colleagues would tease me about my colour coded pens, how I had to keep everything in order. I'm sure they assumed that the same order would permeate my life. I'm sure they would never imagine me to be the messy desk girl that I am. I am giving myself a deadline. I have a week to clean off this desk and develop a writing routine. I am just hoping that my new writing routine doesn't hurt as much as the pilates workout I attempted last night!

I said YES...

when the clerk at Thrifty Foods asked me if I needed help out to me car.

Even though I only had four bags of groceries, and even though I was only parked four feet away from the entrance. And it wasn't because the clerk was cute (although he was!)

I said YES because I am learning that I don't have to do everything like the miss independant I don't need any help super human m0m of three that I previously imagined myself to be.

As I started my car, with my groceries neatly lined up in the back I felt like I'd gotten away with something. (Sort of like when it was my turn to do dishes as a kid and I managed to hide out in the bathroom until somebody else did them for me.)

You Can't Treat Me Like That

I have this note that Matthew wrote me when he was around 7 years old. He had just been given a time out and felt that his punishment was unfair. For ten minutes he had to sit in his room and he was not allowed to talk to me until the ten minutes was up. This was partly to give him a chance to calm down, but it was also an opportunity for me to figure out what to do about whatever had happened and so that I could calm myself down and not yell at him. (He had probably bopped his brother on the head or something. I can't remember why he was in trouble.)
So I was sitting on the couch contemplating, and waiting for the ten minutes to be up when Matthew determinedly marched into the room, slapped this note onto the coffee table in front of me and marched back to his room to finish his time out without saying a word.
The note read, "YOU CAN'T TREAT ME LIKE THAT!!" (with exclamation marks that had a frown drawn beneath them.)
The other day I was going through a box of old pictures with Matthew and we found this note. Matthew asked me why I kept it. Matthew, I kept the note because it is an example of your fierce independance and ability to stick up for yourself. I kept it because when you dropped the note in front of me and marched back to your room with such determination and confidence, my heart welled up with pride for the independant young man you were becoming.

What Embarrasses Me...

When I am playing a board game with friends and a piece falls on the floor and rolls under the couch and when these friends reach their hands under my couch to retrieve the game piece and they find things like dried up pieces of toast, scrumpled up pieces of paper and smelly socks.

Can you guess where I am vacuuming today?

Happy Home Maker

It seems that I have come to the time in my life where my primary purpose is to perfect the art of homemaking. As a stay at home mom in my early twenties I disdained the concept. Other than keeping my home reasonably clean I could not fathom spending an entire day "puttering" around the house. It would seem like a wasted day and I preferred to spend my days taking the boys for long walks, creating artsy cards and gifts and involving myself in the community. I don't discredit this time in my life for it was very important. I don't think that I was wasting my time or anything. Long walks, creative expression and community involvement are still very important to me. But I'm aware that being a stay at home mom in my early thirties is a very new and different experience. As I attempt to find direction in my new life I can't help but compare my role as a new mother just over a decade ago to my experience now. I am more interested in creating meals than I was then (especially because I have the help of two eager pre-teen boys who are excited about learning to cook and I want to encourage this new fascination.) I am more inclined to plan my day rather than let it evolve haphazardly (though anyone who knows me will interject that even my planning is haphazard!) I am thinking a lot about the word home maker and what it means to "make" a home. What kind of home do I want to make? I need to think about this because though haphazard can be beautiful (I love wildflower gardens), I know that to make a home that is safe, warm, nurturing and productive I need to also see my home as an orchid that needs very specific care in order to flourish.

Picture Day

Do you remember picture day at school when you were a kid? My mom would comb and curl my hair until it was silky smooth and framed just right around my face. By the time I had run to school, hung upside down from the monkey bars and pulled my sweater off over my head my hair did not look so silky smooth. It did not even look like I combed it that day or even that week. I remember feeling hugely frustrated by my inability to get my hair to stay stylish for more than an hour. Now I look back at some of the old pictures that were taken of me as a child and I think that I was beautiful (vanity not-withstanding!) But at the time I hated to have my picture taken unless I was absolutely sure that every hair was in place, that my smile wasn't crooked and that my eyes weren't squinting at the brightness of the flash.

You would think that as I got older I would have the added perspective and maturity to know that the importance of photographs that mark important events and stages in our life far outweigh the concern over a hair that might be out of place or a crooked smile. A few weeks ago my friend Jessica, an incredibly talented photographer, was here to spend some time with my family. She is living in Prince George right now and I miss her terribly, both for her friendship and for her ability to capture my life, and the life of my family, on film. So you would think that I relished in her ability and obvious desire to photograph our family as much as possible. But no! Every time she pulled out her camera I grimaced. Not right now, I would say. Let's take pictures later in the day when I don't look so tired, when Elijah's finished napping, when Matthew's hair isn't quite so frizzy. She patiently heard excuse after excuse, putting her camera away and hiding her exasperation. I went downtown the other day to pick up the few pictures that I let her take. The two pictures she took of me are absolutely beautiful and she captured some fantastic images of Elijah. I desperately wish I could go back in time and change my attitude.

I want to remind myself that how I look is just right, that I shouldn't get so wrapped up in body image, that beautiful is a state of mind.

I'm Afraid of Heights and I'm FLYING to Toronto!!!

My new years resolution for 2005: To overcome my fears.

I am afraid of heights. If I had to take a ferry ride when Matthew and Jonathan were small I would not sit by a window and let them lean on it. I was afraid that they would inadvertantly and tragically trigger a faulty seam that would come loose as they were leaning on it and they would fall to a cold icy death in the ocean below.

A few years ago I was travelling on the sky train across Vancouver and a mother was casually standing nearby while her toddler pushed and leaned on the closed sliding glass door of the train. If a mechanical error caused that door to open above the city the child would have shot down into the city in a split second. I sat in my seat hyperventilating, relieved when the train pulled to a stop and I was once again on solid ground.

In March I am packing Eli across the country to visit my friend Irene in Ontario. I am going to travel by ferry to Vancouver, where I will take a city bus to the airport, where I will take a five hour flight on a new airline that prides itself in providing only the very basic neccessities of travel. There will be no free peanuts. I'm ok with that. But when James jokes that the airline saves money by hiring pilots-in-training I do not laugh. I am afraid of heights and I am going to be flying above the clouds with a three month old baby. But I am a free-spirited, independant woman with a craving for adventure. I can do this.
I won't be asking for a window seat!