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!

The Gift of Family

Firstly for me Christmas is a spiritual holiday, celebrating the birth of Christ. But even as an adult this celebration of my faith is overshadowed by the excitement of waking up Christmas morning to a house full of blessings. First of all I am surrounded by my family. There is no place in the world for me that is as comfortable as my mother's house on Christmas morning with my brother making coffee and his children running circles around mine. My mother, true to character, filled the living room to overflowing with gifts of all shapes and sizes. There are no generic gifts under her tree. She has carefully and thoughtfully planned out Christmas gifts for all of us that I am sure takes her the entire year to wrap! We sit around her table for Christmas breakfast, which is traditionally Eggs Benedict and the room resonates with our laughter. The joy runs so deep.

There were a few years where I felt overwhelmed by this outpouring. When we go home for Christmas we are surrounded by four seperate families, as both James and I come from families of divorce. We travel from household to household over the Christmas holidays while our parents and siblings pour their love onto us. We are surrounded by generous gifts and meals but what strikes me most is how we are surrounded by intimacy. This intimacy of family and friends comes from a deep knowledge and love of one another. That is not to say that our families come free of bumps and bruises. There are some family members I do not know as well as others. There are sometimes gaps in conversation that I wish I knew how to fill. But there is an intimacy that grows from sharing Christmas traditions and it is demonstated in the sharing of meals, the exchange of gifts, the singing of carols and the free flow of conversation. I will gladly travel from household to household over the Christmas holidays to share in this gift of family. It is a gift that I do not want to take for granted.

when you have no words left of your own

The other day I was on the phone with a close friend who has recently moved to Ontario. We had run out of interesting tidbits from our own life but were not ready to hang up the phone and go on with our seperate days. We began reading eachother quotes that we had written on scrap pieces of paper and into our journals, sharing words that had inspired us over the past few weeks. Suddenly my friend began to laugh at the oddity of our conversation. We had just spent atleast 20 minutes in conversation with no words of our own.
But I want to share my favourite quote with you, from the front flap of the book Nothing is Impossible by Christopher Reeves, who recently passed away after years of struggling with paralysis:

"For able bodied people, paralysis is a choice, a choice to live with self doubt and a fear of taking risks -and it is not an acceptable choice!"

I have thought a lot about these words in the past few weeks as I contemplate the choices I have made so far in my life. I wonder how often I have let myself and others down by succumbing to fears that I could have overcome. As I look down at my newborn son my desire is that I can instill in him the ability to take the risks neccessary to fulfill his ambitions. I look at my older boys, who are filled with the excitement and naivity of youth, and I pray that I can teach them to turn their active imaginations and creative talents into achievable goals.
I hope that I can give them the words to pull from when they run out of words of their own. That when they feel paralyzed by fear and self doubt, they can look back on the lessons of their childhood and be propelled forward.

Conversation with a Little Old Lady at the Mall

You just never know what kind of fascinating details people will share with you when you are out with a baby. The other day a little old lady teetered over to me to gaze adoringly at my son, only 4 weeks old at the time. she is oohing and aahing over what an adorable baby I have when she says to me, "What a perfect little present under your tree this year..." (that seemed like a fairly normal little old lady thing to say) and then, as she is turning away she gives me a knowing wink and says, "My momma says I was conceived under the tree!"

Waiting

We are waiting in turns patiently and anxiously for baby to arrive. I have been enjoying the land of the not working but perhaps a bit too lazily. I'm not terribly motivated, though I have read more than I have in years. I have also napped more than I have in years! The trouble with spending too much time at home is that I lose inspiration. I run out of funny stories to tell. I start to take pictures of the way the light falls in rays accross our ceiling. I eat too many mini chocolate bars. I start to long for cable tv.

Overheard

As I'm walking downtown I am sometimes struck by the out-of-context snippets of conversation that I overhear. Yesterday as I was crossing the street I heard one lady say to another lady "Yeah, well to them lamb isn't meat..."

What does that mean? Does she have a pseudo-vegetarian friend who is willing to eat lamb on occasion? Is the lamb-as-meat thing a reference to some sort of religious cleanliness; like how Jewish people cannot eat meat from hoofed creatures? I'd like to know...

I think it would be a lot of fun to go downtown sometime with a pad of paper and write down all the strange pieces of conversations that I overhear and then to come home and weave the words into stories, creating my own context for what these total strangers might have been saying to eachother.

The Doctor's office

Today I'm waiting in the doctor's office and the woman in the next room sounded like she was going into labour! It was quite disconcerting to listen to her yelling "ouch, ouch" over and over and over!!! By the time my doctor comes in to see me I'm a bit freaked out thinking that there is NO WAY I'm going to let her measure MY cervix.

So when I lay down for her to measure my belly and check the heartbeat and I think about what is going to come next I feel like I'm going to throw up right then and there. I had to sit back up and get my bearings. I could tell by my doctor's expression that she thought I might throw up too. Thankfully a glass of water seemed to make me feel better and everything was fine but since then I've been thinking about how scary the whole labour experience is, even while at the same time it is such an incredible thing to go through.

The Most Important Decisions

Today I had an epiphany; one of those rare moments of clarity when the world suddenly makes sense and is put in perspective.

As James and I sat discussing some important decisions on our horizon I took a mental look back on the life choices we have already made; both good and bad. I wondered at what our life would be like now had we chosen different directions at different times in our life. Then it struck me that James' decision yesterday to advise the clerk at the grocery store when she over-changed him by $5 was a more important decision than whether he worked towards one degree or another, whether he took this job or that job, whether we live in a city or a small town; Decisions that we have been faced with over the years.
The small choices we make every day that build and represent our moral fibre do much more to form who we are than the seemingly larger choices of career direction and deciding where to live. There is a quote I read somewhere once that goes "Wherever you go, there you are". This is such a large truth that I don't think I fully comprehended it until now. It doesn't really matter where you go. What really matters is how you behave/react/respond once you get there.

lunching and other stories...

This week I "lunched". Seriously, all I did all week long is meet up with old friends for lunch at various restaurants around the city. I lunched at Med Grill on Monday with Tina and was shocked when the bill for my lunch alone (with tip) came to $24!!!!! And I'd already booked lunch dates for Wednesday and Friday that I guess I could have gotten out but I just didn't want to. I was much more frugal at these lunches which combined still came to less money than my lunch on Monday, and tasted just as good...

I also had a lunch date on Thursday which I did cancel because I woke up that morning feeling extremely grumpy and tired with a sore throat and a bit of a headache. I phoned up my friend who I knew would understand (which she did) hoping to reschedule some time with her next week. After I hung up the phone I opened the fridge to make myself some breakfast (cold cereal and milk sounded just fine and I was feeling lazy) but when I went to pull the milk out it was EMPTY.

The trouble with having pre-adolescent boys in the house is that not only do we go through litres of milk each week but they consistently forget to acknowledge that they have taken the last of it. I often find our milk jug empty in the fridge, which I think they secretly put back empty on purpose because it is so much easier than throwing the bag away which might lead them to realize that the garbage also needs to be taken out, which means voluntary chores, which means ick and avoid-at-all-costs in the eyes of any sane adolescent.

Though I was tired and grumpy I felt like I wasn't going to let the small matter of milk get me down. After all I had the whole day ahead of me and could easily jump in the truck, drive to the store for milk, and while I was at it stop at my favourite coffee bistro for a steaming hot decaf. I even brought my book along just incase I decided to sit on a sunny bench with my coffee and read. Aaaah, what luxury to be unemployed and waiting for baby. I was therefore feeling extremely patient and relaxed when I tried to start the truck.

The key word here is tried because IT DIDN'T START! Of course I panicked. I imagined a $1000 transmission bill or something equally scary. I tried to call James to my rescue but he wasn't at his desk. I reminded myself not to panic and how much easier it would be not to panic if I atleast had a coffee and milk for my cereal. I gave the matter some thought. I tried to phone James 4 more times in a five minute period and then decided to walk to the store. Walking to the store was not bad. I felt slightly invigorated, my sinuses started to clear up, my legs felt strong and I was getting exercise. All good things. By the time I was walking home from the store I felt none of these things. My pelvis was aching terribly. My arms were drooping from the weight of the milk that I kept shifting from arm to arm. My coffee was lukewarm and relatively weak. I was back to being miserable. When I felt like I had reached the end of what I could take, I looked up and saw James driving towards me. It had been nearly two hours since I left the house and by this point I was only five minutes from home but I could not have been happier to see him. In fact, if it did not hurt to jump I would have jumped for joy. He had heard my messages and come home on his lunch break to discover that the battery had died, and not because I had done something stupid like leave the lights on (which is not unheard of) but simply because it was old. James was able to borrow a battery charger from a neighbour. The next day, feeling like a very responsible and take charge kind of person, I went to Canadian Tire to purchase a battery. I walked up to the service desk and asked for a battery for my 1990 Ford Explorer. I felt some of my self-assuredness fade away when the service clerk gave me a quizzical frown and said that there was no such thing!
(oops... how am I supposed to know what I drive? And my last car really was a 1990!!)

finding balance

Reading an issue of "Fit Pregnancy" that a friend gave me recently I was encouraged by a picture of a very relaxed looking mother with four young children looking relatively happy and clean. The quote above the picture says, "Slow down. When you rush, things fall apart. Lower your expectations of what you can do and how fast you can do it, and everyone will be happy."

I feel like my life has slown down to a halt. I am not taking any courses. As of last friday I am no longer working. I am not on any committees and haven't volunteered myself for any activities. I have slowed my life down considerably in preparation for this baby on the way and find the pace both exhilerating and frightening. For the first time in years I have the ability to create my own list of daily expectations. Yet without outside forces pushing me forward I find myself at a standstill. Part of this is simply being very huge and pregnant and not having much energy for anything but I am also afraid.

I am afraid that I will spend the next five years at a standstill. I am afraid that any attempt to accomplish more than a burp and a walk around the block will leave me feeling fatiqued and resentful. I want to epitomize the relaxed confidence I see in the woman pictured in my "Fit Pregnancy" magazine but I am afraid that I am not the kind of person who easily finds balance. I am either running full steam ahead with projects on the go and expectations to meet, or I am asleep on the couch with dirty dishes piling undone on the countertop.

The Christian Bubble

In church this past Sunday the pastor spoke about the relevance of the Christian faith outside the Christian faith. He was referring to someone he knew who had grown up in a Christian home, attended Christian school her whole life and was hit with culture shock when she began attending a public university. All of a sudden the language of her faith that had seemed so relevant and so "right" became confused in the sea of new faces and ideals. It is not that it stopped being right but that she no longer knew how to share it with others without putting them off. How does one define their beliefs outside of the Christian bubble? How does a Christian represent Christ's love in society without confusing the relationship of faith with the ideals of the Christian culture, without coming across as judgemental?

I just finished reading a book called "The Jesus I Never Knew" by Philip Yancey which posed some of the same questions. Philip Yancey pointed out in his book that the people Jesus associated himself with in the New Testament were not the "righteous" religious people of that time, but rather the down and out; tax collectors, prostitutes, lepors... Yet somehow as Christians in the 21st century we allow our desire to follow God's laws to become a sort of self-righteous hypocricy, not much unlike the Pharisees of Jesus' day. It isn't intended. I think that the self righteousness comes from pride. It is human nature to want to compare ourselves to others, especially if we think we are the ones on the right track. It is hypocricy because of course no one can ever be always on the right track.

I want desperately to find that middle ground, to be the kind of Christian that reflects God's love without coming across as superior for knowing that love. I want desperately to be the kind of Christian who knows instinctively what to say to put others at ease, to let them know that I have no judgement, no preconcieved notions of who they are or should be. After all we were each created as unique individuals. Who am I to tell anyone how to live out their faith? How to live out their lives?

What I sometimes find myself doing instead is waffling in my faith. I sit in the uncomfortable seat of belief mired with self doubt. I find myself attempting to convince others and myself that I am not "that" kind of Christian. Whatever "that" kind of Christian is I don't know. What I wish I could do is define the difference between life in Christ (which is vital to our relationship with Him) and life in Christianity (which has become something of a middle class picture of manufactured urban bliss). I think the only way to do that is to dive into God's word and attempt to discover who He really is, rather than who people say we should be if we claim to know Him.