She's one of my Facebook friends

I saw the perfect man today.

 

He was small, maybe even lean. His pock-marked face was framed by flat, brown, seventh-grade feathered back hair. He was wearing dark khakis with a boring navy and brown striped button down. He was slight of build. But most notably he was whistling through his teeth while he waited to pay for his coffee.

I’m not kidding, he was whistling through his teeth. His lips weren’t puckered, blowing out, the way I sometimes see Deaglan trying to whistle. His tongue was stuck up in the roof of his mouth. His top lip was stretched over his top teeth, and a low tuneless melody escaped; all the while his black eyes darted from one thing to the next.

 

He was perfect.

 

And I considered seriously, for a few minutes, contacting Dexter’s people to let them know I’d found their next villain. Maybe not a high profile axe murderer, but he could certainly make a compelling neighbourhood stalker-type.

Clearly, I need to stop with my Netflix preoccupation. And it wouldn’t hurt to ease up on how often I check into my Facebook account each evening either.

Last week at a funeral, I saw an old friend who I hadn’t spoken to since Matthew’s funeral. We hugged and confirmed that we needed to stop meeting this way. After that, we had very little to say to each other. We joked that that there was no need to ask about how the other was doing; we already knew.

 

She’s one of my Facebook friends.

 

On the one hand I rarely feel the need to call anybody anymore, which works out well these days since my boys turn into home-wrecking maniacs anytime I’m on the phone. People know how we’re doing by reading my blog and I know how they’re doing by paying attention to their Facebook updates. It’s all very handy.

 

I wonder though about the long-term effects. Where are we really going with all this?

 

Oh don’t get me wrong, nothing delights me more than the perfect outfit pin, or a 30-second video of somebody’s baby walking for the first time  or a cost-effective bathroom renovation. I can’t get enough of that kind of thing.

 

It’s the pressure Facebook, Pinterest and personal blogs seem to put on us:

 

To be happy

To post the perfect picture of ourselves

To get more DIY

To present a pin-worthy, photo-shopped, all is joyous in our house version of ourselves.

 

This is what has me wondering. And worrying a little.

 

But maybe it’s just me.

 

Maybe I just wish I could make my kids a birthday banner from recycled orange juice cartons, do a triathlon before 9 am and announce to the world that with no provocation whatsoever, my husband booked me into a spa for the day while he organized our linen cupboard and did crafts with the kids.

 

 

These are my birthday flowers from Shaune and the boys. Deaglan said he picked them out because he just knew they were my favourite. After watching his eyes sparkle while he told me this, these easily are my favourite flowers.

 

My friend Shannon came by last Saturday morning with these beauties, balloons and a new monogrammed coffee cup.

 

You can find me in a club; bottle full of bub

Last night during bath time, the kids and I were kidding around about our names.

Naveen insisted on being called Grandpa, then Grandma and finally asked us to refer to him only as Daniel. So Deaglan decided they should both start calling me Kimberly. It was a big improvement from a few nights ago when they landed on Mommy-tub. I feigned horror and acted appalled. I knew they didn’t get the implication; they thought it was hysterical because they were in the tub, and well, I’m their Mommy.

Still, I’m glad it didn’t stick.

I don’t mind telling you that for just a second a portal of fear opened up inside me – I caught a glimpse of us around a table 30 years down the road, me as big as a house, wearing a colourful kaftan, the two of them affectionately calling me Mama-tub.

A scene straight out of a Tyler Perry movie.

I listened to Deaglan make a mockery of my name: Kimbo, Kimmy, Kimball (Naveen repeating each one, then both of them laughing maniacally) and it dawned on me that he didn’t know I wasn’t always Kim. So I told him that when I was born, my Bangladesh Mommy and Daddy actually named me Rohima. When I came to Canada Mimi and Papa changed it to Kim.

“Ro-HEEE-MAH????” he asked over and over. He said it to himself a few more times. Then when he was dry and partially clothed again, he ran downstairs and I could hear him asking Shaune if he knew that Mommy’s name was actually Ro-Heee-Mah.  In the middle of the night, when I was escorting him to the bathroom, although half asleep, he whispered it again.

Ro-Heee-mah.

Wait till I tell him that I'm not sure if April 20^th is actually my real birthday. That some orphanage director picked it randomly to fill out my adoption papers. This kind of thing freaks even adults out so I decided to wait a few years; maybe I’ll tell him on my 50^th when he’s 13 and has the ability to process information like that.

It’s hard to believe I’ll be 50 in eight years.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the point I'm at in my life. Wondering how I should look at it. It’s easy to sink into a middle aged depression. There are a hundred things I haven’t accomplished yet.

I’m not thin enough.

I haven’t finished editing the book I’m working on.

I haven’t found the perfect skin care routine.

I haven’t tried to get published.

I've only seen one Springsteen show.

I haven’t been back to Bangladesh or spent any time in India.

I haven’t put good enough effort into healing all the broken relationships in my life.

I haven’t spent enough time with my friends.

Shaune and I have never been on a honeymoon.

I don't own a pair of these Black Laboutins with the wooden heels

Etc. Etc.

But there’s also this: I realized that this could be the midpoint of my life. I could be halfway through this journey. It made me reconsider and I thought hmmm, this is not so bad. After all I

Survived a difficult childhood

Earned a university degree and college diploma

Lived on my own for most of my twenties.

Met Shaune.

Was blessed with Deaglan and Naveen.

Have been to Graceland.

Have called a peaceful free country my home.

Know how to crop myself out of digital pictures.

Have enough shoes.

Deaglan told me that on Saturday when it’s my birthday I should stay upstairs until he calls me because he and Dad would be working on a surprise. He smiled and whispered  loudly that they might even be getting my favourite cake from Costco but he didn't want to say for sure. It was definitely going to be a surprise though.

This morning, because I was having a good hair day and the resulting smugness was making me a bit uncomfortable, I asked Deaglan how old he thought I’d be turning. He closed one eye, looked up at the ceiling and blurted, “56 right? No, I know, I know, you’ll be one hundred."

And just like that, I was back to my insecure humble self.

 I asked Shaune to take a few pictures this morning before I headed out to work. I wanted to post a picture of myself so you wouldn't forget what I looked like. 

 Some of these are from back at Easter. It's been too long since I've posted. I hate that. 

 Shaune put together this set-up so the kids could dye eggs.

 We were so lucky to have a beautiful day to do the Easter egg hunt at Gramma and Grampa's.

Last weekend we painted birdhouses. The next day we filled them with seeds and hung them in the front yard.