Let the real writers write

Always around this time of year I find myself in an emotional rut. 

This is not a euphemism for depression, friends; I know it’s a rut because though I’m not particularly unhappy, I’ve grown very, very weary of the daily grind. Each day seems like something to endure. Mornings are scramblier when you have to locate hats, mittens and snow pants and then tell the owners of those things that they must put them on.

Over and over.

And over.

The walk from parking lot to desk is long and arduous and that each work day begins and ends in darkness, well, it doesn’t help.

Two nights ago, I stopped off to get Valentine’s stuff and after homework we spent the better part of the evening writing out cards for a total of 43 kids. It meant there was a lot of spelling supervision, a lot of repeating to a four year old that these Valentines were not for him. It meant telling him this 37 times.

And during this time of year, when this sort of thing is finally wrapped up and you notice it’s already 30 minutes past the usual bedtime, you must fight the urge to skip all routines and send them straight to bed. But you’re weak (due to aforementioned weariness) and have no fight left, so you promise yourself to have them brush with twice the effort in the morning.

It’s also the time of year when writing preoccupies my every thought but in a way that demoralizes and defeats me so that I actually do very little of it. The internal voices are louder on bleak cold snowy grey days, almost scolding.  You have nothing worthwhile to say, let real writers write.

It’s precisely the time of year a person like me needs to find inspiration anywhere she can. A long run on the treadmill, a few pages from an Anne Lamott book and one from Jon Kabat-Zinn too to help quiet those too-loud voices; a helpful post from an inspiring blogger (oh and this one, and this one and this one too and also this article!), a rich red glass of cabernet and if at all possible, a spicy hearty bowl of something good Shaune has cooked up.  

Sometimes a look back through the archives helps to remind me that I’ve done a good job of documenting the kids’ lives here and should continue to do so, though I don’t dare read any post too closely for fear the critics will provide more proof why me and writing will only ever amount to nothing. 

How about you? Are you feeling it too?

Here are some pictures I found on my phone.

We're spending a lot of time in arenas.

This is happening.

Can someone please point me to a tutorial on taking selfies? What was I doing when you all were perfecting your mad selfie skillz?

Naveen often demands tacos for every meal. Sadly this plate here would never meet his standards. Salad? I didn't say to put salad on them! Nope these were for Shaune.

There's a lot of this happening.

I make this simple salad just about every weekend. Chick peas. Cilantro. Avocado. Juice of two limes. Feta.

I love our kitchen.

Web building.

Our front yard view.

The loud and gentle voices

Last winter I gained something like 7 pounds.

On my small, apple (not pear) shaped, child-birth-ravaged, could-actually-stand-to-lose-15-pounds frame, that’s a lot of extra weight. To be honest I was in complete denial (even though my skirts had been screaming Uncle every time I zipped them up) until a very truthful colleague at work pointed it out. We only see each other every few months, so when she visited from the Toronto office last spring she asked me flat out.

She is soft spoken with a very thick accent and was smiling while pointing to my mid section; naturally I assumed she was paying me a compliment. She must be, I remember thinking, for there can be no other good reason to so intentionally spotlight a middle aged woman’s most vulnerable parts.

In response to what I thought I heard, I told her no, I hadn’t. She insisted that I had and then, to prove it, she pointed to my face. She was gesturing that it had gotten fuller.

Sirens.

Then light-headedness.

Was I dreaming? Was this woman really telling me that I’d gained weight?

Yes, I do still speak to her.

But it did hurt to know that the long wretched winter we had last year had left its mark on me. I can’t say for sure but it might likely have been the many Saturday afternoons I spent snuggling up with Dexter and Ms. Vickie.

A deadly threesome.

I’ve been a regular exerciser most of my adult life but it was clear that I could no longer afford to eat like I did even five years ago. This broke my heart.

Sorrowfully, I unfriended Ms. Vickie.

Dexter and I became exclusive.

I started adding in a sixth workout when I could and played soccer with the kids most nights after dinner throughout the summer. The weight did not budge. I read about perimenopause and how hard it could be to lose weight in the years leading up to menopause but didn’t want to believe it was impossible. Finally, I took a good hard look at how I was eating and accepted that while most of the time I did make good choices, I was still eating too much.

That’s when I turned inward.

I started listening to the voices in my head before each meal and noticed that just before lunch and dinner there was one particularly loud voice that told me there was not going to be enough food. Eat as much as you can, it insisted, before it’s all gone. And eat fast!

Obviously, those first seven years in Bangladesh when full meals were rare and the subsequent years as part of a large family where you had to act fast at the dinner table, had done a number on my relationship with food.

I started a dialogue.

How about we eat this much and if we’re still hungry in a half hour we’ll grab something else?  I asked gently at every meal. The voice began to listen and eventually quiet down. That was three weeks ago. I’m happy to tell you that I’ve shed six pounds.

That’s like an average sized newborn.

An uncarved pumpkin.

A small turkey. I’ve lost a small turkey!

The voice (along with so many others) is still with me but we’re learning to co-exist. And I still think about Ms. Vickie at least a few times every month but so far have not renewed our friendship. But Dexter and I? 

We’ve still got some unfinished business - Season 8 is finally on Netflix (!).

Here's Naveen yesterday morning in his favorite outfit - the one I mentioned in my last post. He insisted on wearing it again this morning. Oh how I love to do  laundry at 6 am on a weekday!

 

That post I always write

I’ve been writing this post for a few weeks now. Sometimes in my head. Sometimes on the screen. And I’ve stopped every time at about precisely this point. Because the only post I seem to want to write is the same old one I’ve been writing for the past six years. The same old one you’ve learned to expect from me. The one that tells you how busy life is. The one that admits I don’t know what work-life balance looks like or even if there is such a thing.

It’s essentially the one I’ve written over and over; sometimes laced with guilt, often tinged with feelings of failure. The one that calculates the ratio of time the kids spend in the company of others versus us, making me question, once again, what we first world  societies really value.

It’s also the post where I tell you that I simply cannot find any time to do some of the things that nurture that Me I really like. The Me of my dreams. The one who threatens to take the reins more often. The one who has big plans for me, for no reason whatsoever. She yearns to chip away at those writing projects. She has a hundred posts she’s dying to share with you. She insists I bring back my Saturday morning runs because she misses the serene and rhythm of feet on pavement, small hills and valleys, and the music.

In some ways it’s the post I’ve been writing since that November right before Deaglan was born, six years ago.  

The one where I reflect on motherhood: the little people who amaze and frustrate me every single day, compelling me to share it with you, here in this little corner of the internet I’ve carved out for myself.

A continuation of the story of Deaglan. Deaglan who lately shines with the wonder and magic of grade one. He can’t wait to get to school every morning and some mornings even insists I put gel in his hair. Most of the time he has just the right outfit in mind and won’t accept any suggestions from me. And it won’t surprise you to know (if you know me at all), that it secretly swells me with pride that just about every outfit is dead-on.

A story that includes how a few weeks ago he stopped me mid-swipe through a fashion blog; a tall thin blonde 20 something.

“You like her outfit?”
“No.”
“You like her?”
“Yeah,” he looked away. Shy smile and that dimple of his. “She has the same yellow hair as Elizabeth in my class.”

It left me fascinated and heartbroken.

And Naveen.

Yes. It’s a continuing of the story on the marvelous yet rascally ways of the three year old. Always a study in heart-melting enchantment and nerve-jangling frustration.  A bittersweet constant where I find myself refusing to correct mispronunced words: “Mum, I want Santa to bwing me a Tweenage Mutick Inja Tuhtul ShellWaiso” (A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Shellraiser –their vehicle).  Or refusing to resist the urge to scoop him into my arms any time he’ll allow it, this last bit of lush baby-hood I want to capture somewhow.  But also a study in restraint where on an hourly basis I am on the verge of insanity because this three year old of mine is a sneaky naughty imp of a boy.

It's the same post I’ve written so many times before.

Deaglan did his first Science project. He chose the Little brown bat. It was a lot of hard work for (ahem) him. He was graded on the detailed poster and his presentation of it. I was tempted to call his teacher when I read through the "Grading Rubrick", and remind her, "Uhhh, you do know he was literally in my womb only five years ago, right?"

Shaune's sister asked us to join them at the Sloan Christmas Tree Village yesterday. It's a great place. There were a ton of activities for the kids including a giant stack of hay, a miniature train, a zipline, horses and bonfires. The kind of thing people like us get into.

 Here's Naveen and cousin Layton on the giant stack of hay.

Deaglan would have set up camp on the giant stack of hay if we let him. It's the only thing he wanted to do all day, climb it and run through its secret mazes.

 You'll want to bundle up.

 Here's Grampa Bill looking on as Deaglan ziplines.

 And Gramma Fran feeding the goats with Naveen and Layton.

 Oh, I forgot to mention, you can also wander the tree farm and pick the tree you want then cut it down. Here's the one we picked.

 Shaune sawing.

Vacationy knowings

Yesterday, late in the afternoon, in the still hot sun, the kids and I took turns choosing songs on Youtube on the tablet in the backyard. Naveen wanted Baby Beluga even though I thought for sure he’d ask for this one we’ve been forced to listen to again and again upon his insistence. Deaglan couldn’t think of something on his first turn so I suggested this, only because I remembered how it made me feel that first time he told me he LOVED it: Surprised, and then suddenly in love with it because it reminded me of him.

No new thing I chose this.

If there’s any chance I can get them onto Springsteen I take it. This age of no records and tapes, and practically extinct CDs makes it harder to exert any influence. I love the story-ness of an album; I lament these 99 cent moments ITunes offers.

I sipped ice cold Chardonnay while they sucked the juice out of  freezies.

I’m sort of picky about white wine. Not expensive picky. I adhere to two specific criterion: Hot, hot summer days. Glacially cold Australian Chardonnay. I’m slightly more flexible with red. At 42, finally (!), I have accepted that I’m a happy-hour drinker. Through my twenties and half of my thirties, I tried to believe I was something else: Fun and witty at parties. Charming and enduring at bars. Always lively into the night.

None of these things are true about me.

Instead. I know I’ll be asleep before the good shows come on. And more than two drinks on any given night ruins my next morning.  I’m shy. And in most situations I feel I have nothing to offer. I’ll probably never go vegan or start spending more on jeans. I love this song because I know Pink’s onto something even though it’s true, I don’t get her hair. Mascara and eyeliner is my version of putting on my face.

And I tell my little boys all the time that I’m sorry. That it’s okay to cry.  That feeling grumpy is normal.

Not because I’m modern and cool.

I just want to make room for my own imperfections.

 

I had last week off. We celebrated Aunt Pat's birthday. Gramma remembered how much we love that cake from Costco.

 After, we all watched Naveen play his final game of Blastball. Pictures to come.

 We spent some time with my sister and her family in Northern Michigan.

 
I go back to work tomorrow and although I'm sorta ready for it, I'll miss happy hour Youtube videos.

It connects me to you



I think about blogging every day.

 

In fact, over the past almost six years, not a day goes by that I don't see the happenings of my life through this lens. I’m constantly writing posts in my head, trying out new ways to express what I’m going through.  It brings me a lot of satisfaction.

 

It connects me to you.

 

I try to write honestly, give you a true sense of my experience. I figure, what’s the point in trying to fool you into thinking my life is perfect. It’s not. And I want us to know we’re in this together. I want you to know that I haven’t discovered a secret formula that you don’t know about. I'm not living a freakishly happy life over here.

 

My life is probably exactly like yours. Just in a different house, on a different street. In different skin.

 

Sometimes I worry about what you must think - I rarely stray from writing about my kids or my childhood, or my feelings. But then I remember that that is what I have to offer. That is why I write. That might be why you come back. And also this; these are the things that have shaped me. These are the things that give me a voice: Motherhood. My childhood. My feelings about it all.

 

I post these pictures and write these words, but I'm not living a life unlike yours.

 

I bicker and fight with my husband.

I yell at my kids.

I cry in the night.

I get jealous.

I wish I could lose ten pounds at least 20 times a day.

My house is a mess a lot of the time.

 

We’re so much the same, probably. You and me.

 

I find great comfort in that. I fight to remember this when I’m feeling outside of myself. When I’m feeling alone and disconnected. I write to connect again. I write to stay conscious. I write to find my voice when I feel like I can't speak.

 

I just wanted you to know this.

 And also I wanted to show you pictures from our little vacation. We took the kids to KOA in Port Huron, Michigan again this year. On the way to work this morning, Deaglan asked me for the tenth time, "Don't you wish we lived at KOA Mom?"

 

Clearly he didn't notice the state of my hair due to the lack of indoor plumbing.

 



This guy here.
Well.
He's just naughty scrumptiousness.

At Deaglan's soccer game this past weekend I grabbed him around the waist and asked him softly for a kiss.

His response?

"Mommy, I hate you and I hate kith-is."

No less than five mothers and grandparents within earshot turned our way, chuckled and said some version of, "AWWWW, but kisses are the best and so are Mommies."

I shrugged sheepishly and shook my head. He's a hater lately. What can you do?

I wrote several variations of a veiled apology for including this picture of myself and then deleted them all. Then I deleted the picture and added it again.

Hi, my name is Kim and I don't have a flat stomach. And I never will.

 This guy. Well, as usual he kept us fed.

 And this guy here.

This joke-telling, negotiating, "I've got a great idea," sarcastic, pickle loving kid of ours. He was the perfect age for KOA this year. He helped me see it all through a kid's joy-filled eyes again. He wished out loud a dozen times or more that we could just move right into that cabin we were staying in. Just live there for the rest of our lives.

That cabin with no bathroom or running water.

Oh. Don't put ice in this kid's cup.

Ever.

Especially if you have any hopes that he'll eat his dinner. When there is ice in sight, he.can't.focus. Until it's gone.

 

Cajun porkchops with mango salsa. Steak with sautéed mushrooms and asparagus the next night.

I'm not bragging.

Just pointing out the fringe benefits of hooking up with a guy who knows his way around a kitchen. And a campstove.

I love bedhead on a hater.

The vacuum (you see it there on the grass below?) came with us. Naturally.

We spent a great deal of time playing I spy over the three days away. On Naveen's turns he mostly spied his vacuum or our real one (which was at home) or my friend Kathy's blue vacuum. In St. Catharines.

Somebody explain the rules to this kid. Please.

Each kid got to spend $10 at the souvenir shop. I spent three days tracking down rubber balls and polished stones. And just as much time breaking up fights because of them.

That's all for now friends.

I feel healthier for it

Last week I met a woman I immediately liked.

She was tall, thin and authentic, with a feline quality about her face and movements but she had this way, unlike a cat, of disarming me. I watched her as we talked and decided I really liked her outfit. She was wearing good quality lounge-wear. I could tell it was more about comfort and texture for her though. She probably didn’t buy her clothes because they were Lululemon but because when she tried them on, they felt nice against her skin. I’m not even sure that they were Lululemon, just my best guess. The colors suited her creamy skin and auburn hair; olives and beiges.  

I made a mental note to wear my hair in a side pony as soon as I had the right occasion and felt something close to desperation to lose five pounds. Immediately.

She sat in a wingchair that I could tell had been purchased because it fit her esthetic. Her orange Persian cat lay snuggled in beside her. A few times it yawned and did a cat-like stretch but then settled down again between the outside of her thigh and the arm of the chair. It was odd that it didn’t seem odd to me at all. The cat belonged there and throughout our time together she made not one mention of it.

On second thought, I realized she’d chosen the pieces in the room because it likely made most people feel the way it was making me feel; relaxed and easy.

It’s not an easy thing though, meeting a new therapist for the first time. All sorts of anxieties run through your head. Will I like this person? Do I believe she’s qualified to help me through this particular issue? Will I feel judged so that I end up defeating myself, trying to be a good teacher-pleasing student instead of a fee-paying adult who needs to work through something? Will I act on her advice?

I’ve met many new therapists in my adult life.

Every few years I find myself on someone new’s  intentionally chosen couch. Each course of therapy is usually my last attempt at resolving an issue that has come to a head; an issue that surely developed out of the not so simple childhood that was mine. Something that will not be fixed by reading the right book or writing about it or resolving to change.

Sometimes I end up looking at the same issue from several different angles, in several courses of therapy because I just can’t seem to find a neat and tidy solution in five or six sessions. I feel healthier for it. I have absolutely no qualms about getting myself mental help. Talking things through, using cognitive behavioral techniques to change my thinking and actions seems to work for me.

I think I’ll always need to talk to someone when I get lost.

I really liked her. She was empathetic and fair in such a good way. She stopped me in all the right places, asked me some questions that despite my best efforts broke some anciently crafted dam so that I had to stop and cry into my hands, embarrassed and worrying about my makeup.

I’ll go back to see her and work through this.

 

It's all enough

In a few short weeks my sweet little Naveen will turn three. He is not potty trained nor does he like to function without his pacifier. He hates sharing my lap with his brother and just the other day when I was comforting Deaglan after a bad fall, he pinched his own forehead so that I’d be forced to comfort him as well.

Every evening he lays in our bed, proprietarily snuggled in close to me until he is fast asleep. Then I carry him, limp and sweaty, to his bed, that bottom bunk in the room across the hall. I kiss that sweaty little face and on my way back to my own bed, lament that he is too much my baby still, to be turning three.

It must seem like I’m not doing a very good job of fostering his independence.

I was self-sufficient far too early in life. I’ve told you my story in bits and pieces over the years about how my mother was forced to live on the streets, away from me, when I was still very small and in dire need of her warm, safe arms. I told you that I lived in an orphanage in Bangladesh with dozens of other kids until I was adopted into my family here in Canada. I’ve written some about how it felt to be seven and new to a country and a language and a culture.

I look back at those first twenty years and feel exhausted for that girl I used to be. She had to endure so much. It’s no wonder she waited until her mid-thirties to have kids. She needed 15 years of psychic head space just to process it all.

As a result, I rarely rush my kids through the phases of their development. I watch in awe how they own their little lives, how relaxed they are when they’re home, how connected they become with their immediate environment.

Deaglan takes his socks, pants and often his shirt off as soon as we get in the front door most days. He finds the toys he’s interested in at the moment, goes to the fridge to survey it for a snack and asks us for whatever else he needs to make himself comfortable and happy. For Naveen this usually means finding his pacifier and my lap and snuggling until we move onto dinner or outside.

I watch this kind of thing with fascination and learn how to get what I need.

The simplicity of what makes them happy – a few pushes on the swing, a popsicle, a favourite show - makes me want to pare down my desires too. It forces me in the best way possible to look around and realize that my backyard is big enough,the grass there, green enough, that I am thin enough, that my husband loves me enough, the sky is sunny enough.

It’s all enough.