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.

Often it's about getting out the door

This morning I was able to get Naveen to eat most of his scrambled eggs by promising he could wear his pajamas to the hockey rink. It was my third attempt at bribery. Candy and money were surprisingly ineffective. It’s sad when you’ve used every trick in your book before 9.am.

It won’t surprise you to know that I believe parenting isn’t about achieving perfection.

Often it's about getting out the door. I think it’s also about showing our kids that we are human and just trying our best. Almost every weekday morning, I apologize to Deaglan and Naveen on the way to school. That’s because for the half hour prior, both boys lose their sense of hearing which triggers in me the opposite of good calm parenting. And I know it’s temporary, localized deafness they suffer from, because a few minutes later they hear my apology just fine.

But “Put on your socks and shoes!” at the top of my lungs 28 times? Not so much.

After three years of the same old speech, I feel that Deaglan and I understand each other, the way an old, weary, married couple might understand each other; they don’t always like each other but they know they can’t change the other person either. As soon as I say something like, “Guys, Mom’s really sorry for all the yelling this morning. You’re both really good kids and I love you very much,” he usually responds with, “we understand Mom, it’s okay, we know how hard it is for you to get us out the door every morning.”

That he says it with sincerity and sympathy, well, I think it means he’s not planning on divorcing me anytime soon.

And I don’t think this Arctic Freeze we’ve been victim to is helping me grow as a parent.

This afternoon, I peeked out from under the comforter on the couch and asked in my most excited, positive voice, “Guys, isn’t it great that we have three days off to do whatever we want? Mom can “work” on my computer (aka peruse Pinterest) while you play whatever you want.”

I wasn't afraid to proclaim this several more times over the next few hours to get them fully on board that Mommy sitting on the couch completely ignoring them was indeed great. What can I say? I will go the distance for a cause I believe in.

Oh, in case you're wondering, I look sorta like this guy today, only my hair is a little more Jack than his, my pajamas aren't as cute and I don't have a fraction of his energy.

This weather is making me hungry.

Yesterday after the gym, I ordered a heaping plate of deep fried potato wedges instead of green salad with my chicken breast. I doused them with vinegar and on the side plopped a good fat dollop of ketchup for dipping. I was a ninja getting back to my desk; short cuts and no eye contact.
Quiet. Stealthy.
Nothing to see here folks. As you were. Please talk amongst yourselves.

Back at my desk. It wasn’t pretty.

I ate as if I’d come off of a thirty day famine. The wedges were crisp and golden, heftier than their French fry cousins. They’d been seasoned with salt and pepper then tossed with dried rosemary; still piping hot, perfect for dunking into the ketchup. An ice cold pint of beer would have been perfect. I gulped water.

I munched and read through the emails that had piled up in my inbox over the lunch hour. When every last wedge was gone, every last bit of ketchup sopped up, I sat staring at the screen.

Full. Yes.
Complete? No.

Then, the faintest whisper.
Something very familiar.
I typed away furiously, doing my best to lalalalala.
It got louder.
Twenty minutes, I mouthed over and over, twenty minutes.
It started to shout then.
Five pounds, five pounds, five pounds I chanted desperately.
But it drowned me out: CHOCOLATE!
CHOCCCC-LATE!!!!!
DO YOU HEAR ME?????
NEEEEEED. CHOCOLATE. NOW!!!!!!!

My fingers stopped typing. My legs automatons.
There was no drinking water till it shut up. No tricking it into submission with a rice cake and peanut butter.  
Before I knew what was happening, I was running to the escalators, bee lining it to the coffee cart, running my finger over the plastic enclosure on the platter of dessert pastries: Date square? No.
Éclair? No, no.
Oatmeal bar with raisins? Absolutely no.
And then... Yes, yes, yes: Thick chocolate cover, layers of peanuts and rice crispies, glued together with firm hardened caramel.  

Hello Dolly. How do I know your name?

I scurried scurried my ninja-self back to my desk. I sat. Looked around.
Had anyone noticed?
I cut the square in two and sliced one of the halves into thin pieces. I lay the slices out flat on a napkin.
I’ll take the other half home. Dessert for the kids.
I then responded to the emails. Popped each slice into my mouth.

Sweet, crunchy, chocolaty. Salty. Calming.

I looked down and the slices were gone. I cut a sliver off the other half.
They’re so picky, I reminded myself. They won’t like this.
Another sliver. Another slice. And another.  
I looked down and it was all gone.

The sugar was now swirling in my head.
I was dizzy.
Water. I needed water.
Ughhhhh. Oh my geeeezzzzz.
My pants are too tight.
Why? Why????
I need to lie down.
Or throw up.
Oh godddd, why?
Why did I eat the whole thing?
I need the couch.
I need my comfy pants,
To run ten miles.

Why????????

This is the last time.

I.will.never.do.this.again.

I swear.

 

 

I'm yearning for these kinds of days.

 

The long road to Spring

We’re more than halfway through a new month of a brand new year and you’ll be comforted to know that nothing much has changed around here. Mornings are still harried as I race against the clock to get myself and two boys out the door looking our parts: me – business casual, them – ready for running, jumping and whatever they do that has worn out the knees on just about every pair of pants they own, all the while remembering everything it entails: a packed lunch and backpack, dry mittens, hats, zippers and snowpants, homework and signed notes, and often, a toy or well-loved stuffy to bring the familiarity of home to where they spend their days.

Many mornings go as smooth as these things can, meaning I’ve used minimal bribery for cooperation, I’ve not had to yell (too much) to be heard, and our goodbyes are said without tears or resentment.

But many mornings have been the exact opposite of this.

Our nights fare about the same: pick-ups spent gathering wet mittens and hats, slapdash dinners from whatever we remembered to put on the grocery list, homework and note-signing, bath-times and bedtimes, and a generous glass of wine to tie it all together.

Always a glass of wine.

Since I posted last, I’ve read halfway through two books, built three Lego vehicles, straightened out four junk drawers, donated five bags of clothes, and ice skated for the first time in almost 26 years. I also started drinking more water, and watching The Guardian on Netflix.

Two words: Simon.Baker.

It’s that long, hard part of winter and I’m doing my best to make the best of it. By practicing radical self-care (as Anne Lamott calls it), I’m hoping to cheat the system. I’m cleaning and purging, organizing and hydrating, reading and sticking to my routines. I'm also staying far, far away from sugar and cuddling the kids as much as I can.

And if I can remember to do it, I’m thinking good, wholesome, positive thoughts. Sometimes it's the only way to neutralize the winter blues.

One morning last week, I woke Naveen up, and held his sleepy little body on my hip.  With his arms around my neck he asked me if it was the weekend yet. It was only Tuesday. I kissed his head and tried to think of a way to answer that without making it sound like Saturday was eons away. 

It sure felt like it to me.

Santa left Jenga under the tree for Deaglan. We played the intended way a few times but he found more fun ways to use the wooden pieces.

Please ignore the empty raisin box. And the empty playdough container. And the unswept bit of floor.

That's a tiny Lego Mutant Ninja Turtle on top of that tower.
 Leonardo, to be accurate.

There's been lots of time spent in our favourite pajamas.

Lots of time spent watching our favourite shows. With Raphael.

 

Are you impressed with my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle know-how? Naveen always is...he asks me at least five times a day who my favourite Turtle is. I always say  the same thing. Hands down Michaelangelo, Dude!

 

And I got to wander a thrift store for a few hours to start this gallery wall.

 

What about you, what are you doing on these long cold winter days? 

 

An Ode to Robert Redford

One evening, in early April, when Deaglan was just four months old, Shaune and I grabbed the baby monitor, two ice cold Coronas corked with fresh lime and headed to the front porch. It was the first patio night of the year. The first swallow of alcohol I’d had since before I got pregnant.

We sipped our beers in silence. There was plenty to see on that warm spring night, the soft tinkling of lullabies from the monitor our background music.

Cars drove slowly past, their windows rolled down, and the people within smiling and friendly. Bikers and hikers moved along the sidewalks, in no hurry to reach their destinations. Even the red maple out front swayed gently in the temperate breeze, its luscious green shoots seeming to inhale the air all around; giddy with the exuberance that spring could be here to stay.

I always think of that night when I’m up to my elbows in February’s shenanigans.

It’s doing me in I’m afraid, and yesterday might have been the last straw.

In the morning a hard rain fell. It began after I’d already left the house which was nothing short of spectacular considering I needed to make multiple stops on the way. I arrived at work and caught sight of my reflection in a window: Alice Cooper with slightly better fashion sense. 

By late afternoon the rain had turned to icy slanting snow rendering my hoodless coat ornamental and my umbrella near useless. And at the car I could have wept when I realized I’d left the snow brush and scraper back home on the ledge of the porch.

I wasn’t cut out for this kind of ambivalence.

If April is the Robert Redford of weather, golden, handsome and weak-in-the-knees  dreamy like in The Way We Were, then February is Jason Alexander in Pretty Woman. Short, yes, but full of unnecessary drama and kind of mean. Definitely no George Costanza.

Which is all to say, February you suck.

I’ve raised my white flag, searched out solace.  I've taken extreme therapeutic measures: curative chocolate, remedial movie style popcorn and necessary but moderate doses of Argentinean Cabernet.  

I’ve also made regular commune with the great shamans of my mind – Fashion blogs, Netflix, and of course Anne Lamott who says in Help, Thanks, Wow, The three essential prayers  on page 27 “If I were going to begin practicing the presence of God for the first time today, it would help to begin by admitting the three most terrible truths of our existence: that we are so ruined, and so loved, and in charge of so little.”

Let me boldly add this fourth terrible truth - I really thought global warming was going to kick February in the teeth for good.

How's February treating you where you live?

Wintering

It’s cold here - like double digit minuses. 

And all I want to do after work every night is get into comfy clothes and watch Netflix. It hasn’t helped that I’ve been sick and achy for the better part of a week.

A few nights ago Shaune looked around at all of us and wondered out loud if what he was seeing was right. I had my smartphone and earphones on watching Lost (Oh Netflix, where have you been all my life?). Deaglan at my feet was glued to the flat screen – Lego Ninjago. And Naveen had my tablet while Shaune clickety-clacked away on our laptop. I was unapologetic. It felt too good to be wrong; the kids snuggled in close to me on the big couch, Shaune sprawled out in the big brown recliner.  

The human version of hibernation.

It’s a relief to know the kids play outside during the school day – a provincially mandated number of minutes so that when we’re home these dark, cold, wintery nights with only an hour or so to spare when you factor in dinner and the bedtime routine, hardly more than huddling close together is needed.

It’s Shaune’s birthday on Sunday and when I asked the kids this morning what we should get him, Deaglan gave his standard answer – a fridge while Naveen was convinced Daddy could use a skateboard. 

And a few weeks ago Shaune asked me if I realized that he would be turning 38 this year.

“Yes.” I answered.

“I thought I was already 38. I really did! It’s like I won a free year.”

“Wow, honey, you should maybe not tell that story to anybody else,” I advised.

A newer colleague at work has been a lot of fun to exchange stories with. Her little girl is several months younger than Naveen and she's great at imitating what her daughter would say if she could speak in complete sentences. In her imitation her daughter is very sarcastic with adult tendencies. Stephen Wright meets the Gilmore Girls. We crack each other up. She does wonderful things for my ego. "I love your stories," she always says, "you're soooo funny!"

Today on the way out of the building she was walking with a group of work people and laughing. "Oh my God," I heard her say to a woman, "I love your stories, you are sooooo funny."

I had myself a Seinfeld moment.

Did I mention I'm 5'2"?

I wish I could capture the scene we have each day as I’m getting the kids into their outdoor gear. I’m sure you would drive straight to my house and award me some kind of a trophy for not giving my children away.

I’d videotape it, although I’d not only be implicating myself as the crazy woman I turn into but it’s a full body job – my legs are needed to restrain Naveen while my hands put on his socks and shoes.

I’m not kidding.

And don’t even get me started on the laps around the house I do to catch Deaglan, threaten him with the worst punishment I can think of that won’t require intensive psychotherapy when he’s a grown-up, till finally, I can sit him still long enough to get his arms into his coat.

I have no idea why I’m not thinner than I am.

I mentioned something like this to Shaune yesterday – that I’d gained a few pounds lately. And you know what my husband said? Brace yourself because you’ll be relieved to know that although he does the cooking around here, he’s not perfect. He goes – “maybe it’s all the treats you eat at work.”

Can you imagine the nerve??? I mean how dare he??

Well I know it’s the treats but I was very comfortable in my sugary little cocoon of denial, thank you very much. How can I be expected to make it through the afternoon at work without chocolate almonds? Is it my fault that on Tuesdays our coffee cart only has one Sweet Marie square and if I don’t get there at just the right time I miss out?

And in all fairness to myself, I thought I was working-out just enough to break even. I even calculated the number of minutes I’d need to run, to afford each afternoon's pick-me-up. I was no math major but I really thought I had a foolproof system.

But then I had to go and remember that we needed batteries for the scale when we were at Canadian Tire last week. And just like that Cold-Hard Truth slapped me across the face.

Seven pounds since June.

 Every time I doubt that they look alike, I get reminded that they actually do. On the left is Deaglan just shy of a year old. Look at how similar their little cheeks and mouth are.

Little punks, it's their dreamy cuteness that keeps me from holding grudges.