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 desperate needy one

Almost two months!

I didn’t mean to stay away for so long. March got away from me and before I knew it, I was looking mid-April square in the eye.  Whenever I’m away for too long, a pile of posts builds up in my head and when I try to tease them out, separate one from another, and write the most pressing ones down, it never works out. The lesson I always come away with is that I need to keep up a regular rhythm. Because to be honest, I love writing here and I still dream of making this space better all the time.

We finished up with hockey (!) and swimming (!), enjoying very much this glorious break before soccer starts in May, and came away learning that the next time we sign Naveen up for any extracurricular activities it will be too soon – he refused to step one toe into the swimming pool with the other sea otters and after the third skating lesson, felt he’d learned all he needed to. When you add up the wasted expense, well I don’t have to tell you what that could have meant to my shoe collection.

Nothing spectacular has happened around here since I last wrote. 

I got tired of cursing the weather and wearily accepted that spring was likely not around the corner. We painted the upstairs bathroom and the spare room in an attempt to get the house ready for selling. Shaune and I are still negotiating (read he doesn't see why we can't stay one more year) the timing, but I'm feeling optimistic that we could be in a new home by (ahem) Summer's end.

Let's see, what else?

There were two very stressful days when Naveen refused to give up a pacifier he found amid the moving of furniture and laying down of drop cloths. I thought I'd gotten rid of every last one last summer!

I watched as Deaglan’s pants got shorter and Naveen’s saucy little mouth got bolder. That kid, well I don’t know what to make of him. His teachers often tell me that they wish there were a dozen just like him. Yet at home he’s the cause of so many of Deaglan’s unhinging moments.

He’s confident and entitled, chatty and bright. And unlike his older brother he is entirely frugal with his affection, leaving me too regularly feeling like the desperate, needy one in our relationship.  

I guess I can see how he might have his teachers at Daycare fooled. I mean look at that innocent-looking face.

And everyday I looked at this big, tall guy here.

And wondered where my baby went.

Oh, and I naively thought we could get a good family shot. I was sooooo wrong.

 

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.

A really good thing

When I was in my early twenties and off-and-on single, I used to make lists of the qualities I was looking for in a man. These lists were often written by hand in my journals. Back then I did all my writing by hand, in hardcover journals I bought at Cole’s bookstore at the Pen Centre; my favourite ones had prints of famous paintings on the covers and were lined but not dated. I spent a good amount of time sitting in diners, alone, with a novel or self help book and always a journal, sipping tea or something stronger, reading and writing.

It felt right and somehow very writerly.

...Tolerant of all people

...Kind

...Handsome and Funny

...Enjoys talking about the important things

...Likes the same books, music and movies as me...

The lists went on and on in great detail. When I think back on it I realize what I was really looking for, was my idealized self.

It took another decade to learn that I could be all those things to myself.

In my mid thirties, when I saw that this thing really was on with Shaune, that after nearly 10 years of our own off-and-on, we’d finally given into the fact that we should stay together, build a life, start a family, I stopped thinking in terms of ideals and looked instead to what was right in front of me.

Because I think we all get swayed by the fairy-tale version of marriage; we want the celebrity and Pinterest versions too. We get so caught up in what it’s supposed to be like, these imaginary benchmarks we’ve helped perpetuate, that we forget to mine our own relationships for the gold that lies within.

The more I learn the truth about what it takes, what it really takes to make a marriage work, the more I know we have a good thing, a really good thing.

Last Friday night the kids foiled Shaune’s plans to surprise me with a diamond ring for our fifth anniversary tomorrow. After dinner Deaglan asked “if we could give Mommy her big, big surprise.” I was stunned to learn that I hadn’t really lost my wedding band (two weeks prior, I'd taken it off to let one of the kids look at it, got distracted by the phone ringing and two days later noticed I no longer had it) but that Shaune had actually found it and used it to get the ring he bought sized.

When we got married, neither one of us felt right about spending money on a diamond since we’d only recently bought a house, paid for a wedding ourselves and had a growing eight month old boy to finance. I told him at the time that it might be a nice gift for a fifth anniversary. Since then he went back to school, and quit a well paying job to take supply work.

Which is all to say I was not expecting it.

And that the ring is beautiful and sturdy, the diamond just the right size and sparkle, and that I know for certain I would not have picked one that was different, says something about us I think.

Happy Anniversary Honey. I wouldn't have picked anyone but you!

Not writing is unacceptable

Okay.

I’ve been trying to write this post for over an hour now.

But I’ve got Naveen smooshed in  close. My left arm is practically sewn to that side of my stomach. I tried to lure him over to the long couch where Deaglan is watching a mildly disturbing cartoon on Teletoon called Rocket Monkey. But he insisted that he wanted to cuddle and because I’m no fool and totally get that my days of unprovoked cuddling are likely numbered, here we are.

It’s the usual way I get any writing done around here.

It forces me to pre-think my posts for a few days. I let an idea roll around my head until the thought of not writing it is unacceptable. I rifle through some of the stuff I’d been taking mental note of: Things the kids said. Comical scenarios I conjured up on a run. Ridiculous interactions I had with people. A song I heard. Something I read that stuck with me. Rare moments I might have allowed gratitude to fill me.

And then when I can’t take the not writing of it anymore, I sit down on the recliner in the living room, and do my best to create a first draft. By then I need to get this post idea down, so I can usually keep the nagging insecure voice in my head at bay for a few minutes.

The relentless voice that wants me to know what a stupid piece of writing this will be. The one that reminds me that only a handful of people read my blog these days and most of them do it out of obligation because they know me and think I might expect it. And they will definitely think it’s a stupid post. And another instance of over-sharing.

I also force myself to tune out any pre-conceived notions of good writing pestering me. I just want to tap the idea out onto the screen first.  Once it’s all there I start editing. Sometimes this part takes me a few days. I might sit down after dinner three nights in a row and keep rewriting the essay until it feels right.

  

But sometimes the editing takes only an hour.

My only gauge is whether or not I’m happy with it. If I am, I hope like crazy there’s a photo on our camera I can download. In the summer there’s never a shortage. The light is good and lasts long into the evening. It helps that we’re outside all the time, unburdened by layers of clothing. Shaune is usually more willing to cooperate with my insistence that we capture the kids. It helps if I remind him that time is just flying by. The kids are not going to be five and two forever!

But in the winter, good clear light is a commodity. And even I know how lame the flash setting can make a picture look. I always hope for a good shot of the kids in natural light. And if there is one or a photo relevant to what I’m writing about, then I take a few minutes to edit that too.  

I then upload the picture (s) and copy and paste my piece into Blogger. This is   precisely when I play around with the publish preview button to get a sense of what the post will look like on my blog. I’m always amazed how much more editing I need to do at this point. Something that might seem to work in a word document might read totally wrong in a blog post.

I edit and preview, edit and preview and edit and preview. 

Then I bite the bullet and hit publish.  I read the post again, live and on the internet. And because there's no threat of something I've written going viral,  I might edit again if something just isn't sitting right with me.  I also check to make sure my post published to my facebook account.

The last thing I do is take a deep breath. In more recent years the deep breath is accompanied by a conscious letting go. 

I hope for the best that my writing will be received well and I carry on with the rest of my night with these knuckleheads.

Like any good mother, I take every opportunity to dress them alike. Gramma and Grampa brought these T-shirts back from their recent trip to Portugal. The shirts say "My grandparents are cool." 

Chapstick is a really big deal around here. I try not to analyze how gross it is that they both find it delicious.

Shaky commitments

On my run this morning I was listening to some of the greats –you know, Ludacris, Jayzee, P Diddy, when a city bus blocked my path. The driver got out and strolled into the Starbucks. The passengers looked on, they didn’t seem the least bit peeved. It was Saturday after all.

The driver’s body language was unapologetic, he walked with one hand in his pants pocket, slow but deliberate, his hair trimmed neatly; he was handsome, maybe 35. He likes a good strong coffee, I thought. Maybe he’ likes a coffee joint who gives its employees a decent wage and benefits. Maybe he's an advocate of fair trade. Who knows?

I ran past, crunched the snow-covered boulevard, and went back to admiring Sean Kingston’s rapping. I had no clue what he was talking about but liked it nonetheless. 

I considered what I wanted to accomplish this year. I don’t bother much with resolutions but it’s almost impossible not to think about them a little when you’ve got a fresh new year ahead.

Over the Christmas break Deaglan called me out on one of my failings. “You never play with me anymore,” he said. Shaune looked up from his phone. This oughtta be good, he probably thought. I’ve said it before; I just don’t know how he does it. He plays with the kids all the time. Me? I cuddle. I kiss. I snuggle. I read. But I can’t seem to get the playing part down.

It feels like swimming to me.

When I’m in a pool for exercise purposes, 15 minutes feels like seven hours. And I keep looking up at the clock. But after that day, I tried harder. I started with the easy stuff. We played Candyland over and over. We did Spiderman puzzles. I’ve been working my way up to role play, the hardest kind of play for me. 

I just never know what to say when I have to be the evil Batman.

And I’ve been thinking about how little I wrote last year. It bothers me every single day because I think about writing almost all the time. But I don’t sit down to do it because well, because there’s laundry to fold, dishes to put away, the kids to snuggle, and I’m at work all day.

More play. More writing. Sounds good doesn’t it?

When you're a blogger

I took a few weeks off.

Mostly it was because work and home have demanded all of me, but there was also a small part that had to do with the need to reconsider, rethink  and maybe even regroup (sometimes alliteration is irresistible - sorry).

What is the purpose of my blogging I began to wonder. What am I really sharing? Am I sharing too much? Am I sharing the right things? Am I adding value to the few dozen people who stop by here every week? Am I writing out of obligation? 

Have I lost my momentum?

And also, I thought long on this need we bloggers have - the need for comments, our primal need for feedback, for connection, to hear that we've been heard. I've realized that for a small-timer like me, my traffic is a two way street. The people who are kind enough to read my posts and take the time to comment, well they rightfully want the same from me. Often lately though, I can't get to my friends' blogs to read and comment. I just can't find the time. So I've contemplated shutting this down.

But the thought broke my heart.

Because although the friendships I've found here are wonderful and the constant feedback addictive, these have been only secondary to the true impetus of my blogging. These modern times have gifted me, a once closet writer, a platform to express my essayist heart.

I don't want to give that up.

I didn't not write over the last few weeks because I had nothing to say. I didn't write because I wondered if it was fair to expect my fellow bloggers to read my stuff when I knew for sure there was no way  I could take the time to go to their sites, read and comment on their posts. Something else on my list, something else I could feel like I was failing. This reality weighed on me.

It didn't feel authentic but it was the truth.

I thought about some of the bloggers I admire. There're lots and lots of them but the ones who came to mind inspired me. I thought about Ann and Jim who turn their comments off, write without the need for constant feedback.  I thought about Rae who writes beautiful honest stuff every week and even though I've never discussed this or anything else with her, I'd be willing to bet that feedback has nothing to do with why she writes. I thought about Kelle and Glennon - oh Glennon you slay me with your gorgeous thoughts -  Kelle and Glennon who write with purpose and so much love.  

And of course I thought about Heather who writes with a pioneer's fearlessness.

Yeah, I reconsidered, rethought and regrouped. But I'm not sure I reconcluded because the thing about blogging for me is that it's become part of my feel-good routine. 

Give quality me to my family.
Show up for work.
Go to the gym.
Write.
Write something you can share with the Internet.

So that's it friends, the space my mind has been stuck in. I just can't keep up even with blogging. And I almost turned comments off but the need to hear  your thoughts, to know if you are feeling the same about your blogs, well it was irresistible.

I got a haircut and other fascinating tidbits

A few days ago when my friend popped by with her toddler, I was on the verge of apologizing for the disaster-state of my house when I realized I’d just finished cleaning it only an hour before. I let go of my need to make excuses, hoped she wasn’t taking silent inventory of the Cheerios I’d missed with the vacuum.

And I was going to give you some long-winded explanation about how I didn’t have time to style my hair before Shaune turned into a paparazzi snapping these terrible pictures of me without warning. But the truth is, I did style it and not only that, I asked him to take some photos of my new haircut for my blog. Sadly these are the best he could do with what I gave him. What can I say? This is how I usually look, with a few rare days of good hair in between.

There’s a feeling that washes over me every few weeks – a feeling which never fails to bring me down. It’s a wagging finger during my busiest times, when balance is elusive, the demands of work and family leaving me exhausted, too spent to indulge in my art. It convinces me that I will never amount to anything writerly, that inspiration when ignored too many times will stop showing up.

It’s the same feeling I get sometimes when I catch a glimpse of my aging 40 year old self - a mix of well it could be worse meets Really - this is what doing my best to eat right and exercise gets me now?

I had hopes of editing the two books I wrote last year on maternity leave, making this blog a regular place you stop by for sweet little stories, inspiration. Back then, I imagined myself this well-rested, working mom, writing on the side, running the odd half marathon.

I’ve been back to work ten months and I have to tell you: It’s hard. This living and working and raising a family - it is hard work. And none of it looks like the picture you had in your head. You know the picture I’m talking about? The GQ corporate life followed by the sweet obedient vegetable-eating children snug in their beds so you can have a few hours to pursue your other self.

But when I watched this old Ted talk a few days ago (I think it was right about the time Oprah demanded we all read Eat Pray Love) where Elizabeth Gilbert discusses the notion of nurturing your creativity, I realized that I could change my mind. Art doesn’t have an expiry date. I could focus guilt free on what’s right in front of me, write when I could. I loved the story she told about Tom Waits – looking up at the heavens after getting some of his best song inspirations while driving on the highway.

Really? When I’m driving and can’t stop to write this down – this is when you’re [inspiration] going to hit me?

And speaking of a short 40ish, slightly chubby Bengali woman giving fashion advice

This morning on facebook, my sweet friend Kelly posted something that struck me:

"I'm reading Isabel Allende's The Sum of Our Days. She shares how author Anne Lamott told her that "writer's block" is nonsense, and what happens is that sometimes the well has gone dry and has to be refilled. Where do you go to refill the well?"

It resonated with me because lately my well has been dry. Oh it's not that the kids aren't doing documentary-worth things, or that my life is going splendidly perfect so that I have nothing relatable to share with you.

It's me.

I feel quiet inside, and a little uninspired. And also I've been busy settling into some new routines which I'll talk about later after I've had a chance to process the changes. And then there's this: Every once in a while it hits me that I'm just putting myself out there and suddenly I feel shy. And stupid. I imagine people from high school talking about me. Shaking their heads adding this to the ever growing list of reasons I wasn't popular. And then I realize how stupid that is and shake it off.

At times like this I feel torn too. I think about all the really important personal stuff I rarely write about here, out of fear; out of a need to keep some boundaries. Some of which I think is highly human, common to all of us. Sometimes I read someone else's blog and feel like a fraud. I wish I'd written their beautiful words, come up with their brilliant posts. Then I let my small self curl up in a blanket of envy and write nothing for a few days until I end up on the other side of the dry spell.

I do something I wouldn't have dreamed of in my twenties or thirties. I step completely out of my comfort zone and ask my husband to take a photoshoot of me in some of my work clothes because after I wrote this post, my friend Shannon told me I should post pictures of some of my outfits. Knowing full well that I will cringe at the images because my stomach is flabby and I sometimes feel like the equivalent of the brown Dolly Parton.

Clearly at these times, I also ramble.

Top: Winner's this past summer, Cardi: Suzy Shier three years ago, Faux leather skirt and necklace: thrifted, Shoes: Marissa

I'm not sure what this look on my face is about. Possibly I was cold by this point. Or my feet hurt. If it comes to me I'll let you know.

Blouse and vest: thrifted, Pants: Smart Set, Shoes: Marissa. Child's shoe: Mexx

Sweater: Urban behaviour over five years ago, white sleeveless button down: Suzy Shier ages ago, Skirt: thrifted, Shoes: Le Chateau several years ago

What I wished I'd written and Halloween pictures

Lately there's been no time to write. Not even in my mind.

I hate that. 

Earlier in the week I wanted to tell you about Naveen's favourite word - cup. It sounds more like cap when he says it. He's obsessed with them. Especially the ones we're drinking from. Shaune finally learned to ask for an extra one at Tim Horton's. It sure does let you enjoy your coffee more. He just walks around holding that cup and chanting capcapcapcap.

And the other day when Deaglan accused me of calling him names because I said "Quit dilly dallying," I immediately thought of you. I knew you'd all get a kick out of that one. Also it's November and I signed up for NaNoWriMo again this year. But you know what I did last night when I finally could sit down with an hour to myself? I sipped on a glass of red wine and read my book - House Rules. 

Have you noticed my header? 

I haven't even gotten around to taking any Novemberish pictures to put up there. Maybe this weekend. Here are some pictures from Halloween.

 Gramma and Grampa came over on Sunday to carve pumpkins.

 We snapped some shots before it got dark and drizzly.

We made it all the way around the block. Deaglan asked to go home after the third house. We persevered. And most importantly? Enough kids came to our door that there are no Reese Peanut Butter cups left.

I have no self-control when it comes to chocolate and peanut butter.