It's taken me a week to write this blog; almost as long as it's taken me to recover from the hangover induced from a visit to Ottawa last weekend. It was a welcome respite - an evening with three women I've known since I was a young girl. The oldest relationship in the group is going on 30+ years, the youngest only slightly less than that.
I had high hopes for a weekend of relaxation and laughs - one that I sorely needed after yet another punishing week at work. I boarded the Porter Q-400 "stretch" dash 8 (thank you Porter for the most humane air travel experience I've had in some time) from the City Centre, now called "Billy Bishop" airport with Hurricane Irene bearing down on us. An hour and a few bumps later, I was in the old haunts of my youth, downtown Ottawa. It's funny how you think you'll just remember directions in a city you haven't lived in for decades. I didn't. Thank you iPhone.
It was surreal walking around the Byward market. In many ways it hasn't changed much in the twenty odd years since I'd left. The biggest difference I could see was traffic - Ottawa appears to be falling victim to the Toronto disease of gridlock. But mostly it was quiet, way too quiet for an area that appeared to be the busy heart of the city. I found myself walking behind pokey Ottawans as they worked their way through the market, wishing they'd hurry the eff up. It was shocking to realize just how much of my life was spent in overdrive, that even now, on vacation, I wanted shoppers in a street market to quicken their pace or get out of my way.
A short ride out to the 'burbs and I was happily ensconced in a suburban backyard, draped under the ubiquitous mosquito netting that makes sitting out all night drinking a pleasant activity, instead of a virtual slap-fest, or game of russian roulette with West Nile Virus. The table was festooned with nibbles, cheeses, veggies and spreads. Sandra had outdone herself, as usual.
Then the drinking began. Soon, the rest of the crew were there - Sarah, my oldest friend in the world and Anne, who I hadn't seen since my first wedding.
Slowly, the awkwardness melted away and years disappeared with each passing cocktail. We regaled each other with tales from our youth, weaving in stories about our more recent misadventures. Sadly there were many stories of heartbreak, divorce, wrenching custody battles, infidelity and general disappointment with their collective love lives. Having gone through all of that earlier than the others and now happily on the other side, I was able to at least give hope that things can and do, get better.
The thing that surprised me most was the laughter. It sounds like such a cliche that "I haven't laughed that hard in my life" but I honestly think the last time I laughed like that was in my teens, when these girls were absolutely everything to me. Years have passed and we've been spread out across the country - some farther than others - making this reunion almost impossible most of the time. And yet it wasn't impossible. Plane tickets are not that expensive. One night is all it really takes to catch up if time is a premium. But it took us more than 10 years to make this happen.
I think the temptation after a weekend like that is to try and recreate the past, to move back to an area where you had a prolonged period of good times, to try and make the magic happen again. In my experience, you really "can't go home". It's a sad, bittersweet truth, but once those times are gone, they are gone and you cannot relive them no matter how hard you try.
But I will say this: I felt relaxed, funny, appreciated and loved by these women while I shared one evening with them. They laughed at my jokes - and I mean really laughed - these women are a great audience. They wanted to hear my sob stories and the good stuff too. They wanted to entice me to "live near them", be it Ottawa or Vancouver Island. I felt good about myself by the time I left. That was nice for a change.
I guess the good news is, that if these people, who knew you before you were anything, still think you're worth hanging around with, you can't be all bad.
Let's hope it doesn't take us another 10 years to figure that out.
M
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Finding Home
What makes a place feel like home?
I'm not talking about tchotchkes, photos or decor. I'm talking about a deep knowledge that you are in the right place and the notion of leaving that place is almost unthinkable.
I haven't had that feeling for years.
We moved a fair amount when I was a child. Not military frequent moves, but often enough to have me in 3 different cities before I was 12. It unbalanced me a bit, I think. I cannot recall feeling much in the way of sadness or loss, anxiety or misery before I was 10, before the moves started. We were in a tiny house in a suburb of Oshawa and life was good. I had lots of friends, I played soccer and ringette. I was well liked. We didn't have a lot of "stuff" but we had a lot of relationships: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and a social network that my parent's nurtured (and hosted).
Then the first move happened.
We landed in Regina, Saskatchewan. After southern Ontario, Regina felt very foreign, like the surface of the moon. We knew no one. Sure we had our own rooms this time and a nicer house, but we were starting from zero. The people of the city were kind, friendly and we settled in eventually. But then it happened again, after 2 years in Regina (and minus 40 degree winters), we were off to Ottawa. I never felt at home in Regina, but I was sad to leave. And I was not looking forward to going through the whole process of moving, making new friends and settling into a new school.
Ottawa felt more like home, perhaps because we spent 7 years there, but my family moved again, this time to start a new business in Aurora. I took an ill-advised detour and stayed behind in Ottawa, as it had come to feel like home. That, and a new romance that had just blossomed, the idea of leaving seemed wrong. Twelve months and a few crappy apartments later, I moved to join them in Toronto.
Other than a two year stint in LA, most of my time since the age of nineteen has been spent in Toronto.
I really don't like Toronto. I've tried, I've really tried. I thought the reason I didn't like it was that we lived in the 'burbs and I spent too much time in the car. So I moved downtown 10 years ago. The first few years were good; the bars, restaurants and theaters seemed novel, exciting. Slowly the annoyances started to outweigh the benefits. I'd grown older, moved on, gotten married. Then the baby came and the city seemed abrasive, overwhelming.
Our little condo, while never a dream home, now seemed small and cramped. There was no room for our baby, once she'd outgrown her tiny cot. It was time to move. We entered one of the most ridiculous and frustrating periods in recent history - the latest Toronto real estate boom. Tiny, run down semis were and are, fetching half a million dollars. Scores of people line up to get involved in "bidding wars" where they inadvertently compete to pay too much for a home. At one point, James and I looked at each other and decided "no more". We didn't want to play.
In the interim, we've had to move twice. Our first rental was a nightmare. A beautiful new building and luxury apartment turned into non-stop cavalcade of thoughtless workmen, fire alarms, inconsiderate neighbors and relentless road noise. We were so happy we hadn't purchased it. Not only was it outrageously expensive, the levels of stress we experienced made it feel like anything but home.
So where are we now? A pleasant condo in Mimico in a well run building with a great view of the lake.
Is it home?
No.
We've been taking day trips to smaller towns around the GTA, trying to find something that feels like "home". Stratford was our first stop; it's a lovely little town outside Kitchener/Waterloo and the home of the Stratford Festival. Housing is cheap and plentiful, the town is well appointed and a "river runs through it." It has a lot going for it. But it's small, maybe too small. Unfortunately I stumbled across the Fraser Institute's site ranking schools in Ontario. Stratford's schools don't do very well, which is a deal breaker for James and I. Charlotte's education is very, very important to us. On top of that, with both our families in the GTA, we're more than likely looking at lots and lots of driving on the dreaded 401. Yikes.
Today we went to Guelph. Also a pretty town (in the city centre anyway) and home to a handful of very good schools. A real view of the town was marred by a series of intense thunderstorms; we'll need to go back to get a better sense of the city again.
But that feeling I was looking for, that exhale, that sigh, that tells you you're on to something wasn't there. Maybe it was hiding under the storm clouds blanketing the city.
I think we'll need to keep looking...
M
I'm not talking about tchotchkes, photos or decor. I'm talking about a deep knowledge that you are in the right place and the notion of leaving that place is almost unthinkable.
I haven't had that feeling for years.
We moved a fair amount when I was a child. Not military frequent moves, but often enough to have me in 3 different cities before I was 12. It unbalanced me a bit, I think. I cannot recall feeling much in the way of sadness or loss, anxiety or misery before I was 10, before the moves started. We were in a tiny house in a suburb of Oshawa and life was good. I had lots of friends, I played soccer and ringette. I was well liked. We didn't have a lot of "stuff" but we had a lot of relationships: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and a social network that my parent's nurtured (and hosted).
Then the first move happened.
We landed in Regina, Saskatchewan. After southern Ontario, Regina felt very foreign, like the surface of the moon. We knew no one. Sure we had our own rooms this time and a nicer house, but we were starting from zero. The people of the city were kind, friendly and we settled in eventually. But then it happened again, after 2 years in Regina (and minus 40 degree winters), we were off to Ottawa. I never felt at home in Regina, but I was sad to leave. And I was not looking forward to going through the whole process of moving, making new friends and settling into a new school.
Ottawa felt more like home, perhaps because we spent 7 years there, but my family moved again, this time to start a new business in Aurora. I took an ill-advised detour and stayed behind in Ottawa, as it had come to feel like home. That, and a new romance that had just blossomed, the idea of leaving seemed wrong. Twelve months and a few crappy apartments later, I moved to join them in Toronto.
Other than a two year stint in LA, most of my time since the age of nineteen has been spent in Toronto.
I really don't like Toronto. I've tried, I've really tried. I thought the reason I didn't like it was that we lived in the 'burbs and I spent too much time in the car. So I moved downtown 10 years ago. The first few years were good; the bars, restaurants and theaters seemed novel, exciting. Slowly the annoyances started to outweigh the benefits. I'd grown older, moved on, gotten married. Then the baby came and the city seemed abrasive, overwhelming.
Our little condo, while never a dream home, now seemed small and cramped. There was no room for our baby, once she'd outgrown her tiny cot. It was time to move. We entered one of the most ridiculous and frustrating periods in recent history - the latest Toronto real estate boom. Tiny, run down semis were and are, fetching half a million dollars. Scores of people line up to get involved in "bidding wars" where they inadvertently compete to pay too much for a home. At one point, James and I looked at each other and decided "no more". We didn't want to play.
In the interim, we've had to move twice. Our first rental was a nightmare. A beautiful new building and luxury apartment turned into non-stop cavalcade of thoughtless workmen, fire alarms, inconsiderate neighbors and relentless road noise. We were so happy we hadn't purchased it. Not only was it outrageously expensive, the levels of stress we experienced made it feel like anything but home.
So where are we now? A pleasant condo in Mimico in a well run building with a great view of the lake.
Is it home?
No.
We've been taking day trips to smaller towns around the GTA, trying to find something that feels like "home". Stratford was our first stop; it's a lovely little town outside Kitchener/Waterloo and the home of the Stratford Festival. Housing is cheap and plentiful, the town is well appointed and a "river runs through it." It has a lot going for it. But it's small, maybe too small. Unfortunately I stumbled across the Fraser Institute's site ranking schools in Ontario. Stratford's schools don't do very well, which is a deal breaker for James and I. Charlotte's education is very, very important to us. On top of that, with both our families in the GTA, we're more than likely looking at lots and lots of driving on the dreaded 401. Yikes.
Today we went to Guelph. Also a pretty town (in the city centre anyway) and home to a handful of very good schools. A real view of the town was marred by a series of intense thunderstorms; we'll need to go back to get a better sense of the city again.
But that feeling I was looking for, that exhale, that sigh, that tells you you're on to something wasn't there. Maybe it was hiding under the storm clouds blanketing the city.
I think we'll need to keep looking...
M
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Rest In Peace, Bill Jamieson
A few years ago, my sister, Tracey Cox and I co-wrote a book called "The Successful Rebel". It's a self-help book my sister came up with after searching for some guidance for "unconventional" people and their unique careers. She found a dearth of material out there about people who had eschewed traditional paths and yet were still successful. We interviewed a group of astonishing people to see what had helped them get to where they were and one of them was Bill Jamieson, of Jamieson Tribal Arts.
Bill died suddenly on July 3, 2011. We found out about it when a magazine contacted my husband requesting permission to print Bill's picture from the photo shoot we did for The Successful Rebel. I was quite surprised and saddened to hear he had passed. Bill was a very young 57 - lively, engaged, healthy and appeared to be very happy. He was also only 14 years older than me, and 10 years older than my sister, so it hit us harder than either of us expected.
What struck me most about Bill was his childlike wonder for the world and how much he loved his "job". It was really more of a calling, actually, and he had spooky recollections of how he came to be in the unusual line of work. When my husband, photographer James Ireland, and I visited Bill to take his portrait for the book, I was 4 months pregnant and showing already. I remember Bill making a comment that "we didn't waste any time" when hearing we'd only been married for a year before conceiving. He just assumed we were young, I guess, in much the same way he considered himself eternally young.
He was warm and welcoming in his amazing space. I'd truly never seen anything like it before and I doubt I'll ever see anything like it again: mummies, coffins, shrunken heads, exotic taxidermy, tribal masks, shields... an electric chair. It was a stunning collection of artifacts. We set up our clunky lighting equipment amongst all of these priceless pieces without Bill batting an eyelash. He was surprised by the trouble we were going to and flattered, it appeared. He even let me wrap his torso in yards and yards of gauze to evoke the mummies that had made him so famous (and wealthy). He worked with us for hours to get the right shot, never complaining, telling us amazing stories about how'd he'd come to have this or that piece, how he discovered Ramses the first, the amazing twists and turns his life had taken.
James was struck by his lack of pretension. I was struck by his enthusiasm for what he did. I was jealous of it, actually, as I am whenever I meet someone who is managing to pay the bills doing something they love. When we saw all three levels of the place, we knew he was doing more than just "paying the bills". He was flourishing.
We left that day with our tons of equipment and Bill and Jessica helped us get it to the car. He could have just shown us the door and hastily shooed us out, but he was far too polite and helpful for that. In the weeks and months following he invited us to many of his bashes. I wish we'd been able to attend but between my progressing pregnancy and James' health, it never made sense to go. Now I wish I had, at least once.
Tracey attended the Memorial Service last week and shared the following.
For our dear friend, Billy Jamieson… Long may your freak flag fly.
We first became aware of the force of nature that was Billy Jamieson when we interviewed him for our book, “The Successful Rebel”. Billy was an incredibly interesting interview subject, and his views on life, love and success were always commented upon when someone told us that they had read our book.
Billy was everyone’s hero, with the fantastical tale of his discovery of Ramses the first’s mummy and its subsequent journey back to the Cairo Museum. The romance and love of Egyptian culture and history calls to many of us, and it seemed that all of our readers wanted to know more about Billy Jamieson.
Billy told us many stories during the interview process, and after some reflection he would phone the next day and say things like “oh, you better not print that, someone might not like that." Billy was well aware that not everyone on earth was as open minded as himself, so it would have been nice to have written everything that he talked about. Every single story was so inspiring, and if someone judged him negatively, then perhaps they were really missing the point of being a Successful Rebel. They probably wouldn’t like our book either.
Billy’s business was called Golden Chariot Productions, and he told us the story of the name when we first started interviewing him. He was on a spiritual quest earlier in his life, and Billy met a Shaman in South America and did a ceremony where he had a vision. The vision was of a Golden Chariot, coming down to earth and picking Billy up. He then flew over the sands and pyramids of Egypt, never knowing that later in his life he would be flying the mummy of Ramses the first home to these same pyramids. It was his spirit guides sending him a message of the future. We all have dreams like this, it’s just very difficult to decipher them at the time. But Billy knew that it was a sign, and he got on with things. That was what everyone admired about him, he would make a decision and just get on with things, charming people into being just as enthusiastic as he was.
At his memorial service on July 26th which was held at the Liberty Grand in Toronto, a massive outpouring of love and admiration was offered to his family, from the crowd of approximately 1500 Billy fans. A diverse cross section of artists, collectors, business people, and entertainment industry insiders shared stories about Billy and offered support for the loved ones left behind. We hope and pray that Billy’s work in the area of art and antiquities will continue in some form, and that his Golden Chariot will continue to fly.
I didn't know Bill well, but I am glad to have met him.
On to the next great adventure, Billy!
Warmest Regards,
M
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Facing Facts
There are times in your life when you have to be honest about where you're at. And it can be very tough to realize that certain things just aren't going to happen.
My list has gotten longer lately.
I am struggling to accept the following things about myself:
I will probably never be a thin person.
I've been struggling with my weight my entire life (or at least since I was 10 years old) and it never gets any better or any easier. In fact, my latest attempt to "do something" about this tripped off a binge of epic proportions. I'd been berating myself for not getting on top of my expanding waistline, wondering where all those years had gone since I vowed to get thin. How could I have let it go on so long, get so out of control? I know why now. Even thinking about changing my eating habits made me want everything I "couldn't have". We had to go on a low carb, sugar free diet for my husband's illness (new medications) and I immediately started eating compulsively, even though the food we were eating was delicious and plentiful. I've become so attuned to restricting my food that the mere contemplation of it generates a vicious backlash. I read an article on the National Post the other day that at least made me feel a bit less guilty about this. With the level of stress in my life these days, it's no wonder I cling to my drug of choice so fervently. Yuck.
I will probably never work as a screenwriter.
I have spent at least 10 years of concerted effort (and a number of years frittering away my time and energy) trying to get a career in screenwriting off the ground. I attended UCLA, the best school in the world for screenwriting, and even followed it up with a stint at the Canadian Film Centre. I had a film pre-selected for Cannes for effs sake. But I couldn't make it happen. I tried folks, I really tried, but it just did not work. And now I have no love or passion for it. I see movies coming out of Hollywood and with a few notable exceptions, cannot imagine myself writing them. With so many fresh faces pouring out of film schools every year, and so many talented writers already scrambling for the handful of script assignments there are, this is mission impossible. Or rather, I don't have the stomach for the game any more, so there's no point trying. That was expensive. And a lot of work.
I will probably never have a second child.
This one surprised me. As I mentioned on an earlier blog, I never thought I'd want more than one, or even expect I could/should have more than one. In spite of my advanced age, (I'm 43), in spite of the fact that I have stage 4 endometriosis, and in spite of all evidence to the contrary, I assumed that because I got pregnant once, that I could just "do it again" at the drop of a hat. A few days ago, I got a blood test done that measured my day 3 hormones, (the dreaded CD3 tests that strike fear into many women's hearts) and low and behold, I got my first taste of impending menopause. After staying relatively stable below 10 until a year ago, my FSH levels have ratcheted up to 14, making the likelihood of a spontaneous pregnancy almost impossible. Unfortunately, as my doctor informed me, it's not enough to use for birth control, but it's highly unlikely anything will happen. So now I'm stuck between wondering if it's possible and protecting against it if it is? In my heart of hearts, I know it's not going to happen and it probably shouldn't. I'm old. I'm grey. I'm tired. And my husband is sick. We're done. But it makes me sad.
I've entertained a litany of other fantasies about myself, spurred on by the fact that I (used to be) young and that anything can happen. So...
I will probably never be a rock star.
I will probably never be a model, (not even a plus size model).
I will probably never live in the South of France (or Napa, or even Niagara) in my own vineyard.
I will probably never perform on a large (or small) stage.
I will probably never get a PhD.
I will probably never host my own talk show.
I will never be on Oprah (but then again, no one will now, the show's done).
Funny, while writing that list I felt very uncomfortable. Like letting go of the dream was too painful. So I added "probably" to my statements.
I mean, who knows.
Perhaps I'm not ready to face facts?
M
My list has gotten longer lately.
I am struggling to accept the following things about myself:
I will probably never be a thin person.
I've been struggling with my weight my entire life (or at least since I was 10 years old) and it never gets any better or any easier. In fact, my latest attempt to "do something" about this tripped off a binge of epic proportions. I'd been berating myself for not getting on top of my expanding waistline, wondering where all those years had gone since I vowed to get thin. How could I have let it go on so long, get so out of control? I know why now. Even thinking about changing my eating habits made me want everything I "couldn't have". We had to go on a low carb, sugar free diet for my husband's illness (new medications) and I immediately started eating compulsively, even though the food we were eating was delicious and plentiful. I've become so attuned to restricting my food that the mere contemplation of it generates a vicious backlash. I read an article on the National Post the other day that at least made me feel a bit less guilty about this. With the level of stress in my life these days, it's no wonder I cling to my drug of choice so fervently. Yuck.
I will probably never work as a screenwriter.
I have spent at least 10 years of concerted effort (and a number of years frittering away my time and energy) trying to get a career in screenwriting off the ground. I attended UCLA, the best school in the world for screenwriting, and even followed it up with a stint at the Canadian Film Centre. I had a film pre-selected for Cannes for effs sake. But I couldn't make it happen. I tried folks, I really tried, but it just did not work. And now I have no love or passion for it. I see movies coming out of Hollywood and with a few notable exceptions, cannot imagine myself writing them. With so many fresh faces pouring out of film schools every year, and so many talented writers already scrambling for the handful of script assignments there are, this is mission impossible. Or rather, I don't have the stomach for the game any more, so there's no point trying. That was expensive. And a lot of work.
I will probably never have a second child.
This one surprised me. As I mentioned on an earlier blog, I never thought I'd want more than one, or even expect I could/should have more than one. In spite of my advanced age, (I'm 43), in spite of the fact that I have stage 4 endometriosis, and in spite of all evidence to the contrary, I assumed that because I got pregnant once, that I could just "do it again" at the drop of a hat. A few days ago, I got a blood test done that measured my day 3 hormones, (the dreaded CD3 tests that strike fear into many women's hearts) and low and behold, I got my first taste of impending menopause. After staying relatively stable below 10 until a year ago, my FSH levels have ratcheted up to 14, making the likelihood of a spontaneous pregnancy almost impossible. Unfortunately, as my doctor informed me, it's not enough to use for birth control, but it's highly unlikely anything will happen. So now I'm stuck between wondering if it's possible and protecting against it if it is? In my heart of hearts, I know it's not going to happen and it probably shouldn't. I'm old. I'm grey. I'm tired. And my husband is sick. We're done. But it makes me sad.
I've entertained a litany of other fantasies about myself, spurred on by the fact that I (used to be) young and that anything can happen. So...
I will probably never be a rock star.
I will probably never be a model, (not even a plus size model).
I will probably never live in the South of France (or Napa, or even Niagara) in my own vineyard.
I will probably never perform on a large (or small) stage.
I will probably never get a PhD.
I will probably never host my own talk show.
I will never be on Oprah (but then again, no one will now, the show's done).
Funny, while writing that list I felt very uncomfortable. Like letting go of the dream was too painful. So I added "probably" to my statements.
I mean, who knows.
Perhaps I'm not ready to face facts?
M
Sunday, July 17, 2011
The Cure For Sunday Nightitis
Last we talked, which was some time ago (apologies, I fell victim to the common blogger problem - head full of steam out of the gate, then burnout), I was complaining about how work really begins on Sunday. The fretting, the worrying, the anticipation of trouble. It was almost as if you should just clock in and get it over with.
Well, quite by accident, I discovered the cure. Schedule yourself from morning until night on Sunday, but this time, with fun stuff. For the last two weekends, we've had very busy Sundays. First with our daughter's 2nd birthday party (thank you grandpa & grandma for organizing that for us) and this week with a trip to friends for visiting, swimming and a small feast.
In the past, I'd always reserved Sundays for "recovery" so that I'd arrive to work on Monday morning rested and ready to go. What I've found, however, is that by doing so, you start to do work, mentally, for hours before you're actually at work. In essence, you rob yourself and your family of your time by doing this. And it's not like it makes the week any easier. All that work is still waiting for you.
Which brings me to the second thing I talked about last week. Working 9-6 and no more than that.
Ha.
That didn't go as planned.
Day one I got up early, before hubby and baby and thought "I'll just get this out of the way before she wakes up." So I started work at around 7am and essentially didn't knock off until about 7 that night. But, I must say, I did take care of some personal stuff during the day, so the actual number of hours I worked was only about 8. But I lost most of my day and evening threading it through work responsibilities.
Working from home has benefits, and drawbacks, but it certainly blurs the lines between work and personal time.
Well, quite by accident, I discovered the cure. Schedule yourself from morning until night on Sunday, but this time, with fun stuff. For the last two weekends, we've had very busy Sundays. First with our daughter's 2nd birthday party (thank you grandpa & grandma for organizing that for us) and this week with a trip to friends for visiting, swimming and a small feast.
In the past, I'd always reserved Sundays for "recovery" so that I'd arrive to work on Monday morning rested and ready to go. What I've found, however, is that by doing so, you start to do work, mentally, for hours before you're actually at work. In essence, you rob yourself and your family of your time by doing this. And it's not like it makes the week any easier. All that work is still waiting for you.
Which brings me to the second thing I talked about last week. Working 9-6 and no more than that.
Ha.
That didn't go as planned.
Day one I got up early, before hubby and baby and thought "I'll just get this out of the way before she wakes up." So I started work at around 7am and essentially didn't knock off until about 7 that night. But, I must say, I did take care of some personal stuff during the day, so the actual number of hours I worked was only about 8. But I lost most of my day and evening threading it through work responsibilities.
Working from home has benefits, and drawbacks, but it certainly blurs the lines between work and personal time.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Sunday Nightitis
Why do we feel so compelled to rob the present to serve the future?
It's only 4PM on the Sunday of a long weekend and I've already started to worry about work, already started to mentally plan all of the tasks I have to accomplish and silently composing email in my head.
I kinda hate Sundays. They're a day off, which is great, but they're bittersweet, because they come tinged with sadness. You know you can't stay up late, or go out, because you're facing the most dreaded day of the week, Monday. Sometimes I think I should just work fewer hour, 7 days a week to keep this from happening. I'm not being flippant. It's like summer holidays with children - you almost forget what you learned and spend the first few days of the week adjusting.
For me, weekends are a bit of a struggle. Did I do too little or too much? Will I feel rested and rejuvenated or worn out? This weekend I decided to do nothing, the second such weekend in a row (gasp). For the most part, other than a brief shopping trip performed when Char was napping and Daddy was happily ensconced in front of the TV watching baseball, I did nothing. Did I feel rejuvenated? Actually no, I felt like a slug. So the balance, this weekend went too far to the "do nothing" side.
Unfortunately, having time on my hands gave me time to start thinking about my week. And I have to admit, dread crawled in there and took up residence. Not a good sign, in my humble opinion. The drive to the next weekend begins Monday morning and we find ourselves wishing our days away. Before you know it, you're 50 and looking back and thinking, what happened? I don't think that's what we're meant to do or why we're on the planet. I could be wrong.
I promised myself I'd do one thing differently this week. I will only work between 9am and 6pm this one week as an experiment to see if it will lower my stress levels. It will be surprisingly difficult, I think. It's a huge week and people have become very accustomed to me responding to email and even phone calls until I go to bed. On one such occasion, I was trying to put my daughter in her crib when the phone vibrated, over and over again. You can't imagine the angst spiral that came out of that experience.
But boundaries are my responsibility, not theirs.
And so I start this week, trying not to be mentally "on the clock" just yet, with a view to keeping my hours to 45. At least I don't view 40 hours as part time, like so many people right now.
Wish me luck!
It's only 4PM on the Sunday of a long weekend and I've already started to worry about work, already started to mentally plan all of the tasks I have to accomplish and silently composing email in my head.
I kinda hate Sundays. They're a day off, which is great, but they're bittersweet, because they come tinged with sadness. You know you can't stay up late, or go out, because you're facing the most dreaded day of the week, Monday. Sometimes I think I should just work fewer hour, 7 days a week to keep this from happening. I'm not being flippant. It's like summer holidays with children - you almost forget what you learned and spend the first few days of the week adjusting.
For me, weekends are a bit of a struggle. Did I do too little or too much? Will I feel rested and rejuvenated or worn out? This weekend I decided to do nothing, the second such weekend in a row (gasp). For the most part, other than a brief shopping trip performed when Char was napping and Daddy was happily ensconced in front of the TV watching baseball, I did nothing. Did I feel rejuvenated? Actually no, I felt like a slug. So the balance, this weekend went too far to the "do nothing" side.
Unfortunately, having time on my hands gave me time to start thinking about my week. And I have to admit, dread crawled in there and took up residence. Not a good sign, in my humble opinion. The drive to the next weekend begins Monday morning and we find ourselves wishing our days away. Before you know it, you're 50 and looking back and thinking, what happened? I don't think that's what we're meant to do or why we're on the planet. I could be wrong.
I promised myself I'd do one thing differently this week. I will only work between 9am and 6pm this one week as an experiment to see if it will lower my stress levels. It will be surprisingly difficult, I think. It's a huge week and people have become very accustomed to me responding to email and even phone calls until I go to bed. On one such occasion, I was trying to put my daughter in her crib when the phone vibrated, over and over again. You can't imagine the angst spiral that came out of that experience.
But boundaries are my responsibility, not theirs.
And so I start this week, trying not to be mentally "on the clock" just yet, with a view to keeping my hours to 45. At least I don't view 40 hours as part time, like so many people right now.
Wish me luck!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Bad Parenting
Most days I feel like a bad parent.
Don't get me wrong, Char is loved and adored beyond compare. She is the light of my life and my number one priority, but all my wonderful plans for how I was going to raise this "free range baby" have evaporated along with adequate sleep.
It's a slippery slope, this descent into (far) less than perfect, and it began waaaay back before she was even conceived. I had read, and believed, that one should basically live like a monk in the year leading up to the blessed event (and I don't mean the birth) so that the "vessel" could be pure and conception "perfect". It all started out OK, with organic, gluten free, dairy free, home made portion controlled meals I slaved over all weekend, but quickly descended into frequent trips to Dairy Queen for a Blizzard.
I also remember reading that stress was bad for conception and that it should be avoided at all costs if you wanted to get pregnant. At the time I was working in a newsroom; hardly a peaceful environment for planting the seed. I was sure there was no way I'd be able to get pregnant working at that job and was busily trying to engineer a way out. And then it happened. In one of the most stressful weeks in my professional career: a federal election, the launch of a new video service and a company takeover, it happened. I got pregnant. Fully and totally stressed out, while living off fast food and coffee.
Go figure.
I decided as soon as I heard, I'd eat like a monk again. And it worked, for a short period of time until the nausea hit. Then, for some unknown reason I was craving lunch meat (great - hello listeriosis?) and could only keep down crackers, potato chips and hard candies to keep from retching at work. Hardly a diet that would build a super baby, but she stuck around. Things got better in the 2nd trimester after a close call with gestational diabetes, and then slid back into a bad place with the siren call of Blizzards and home baked muffins and cookies at the end. Curiously, I only gained 7 pounds.
All the diet stuff aside, we were also trying to have a natural birth. We hired a doula, got a midwife and attended classes in HypnoBirthing. This, I can actually say, we did very well. We were great students, did all our homework and dutifully attended the classes. We were feeling pretty good about our chances to have a natural birth. But Char had other plans. Two weeks late and every last idea we had was shot to sh*t. I won't bore you with the details again, but it wasn't pretty. So that little attempt at being a "natural" mom didn't work either.
Then came breast feeding. Anyone who knows me, knows my boobs. It's not like I showcase them, it's just that you can't avoid them. I have to say when I was about 18 years old they were pretty impressive and for a brief time I did let them out to be seen. But within a few years the weight and the wardrobe crept back over them like a glacier over the rockies. Still, there are some things you can't hide. So it would follow, you'd think, that breast feeding wouldn't just be easy, it would be resplendent! I imagined poor Char overwhelmed by the torrent of motherly love pouring her way. We (James and I) became strident advocates of the practice before we'd even tried it. What could be more natural? More normal?
In yet another cosmic joke, that didn't work out either. And it wasn't from lack of trying. My poor little girl lost weight in the first few weeks, trying desperately to get those giant orbs functioning. I remember her tiny hand coming down on the side of my massive breast, slapping it, to try and "make it go." No dice. What followed was a cavalcade of visitors all well versed in breast feeding, with tricks, techniques, pumps, herbal teas and admonitions to "lock ourselves in the bedroom for 24 hours" to get things worked out.
Hah.
What surprised me about all this was the lengths that "natural" folks were willing to go - even using an off-label pharmaceutical to try and get things moving. That didn't seem very natural to me. There's a real lack of understanding about this from the natural birthing community when it doesn't work out. It felt like a massive failure. Not long after I finally gave up, I was told my hormones had made it pretty much impossible to breast feed. But that didn't take the sting away; to this day I wish it had worked out. Because according to the "experts" my daughter won't be as smart, healthy, well adjusted, resilient or feel as loved as if I had been able to breast feed her.
The final frontier was TV. We had said we wouldn't watch TV with Char. Perhaps the odd episode of Sesame Street, but in no way would it be a part of our everyday lives.
Wow. Were we out to lunch on that one.
Between my job, our collective ages (we're elderly, dude) and James' illness, a few episodes of Max & Ruby has made the difference between sanity and madness. And I feel bad every minute she watches. I feel like I've set her up for ADHD, depression, obesity and just about any other societal ill you can blame on non-specific sources.
So there it is. Our dream of a free range baby conceived on organic kale, grown in a beautiful broth of nuts and berries, birthed at home in a tub, exclusively breast fed and given nothing but books and wooden toys has turned into... every other kid I know.
And I wouldn't trade her for the world.
Don't get me wrong, Char is loved and adored beyond compare. She is the light of my life and my number one priority, but all my wonderful plans for how I was going to raise this "free range baby" have evaporated along with adequate sleep.
It's a slippery slope, this descent into (far) less than perfect, and it began waaaay back before she was even conceived. I had read, and believed, that one should basically live like a monk in the year leading up to the blessed event (and I don't mean the birth) so that the "vessel" could be pure and conception "perfect". It all started out OK, with organic, gluten free, dairy free, home made portion controlled meals I slaved over all weekend, but quickly descended into frequent trips to Dairy Queen for a Blizzard.
I also remember reading that stress was bad for conception and that it should be avoided at all costs if you wanted to get pregnant. At the time I was working in a newsroom; hardly a peaceful environment for planting the seed. I was sure there was no way I'd be able to get pregnant working at that job and was busily trying to engineer a way out. And then it happened. In one of the most stressful weeks in my professional career: a federal election, the launch of a new video service and a company takeover, it happened. I got pregnant. Fully and totally stressed out, while living off fast food and coffee.
Go figure.
I decided as soon as I heard, I'd eat like a monk again. And it worked, for a short period of time until the nausea hit. Then, for some unknown reason I was craving lunch meat (great - hello listeriosis?) and could only keep down crackers, potato chips and hard candies to keep from retching at work. Hardly a diet that would build a super baby, but she stuck around. Things got better in the 2nd trimester after a close call with gestational diabetes, and then slid back into a bad place with the siren call of Blizzards and home baked muffins and cookies at the end. Curiously, I only gained 7 pounds.
All the diet stuff aside, we were also trying to have a natural birth. We hired a doula, got a midwife and attended classes in HypnoBirthing. This, I can actually say, we did very well. We were great students, did all our homework and dutifully attended the classes. We were feeling pretty good about our chances to have a natural birth. But Char had other plans. Two weeks late and every last idea we had was shot to sh*t. I won't bore you with the details again, but it wasn't pretty. So that little attempt at being a "natural" mom didn't work either.
Then came breast feeding. Anyone who knows me, knows my boobs. It's not like I showcase them, it's just that you can't avoid them. I have to say when I was about 18 years old they were pretty impressive and for a brief time I did let them out to be seen. But within a few years the weight and the wardrobe crept back over them like a glacier over the rockies. Still, there are some things you can't hide. So it would follow, you'd think, that breast feeding wouldn't just be easy, it would be resplendent! I imagined poor Char overwhelmed by the torrent of motherly love pouring her way. We (James and I) became strident advocates of the practice before we'd even tried it. What could be more natural? More normal?
In yet another cosmic joke, that didn't work out either. And it wasn't from lack of trying. My poor little girl lost weight in the first few weeks, trying desperately to get those giant orbs functioning. I remember her tiny hand coming down on the side of my massive breast, slapping it, to try and "make it go." No dice. What followed was a cavalcade of visitors all well versed in breast feeding, with tricks, techniques, pumps, herbal teas and admonitions to "lock ourselves in the bedroom for 24 hours" to get things worked out.
Hah.
What surprised me about all this was the lengths that "natural" folks were willing to go - even using an off-label pharmaceutical to try and get things moving. That didn't seem very natural to me. There's a real lack of understanding about this from the natural birthing community when it doesn't work out. It felt like a massive failure. Not long after I finally gave up, I was told my hormones had made it pretty much impossible to breast feed. But that didn't take the sting away; to this day I wish it had worked out. Because according to the "experts" my daughter won't be as smart, healthy, well adjusted, resilient or feel as loved as if I had been able to breast feed her.
The final frontier was TV. We had said we wouldn't watch TV with Char. Perhaps the odd episode of Sesame Street, but in no way would it be a part of our everyday lives.
Wow. Were we out to lunch on that one.
Between my job, our collective ages (we're elderly, dude) and James' illness, a few episodes of Max & Ruby has made the difference between sanity and madness. And I feel bad every minute she watches. I feel like I've set her up for ADHD, depression, obesity and just about any other societal ill you can blame on non-specific sources.
So there it is. Our dream of a free range baby conceived on organic kale, grown in a beautiful broth of nuts and berries, birthed at home in a tub, exclusively breast fed and given nothing but books and wooden toys has turned into... every other kid I know.
And I wouldn't trade her for the world.
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