The one where I look dumb in front of a Buddhist monk

Just about five and a half years ago Rob and I were traveling in a remote, mountainous area of northern Thailand when we stumbled across a Buddhist monastery.

We were awestruck by its beauty and felt almost as though we had stumbled into a magical rabbit's hole as we explored it.

For the longest time, there didn't seem to be anyone around, but then we noticed the wispy figure of a young, yellow-robed monk watching us from a distance. We smiled and waved and he smiled back and continued to discreetly shadow us.

After a few minutes he approached us with a wide grin. "Come," he said. "Come with me."

And so we followed him through the series of temples to a little house tucked away inside the complex. We followed him all the way inside where he bowed deferentially, presented us to a wizened, old man and quickly disappeared.

We were uncertain what to do next, but the old monk smiled and gestured.

"Sit, sit with me."

And so we sat while he poured tea into plastic cups for us from a tall metal canister. It was clear that he encountered few visitors and was curious. He asked us questions in halting English: where were we from and what had brought us here? In no time, he smiled shyly and pulled out a book of faded newspaper clippings with photos of him with various dignitaries meant, I assume, to demonstrate to us that he was quite celebrated as a Buddhist leader.

We were completely charmed, but after several minutes of small talk silence overtook us and the visit started to feel a little awkward. Rob and I were unsure of what to do next. Should we leave? Would that offend him? Were we overstaying our welcome by not leaving?

He watched us carefully and then very deliberately pulled out an exquisitely-carved pill box and removed three large, white tablets. He put one in his mouth and handed one to Rob and one to me.

"For you," he said. "You must take this."

I looked at Rob and saw my own trepidation reflected on his face. Could we? Should we? What were the dangers inherent in ingesting some unknown pharmaceutical from some mystical religious leader in a remote region known for opium production? What were the implications of refusing and mortally offending the gentle and hospitable spiritual leader who had generously welcomed us into his home?

I gulped. Rob gulped.

Our eyes met as our new friend watched with interest. Finally Rob gave a slight nod and swallowed the pill with a shrug. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I did the same.

My stomach was in nervous knots but I sighed, steeled myself and forced a smile at my host.

And he smiled back and leaned in close.

"It's Vitamin C," he whispered. "It's very good for you...you don't look so good."

Indeed I didn't.

And why am I telling you this story?

Well, LeeAnne wrote a little something over at Don Mills Diva Recipes and Reviews that brought back some fond memories of Thailand for me. I ate some of the most delicious food I've ever tasted while traveling there and if anyone is capable of recreating those delicious memories, it's LeeAnne. Check it out!

Reclaiming Arizona

Did you know that I used to live in Arizona?

Some of the people I today consider my closest friends may not even know that. Or they perhaps have only a vague recollection of that fact: an interesting anecdote about their Toronto-based friend. Wife. Mother.

I first stepped on Arizona soil 16 years ago. I was in the middle of a two- month road trip across the United States with a (platonic) male friend. The minute I crossed the state line I felt something special. I felt moved by the red rocks and wild horses and endless sky.

“Life’s too short not to live in Arizona,” I announced to my boyfriend when I got home. He believed me. And for the next year and a half we saved and planned and researched and I dreamed of ancient canyons and blooming sage.

In June of 1994 we sold all of our possessions, jumped into a jeep convertible and started to drive. We had no jobs, no green cards and very little money. When we hit Phoenix five days later I remember being hot, tried and disoriented. But I had never felt more alive.

Carving out a life was hard. The very first night we huddled beneath the sheets in our cheap hotel room when the junkies came banging at the door, cursing and demanding we let them in. The next night a man lighting a crack pipe veered my way and fell into me as I talked to my mother on a pay phone, assuring her that everything was fine.

Eventually it was. We left the first neighborhood within days and found one that was livable. Our apartment cost $390 a month. It was one room with a Murphy Bed and sometimes we would find cockroaches, more than two inches long, that had inexplicably died on our kitchen floor. Once we found a dead scorpion almost twice as large.

We secured illegal jobs right away. I started work as a nanny and tourist guide for two preteen girls that were visiting their divorced father from out-of-state for the summer. My boyfriend hung around in front of a convenience store with Mexicans every day, waiting to be picked up by landscapers who worked him like a dog in the summer sun and paid $7 an hour cash before dropping him off at the end of the day. He always got picked first. He was white.

In the evenings we cooked our food on the barbecue grills found throughout the apartment grounds, swam in the pool and talked about how we’d make our fortune and build a huge hacienda in the desert.

In the fall we moved to a better apartment complex with a bigger pool and more barbecue grills. We joked that we lived at Melrose Place though we had never been so poor. We sold aluminum cans to recycling centers to get by. I got another job as a nanny for a wealthy family with two boys, one biological, one adopted. The adopted one had been abused as a baby and his rage and confusion was destroying the family that was trying to nurture him.

I joined a writer’s group. My boyfriend started playing trumpet for a ska band that quickly became a local sensation.

We had countless visitors from Canada and I beamed with pride as I showed them my Arizona. We visited Flagstaff and Tucson and Tombstone. On weekends we would go camping in the desert.

My best friend Julie who was living in Los Angeles at the time became suddenly, gravely ill. With one day’s notice I drove all night to a hospital in North Hollywood to hold her hand. I thanked God that I was living in Arizona and able to make it just hours before she died.

I lost my job as a nanny when the younger boy I was minding was made a ward of the state after his family determined they couldn’t control his increasingly violent and disturbing behavior. He was ten. I got a new job, baby-sitting for a family who lived in an apartment complex down the street. I admired their neat-as-a-pin surroundings until I learned the mother was a meta-amphetamine addict who cleaned it frantically when high.

I published some articles in the local newspapers. I interviewed two of Canada’s most popular bands Blue Rodeo and The Tragically Hip when they passed through. I organized a Terry Fox Run for cancer research, Arizona’s first. I met a lot of Canadians and reflected on what fine people they were.

I thought about moving back - a lot.

My boyfriend became a minor celebrity when his ska band started to hit it big but their success was nerve-wracking because local white supremacists targeted his racially-integrated band and started to cause trouble at shows. I was tired all the time. I tried to make all his gigs, but I rose at 6 a.m. to begin work. On the nights I couldn’t go, he stayed out later and later. One night he didn’t come home at all.

He knew he loved me but he wasn’t sure he was in love with me anymore. I moped for a few days before announcing I would return home immediately to spend time with my family which appeared to be faltering under its own stresses. I couldn’t hold it together if I stayed and I’d be damned if he’d see me weak and needy. After I left we’d see who loved who. Who needed who.

He drove with me to Vancouver and then snuck back across the border while I continued on to Ontario. I planned to make lots of money all summer and return in the fall, flush and confident. We’d start over.

We drove out of Phoenix in the early evening almost a year to the day after we drove in. As the lights of the city receded behind me I burst into uncontrollable tears. Arizona had been my idea, my dream. Why was I leaving? Why did he get to stay? I hated him. I hated Arizona. My heart was breaking - I think I knew I wasn’t coming back.

We broke up over the phone three and a half weeks after I returned home. I barely noticed. My family was indeed faltering and it was worse than I imagined.

I moved to Toronto. My life over the next year was all about survival and parts of it are still a blur. By 1997 I started to feel like my old self. I got a good job and my family started to heal. I cut off all contact with my ex and put away Arizona out of my mind.

It’s been 13 years since I returned to Canada and I rarely talk about Arizona anymore. Sometimes I talk to Rob in vague terms about returning, about wanting to show him where I lived and laughed and made plans to build my hacienda. But I’ve stopped dreaming about red rocks and wild horses and the mysteries of the desert. I’ve stopped waking with the smell of sage in my nostrils and an unbearable yearning in my chest.

But do you know what the damn difficult thing is about leaving your wildness behind and getting older?

It’s the reduction of youthful experiences and passions to mere anecdotes. It’s the quiet knowledge that however full your life is, there will always be, must always be, roads not traveled, dreams not fulfilled.

It’s being forced to accept that life is long and as a result some parts of you will always be unknowable to the people who love you and call you friend. Wife. Mother.

Save your sympathy sweetie

Our waitress couldn’t have been more than 19 years old.

Kim and I were at the least objectionable of the three licensed restaurants at a suburban mall, chosen because it had lots of parking and was equal driving distance for both of us.

The server’s hair was perfect, her thick makeup expertly applied. She was bubbly and enthusiastic – too bubbly and enthusiastic. Her forced cheer made it clear she had us pegged.

Oh God, a couple of moms on the town - poor things. This must be a big night out for them. Better not let them sense my pity or they’ll start acting bitchy.

And I looked across the table at Kim, who I first met almost a dozen years ago when she was a 21-year cocktail waitress and I was bartending at the infamous nightspot in our home town. And something unspoken passed between us.

Kim knew what I wanted to say.

I wanted to say that my best friend and I hadn’t always hemmed and hawed before deciding it would be okay to split a half litre of wine. That we hadn’t always stopped to consider whether a fried appetizer would wreak havoc on our stomachs.

I wanted to say that ten years ago we would have been cracking wise about music and clothes and flirting with the hotties at the bar, not hauling our kids’ pictures out of our wallets and telling story after story about the funny things they said.

I wanted to say that 10 years ago we wouldn’t have planned this night weeks in advance and we wouldn’t have been caught dead in this cheesy bar, in this cheesy mall, no matter how convenient and plentiful its parking.

I wanted to say that 10 years ago I would never have glanced at my watch and winced to see that it was already 9:45 p.m.

But I didn’t say anything. Neither did Kim.

We just smiled at each other. Happy, secure, amused.

Because our waitress couldn’t have been more than 19 years old.

And she couldn’t possibly know that the middle-aged moms splitting an appetizer and a half litre of wine would have given her pert, little ass a run for its money in their day.

I'm gonna make a memory

If you've been reading over the past few days you know that last week was an extremely trying one for me.

Though there were indeed moments when I felt my sanity was in doubt, I never considered not forging ahead with a 2nd birthday party for Graham yesterday.

When I was a kid my mom simply didn't believe in gifting me with a toy or an article of clothing for no reason. If I saw something I wanted, really wanted, it might possibly be bought and put away for one of the two most special occasions of the year; Christmas or my birthday.

Small wonder then that my birthday was so anticipated, so fraught with excitement. For me it was the culmination all of the year's longing and my parents always made sure it was special. I do not think I was a spoiled child by any means, especially by today's standards, but boy were my birthday parties something. I still remember them as the highlights of my childhood and I am committed to making those same memories for my Graham.

The party started late Saturday afternoon. Eighteen people gathered to celebrate, first in our pool which boasted water at 83 degrees just for the occasion.

A few hours later we moved upstairs to enjoy lasagna, curried lamb and salad before the birthday boy opened all his wonderful presents, only two of which (mega-blocks and twisty tunnels) were from mommy and daddy. I will happily spend my time and my labour to spoil Graham, but I'll save the debt for his Harvard tuition.

After the gifts came the cake, decorated with Graham's two favourite things: Elmo and a beach ball...

...both of which caused him to react just as I knew (hoped) he would.

Ya, it was a pretty good end to a pretty bad week. Look at that picture. Graham is covered in surgarey goo. There's a kid climbing over my head to get a better look at the cake. I've just been whacked with a noisemaker. And my face: oh yeah, I'm gonna make a memory, even if it kills me.

Waiting for Graham - 2 years on

* In four days Graham will be two years old. Last night I stumbled across this long-forgotten essay I wrote exactly two years ago today. I have never published or shared it. Save the links I have added, it is unedited. Reading it today I am struck by how much has changed and yet how little. It seems like yesterday: the breathless anticipation, the fear, the excitement. And the love. Even before I kissed his sweet face, the love.*

November 8, 2005: I can’t be sure when he will decide to show his face.

He might thwart a daily routine I have planned or even violently rouse me from a peaceful sleep. Before he settles in I expect to experience anxiety, fear and unimaginable pain.

And yet Graham’s arrival is the most happily anticipated event of my life thus far.

I am currently pregnant with my first child. My due date is the day after tomorrow.

My baby is a boy, of this I am sure. A product of my generation and perhaps too accustomed to instant gratification, the thought of letting the sex be a surprise seemed too impossibly self-disciplined to consider. My husband and I have snuck a peek at every opportunity, even forking out for a 4-D colour ultrasound during which we marveled over our son’s long, thin features so much like his father’s.

We have decided to call him Graham. It’s my family name and a nod to the large, sprawling Irish-Canadian clan which eagerly awaits his appearance. He will carry his father’s middle and last names.

But there are other things of which I am not so sure: so many things.

I am a mass of contradictory emotions and I never know which one will surface at any given moment. Tears rise unbidden. Yesterday while sipping my morning tea I wept with joy imagining my mother reading Graham a bedtime story. Just a few nights earlier I glanced at my husband and an overwhelming wave of sadness and fear washed over me. Our marriage is so happy, our lifestyle so carefree. What if things are never fun again? What if family life sucks the life out of us? What if I, dressed to the nines, never again enjoy his appreciative glance as we head out for a night on the town?

Every day I pray that Graham will be healthy. That he will arrive chubby and pink with a lusty cry. I cannot consider anything else. Sometimes I push myself to think about what could go wrong, as a kind of exercise in mental strength and preparedness, but the knot of fear in my chest stops me cold. One can never prepare to face their worst nightmare. It is fruitless to try.

I have been off work for only a week but already time has started to stretch out endlessly. I feel lazy and languid. I putter. I sleep. I daydream. I wait.

I wonder what kind of a child my son will be, what kind of a man will he become?

Will he be serious, introverted and scientific? Will he be outgoing and dramatic?

Will he inherit the same passion for music his father has?

I imagine my husband and me, 20 years on, occupying an out-of-the-way table in a dingy pub when Graham performs his first gig. I can already feel my face flush with pride and picture his good-natured acquiescence when we insist on discreetly picking up the tab for a round of drinks for his friends.

Will he be nutty for airplanes like his mother and so many members of my family?

I imagine his bush pilot grandfather standing to applause when Graham, piloting his first commercial airline flight, introduces him as an inspiration to the other passengers.

I feel a little foolish exposing such fantasies to the light of day. It seems I am already a walking cliché. Although I’m not even a mom yet, I am already filled with hopes and dreams for my son.

And for me, I guess.

Already I sense that this will be the hardest part of parenting – separating the hopes and dreams I have for him from the hopes and dreams he has for himself.

I’ve heard it said that deciding to have a child is agreeing to let your heart walk around outside your body for the rest of your life. That sounds about right to me. I already know that it involves ceding power over much of your happiness, much of your destiny.

I know there are ways Graham could hurt me that I can barely now imagine. He might be contemptuous of my interests and pursuits. He might reject the values his grandparents hold dear. He might spend a lifetime clashing with my stubborn husband, never once recognizing the extraordinary kindness and sensitivity his father also possesses.

My son may break my heart in many ways, but I’m grateful I can’t foresee exactly how. There are things no parent is able to control. Our children will be who they will be.

My only job is to try my best. To be steadfast and firm, but also loving and patient. I may indulge in hopes and dreams, but I must also remain confident that Graham will direct the course of his own life, just as he will decide the time and nature of his arrival.

And so I wait.

I wait for Graham to reveal his dreams to me. I wait for the secrets of humankind to unfold through the joy and pain of parenting. I wait to learn things I don’t even realize I don’t yet know.

I wait to meet my son.