Silencing my inner bitch

I feel like a bit of a hypocrite right now.

I feel like I don’t deserve all the nice things you said about me in your comments on this post.

The stuff about me having such a big heart and being so caring: it sounds lovely and oh-so-seductive to my ears, but I’m not sure it’s true.

A few weeks back I wrote about resolutions and how I think they are just part of our genetic makeup: what I didn’t reveal was the resolution I made for myself.

Yes, I am serious about doing this. But quietly, and with no small sense of shame, I also made another resolution.

I resolved to silence my inner bitch.

I hate her. I don’t know where she comes from or why she has taken up residence in my brain. I don’t know why I, someone who cries at the drop of a hat, loses sleep over mistreated animals and always roots for the underdog, continue to tolerate the mean-spirited little voice that makes snarky, snap judgments of far too many innocent strangers who cross my path.

I’m not talking about snarking on celebrities or public figures. Though I have stuck to my resolution to cut out the worst of it, I have no real problem dishing up stupid celebrity antics: in fact I did that here and even pissed off a few readers.

I’m talking about my internal dialogue that too often slices and dices people I encounter when I’m out and about and generally feeling harried and busy and impatient.

Nice makeup job honey, I think, when the overly made-up eccentric at the produce market grabs the avocado I was eyeing. You’re a complete and total idiot, I mentally brand the guy ahead of me in the checkout line who can’t find his wallet.

I can’t believe out of ten million sperm you were the fastest, I seethe when the cashier takes more than a few seconds to make my change.

What is wrong with me? Why do I do this?! Isn’t this kind of bitchiness more suited to high school mean girls than a 30-something adult? I don’t want to be young again. I’m less cocky and more grateful now. I have shed much of youth’s conceit and come to realize that my good fortune in life is mostly attributable to blind, good luck

My circle of friends has expanded over the years to include people of all shapes and circumstances. Especially since becoming a mother I’ve learned a lot about tolerance and hard work. I’ve reflected long and hard on the difficulty of some people’s choices or lack thereof.

So why is my very first instinct so often cruelty rather than compassion?

One of the things I love not just about writing, but writing about everyday stuff, is that I truly believe beauty and poignancy is most often found in the mundane. As cliché as it sounds, I really believe that each and every one of us has a story that would break your heart.

And I need to remember that.

I need to remember it no matter how much of a hurry I am in when I go about my daily business.

I need to be kinder on the inside, not just on the outside, where good behavior earns me accolades and lovely comments.

Indulge me?

Can I ask you guys a favour?

It seems I’ve been nominated in two categories for Canadian Blog Awards and even though you might expect me to be all diva-like and say something like “But of course,” the truth is I’ve only been blogging for about five months and I’m really humbled and absolutely thrilled to bits.

So if you could spare just a few seconds – and it only takes a few seconds I PROMISE – and vote for me I would really appreciate it.

Just click on this link …

http://cdnba.wordpress.com/vote/round-1/

…and click on links to Best Personal Blog and Best Family Blog. You’ll see Don Mills Diva listed in each category and you can click beside the name and then click the vote button at the bottom.

I really do appreciate all the encouragement and support you have given me since I put this site up. I wish I could put my arms around the internets and give each and every one of you a giant hug.

And thanks to two of the coolest chicks on the block, Secret Agent Mama and Mama Tulip, for nominating me – you are both too, too kind.

Opportunity wasted

I burst into tears at the grocery store this morning.

I was wheeling down an aisle chattering happily to Graham who was munching a free cookie from the bakery when I heard a strange sound.

It was a hooting sound, like an owl makes. Except it wasn’t an owl, it was a little boy.

He was about seven, eight maybe and, I assume, autistic. He was handsome, He was hooting wildly and flapping his arms while his mother tried to hold him and rubbed his back, speaking to him in soothing terms.

And people were looking at them, or rather, trying not to look at them. And Graham lost all interest in his cookie and his eyes grew wide, out of curiosity, but not fear. And as we got closer I saw her face.

Oh, her face.

She looked tired. She looked resigned. But even more heartbreaking to me, she looked embarrassed.

And I wanted to stop and put my arms around her and say “Don’t be embarrassed, people understand. Do not be embarrassed.”

I wish I had said to her, “You’re doing a great job, you really are.”

Or even, “Is there anything at all I can do to help you?”

But I didn’t. I smiled as long (not long enough) and as warmly (not warmly enough) as I felt I comfortably could.

And then I wheeled around the corner and into the next aisle and my sweet Graham resumed chewing his cookie and I thought There, but by the grace of God, go I.

And I burst into tears.

Passages

We could barely afford this house but we bought it anyway, not least because we imagined all the wonderful parties we could host here.

It was at a party, after all, where we met and the music blared and all the promise and mystery of life seemed hidden in the songs, brash and uncompromising, to which we sang along.

Brash and uncompromising; that was us. Drawn together by a love of fun, a reverence for music and just a touch of wildness.

This room would be perfect, we decided. Room for guitars and drums and keyboards to play. And microphones and even a recording system, Rob joked, to capture jams for posterity: what if Collective Soul dropped by one day?

Or White Stripes, I concurred. And we laughed because we both knew it would be our family and friends who would gather here to laugh and make music and that would be enough.



And it was enough. And magic happened here: when a keyboardist for a country music group and an amateur rapper – friends of friends –– collaborated and when Rob’s long defunct punk band reunited to rehearse the songs they would perform at our wedding.

And then Graham was born and our life expanded. And we sang to him and danced with him and perched him on our knee at the keyboards and behind the drums.


But it happened that his toys got bigger and bigger and our toys sat unused for days and weeks and months even. And it hardly seemed fair that our past should be allowed to crowd out his present.

And so for the past week, mostly as Graham and I slept, Rob has worked down here, not disposing of the past, but prioritizing it, rearranging it, moving it to the sidelines and making way for our son’s future.

It is written that a boy becomes a man when he puts away childish things and yet it seems to me in this modern world, where age is just a number and adulthood a playground and men stay boys for far too long, quite the opposite is true.

It seems to me that a boy truly becomes a man, and a girl a woman, when they finally focus their full attention on childish things and in doing so, give the next generation its own space to play and laugh and explore their passion.

Of purple cows and husbands

I am going to try to start thinking differently about my husband.

And by that I mean I am going to try and stop being annoyed by the mere fact that he is around.

I am going to remind myself that he is just as entitled to the computer, the newspaper and the remote as I am. I am going to take a deep breath and reassure myself that just because he is breathing the same air as I am, it does not mean that he is hogging my oxygen.

It is not going to be easy.

My husband is a freelancer in a crazy industry. And by crazy industry, I mean an industry that routinely involves work days lasting a minimum of 14 hours. When he works I am essentially a single parent as he returns home only to sleep (usually after midnight) for five or six hours. Last year he worked pretty much full out from mid-June until the first week of December. Although we talked on the phone several times a day, Graham and I only saw him each week for half a day on Saturday (after he got out of bed) and all day Sundays.

Not every marriage can survive this type of schedule, but it works for us. It works because I have always been fiercely independent and I enjoy being alone. When he’s working I follow my own schedule, I make my own meals and after Graham goes to bed, I settle in for my beloved, cozy, solitary evenings.

The problem comes when he is off work. Every time he finishes a show, there is a period of adjustment. All of a sudden there is someone here. Every night. At my house. I have to make conversation at dinner. I have to make dinner!

I am sure people with spouses in the military go through this. It’s hard. As much as you love them, when this person reappears in your day-to-day life, it feels like they are usurping your authority and disrupting your routine.

So when Karen over at A Day in The Life tagged me for the Think Differently Challenge I knew exactly what I was going to write about.

Because I do need to think differently about this. I need to be more understanding of how hard it must be for Rob to fall into a daily routine after enduring the chaos of filmmaking for months on end. I need to realize that his job, as disruptive as it can be, helps provide me and Graham with a very comfortable lifestyle.

I need to count our time together as a blessing and enjoy him more because, God willing, we are destined to spend our golden years together and I do not want to be one of those crotchety retired couples who are sick to death of each other.

But having said that, I do want the damn writers’ strike to end so he can go back to work.

And I want to hear how MBA Mommy, Erin and Jen would like to think differently.

Here are the rules for this meme:

Write a new blog post about thinking differently

State that the post is a part of the Think Different Challenge and include a link and/ or trackback to this post so that readers know the rules of the challenge. Feel free to use the above banner (inspired, of course, by Seth Godin).

Include a link and/ or trackback to the blogger who tagged you.

At the end of your post, go ahead and tag some fellow bloggers. Don’t forget to let them know they have been tagged.

Sit back and enjoy reading peoples’ responses to the challenge.

The teacher

Every child grows; everything depends on the teacher.

Oh for crying out loud

Thank God I’m not running for President of the United States.

Besides the fact that running a campaign would seriously cut into my free time, I can’t imagine being scrutinized for every word, every nuance of every word, that comes out of my mouth.

And I especially can’t imagine not being allowed to tear up when I feel emotional.

You’ve probably heard by now of the big controversy over the fact that Hillary Clinton let a bit (just a smidgeon, really) of emotion creep into her voice during a recent news conference.

Now, I have no intention of debating the merits of Clinton vs Obama vs Edwards or whether Hillary letting her human side show was a calculated thing or whether it will help her or hurt her or even whether the whole controversy is sexist.

I just want to say that I if I were in her shoes, my response to every press query would be punctuated with copious, heaving sobs.
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I tear up when I hear the national anthem. For any country. I cry when people win money, appliances even, on game shows. I am prone to weeping during long-distance phone commercials while, at the same time, loudly snarking about how manipulative and cheesy commercials are these days.

And that’s when I’m well rested.

If I get less than seven hours sleep more than a few night in a row (yes, I’m spoiled – Graham slept through the night at six weeks), I get all melancholy and teary and prone to humming spirituals…Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrows.

And if someone were to inadvertently say something that might possibly be interpreted as slightly critical when I’m in that stressed and/ or sleep-deprived state?

Let’s just say that the ensuing hysterics would be waaay more entertaining than the clip of Hillary making the rounds in which she purportedly loses it. (That’s a breakdown? Sheesh – talk about amateur hour!)

It’s genetic, this propensity to shed tears at the drop of the hat. My mother is exactly the same. If we happen to be watching television together and something the least bit heart-wrenching comes on, we first get all self-conscious and avoid looking at each other.

Finally one of us will cast a surreptitious glance at the other, our teary eyes will meet and we will exchange a guilty, silly little laugh. This laugh acknowledges our mutual weirdness and serves as a green light for no-holds-barred sobs which are usually punctuated by bursts of laughter at the absurdity of it all.

So yeah, I’m thinking it’s probably a good thing I’m not running for President of the United States. Even if I were better at holding my emotions in check, I’m not sure middle America is ready for that photo of me in a princess hat and a feather boa.

Humble pie - I'll have seconds

You know what's humbling?

Well, there is this.

But there's also this picture of Graham watching television.



That's right. Graham. Watching television.

It's humbling because it was only about four months ago that I had a letter published in the on-line edition of this newspaper decrying the launch of a new network for babies (which I still think is crap by the way) and proudly stating that I had never once turned on the television for my son.

And I hadn't. Then.

But in the last few months I have. A few times. A very few times. Mostly at times when I am struggling to get something posted. (It's your fault dear readers - you, I blame you!) Sometimes when I was just feeling lazy. (Bad mom, bad, bad mom!)

Right after that picture was taken?

I shut off the television.

I'm no longer quite as judgemental about television as I was four months ago, but damned if I can stand to see my 26-month-old son that engrossed in something that isn't (a) educational or (b) his mama's lovely face.

A mother's love - for her work

After three weeks off work, I am heading back to the office tomorrow.

And I can hardly wait.

It’s not that I don’t love being with my family. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed all our time together over the last three weeks: it’s just that I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough sleeping in. I’ve had enough sitting around and reading the paper. I’ve had enough puttering about the house, making small talk with my husband (who is also home) and marking out my day by meals and naptime.

Castigate me if you will, but I’ve even had enough of being with my darling Graham pretty much day and night.

I need to be busy. I like to have a million things to do.

God help me, I love to work.

Mind you I have a great job. A really great job. My office is just down the street. I can walk (for real!). I work nine to five. I get more than four weeks holidays. My wonderful mother-in-law comes here every Monday to watch Graham and I even come home to eat lunch with him. Tuesday to Friday, Graham goes to a home daycare located just a few streets away and run by a dear family friend. I drop him off at 8:45 a.m. I pick him up at 5:15 p.m.

I don’t know if I would be quite so enthusiastic about working outside the home if I had to commute an hour or more, if I had to put Graham in daycare five days a week or if Canada’s generous maternity leave program didn’t allow me to spend the first year of Graham’s life at home.

But I do know that I don’t feel guilty about my choice to work. Not one little bit. I hear people say they worry about missing their child’s milestones, but I don’t. I don’t worry.

I don’t worry that I’m not spending enough quality time with Graham. I am confident that he is happy and secure. I don’t worry that someone else is raising him. I know that he knows who his mommy is and loves her most of all.

I am fully supportive of women who stay at home full-time. I’m fully supportive of pretty much anything other moms do, because if there’s one thing I‘ve learned since having Graham it’s that all of us, working or not, are doing exactly what we think works best for our family.

I admit that on some level, I may even be a little jealous of stay-at-home parents: I sometimes think I need to work outside the home, because deep down I need to be validated and it is a strong woman or man, indeed, who does not need anyone else to reassure them that they have worth.

But no matter - it is back to work for me tomorrow and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I feel good about myself when I am working. I have my more energy and creativity when I am working. I am more joyful when I am working.

I am a better mother because I am working.

One gift

If you can give your son or daughter only one gift,

let it be enthusiasm.

Scientifically speaking, he's a miracle

Both my husband and I are somewhat technical types.

We are big on gadgets. He’s a sound recordist and mixer. I fly airplanes. We are both fascinated by how things work.

And we both agree that, from a technical standpoint, watching our son develop is one of the most remarkable things we have ever witnessed.

We all love our children truly, madly and deeply. Each milestone they reach – the first smile, step, word – makes our heart swell with wonder and gratitude. But imagine, just for a moment, that you could put aside your emotional investment in your child and, for purely scientific purposes, observe it learn and develop.

Would you not be blown away by the sheer width, depth and breadth of knowledge and skills that this creature, this fledgling human adult, must acquire on the path to maturity?

The thing about parenting – the thing that makes it such an all-consuming, indescribably wonderful endeavor - is that it provides you with knowledge you never even knew you lacked.

I didn’t know so many things before Graham was born.

I didn’t think about the complex physicality of the human body and how our arms and legs, fingers and toes must be trained to work in synchronicity to master balance and movement.

I never really considered that our every mode of communication - from looks and smiles and winks to cries and grunts and words are part of an elaborate system of socialization that must learned, step by painstaking step.

I knew – I had been told – that having a child would inspire musings on life and love and miracles. But I had always seen human beings as the sum of their parts.

I never knew that the parts themselves could hold me in their thrall. That the dear, wee arms and legs and eyes and ears and lips, as they grew and strengthened and found their purpose, would each reveal itself as a separate and technically perfect miracle.

There are so many reasons to have children. Many of them are articulated by writers and poets every day and many of them go without saying.

But for someone like me, someone who hungers for technical knowledge, who finds beauty and comfort in order and science and nature and how things work, watching my son grow and observing the glorious complexity and functionality of the body he inhabits, has been an unexpected revelation.

Come on, make a resolution: you know you want to!

It must be resolution time; I can hear you groaning from here.

It sounds something like this: you hate resolutions. Resolutions are stupid, passé, cliché. You never keep them and it’s pointless to even bother making them.

Yeah right – you don’t fool me.

Why even bother trying to fight January’s annual orgy of self-improvement? It’s hardwired in most of us. Chances are, if you go back a few generations, your ancestors came to Canada or the United States after resolving to make a better life for their families. I know mine did.

And our ancestor’s legacy is our own constant urge towards self-improvement – an urge that is both the pride and the bane of the North American middle class.

Sometimes I hear people say the secret to life is to want less, to do less, to simplify, to stop trying to improve. And sometimes when I feel stressed, when the free-lance work in our crazy business is slow, I lament that I have acquired some many things, a lifestyle and expectations, to which I must tend.

And at those times the idea of a little hut somewhere in the islands, where the sun is bright and life is slow, seems almost unbearably lovely.

But deep down I don’t know if that lifestyle would suit me. Deep down I think it may be the striving on which I thrive.

It’s not that I’m not already happy – I am – so very, very happy. It’s not that I don’t count my existing blessings – in fact I listed them in a rather colorful fashion just a few months back.

It’s just that life is short and the world is big and there are so many things to do and places to go and people to meet and I feel compelled to jam in as much as possible – to gobble up enough experiences to sustain happy memories and crazy stories for those days when I’m confined to my rocker.

And after all, even if it’s wearying sometimes, isn’t the constant striving, the resolving to be stronger, faster, happier, richer, thinner what makes North America such a wonderful place to live? Yes, it’s tiring, but isn’t it infectious, this ever-present idea that things can always, will always, get better, if only we resolve to make them so?

So don’t fight it. Promise yourself that you’ll jump on the treadmill, go for a run, start playing piano, hug your kids every day or cook from scratch and then give it your best shot.

And have a busy, prosperous and happy new year!