You spend nine months pregnant, sometimes you can spend nine months trying to get pregnant, and I'm pretty sure that after a baby is born you spend the next nine months-plus trying to make the baby go to sleep. Oh, you love him. You think he's cute. His little smiles and coos charm you. But still, you want him to sleep so you can sleep or watch something good on TV or eat something hot.
My little piggy is sleeping in the bouncy chair while it vibrates, after a successful brunch outing with friends and then an additional outing with his dad. Of course he fussed at home and wanted an extraordinary amount of food that as per usual my body couldn't provide in full, but now he's quiet and all is well. And the Dude is out getting us Nutella lattes from some cafe that apparently sell such things.
I've been thinking about what kind of mother I'm going to be, and want to be, and every time I do I envision an older kid. I'm just not a baby person. I wouldn't trade my own for anything, mind you, but I'm really just biding my time for the real deal, a child. I want a child. In a way I'm almost there. I endured the pregnancy, and I'm going with the flow of newborn life. Soon he'll be more interactive and that's one step away from toddlerhood, which is the bridge to being a child.
Oh, I'm told all the time to "Cherish every minute" and that's all well and good, but I was also told to love my pregnancy and I wanted to tell those people to stuff it. I don't have to cherish my baby's inability to communicate if I find it frustrating. I don't have to be fulfilled from close contact with his urine, vomit and fecal matter. I don't need to love the fact he needs loads of help to pass his own gas and will cry until he does. I can love him without finding all that stuff wonderful, quite easily.
I have memories of things my mom did for us as kids: trips to the park, Friday movie and pizza night, day trips to the white sands beach. I'm going to wait till Jack's four or so to take him to bigger things like the zoo or an amusement park. It doesn't seem worthwhile if he's not going to remember it and the Dude and I will be faced with his dirty diapers and crying in public places for apparently no reason. But once he's old enough, I can't wait. And Toronto has so much. There's High Park, Riverdale Farm, Toronto Zoo, Canada's Wonderland, Ontario Science Centre, Centre Island, and also an aquarium is coming to town.
Growing up in a much smaller city, my mom still found ways to make life interesting. One day she picked us up from daycare and drove past our neighbourhood, insisting the car was driving itself. The car took us to pizza and a movie. Sometimes we'd go for drives and get a little lost just for fun. We hit the sugar bush some springs. She took us to Toronto once for a Blue Jays game. Unfortunately some whacko punched her in the jaw in the lobby of our hotel and the manager came out, repeatedly offered to sue the guy and sent us up a gift basket. She probably should have sued him. I think she had jaw issues after that.
I just had a sip of the Nutella latte. Not too shabby.
I guess I'm basically saying I'm very invested in Jack's childhood. I have all the patience and joy in the world when it comes to hanging out with kids. Love 'em. Love Jack too. But I think I'll die with love when he's a kid himself. He's already a really great baby. I'm excited to see what sort of child and person he'll be.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Free
I have not stopped coughing for days, roughly 8 days. It wakes me up from a dead sleep at 5:00 a.m. I am losing my mind. I've been taking Buckley's before bed, and yes it tastes awful and it works. Until it stops working and I jolt awake to a hacking cough that sounds as though it belongs to a 70-year-old smoker.
I'm supposed to see a movie tonight, but I'm afraid my cough will strike and I'll annoy people and have to leave. I've been dousing myself with remedies to bring on the cough so I can get it over with already, but it drags on and on.
The week has also been spent feeling very introspective. I'm almost always a reflective person. The Dude catches me staring into space, deep in thought, and usually has poor enough judgement to snap me out of it to ask what I'm thinking about, to which I never give him a good answer. But with my alone time I've been really digging into some old memories that pop up. But not really memories, more like old feelings associated with the past.
I've thought a lot about my childhood. And while I think I had a reasonably good one, suddenly and abrasively I'm grateful it's over. I've thought about my teen years, which had its moments, but was mostly a painful and anxious time for me, and I remember the sense of dread I walked around with almost all the time. And it's weird because I'd forgotten about it, I'd forgotten the real way it felt. I intellectually know I hated high school and felt trapped there, but the actual feelings were long gone and I couldn't feel them again.
And then suddenly there they were. A sense of isolation, feeling misunderstood, mild despair and frequent self-loathing. And childhood was confusing and lonely. I always felt trapped. I needed so much alone time, which I was rarely given, and yet when I needed companionship I often didn't have any, courtesy of being someone who liked being by myself.
So here I am, at my desk during work hours, and I'm suddenly hit by a wave of feelings I'd forgotten about, and then all sorts of gratitude it was no longer something I was feeling. And this all happened the week after I got married. I think I experienced the emotional residue of a major life milestone. Like an aftertaste of past experiences that are officially over.
It's weird. My day to day life is the same. I'm the same person and my relationship is unchanged. But there's something in the air, a sense that the future is now more important than the past. I've always looked to the past. That's what being a reflective person is like. You always look backwards to try and understand where you've been. Now I'm looking forward and now that those random waves of past emotions have stopped coming over me, I feel really done with them.
Nothing in my life has changed, except the way I think, which actually might be an incredibly large change, and a good one. I'm excited to think about the future, I mean, to really think about it. And I feel free.
I'm supposed to see a movie tonight, but I'm afraid my cough will strike and I'll annoy people and have to leave. I've been dousing myself with remedies to bring on the cough so I can get it over with already, but it drags on and on.
The week has also been spent feeling very introspective. I'm almost always a reflective person. The Dude catches me staring into space, deep in thought, and usually has poor enough judgement to snap me out of it to ask what I'm thinking about, to which I never give him a good answer. But with my alone time I've been really digging into some old memories that pop up. But not really memories, more like old feelings associated with the past.
I've thought a lot about my childhood. And while I think I had a reasonably good one, suddenly and abrasively I'm grateful it's over. I've thought about my teen years, which had its moments, but was mostly a painful and anxious time for me, and I remember the sense of dread I walked around with almost all the time. And it's weird because I'd forgotten about it, I'd forgotten the real way it felt. I intellectually know I hated high school and felt trapped there, but the actual feelings were long gone and I couldn't feel them again.
And then suddenly there they were. A sense of isolation, feeling misunderstood, mild despair and frequent self-loathing. And childhood was confusing and lonely. I always felt trapped. I needed so much alone time, which I was rarely given, and yet when I needed companionship I often didn't have any, courtesy of being someone who liked being by myself.
So here I am, at my desk during work hours, and I'm suddenly hit by a wave of feelings I'd forgotten about, and then all sorts of gratitude it was no longer something I was feeling. And this all happened the week after I got married. I think I experienced the emotional residue of a major life milestone. Like an aftertaste of past experiences that are officially over.
It's weird. My day to day life is the same. I'm the same person and my relationship is unchanged. But there's something in the air, a sense that the future is now more important than the past. I've always looked to the past. That's what being a reflective person is like. You always look backwards to try and understand where you've been. Now I'm looking forward and now that those random waves of past emotions have stopped coming over me, I feel really done with them.
Nothing in my life has changed, except the way I think, which actually might be an incredibly large change, and a good one. I'm excited to think about the future, I mean, to really think about it. And I feel free.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Godfather
When I was growing up, I went to my dad's most weekends. He wasn't a stable home sort of guy. He moved around a lot. I never really thought it was weird, though it was occasionally inconvenient. He lived with friends, with his sister, his parents, sometimes on his own, and with my godfather, who was also separated from his wife.
My godfather had two kids, the same ages roughly as my brother and I. The weekends we spent with them was the best. If we weren't with them, we'd usually be on the couch watching TV shows my dad wanted to watch, sometimes playing Monopoly, we went to the beach a few times, or over to my aunt's in the summer for a swim. But mostly it was with my godfather's family and I loved it.
The four of us had sleepovers, we went bike riding, we swam and tried our hand at skateboarding. We went to each other's birthdays and listened to music. It was wonderfully normal, actually, because so few times did I get to spent weekends with friends from school because my dad had dibs. He'd pick me up early from birthday parties because it was his Saturday. He actually took me to his friends' kids' parties without providing me with a present to bring, and I wouldn't know anybody.
Hanging out with this family was wonderful. They were my friends, and they felt like family. I saw my cousins all the time with my mom and with my dad, I had my godfather's kids.
When I was about 18, my brother, father and I were living together in a duplex around my old neighbourhood. Before I moved away to college, my dad and my godfather had a massive falling out. I never learned about the details. I was inclined to think my dad was blowing things out of proportion, as that is what he often does, but the whys of the matter didn't make a difference. The result was the same. My godfather was excommunicated, as it were, from our lives.
Crossing my father in this matter was a highly charged and volatile situation. There was no changing his mind and I couldn't broach the subject with him without regretting it. So I learned to live without this man in my life. And that had always struck me as unfair, but I hadn't known at the time how to stand up to my father.
Over the years I moved on, sometimes remembering the good times, but didn't know what to do about getting back in touch. Some time ago I found his daughter on Facebook and contacted her. It was nice, though the old intimacy was gone. But that's to be expected. I looked through her wedding photos and was pleased to see her so happy, but sad that I'd missed so much of her life when we had been good friends as kids. Always opposites, but we had called each other "godsisters".
So when I was writing out invitations (an incredibly large and complicated undertaking, even for a small wedding) I decided I was going to mail my godfather an invite and let him know I was getting married and would like him to be there. I found his address and number, the same lovely rural place it was back when I was a teenager, and mailed his invite.
I haven't heard from him. I haven't heard from a handful of people, actually. Some are taking their time, or figure I should just know the answer psychically, or were working out the logistics of travel, and one I let slip through the cracks and didn't even send (I am SO sorry!), and I've begun getting a hold of these people personally.
I called the number associated with the address and in that moment realized why I just mailed the invitation without calling first to reconnect. I wasn't sure if they still cared about me and I was nervous about it. So when I called today I left the most rambling insane voicemail message of my life. I asked if they were who I thought they were, was this the right number? Hi, I'm Jendra, your god daughter and I'm getting married, did you get my invitation? Was wondering if you could come. I hope this is the right number. Here's my number. So, anyway... And it went on like that for much longer than it should have.
Maybe I got the wrong address. Maybe they want to avoid my father. Maybe they don't care about me anymore. Maybe it's too far to travel. I don't know. But if they don't get back to me, I'll have to try again and stumble through another nonsensical round of my foolishness.
Another reason I'm looking forward to the wedding is everything will be done and I can put some of this social awkwardness behind me.
I really hope my godfather and his wife can come. I regret not calling first. I think I was just feeling a little insecure. Sometimes I worry the people I care about don't feel the same way about me.
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Introvert
It's 3:00 a.m. and I'm awake. The Dude is asleep like a normal person, and Bea has sensibly gone to bed. Sprinkles, generally being devoid of good sense, is also up and circling my laptop and getting in my business, probably because she feels she's due a late-night snack.
I read a little blip on introversion today. Every now and then it's nice to read about others' experiences with being introverted. We're in the minority in a society that values extroversion. I particularly liked reading the comments and felt a sense of camaraderie with people who reported doing things I do:
Staring off into space
Not smiling much
Being quiet unless there's a topic of interest being discussed
Not bothering with small talk
Being given to honest and open discussions to the exclusion of social niceties
Getting drained from companionship quickly
Needing to be left alone for large blocks of time
These things tend to strike people as strange or worse: anti-social. Past friends have come down hard on me for being this way, as though I were rude or unpleasant to be around. I thoroughly enjoy people's company, I just don't initiate conversations with people I don't know because I find it taxing. It usually requires me to do small talk and I hate that. I actually can't do it, not really.
I watch people interact all the time, usually talking about the little things or items of low interest to me. I don't know how to start these conversations, I don't really want to join them most of the time, but I do get a sense of loneliness when I appear to be the only party not conversing. I wonder if I'm avoiding the small talk or if people are avoiding me. Perhaps I appear aloof.
This must seem like a discrepancy, to hate small talk and to also feel left out of it. I suppose I just dislike the realization that my proclivity to be private and quiet means people think I'm unfriendly, or shy. I'm not shy at all. I really enjoy public speaking. It gives me a rush. I like to burst out of my shell at parties. I'll dance solo at weddings. I just also like to dine alone in restaurants, go shopping by myself and spend so much time in my head that I often don't notice what's around me.
I guess I kind of close the door on the world when I really get reflective, and people don't like the feeling of a door slamming in their face. I'm 28 years old and it's only the past few years I've really sort of accepted this about myself and started actively revealing myself as an introvert to people I care about. I spent my childhood and adolescence around friends, classmates and teachers who all thought I was either a jerk for not listening, stupid for not paying attention or a ditz for being unresponsive, when I was only overloaded from social stimuli at school and took many involuntary mental breaks.
I wonder what life would be like if we understood ourselves faster. Children don't know anything about themselves except what colours they like and their favourite foods. They know who their friends are, if they want to do something or don't want to go someplace. But they know jack about their personalities and don't really give it much thought. A self-aware kid would be an anomaly.
Teenagers dive into self-discovery, but often screw it up by doing a sort of self-moulding instead, where they copy other kids, hide their preferences, go with the group and try to be who they want to be instead of who they are. Conformity at all costs. Weirdos like me don't make the cut into acceptance and cool land.
One of the things I imagine sometimes is what sorts of ways I'd have reacted to people if I knew then what I know now, and was less apologetic about who I was. Because I did apologize, a lot.
I kind of hope I have an introverted kid, just so I can show him or her some understanding. I have an uncle who once called me a loner. My mom was unhappy about that, but I really appreciated it, just the acknowledgment that I am the way I am and don't need to always be socializing. It's nice when people really see you.
I suppose if I were a man, I could be considered the strong silent type. Too bad for me, I guess. Introverted women are more likely to be considered snobs.
I read a little blip on introversion today. Every now and then it's nice to read about others' experiences with being introverted. We're in the minority in a society that values extroversion. I particularly liked reading the comments and felt a sense of camaraderie with people who reported doing things I do:
Staring off into space
Not smiling much
Being quiet unless there's a topic of interest being discussed
Not bothering with small talk
Being given to honest and open discussions to the exclusion of social niceties
Getting drained from companionship quickly
Needing to be left alone for large blocks of time
These things tend to strike people as strange or worse: anti-social. Past friends have come down hard on me for being this way, as though I were rude or unpleasant to be around. I thoroughly enjoy people's company, I just don't initiate conversations with people I don't know because I find it taxing. It usually requires me to do small talk and I hate that. I actually can't do it, not really.
I watch people interact all the time, usually talking about the little things or items of low interest to me. I don't know how to start these conversations, I don't really want to join them most of the time, but I do get a sense of loneliness when I appear to be the only party not conversing. I wonder if I'm avoiding the small talk or if people are avoiding me. Perhaps I appear aloof.
This must seem like a discrepancy, to hate small talk and to also feel left out of it. I suppose I just dislike the realization that my proclivity to be private and quiet means people think I'm unfriendly, or shy. I'm not shy at all. I really enjoy public speaking. It gives me a rush. I like to burst out of my shell at parties. I'll dance solo at weddings. I just also like to dine alone in restaurants, go shopping by myself and spend so much time in my head that I often don't notice what's around me.
I guess I kind of close the door on the world when I really get reflective, and people don't like the feeling of a door slamming in their face. I'm 28 years old and it's only the past few years I've really sort of accepted this about myself and started actively revealing myself as an introvert to people I care about. I spent my childhood and adolescence around friends, classmates and teachers who all thought I was either a jerk for not listening, stupid for not paying attention or a ditz for being unresponsive, when I was only overloaded from social stimuli at school and took many involuntary mental breaks.
I wonder what life would be like if we understood ourselves faster. Children don't know anything about themselves except what colours they like and their favourite foods. They know who their friends are, if they want to do something or don't want to go someplace. But they know jack about their personalities and don't really give it much thought. A self-aware kid would be an anomaly.
Teenagers dive into self-discovery, but often screw it up by doing a sort of self-moulding instead, where they copy other kids, hide their preferences, go with the group and try to be who they want to be instead of who they are. Conformity at all costs. Weirdos like me don't make the cut into acceptance and cool land.
One of the things I imagine sometimes is what sorts of ways I'd have reacted to people if I knew then what I know now, and was less apologetic about who I was. Because I did apologize, a lot.
I kind of hope I have an introverted kid, just so I can show him or her some understanding. I have an uncle who once called me a loner. My mom was unhappy about that, but I really appreciated it, just the acknowledgment that I am the way I am and don't need to always be socializing. It's nice when people really see you.
I suppose if I were a man, I could be considered the strong silent type. Too bad for me, I guess. Introverted women are more likely to be considered snobs.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
10 years ago.
So, I have been taking photos of my garden with the Dude's spiffy camera, but I don't know how to get the pictures off said camera. So all I can say at present is that the garden is green and growing and you'll have to trust me that I haven't killed everything off brown-thumb style and am covering my tracks.
The other day the Dude and I were talking about what sports our old high schools had and I hadn't thought that we had certain teams and he was sure we did. So, out came the yearbooks and of course this led to browsing them for memories.
And I had forgotten just how much I hadn't enjoyed high school. But not to worry, it all came back to me as I was flipping pages and becoming increasingly sad. Well, perhaps "sad" is the wrong word. It's more of a muted sense of isolation, inadequacy and stress.
In the 10 years since graduation no other place or era of my life has managed to generate the same response from me.
In college I made only a few friends, but they're friends I've not only managed to keep, but have become even closer to over the years. And there was no bullying, no distinct cool people looking down their noses at anyone, and everybody was free from being the person that everyone thought they were based on perceptions formed from five years ago.
There were times then I felt left out or lonely, but I'm introverted and that's my lot in life sometimes. I never felt open contempt for who I was, and that was the stark difference.
When I was in high school, I started out with a group of friends from elementary school. One dropped me completely and the others never truly seemed to want me around by the end of grade 10. Perhaps we'd grown apart, perhaps newcomers to our circle changed the dynamic and I no longer fit in. Maybe both, maybe something else.
Within days of grade 11 starting, I had a whole new set of friends. It had been gradually coming on in grade 10, and after being ignored most of the summer, it seemed our old connection was dead. And my new friends were odd people, so in a sense I was home.
But having some key friends doesn't prevent you from being harassed. Boys started quacking at me, an old teasing tactic from grade 6-8. I'm bow-legged and my knees and feet aren't aligned straight. I walk a little off-kilter with my toes pointed out, like a duck.
So a chunk of grade 11 was spent being quacked at by boys I grew up with, and eventually by boys I didn't even know. Everyone knows this type, a sort who jumps on a bullying bandwagon: they're not terribly intelligent or good-looking, perhaps they come from money and they have a misplaced sense of their own importance which translates into a really snide arrogance.
If not for the fact my mom had cancer at the time and I had to go home each day and see her sick body and try to sleep at night, occasionally listening to her vomit from chemo, I might have had an easier time handling the additional stress of social nonsense. But such as it was, in addition to the teenage angst, it was a troubling time.
I flipped through the pages of my last years of school and reflected on how I was only ever merely there at that school, and never a part of it. I'd show up, sometimes get made fun of, fall asleep in my classes, talk to my friends, do my time and leave. I left for a semester and while I was gone my mom died. And amidst the strangers in my class I felt a sense of community, something that I know I wouldn't have felt at my "real" school, not surrounded mostly by people who looked at me and saw a loser.
I had friends at my old school, but when the people who don't like you seem to outnumber the people who do, or at least when it feels that way, being surrounded by people who either like you or don't know you is a bit more comforting.
I think that's what being taunted by your classmates does to you. And it came back in waves as I turned the pages. And so I closed the book. I immediately felt better. It's amazing how easy it is to go back there, emotionally, but it's thrilling how simple it is to make it go away.
I love getting older. And I guess I'm thankful my glory days weren't in high school because life has only gone up since leaving. So, maybe it was nice to take the time to appreciate that.
Kids are graduating high school right now. It's been 10 years since my grad. The Dude and I were browsing tuxes for the wedding today and I saw a teen looking for a prom suit. Sometimes that sort of thing makes me feel old. This time it made me feel grateful.
The other day the Dude and I were talking about what sports our old high schools had and I hadn't thought that we had certain teams and he was sure we did. So, out came the yearbooks and of course this led to browsing them for memories.
And I had forgotten just how much I hadn't enjoyed high school. But not to worry, it all came back to me as I was flipping pages and becoming increasingly sad. Well, perhaps "sad" is the wrong word. It's more of a muted sense of isolation, inadequacy and stress.
In the 10 years since graduation no other place or era of my life has managed to generate the same response from me.
In college I made only a few friends, but they're friends I've not only managed to keep, but have become even closer to over the years. And there was no bullying, no distinct cool people looking down their noses at anyone, and everybody was free from being the person that everyone thought they were based on perceptions formed from five years ago.
There were times then I felt left out or lonely, but I'm introverted and that's my lot in life sometimes. I never felt open contempt for who I was, and that was the stark difference.
When I was in high school, I started out with a group of friends from elementary school. One dropped me completely and the others never truly seemed to want me around by the end of grade 10. Perhaps we'd grown apart, perhaps newcomers to our circle changed the dynamic and I no longer fit in. Maybe both, maybe something else.
Within days of grade 11 starting, I had a whole new set of friends. It had been gradually coming on in grade 10, and after being ignored most of the summer, it seemed our old connection was dead. And my new friends were odd people, so in a sense I was home.
But having some key friends doesn't prevent you from being harassed. Boys started quacking at me, an old teasing tactic from grade 6-8. I'm bow-legged and my knees and feet aren't aligned straight. I walk a little off-kilter with my toes pointed out, like a duck.
So a chunk of grade 11 was spent being quacked at by boys I grew up with, and eventually by boys I didn't even know. Everyone knows this type, a sort who jumps on a bullying bandwagon: they're not terribly intelligent or good-looking, perhaps they come from money and they have a misplaced sense of their own importance which translates into a really snide arrogance.
If not for the fact my mom had cancer at the time and I had to go home each day and see her sick body and try to sleep at night, occasionally listening to her vomit from chemo, I might have had an easier time handling the additional stress of social nonsense. But such as it was, in addition to the teenage angst, it was a troubling time.
I flipped through the pages of my last years of school and reflected on how I was only ever merely there at that school, and never a part of it. I'd show up, sometimes get made fun of, fall asleep in my classes, talk to my friends, do my time and leave. I left for a semester and while I was gone my mom died. And amidst the strangers in my class I felt a sense of community, something that I know I wouldn't have felt at my "real" school, not surrounded mostly by people who looked at me and saw a loser.
I had friends at my old school, but when the people who don't like you seem to outnumber the people who do, or at least when it feels that way, being surrounded by people who either like you or don't know you is a bit more comforting.
I think that's what being taunted by your classmates does to you. And it came back in waves as I turned the pages. And so I closed the book. I immediately felt better. It's amazing how easy it is to go back there, emotionally, but it's thrilling how simple it is to make it go away.
I love getting older. And I guess I'm thankful my glory days weren't in high school because life has only gone up since leaving. So, maybe it was nice to take the time to appreciate that.
Kids are graduating high school right now. It's been 10 years since my grad. The Dude and I were browsing tuxes for the wedding today and I saw a teen looking for a prom suit. Sometimes that sort of thing makes me feel old. This time it made me feel grateful.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother love
I generally like the concept of Mother's Day. But on a personal level, I find it painful and sad.
I had a dream about my mom last night, one I can't remember. It wasn't a happy or a sad thing. I just know she was there, probably because she's been on my mind.
My mom and I looked a lot alike. Not as much when I was a teenager, when my face was rounder and I resembled my dad more, but very much so now, now that I'm a little older and my baby face is starting to age. Yes, I still have a baby face at 28. Only a couple years ago I was still being carded for lottery tickets.
But as the years go by, more and more I see my mother's face when I look in the mirror or see photos of myself and it's a shock. But it's not a bad thing, just an emotional jolt from time to time. And then I feel good. It's hard to be too critical of my facial features when they remind me of someone I love. It's not exactly a feeling of being beautiful, so much as it's a fondness and affection for the little quirks in my nose that my mom had.
I think she had a little more grace than I do. She was a kook in her own subtle way, but she was more ladylike, more likeable to more people. She was gentle and firm in her opinions, but she listened. She was gullible and a salesperson's dream. She was sometimes naive and ideological, but a strong feminist as well. She knew how to stick to her guns. She was a poor cook, didn't stress about housework, but my brother and I had all the attention from her that we could want. She didn't miss games and recitals. She made me pursue physical activity (Against my nature) and didn't care how well I did, so long as I did it.
She was often blunt with me when I fell short, and warm when I made her proud. She had high expectations, but not so high I couldn't make her happy. The thing that drove her the most crazy about me was my critical words for things I didn't like and my lack of motivation. Though I was very motivated to articulate when I didn't like something.
My mother and I didn't have a friendship. She was the parent. She never lost her temper with me if I wanted to talk to her about serious things, though she got very embarrassed about sexual matters and generally seemed shy and juvenile about them, her tone growing less mature and assured when questioning if I needed a bra, after having let me go many months too long without one, uncertain how to broach the issue.
But when it came to body images and the media, eating disorders, abusive relationships, and many other problems facing women, she had confidence and wisdom and shared her ideas about those things with me often, usually in her bed. Whenever I saw her reading when I was a teenager, I'd crawl into bed with her and talk. It was the sort of dick move teens pull when seeing attention diverted elsewhere from themselves. But she made herself available, eyes always on her book, so I could continue to feel like I was interrupting her while pouring my heart out.
I miss her. I regret a lot of things. Mostly, I wish I could have come of age when she was alive. I could have gotten to know the woman behind the mother. I never reached a point in my life where I could see her through an adult lens and see who she really was. I only saw her as the dependent I was at the time, with my needs and my wants and all my projections of who I thought she was based on my mood that day and whether or not I had gotten my way.
16-year-olds are capable of loving deeply, but they lack the maturity and depth to love selflessly enough to really appreciate another person. I lost my mother during the most selfish era of my life and I never got the chance to grow out of it and be the sort of daughter I wish I could be to her now. I like to think we'd talk often and I be able to ask her all kinds of things about her life. There are a lot of blanks.
All I've got now is my life to live, hopefully in a way she'd be proud of. In the absence of a living mother, this is the best I can do.
Mother's Day hasn't really gotten any easier, to be honest. But that's just because I love my mom and she's gone. There's some comfort in that. Love sometimes hurts.
I had a dream about my mom last night, one I can't remember. It wasn't a happy or a sad thing. I just know she was there, probably because she's been on my mind.
My mom and I looked a lot alike. Not as much when I was a teenager, when my face was rounder and I resembled my dad more, but very much so now, now that I'm a little older and my baby face is starting to age. Yes, I still have a baby face at 28. Only a couple years ago I was still being carded for lottery tickets.
But as the years go by, more and more I see my mother's face when I look in the mirror or see photos of myself and it's a shock. But it's not a bad thing, just an emotional jolt from time to time. And then I feel good. It's hard to be too critical of my facial features when they remind me of someone I love. It's not exactly a feeling of being beautiful, so much as it's a fondness and affection for the little quirks in my nose that my mom had.
I think she had a little more grace than I do. She was a kook in her own subtle way, but she was more ladylike, more likeable to more people. She was gentle and firm in her opinions, but she listened. She was gullible and a salesperson's dream. She was sometimes naive and ideological, but a strong feminist as well. She knew how to stick to her guns. She was a poor cook, didn't stress about housework, but my brother and I had all the attention from her that we could want. She didn't miss games and recitals. She made me pursue physical activity (Against my nature) and didn't care how well I did, so long as I did it.
She was often blunt with me when I fell short, and warm when I made her proud. She had high expectations, but not so high I couldn't make her happy. The thing that drove her the most crazy about me was my critical words for things I didn't like and my lack of motivation. Though I was very motivated to articulate when I didn't like something.
My mother and I didn't have a friendship. She was the parent. She never lost her temper with me if I wanted to talk to her about serious things, though she got very embarrassed about sexual matters and generally seemed shy and juvenile about them, her tone growing less mature and assured when questioning if I needed a bra, after having let me go many months too long without one, uncertain how to broach the issue.
But when it came to body images and the media, eating disorders, abusive relationships, and many other problems facing women, she had confidence and wisdom and shared her ideas about those things with me often, usually in her bed. Whenever I saw her reading when I was a teenager, I'd crawl into bed with her and talk. It was the sort of dick move teens pull when seeing attention diverted elsewhere from themselves. But she made herself available, eyes always on her book, so I could continue to feel like I was interrupting her while pouring my heart out.
I miss her. I regret a lot of things. Mostly, I wish I could have come of age when she was alive. I could have gotten to know the woman behind the mother. I never reached a point in my life where I could see her through an adult lens and see who she really was. I only saw her as the dependent I was at the time, with my needs and my wants and all my projections of who I thought she was based on my mood that day and whether or not I had gotten my way.
16-year-olds are capable of loving deeply, but they lack the maturity and depth to love selflessly enough to really appreciate another person. I lost my mother during the most selfish era of my life and I never got the chance to grow out of it and be the sort of daughter I wish I could be to her now. I like to think we'd talk often and I be able to ask her all kinds of things about her life. There are a lot of blanks.
All I've got now is my life to live, hopefully in a way she'd be proud of. In the absence of a living mother, this is the best I can do.
Mother's Day hasn't really gotten any easier, to be honest. But that's just because I love my mom and she's gone. There's some comfort in that. Love sometimes hurts.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Daycare
Before I get into what I've been thinking about today, of course I must talk about the kittens. We're giving them another medication now. Oh yes. One or both has a parasite and so they need a week of meds via syringe. Two syringes each, actually. What could be better for trust building than holding up your new kittens by the scruff and forcing nasty liquid down their throats?
We do this at meal time, which I make them wait for so they'll be plenty hungry and won't run off while there's still food. *Sigh* But what else can we do? But I'm super glad we got them, because maybe another adoptive owner wouldn't be so concerned about health or so diligent in their care.
Sprinkles started cuddling my legs last night and Beatrice is no longer running from me and lets me hold her a little. So things are looking up.
Now about my topic of interest today. I've been working on a lot of educational videos and today I was doing one that made me think about this daycare I went to. This place left a bad impression on me, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was mostly a very useful life experience. I only stayed there a year or two too long. And when objectively considering the facilities, I can understand now why my mom kept us there so long.
I started going to this place when I was 3. It was right beside my school (Yes, I entered kindergarten at 3. December birthday and such.) and so I'd get dropped off, walk there in the afternoon and then return after school. It was a structured place with about 20 kids, two age grouped rooms and about four staff, including a cook.
It used to be an old school. The principal's office was turned into a kitchen, the handicap bathroom turned into a unisex bathroom where the small children kept their toothbrushes and facecloths, the girl's one-toilet closet became unisex and the boy's bathroom was kept for older boys because of the urinals. The room closest to the entrance was for the kids in grade one and up, and the second room near the exit was for kindergartners and younger.
Each room had a sink, the Big Kids room was also an office of sorts, a couple long folding tables, two large hollow cubes, board games, some books, a black board, paper and markers and gimp and other such arty materials.
The Little Kids room was more exciting. In front was a low shelf of monthly rotating toys, and a collection of blocks. To the back right was the kitchen with costumes, to your left of the entrance was a corner with a felt wall screen and books, and in the far diagonal corner was the sink and crafting station. There were four or five tables with chairs for lunch and snacks.
Outside was a small fenced-in playground and outside the fence was a small barn of trikes, balls, shovels and pails, wagons and other things. Behind the playground was a basketball court. To the left of the building was a baseball diamond.
This was a very stringent place. Everyone knew the rules. The adults told them to you, but mostly the other kids made sure you remembered. One child saying "yes" and forgetting to say "Yes, please" would hold up everyone else getting their lunch. The staff would stand there and keep asking, "Yes, what?" and the other kids would hiss, "Please! Say 'please'!"
Every kid had to have their own bottle of sunscreen. So in the summer it would take 10 minutes for everyone to get slathered, older kids helping younger kids to get everyone moving. We were a 10-minute walk through a long field to a campground, which was owned by the parents of a staff member. So the Big Kids would walk to the campground's pool and swim for free. That pool is where the older kids taught me how to swim.
Behind the building there were raspberry patches. So the Big Kids would also harvest several plastic margarine containers full of berries and bring them back for everyone.
All of the girls made jewellery out of the gimp and threads and sold them at the school and brought the money back to the daycare and pooled it together. The owner used the money to buy us more crafts. The big cheese of this daycare, being a hardass, decided that since none of the boys helped make or sell, this special box of crafts were only for the girls. The boys complained but still never got involved.
As I got older, I started standing out among the kids. I'm pretty sure I held the record for lengthiest attendance at this place. 3 years old till 10 1/2. I was in grade 6 when I was taken out. Again, December birthday. Mix in a single parent and being the oldest and that's how you wind up in daycare in grade 6. I kept things interesting as best I could. One day I gathered the Big Kid girls and we made a circus day where we put on a gymnastics and clown show and painted faces.
It was around grade 5 I started to resent it. My classmates were starting to take notice I went to daycare after school and I was embarrassed. The girls closest in age to me were in grade 2. I got to be the cool (in comparison) older kid with them, but it's a lot more fun being the younger party in that sort of friendship. I remember those girls to this day and have fond memories, but at the time I was willing to say adios so I could be more like my classmates.
By the time grade 6 rolled around, I was not just a Big Kid, I was The Big Kid. About four grade 1 girls wanted me to draw them a princess every day. So I would. Four original princesses, every day, five days a week, about 80 a month. Then I would read a book I'd have selected from the library. Then we'd have to go outside and I'd play with the grade 1 girls by pulling them around in a wagon. Around this time, even being a kid myself, I really started learning a lot about relating to children. For awhile younger kids were my main companions for several consecutive hours on a daily basis.
Before I turned 11, my mom pulled me out of the daycare and changed her hours so that we could take the bus and that when we got home we'd only be alone a half hour. She saved money on childcare and gas, and I gained my dignity.
For years I could only remember the bad things. I remembered how snotty I thought the staff could be, how they would sometimes squirt us with water guns in the summer, how they were hard and authoritarian about the rules, which lent no understand to individual circumstances. I remembered childish injustices, some of which I fought personally and came out victorious (The younger kids would let me speak for everyone).
Five years after the fact I was called to babysit a girl who was one of the princess group. She had saved my drawings until her dad had thrown them out. She had me draw new ones and told me none of her other princess group friends believed I was her babysitter. So I had to draw more princesses and sign autographs. I'll probably never be called upon again to give an autograph, now that I think of it.
When I was in grade 7, my school was 400 people large, and could only handle 200. Another school was built and half of us left. The daycare lost most of their clientele. I've seen it in the years since. The playground was torn down, the barn was gone. And maybe because I was just older, but it almost seemed to have gotten smaller. And sadder.
And that made me sad. Even though I fought for years to leave that place and never looked back, even though I no longer live in that city, I still feel a small sense of loss. I suppose it's just a desire for some continuity and that the things I experienced weren't a blip in time. Maybe because I still say "Yes please" and "No thank you" at the dinner table and it's because of the daycare. Maybe because I can to this day draw an original princess in under five minutes. Maybe because I know where my ease with children comes from.
Memory is a funny thing. Don't know why it took me so long to understand what that place did for me.
We do this at meal time, which I make them wait for so they'll be plenty hungry and won't run off while there's still food. *Sigh* But what else can we do? But I'm super glad we got them, because maybe another adoptive owner wouldn't be so concerned about health or so diligent in their care.
Sprinkles started cuddling my legs last night and Beatrice is no longer running from me and lets me hold her a little. So things are looking up.
Now about my topic of interest today. I've been working on a lot of educational videos and today I was doing one that made me think about this daycare I went to. This place left a bad impression on me, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was mostly a very useful life experience. I only stayed there a year or two too long. And when objectively considering the facilities, I can understand now why my mom kept us there so long.
I started going to this place when I was 3. It was right beside my school (Yes, I entered kindergarten at 3. December birthday and such.) and so I'd get dropped off, walk there in the afternoon and then return after school. It was a structured place with about 20 kids, two age grouped rooms and about four staff, including a cook.
It used to be an old school. The principal's office was turned into a kitchen, the handicap bathroom turned into a unisex bathroom where the small children kept their toothbrushes and facecloths, the girl's one-toilet closet became unisex and the boy's bathroom was kept for older boys because of the urinals. The room closest to the entrance was for the kids in grade one and up, and the second room near the exit was for kindergartners and younger.
Each room had a sink, the Big Kids room was also an office of sorts, a couple long folding tables, two large hollow cubes, board games, some books, a black board, paper and markers and gimp and other such arty materials.
The Little Kids room was more exciting. In front was a low shelf of monthly rotating toys, and a collection of blocks. To the back right was the kitchen with costumes, to your left of the entrance was a corner with a felt wall screen and books, and in the far diagonal corner was the sink and crafting station. There were four or five tables with chairs for lunch and snacks.
Outside was a small fenced-in playground and outside the fence was a small barn of trikes, balls, shovels and pails, wagons and other things. Behind the playground was a basketball court. To the left of the building was a baseball diamond.
This was a very stringent place. Everyone knew the rules. The adults told them to you, but mostly the other kids made sure you remembered. One child saying "yes" and forgetting to say "Yes, please" would hold up everyone else getting their lunch. The staff would stand there and keep asking, "Yes, what?" and the other kids would hiss, "Please! Say 'please'!"
Every kid had to have their own bottle of sunscreen. So in the summer it would take 10 minutes for everyone to get slathered, older kids helping younger kids to get everyone moving. We were a 10-minute walk through a long field to a campground, which was owned by the parents of a staff member. So the Big Kids would walk to the campground's pool and swim for free. That pool is where the older kids taught me how to swim.
Behind the building there were raspberry patches. So the Big Kids would also harvest several plastic margarine containers full of berries and bring them back for everyone.
All of the girls made jewellery out of the gimp and threads and sold them at the school and brought the money back to the daycare and pooled it together. The owner used the money to buy us more crafts. The big cheese of this daycare, being a hardass, decided that since none of the boys helped make or sell, this special box of crafts were only for the girls. The boys complained but still never got involved.
As I got older, I started standing out among the kids. I'm pretty sure I held the record for lengthiest attendance at this place. 3 years old till 10 1/2. I was in grade 6 when I was taken out. Again, December birthday. Mix in a single parent and being the oldest and that's how you wind up in daycare in grade 6. I kept things interesting as best I could. One day I gathered the Big Kid girls and we made a circus day where we put on a gymnastics and clown show and painted faces.
It was around grade 5 I started to resent it. My classmates were starting to take notice I went to daycare after school and I was embarrassed. The girls closest in age to me were in grade 2. I got to be the cool (in comparison) older kid with them, but it's a lot more fun being the younger party in that sort of friendship. I remember those girls to this day and have fond memories, but at the time I was willing to say adios so I could be more like my classmates.
By the time grade 6 rolled around, I was not just a Big Kid, I was The Big Kid. About four grade 1 girls wanted me to draw them a princess every day. So I would. Four original princesses, every day, five days a week, about 80 a month. Then I would read a book I'd have selected from the library. Then we'd have to go outside and I'd play with the grade 1 girls by pulling them around in a wagon. Around this time, even being a kid myself, I really started learning a lot about relating to children. For awhile younger kids were my main companions for several consecutive hours on a daily basis.
Before I turned 11, my mom pulled me out of the daycare and changed her hours so that we could take the bus and that when we got home we'd only be alone a half hour. She saved money on childcare and gas, and I gained my dignity.
For years I could only remember the bad things. I remembered how snotty I thought the staff could be, how they would sometimes squirt us with water guns in the summer, how they were hard and authoritarian about the rules, which lent no understand to individual circumstances. I remembered childish injustices, some of which I fought personally and came out victorious (The younger kids would let me speak for everyone).
Five years after the fact I was called to babysit a girl who was one of the princess group. She had saved my drawings until her dad had thrown them out. She had me draw new ones and told me none of her other princess group friends believed I was her babysitter. So I had to draw more princesses and sign autographs. I'll probably never be called upon again to give an autograph, now that I think of it.
When I was in grade 7, my school was 400 people large, and could only handle 200. Another school was built and half of us left. The daycare lost most of their clientele. I've seen it in the years since. The playground was torn down, the barn was gone. And maybe because I was just older, but it almost seemed to have gotten smaller. And sadder.
And that made me sad. Even though I fought for years to leave that place and never looked back, even though I no longer live in that city, I still feel a small sense of loss. I suppose it's just a desire for some continuity and that the things I experienced weren't a blip in time. Maybe because I still say "Yes please" and "No thank you" at the dinner table and it's because of the daycare. Maybe because I can to this day draw an original princess in under five minutes. Maybe because I know where my ease with children comes from.
Memory is a funny thing. Don't know why it took me so long to understand what that place did for me.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Sort of, kind of lucky maybe
There's nothing like a minor blackout to show you just how unprepared you are. The power cut out on me just as I was getting ready for a shower. Funny little fact about me: every time something amiss happens, my first instinct is that it's ghosts. Once I ascertained the outage was a run-of-the-mill inconvenience and not paranormal (This usually just requires me giving myself a reality check, because as it turns out I don't really think the way a normal person does) I hopped into the shower while I still had natural light and considered how I'd proceed if things stayed off.
I just bought four new books, and they would have been ample entertainment, if not for the fact I have no candles. I also own no flashlight and have no spare batteries anyway. The Dude is working late this evening on location out of town and so I'd essentially be sitting alone in the dark with nothing to do. I'd have about 2-3 hours of laptop battery life to occupy me in the evening and then... nothing. Probably I'd take a mild overdose of allergy meds so I could pass out for the night in the absence of anything to do, like a farm hand at the turn of the 19th century who had no reason to stay awake after dark. Only substitute hard work and a job well done, with some antihistamines in order to fall asleep at 9:00.
After my shower the power was back on and I didn't have to face the unpreparedness my years of Brownies and Guides had sought to cure in me when I was a child. A number of things tend to bite me in the ass in my life, but somehow a lack of attention to my personal security never seems to thwart me. Kind of like when I lose my purse, it's always where I left it in a store in the hands of someone who wanted to return it, or I get a call about it being found, complete with my wallet full of all my I.D. It's very lucky.
It's funny, though. In many ways I'm a remarkably unlucky person. One of the few times I ever won something was when I was in grade four and praying to the powers that be that I would not win. It was a school-wide draw in the gym and all 400 students were packed in, as names were chosen from a bucket. The more Christmas supplies you sold for fundraising, the more chances you had to win. You would go up and choose a prize and sit down.
I did not want to go first. I had no idea what was up there, I was shy and nervous and I didn't want anyone scrutinizing my selection as being a dumb choice. That was actually my primary concern. So of course I got called up first. I looked for the most expensive and least-likely thing to be made fun of, grabbed it and sat down. I chose a ghetto blaster. What a weird thing to type. Ghetto blaster? Well, anyway, that's what I picked.
I saw looks of envy and approval for my choice and felt a wave of calm that I wouldn't have to explain myself. Then after a handful more names, I got called again. The shock of having to go through another selection wasn't as bad as having to do it while the entire school booed me. I don't think it's really luck if you were desperate not to go first and all your peers drown you in boos. For the record, the second time I picked a stuffed animal, a dalmatian with a firefighter's hat. I didn't want to look greedy by choosing more electronics.
If there's ever somehow, for any reason, an inconvenient time to win the lottery, I should make sure I have a ticket. Yeah. I bet if I was on the lamb I could win.
I just bought four new books, and they would have been ample entertainment, if not for the fact I have no candles. I also own no flashlight and have no spare batteries anyway. The Dude is working late this evening on location out of town and so I'd essentially be sitting alone in the dark with nothing to do. I'd have about 2-3 hours of laptop battery life to occupy me in the evening and then... nothing. Probably I'd take a mild overdose of allergy meds so I could pass out for the night in the absence of anything to do, like a farm hand at the turn of the 19th century who had no reason to stay awake after dark. Only substitute hard work and a job well done, with some antihistamines in order to fall asleep at 9:00.
After my shower the power was back on and I didn't have to face the unpreparedness my years of Brownies and Guides had sought to cure in me when I was a child. A number of things tend to bite me in the ass in my life, but somehow a lack of attention to my personal security never seems to thwart me. Kind of like when I lose my purse, it's always where I left it in a store in the hands of someone who wanted to return it, or I get a call about it being found, complete with my wallet full of all my I.D. It's very lucky.
It's funny, though. In many ways I'm a remarkably unlucky person. One of the few times I ever won something was when I was in grade four and praying to the powers that be that I would not win. It was a school-wide draw in the gym and all 400 students were packed in, as names were chosen from a bucket. The more Christmas supplies you sold for fundraising, the more chances you had to win. You would go up and choose a prize and sit down.
I did not want to go first. I had no idea what was up there, I was shy and nervous and I didn't want anyone scrutinizing my selection as being a dumb choice. That was actually my primary concern. So of course I got called up first. I looked for the most expensive and least-likely thing to be made fun of, grabbed it and sat down. I chose a ghetto blaster. What a weird thing to type. Ghetto blaster? Well, anyway, that's what I picked.
I saw looks of envy and approval for my choice and felt a wave of calm that I wouldn't have to explain myself. Then after a handful more names, I got called again. The shock of having to go through another selection wasn't as bad as having to do it while the entire school booed me. I don't think it's really luck if you were desperate not to go first and all your peers drown you in boos. For the record, the second time I picked a stuffed animal, a dalmatian with a firefighter's hat. I didn't want to look greedy by choosing more electronics.
If there's ever somehow, for any reason, an inconvenient time to win the lottery, I should make sure I have a ticket. Yeah. I bet if I was on the lamb I could win.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Introvert
If anyone is curious as to how awesome homemade ice cream is, I can vouch for it. Sweet merciful Skittles, it is one hellzam of a treat.
The Dude and I used the ice cream maker from the '80s that his aunt passed on to him. It's cheesy looking and it does the job, with three different types of cream, a mess of sugar and two bags of ice. And chocolate and peanut butter.
And it was noisy. So of course we decided to make it at 11:00 at night. We felt justified in the face of the incessant opera singing we endure. Plus, whatever, it was a Saturday night. Heh. You know you're getting old when the idea of a bitchin' Saturday evening is staying in making homemade ice cream.
Problem is, I've been eating like a house cat, specifically like Smokey, which means often and holding out for the fattening and tasty things in life. I feel as though I'm some sort of bear getting ready for the winter. It's not too far off, actually. Last winter I hibernated so hardcore I left the house maybe twice a week. And I loved it.
I read this article about introversion the other day. I am the poster girl for introverts. Now, those who really know me get this about me. I like me time. I like holing up and avoiding all people for days. I love to socialize, but equally love to be very quiet and introspective for many hours afterwards. That's part of why I love to be home so much. It's a place to let my thoughts run their course, rather than having to put them on hold to talk to people.
And the funny thing is I really like people. I truly do. In fact, despite how angry I get over some terrible facets of stupidity in this world (Say Stephen Harper or pro-lifers or Glenn Beck), I still really think ultimately there's a lot of awesome people out there, and I want to hear from them.
I just like hearing from them in shorter bursts or on my own time. After too much socializing I zone out and stop responding to verbal stimuli. This is not an exaggeration. I do this all the time and I can't prevent it from happening ever. In school this was always very problematic as at no point in a school environment is any time ever given to any student to conduct their own private thoughts, because if you're not listening to the teacher you're supposed to be socializing at recess.
My mom had my hearing tested, wondering if I was going spontaneously deaf. Actually, my hearing is exemplary, almost too good. I'm highly sensitive to noises, especially ones I don't want to hear.
I spent many, many recesses alone for a good number of years. And I never felt very bad about it either. I have no recollections of feeling lonely. I loved wandering alone in the playground. I'd occasionally join some random group of friendly classmates, but mostly I kept to myself. Retrospectively, I think I was considered odd.
In fact, in grade five I had two good friends in school, which was a personal best for me. Then they both moved away over the summer. One might think for a normal child, this would cause some stress. To be honest, I can't recall ever having given it any thought as to how this might affect my life. I was bummed I wouldn't see them anymore, but I wasn't really concerned about the impact their absence might have on my school experience.
Grade six actually was the year I somehow joined the popular group of girls, girls who never really had talked to me much before. It just sort of happened and I'm not entirely sure how. I think I just started hanging around, and after awhile I was just a part of things. Looking back I see now there were a few attempts to pick on me, as girls do in sorting out the pecking order. I missed those social cues (I probably wasn't paying attention) and always reemerged back into the fold as if no attempt had been made to exclude me. Sometimes I chose not to spend time with them and would read a book at recess instead. I don't think they knew what to do with me.
By the time grade eight hit, I was making more of an effort to fit in. But I still couldn't stop mentally slamming the door shut on people when my social gauge was full. "Pay ATTENTION!" my friends would implore when I said I didn't know what was going on or what was being said. It probably was pretty exasperating. I'd frequently and randomly pipe up in conversations and ask to be filled in on what was just said. It's actually quite telling of the girls' decency that they didn't wring my neck.
I don't think this is a mental problem or issue of any kind. I think it's just the way I'm made. I'll probably be this way until I die. Actually, I could see myself dying due to me not paying attention in a crucial moment. It's actually why I don't drive. I think my taking involuntary mental breaks would cause mass car pileups. People like me have no business being on the road.
Ah, another long winding 3:00 a.m. entry. There's something to be said for being awake at this hour. It's deliciously quiet.
The Dude and I used the ice cream maker from the '80s that his aunt passed on to him. It's cheesy looking and it does the job, with three different types of cream, a mess of sugar and two bags of ice. And chocolate and peanut butter.
And it was noisy. So of course we decided to make it at 11:00 at night. We felt justified in the face of the incessant opera singing we endure. Plus, whatever, it was a Saturday night. Heh. You know you're getting old when the idea of a bitchin' Saturday evening is staying in making homemade ice cream.
Problem is, I've been eating like a house cat, specifically like Smokey, which means often and holding out for the fattening and tasty things in life. I feel as though I'm some sort of bear getting ready for the winter. It's not too far off, actually. Last winter I hibernated so hardcore I left the house maybe twice a week. And I loved it.
I read this article about introversion the other day. I am the poster girl for introverts. Now, those who really know me get this about me. I like me time. I like holing up and avoiding all people for days. I love to socialize, but equally love to be very quiet and introspective for many hours afterwards. That's part of why I love to be home so much. It's a place to let my thoughts run their course, rather than having to put them on hold to talk to people.
And the funny thing is I really like people. I truly do. In fact, despite how angry I get over some terrible facets of stupidity in this world (Say Stephen Harper or pro-lifers or Glenn Beck), I still really think ultimately there's a lot of awesome people out there, and I want to hear from them.
I just like hearing from them in shorter bursts or on my own time. After too much socializing I zone out and stop responding to verbal stimuli. This is not an exaggeration. I do this all the time and I can't prevent it from happening ever. In school this was always very problematic as at no point in a school environment is any time ever given to any student to conduct their own private thoughts, because if you're not listening to the teacher you're supposed to be socializing at recess.
My mom had my hearing tested, wondering if I was going spontaneously deaf. Actually, my hearing is exemplary, almost too good. I'm highly sensitive to noises, especially ones I don't want to hear.
I spent many, many recesses alone for a good number of years. And I never felt very bad about it either. I have no recollections of feeling lonely. I loved wandering alone in the playground. I'd occasionally join some random group of friendly classmates, but mostly I kept to myself. Retrospectively, I think I was considered odd.
In fact, in grade five I had two good friends in school, which was a personal best for me. Then they both moved away over the summer. One might think for a normal child, this would cause some stress. To be honest, I can't recall ever having given it any thought as to how this might affect my life. I was bummed I wouldn't see them anymore, but I wasn't really concerned about the impact their absence might have on my school experience.
Grade six actually was the year I somehow joined the popular group of girls, girls who never really had talked to me much before. It just sort of happened and I'm not entirely sure how. I think I just started hanging around, and after awhile I was just a part of things. Looking back I see now there were a few attempts to pick on me, as girls do in sorting out the pecking order. I missed those social cues (I probably wasn't paying attention) and always reemerged back into the fold as if no attempt had been made to exclude me. Sometimes I chose not to spend time with them and would read a book at recess instead. I don't think they knew what to do with me.
By the time grade eight hit, I was making more of an effort to fit in. But I still couldn't stop mentally slamming the door shut on people when my social gauge was full. "Pay ATTENTION!" my friends would implore when I said I didn't know what was going on or what was being said. It probably was pretty exasperating. I'd frequently and randomly pipe up in conversations and ask to be filled in on what was just said. It's actually quite telling of the girls' decency that they didn't wring my neck.
I don't think this is a mental problem or issue of any kind. I think it's just the way I'm made. I'll probably be this way until I die. Actually, I could see myself dying due to me not paying attention in a crucial moment. It's actually why I don't drive. I think my taking involuntary mental breaks would cause mass car pileups. People like me have no business being on the road.
Ah, another long winding 3:00 a.m. entry. There's something to be said for being awake at this hour. It's deliciously quiet.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Mom from Africa
I watched the documentary Babies recently. It was very cute, but it made me think a lot about what people really need and what's important.
The baby from San Francisco had the sort of upbringing that most babies in this hemisphere get: attentive, hygienic, and safe, almost excessively so. Actually, when you compared that baby's life to the Namibian baby, you started to realize how resilient babies really are.
The Namibian mother, quite honestly, seemed the happiest. The American, Japanese and Mongolian mothers seemed... less so, particularly the American. I watched as the African baby girl crawled around, got dirty, suckled when she wanted, put everything in her mouth and interacted with her family, generally left to her own devices to explore the world as her mother stayed nearby doing her own thing.
This baby had no toys, no diaper, no bottle, no high chair, no bib, no anything that we have come to consider as necessary. And yet she was constantly smiling, discovering and laughing. This was one happy kid.
Juxtaposed was the Japanese baby being wheeled through toy stores, napping in her stroller, taken to baby sing-a-longs, and absently entertained by distracted parents. The Mongolian baby's life was full of peril, with the free-roaming farm life and a jealous older brother, but his story was incredible. Overly coddled, this kid is not. The American baby literally tried to escape the pretentious Earth mother group singalong her father was trying to make her do. Made me wonder how how many real experiences kids miss out on in Western culture when their parents are trying to orchestrate all aspects of their lives.
I love the concept of keeping things simple. I really do. The idea of parenthood quite literally used to creep the hell out of me. Why? Because it all looked so damn complicated. From giving birth in this traumatic hospital setting with needles and bags and IVs (The American birth scene compared to the Namibian birth scene was intense) to all the shit everyone thinks they need and the "must-haves" and the so-called experts all promoting their one perfect way to rear children, it all looks like such a weary beginning filled with anxiety and materialism that it's a wonder anyone wants to bother.
Same with weddings, for that matter. Even without useless favours that no one keeps, flowers that wilt, 5 bridesmaids and a $2,000 dress with a wedding to the tune of $40,000, you're still just as married as anyone else who got it done on the cheap.
But back to parenting, it gave me a lot of thought of all the things I don't want to be part of my life should I mother children:
- A hospital birth
- Logo paraphernalia (Think Disney or other over-priced commercialized things)
- Toys which require batteries
- More than a small selection of toys at any given time
- Mega-sized stroller
- Sing-a-longs
- Hand sanitizer
Everyone goes on and on about how hard it is to parent. I don't doubt it. But I also think parents do a lot of it to themselves, by ignoring their own instincts and listening to parenting fads, by over-stimulating their kids at all times instead of letting them play on their own, by over-scheduling their children, by over-sanitizing their children.
If all these things were so necessary for good childhood development, our species would have died out a long time ago. I don't want to live just like the Namibian mother (for example, I'd want more bathing and I'd use diapers and there would be some toys), but seeing her take more joy in her children, when the more affluent mothers seemed more tired and over worked, it made me think about what being a mother is actually about, or really, what it's not about. It's not about the stuff.
The baby from San Francisco had the sort of upbringing that most babies in this hemisphere get: attentive, hygienic, and safe, almost excessively so. Actually, when you compared that baby's life to the Namibian baby, you started to realize how resilient babies really are.
The Namibian mother, quite honestly, seemed the happiest. The American, Japanese and Mongolian mothers seemed... less so, particularly the American. I watched as the African baby girl crawled around, got dirty, suckled when she wanted, put everything in her mouth and interacted with her family, generally left to her own devices to explore the world as her mother stayed nearby doing her own thing.
This baby had no toys, no diaper, no bottle, no high chair, no bib, no anything that we have come to consider as necessary. And yet she was constantly smiling, discovering and laughing. This was one happy kid.
Juxtaposed was the Japanese baby being wheeled through toy stores, napping in her stroller, taken to baby sing-a-longs, and absently entertained by distracted parents. The Mongolian baby's life was full of peril, with the free-roaming farm life and a jealous older brother, but his story was incredible. Overly coddled, this kid is not. The American baby literally tried to escape the pretentious Earth mother group singalong her father was trying to make her do. Made me wonder how how many real experiences kids miss out on in Western culture when their parents are trying to orchestrate all aspects of their lives.
I love the concept of keeping things simple. I really do. The idea of parenthood quite literally used to creep the hell out of me. Why? Because it all looked so damn complicated. From giving birth in this traumatic hospital setting with needles and bags and IVs (The American birth scene compared to the Namibian birth scene was intense) to all the shit everyone thinks they need and the "must-haves" and the so-called experts all promoting their one perfect way to rear children, it all looks like such a weary beginning filled with anxiety and materialism that it's a wonder anyone wants to bother.
Same with weddings, for that matter. Even without useless favours that no one keeps, flowers that wilt, 5 bridesmaids and a $2,000 dress with a wedding to the tune of $40,000, you're still just as married as anyone else who got it done on the cheap.
But back to parenting, it gave me a lot of thought of all the things I don't want to be part of my life should I mother children:
- A hospital birth
- Logo paraphernalia (Think Disney or other over-priced commercialized things)
- Toys which require batteries
- More than a small selection of toys at any given time
- Mega-sized stroller
- Sing-a-longs
- Hand sanitizer
Everyone goes on and on about how hard it is to parent. I don't doubt it. But I also think parents do a lot of it to themselves, by ignoring their own instincts and listening to parenting fads, by over-stimulating their kids at all times instead of letting them play on their own, by over-scheduling their children, by over-sanitizing their children.
If all these things were so necessary for good childhood development, our species would have died out a long time ago. I don't want to live just like the Namibian mother (for example, I'd want more bathing and I'd use diapers and there would be some toys), but seeing her take more joy in her children, when the more affluent mothers seemed more tired and over worked, it made me think about what being a mother is actually about, or really, what it's not about. It's not about the stuff.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Peanut Gallery
Sitting next to my favourite dog.Canada's Wonderland today was great. Good friends, fun rides, and the Peanuts characters roaming the park.
I spent a childhood reading Charlie Brown. My brother and I were devoted readers. Our favourites were Garfield and Peanuts. To this day it's our one true shared passion in life.
Peanuts' continued popularity fills me with joy. It's kind of fascinating that such a sad and often bleak little comic strip could bring people so much happiness, but it does. They never win a ball game, Snoopy never gets past "It was a dark and stormy night" in his terrible novel, Schroeder never reciprocates Lucy's feelings, Linus never reciprocates Sally's love, Linus is bullied by Lucy all his life, the Great Pumpkin never comes and Charlie Brown never kicks the football, among other of life's small ongoing failures.
It's a total projection of feeling like you're not good enough, never appreciated and isolated from others. No wonder it was so successful. Everyone feels that way.
But these deep emotions that I feel for Peanuts weren't what came out in me today when I ran to the characters and hugged them and got my photo taken (Oh yes I did). No, what came out in me was glee from my not-at-all recessed inner child. I felt like a kid again in the best possible way.
My friends humoured me, like good friends do. (In fact McPal rode the Snoopy ferris wheel with me. We had to borrow a family to be allowed on. Yeah, we went there.)
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Status Quo
Every now and then I get on my feminism horse and go for a gallop. It's a horse that needs frequent exercise and not enough women ride it.
I've been following a number of blogs (Obviously). I've posted the funny ones, the STFU ones, but more seriously, I actively read Rabble Pro-Choice, Feministing and Slut Had It Coming.
In particular, today on SHIC, I read this passage about abortion:
And that really spoke to me. I felt that way when I was a teenager, before I became a real person (i.e. a thinking person). But really, if you think abortion is murder, rape or incest should not matter because the fetus is a person. To be consistent, you'd truly have to disregard all circumstances of the fetus' conception. And of course, that would make you a douche utterly lacking in compassion.
And most people are compassionate. So they say in the event of rape or incest, let the poor woman abort, so long as she feels bad about it. But if she actually, liked the sex, slut better be having that baby, yo. And that's fucked up.
Sometimes (often) I get fed up by other people's expectations and projections of what a woman should be, or what a woman must be if she deviates from these pre-conceived ideas. I tried to show some family my belly dance moves and it was implied I did it for dollar bills and I was asked to sit down. I won't lie, that really hurt my feelings. I also felt misunderstood, and was baffled that an expression of my femininity must thus be a ploy to attract and extrapolate attentions and money from men. I couldn't enjoy the movements of my body and dance for me. It had to be a sexual thing. Because I'm a woman.
This is a common belief. Have you ever heard of the Bechdel Test? It's what you ask yourself before you watch a movie:
1. It has to have at least two women in it,
2. Who talk to each other,
3. About something besides a man
And you know what? Those are effing rare. I actually can't think of very many movies I've ever seen that fit this criteria. They're out there, but try to come up with 10. See how long that takes. Movies with two or more men who talk to each other about something other than women are easy to find. Try to come up with 20. It'll take you less time.
In fact, most of our childhoods were pretty much consumed with this problem: The Smurfette Principle. And it starts on Sesame Street. Sesame Street fails the test. A show supposedly gender neutral for children fails the test. It's the first damn thing kids see and half the population is not catered to. Why? Because males are considered some sort of default for human kind and females are secondary.
So what do you wind up with? You wind up with women, who are perceived as weaker versions of men, whose lives revolve around men and attracting men. You have women-centred plots and female leads considered as for women only, and male leads considered for everybody. You have those female stories frequently being driven by the relationship the women have with men and that's pretty much it. You have girls growing into women with few truly female stories to call their own.
You know how if a man admits to liking something feminine he has to be embarrassed and apologize? And if a women likes masculine things, she can brag about it? Yeah. That's what I'm talking about. Even when it comes to homosexuals, gay men get shortchanged because they're identified as more feminine, whereas lesbians though still prejudiced against, get a male seal of approval because it's sexy (and being considered masculine at the very least suggests power or intellect).
So no, women are not considered by many as having the right to choose because they're not considered strong or independent from male imput, and this is not only bred into us from an early age, it's perpetuated on an hourly basis all our lives. It's all connected. It all stems from thinking women either aren't as smart as men, aren't as relateable as human beings, are here for the pleasure of men, and essentially are a variation of men as people rather than people in their own right.
We have women trying to garner respect by rejecting femininity because they believe having a feminine side is bad. It's like the black girl saying the white doll is better and sadly hesitating before admitting she looks like the black doll. It's crap.
I don't need to hear "Sex And The City is actually a pretty good show," as though it's surprising that a story about women could be good. I'm tired of men being embarrassed to admit to liking feminine things. The only reason behind it is the inferiority we associate with femininity, as though it's actually shameful to be that way, as though femininity is something to apologize for.
I mean, even the word feminist has a bad rap as "man hating". You know, because women thinking of themselves as people, and deserving of opportunities is still so foreign a concept that it has to be steered back to women and the way they feel about men. I love men, but it's not all about them. To hell with the status quo.
End rant. For now.
I've been following a number of blogs (Obviously). I've posted the funny ones, the STFU ones, but more seriously, I actively read Rabble Pro-Choice, Feministing and Slut Had It Coming.
In particular, today on SHIC, I read this passage about abortion:
If you believe abortion is OK in instances of rape but not in cases of consensual sex, ask yourself: Why? Am I really all that concerned about the “unborn”—because remember, it’s not that fetus’s fault if the woman carrying it was raped—or am I making a moral judgment about the behavior of the woman involved and whether or not I think she “deserves” the right to an abortion based on her behavior? If the latter, what you’re indulging in is misogyny (yes, even if you’re a woman) and slut-shaming, and there’s nothing admirable, fair, or right about that.
And that really spoke to me. I felt that way when I was a teenager, before I became a real person (i.e. a thinking person). But really, if you think abortion is murder, rape or incest should not matter because the fetus is a person. To be consistent, you'd truly have to disregard all circumstances of the fetus' conception. And of course, that would make you a douche utterly lacking in compassion.
And most people are compassionate. So they say in the event of rape or incest, let the poor woman abort, so long as she feels bad about it. But if she actually, liked the sex, slut better be having that baby, yo. And that's fucked up.
Sometimes (often) I get fed up by other people's expectations and projections of what a woman should be, or what a woman must be if she deviates from these pre-conceived ideas. I tried to show some family my belly dance moves and it was implied I did it for dollar bills and I was asked to sit down. I won't lie, that really hurt my feelings. I also felt misunderstood, and was baffled that an expression of my femininity must thus be a ploy to attract and extrapolate attentions and money from men. I couldn't enjoy the movements of my body and dance for me. It had to be a sexual thing. Because I'm a woman.
This is a common belief. Have you ever heard of the Bechdel Test? It's what you ask yourself before you watch a movie:
1. It has to have at least two women in it,
2. Who talk to each other,
3. About something besides a man
And you know what? Those are effing rare. I actually can't think of very many movies I've ever seen that fit this criteria. They're out there, but try to come up with 10. See how long that takes. Movies with two or more men who talk to each other about something other than women are easy to find. Try to come up with 20. It'll take you less time.
In fact, most of our childhoods were pretty much consumed with this problem: The Smurfette Principle. And it starts on Sesame Street. Sesame Street fails the test. A show supposedly gender neutral for children fails the test. It's the first damn thing kids see and half the population is not catered to. Why? Because males are considered some sort of default for human kind and females are secondary.
So what do you wind up with? You wind up with women, who are perceived as weaker versions of men, whose lives revolve around men and attracting men. You have women-centred plots and female leads considered as for women only, and male leads considered for everybody. You have those female stories frequently being driven by the relationship the women have with men and that's pretty much it. You have girls growing into women with few truly female stories to call their own.
You know how if a man admits to liking something feminine he has to be embarrassed and apologize? And if a women likes masculine things, she can brag about it? Yeah. That's what I'm talking about. Even when it comes to homosexuals, gay men get shortchanged because they're identified as more feminine, whereas lesbians though still prejudiced against, get a male seal of approval because it's sexy (and being considered masculine at the very least suggests power or intellect).
So no, women are not considered by many as having the right to choose because they're not considered strong or independent from male imput, and this is not only bred into us from an early age, it's perpetuated on an hourly basis all our lives. It's all connected. It all stems from thinking women either aren't as smart as men, aren't as relateable as human beings, are here for the pleasure of men, and essentially are a variation of men as people rather than people in their own right.
We have women trying to garner respect by rejecting femininity because they believe having a feminine side is bad. It's like the black girl saying the white doll is better and sadly hesitating before admitting she looks like the black doll. It's crap.
I don't need to hear "Sex And The City is actually a pretty good show," as though it's surprising that a story about women could be good. I'm tired of men being embarrassed to admit to liking feminine things. The only reason behind it is the inferiority we associate with femininity, as though it's actually shameful to be that way, as though femininity is something to apologize for.
I mean, even the word feminist has a bad rap as "man hating". You know, because women thinking of themselves as people, and deserving of opportunities is still so foreign a concept that it has to be steered back to women and the way they feel about men. I love men, but it's not all about them. To hell with the status quo.
End rant. For now.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Smokey the practice run
I think caring for Smokey sometimes gives me a taste of motherhood. He woke me up several hours early this morning insisting on being fed wet food. I know that's what he was angling for. It's the same bang-your-head-against-the-wall experience every time it's been introduced in this house. He goes bananarama for it, disregards all feeding schedules and every time you so much as shift in your seat, he thinks you're getting up to go to the kitchen to feed him.
Well, he's been on it for a week because of his oral surgery, but enough's enough. I'm out of it and I'm not getting anymore. A week of recovery should be enough, considering I'm still giving him his painkillers. This cat, man. I love him terribly and often I want to throw him out the window.
So he's back on dry food. He's eating it, and I'm not giving in to his whining. I look forward to someday again being able to open the fridge without him losing his shit over it.
So since I couldn't get back to sleep, I made use of my time and cleaned the apartment. As it turns out, I'm very motivated to do grunt work early in the morning. Who knew? I certainly didn't. I can never really get going on work-work until about 10 or so and then I can hit my stride, mostly because if I poke around anymore, I'll have a hard time finishing.
But somehow housework felt like procrastinating at my job, which spurned me on. Wild. Well, no, not really wild. Actually it's just a mediocre coincidence about something mundane. Such is life, and possibly another look into motherhood. Being a parent must really fill you with an incredible amount of love to be able to keep on doing it, because frankly sometimes when I get these whiffs of what it must be like, I start to re-appreciate my vacant uterus.
There is some sort of daycare of sorts a few houses down. I see them in their yard from my top floor deck occasionally. I found them super obnoxious. Not the children, the adults. I watched for awhile and realized everything they did was structured. What ever happened to free play in children? Why don't some adults realize that anything they have to offer in the world of play is pointless compared to what children learn and discover playing freely with other children?
It's like the cornerstone of learning how to connect with your peers. It's a lot of trial and error and roughhousing and conflict and imagination at work. Why take that away? It's so arrogant and unnecessary. It's like they have no faith in these kids to figure it all out. Or they think children should never be bored.
Boredom is awesome. It makes you entertain yourself. It gives you time to think and imagine and reflect. Some of the best time I had as a kid was the time I spent alone, devising my own games, working out my own thoughts, reading, teaching myself to draw. If kids are always being given directions and following instructions for how to play, how are they ever going to figure out who they are, what they really want, or how to relate to their peers on a deeper level?
For all the drudgery that is parenthood, I do look forward to being the kind of mother I'd want my child to have and to provide a childhood I think would be beneficial. Beyond the boring everyday tasks, I think actual parenting would be satisfying.
Well, he's been on it for a week because of his oral surgery, but enough's enough. I'm out of it and I'm not getting anymore. A week of recovery should be enough, considering I'm still giving him his painkillers. This cat, man. I love him terribly and often I want to throw him out the window.
So he's back on dry food. He's eating it, and I'm not giving in to his whining. I look forward to someday again being able to open the fridge without him losing his shit over it.
So since I couldn't get back to sleep, I made use of my time and cleaned the apartment. As it turns out, I'm very motivated to do grunt work early in the morning. Who knew? I certainly didn't. I can never really get going on work-work until about 10 or so and then I can hit my stride, mostly because if I poke around anymore, I'll have a hard time finishing.
But somehow housework felt like procrastinating at my job, which spurned me on. Wild. Well, no, not really wild. Actually it's just a mediocre coincidence about something mundane. Such is life, and possibly another look into motherhood. Being a parent must really fill you with an incredible amount of love to be able to keep on doing it, because frankly sometimes when I get these whiffs of what it must be like, I start to re-appreciate my vacant uterus.
There is some sort of daycare of sorts a few houses down. I see them in their yard from my top floor deck occasionally. I found them super obnoxious. Not the children, the adults. I watched for awhile and realized everything they did was structured. What ever happened to free play in children? Why don't some adults realize that anything they have to offer in the world of play is pointless compared to what children learn and discover playing freely with other children?
It's like the cornerstone of learning how to connect with your peers. It's a lot of trial and error and roughhousing and conflict and imagination at work. Why take that away? It's so arrogant and unnecessary. It's like they have no faith in these kids to figure it all out. Or they think children should never be bored.
Boredom is awesome. It makes you entertain yourself. It gives you time to think and imagine and reflect. Some of the best time I had as a kid was the time I spent alone, devising my own games, working out my own thoughts, reading, teaching myself to draw. If kids are always being given directions and following instructions for how to play, how are they ever going to figure out who they are, what they really want, or how to relate to their peers on a deeper level?
For all the drudgery that is parenthood, I do look forward to being the kind of mother I'd want my child to have and to provide a childhood I think would be beneficial. Beyond the boring everyday tasks, I think actual parenting would be satisfying.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Small favours
Something that breaks my heart is giving Smokey a treat and having him run to me, only to stop and look over his shoulder for Jerry, not once but twice. They used to run together. In fact they used to race.
When I was a kid, and a teenager for that matter, my brother and I did a race too. On Christmas eve we would do our pyjama race. First one back downstairs got to open their Christmas Eve present first. It became very competitive.
It started before I turned 10 and my brother and I petitioned our mom to let us open one present before bed. She agreed so long as we were ready for bed first. And we had to both be ready. This was the beginnings of the Christmas Eve Pyjama Race ©.
Rules developed. First person back got not only prestige, but the right to open their present first. Mom's role eventually became that of the referee. Boxers worn under pants did not count as pyjama bottoms. Carrying your pyjama top down the stairs was foul. As there was one race per year, we were in it to win it.
I miss those days. I miss being a kid. Being an adult can be great too, but you never grow up without losing things that matter to you. And you never stop losing what matters. I miss Jerry. But I have peace about losing him. It was his time. I just have the nurse the Jerry-shaped hole he's left in my heart and take care of Smokey, because he's grieving too.
Thinking about how much it hurt to lose Jerry, I realize how lucky I was to have such a great cat, and that I still have another great cat going on 17 years. They witnessed those pyjama races. I didn't just watch them grow up, they watched me too. My life is never without those kinds of small blessings. And like my aunt says, thank God for small favours.
When I was a kid, and a teenager for that matter, my brother and I did a race too. On Christmas eve we would do our pyjama race. First one back downstairs got to open their Christmas Eve present first. It became very competitive.
It started before I turned 10 and my brother and I petitioned our mom to let us open one present before bed. She agreed so long as we were ready for bed first. And we had to both be ready. This was the beginnings of the Christmas Eve Pyjama Race ©.
Rules developed. First person back got not only prestige, but the right to open their present first. Mom's role eventually became that of the referee. Boxers worn under pants did not count as pyjama bottoms. Carrying your pyjama top down the stairs was foul. As there was one race per year, we were in it to win it.
I miss those days. I miss being a kid. Being an adult can be great too, but you never grow up without losing things that matter to you. And you never stop losing what matters. I miss Jerry. But I have peace about losing him. It was his time. I just have the nurse the Jerry-shaped hole he's left in my heart and take care of Smokey, because he's grieving too.
Thinking about how much it hurt to lose Jerry, I realize how lucky I was to have such a great cat, and that I still have another great cat going on 17 years. They witnessed those pyjama races. I didn't just watch them grow up, they watched me too. My life is never without those kinds of small blessings. And like my aunt says, thank God for small favours.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Childhood Pets
I'm on a posting spree it seems.
I'm worried about Jerry. Geriatric Jerry. I love the little guy, and lately he's gotten more and more little. He and his brother, Smokey, are 16 years old, 17 in May. He's only eating raw egg and treats. I've forced him to drink a lot more tonight because he seems dehydrated. And in spite of the forced drinks, he's been very close to me all evening.
He's usually with the Dude, cuddling under the blanket. Tonight he's been by my side, snuggled close and occasionally I reach over and pet his skinny back. I can barely remember life without him. He and Smokey came into my life when I was 10.
Pets, fuck. You know, they fill you with joy and they elicit unconditional love. And they have the power to make you feel as awful and worried as they do make you happy.
I want to solve their health problems. I don't want to prolong their lives if it means they suffer either pain or indignity. I'm hoping a simple change of cat food could get Jerry eating again, or maybe some short term meds. The worst news would be that he's suffering from something expensive and fatal because I can't afford extensive treatment, and I'm unwilling to subject a 17 year old cat to anything invasive or very unpleasant.
My greatest hope for my cats is that old age takes them, with minimal pain, and that when they pass I know I did what I could and my best was good enough for the life expectancy they were meant to have.
But God, if it doesn't ache and worry to have to face this reality now. They're old. My precious kitties are very old. And they're so attached to one another that I'm sure to lose one means to soon lose the other. I'm not ready to deal with this yet. But I'll never be ready. They're living relics of my childhood, a life I lost in my teens, and they're my family.
Jerry.
Smokey.
I'm worried about Jerry. Geriatric Jerry. I love the little guy, and lately he's gotten more and more little. He and his brother, Smokey, are 16 years old, 17 in May. He's only eating raw egg and treats. I've forced him to drink a lot more tonight because he seems dehydrated. And in spite of the forced drinks, he's been very close to me all evening.
He's usually with the Dude, cuddling under the blanket. Tonight he's been by my side, snuggled close and occasionally I reach over and pet his skinny back. I can barely remember life without him. He and Smokey came into my life when I was 10.
Pets, fuck. You know, they fill you with joy and they elicit unconditional love. And they have the power to make you feel as awful and worried as they do make you happy.
I want to solve their health problems. I don't want to prolong their lives if it means they suffer either pain or indignity. I'm hoping a simple change of cat food could get Jerry eating again, or maybe some short term meds. The worst news would be that he's suffering from something expensive and fatal because I can't afford extensive treatment, and I'm unwilling to subject a 17 year old cat to anything invasive or very unpleasant.
My greatest hope for my cats is that old age takes them, with minimal pain, and that when they pass I know I did what I could and my best was good enough for the life expectancy they were meant to have.
But God, if it doesn't ache and worry to have to face this reality now. They're old. My precious kitties are very old. And they're so attached to one another that I'm sure to lose one means to soon lose the other. I'm not ready to deal with this yet. But I'll never be ready. They're living relics of my childhood, a life I lost in my teens, and they're my family.
Jerry.
Smokey.
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