Tired

So, cat's out of the bag. I'm "out" about my pregnancy. Keeping it on the down low was a challenge. I found it hard to write anything because many aspects of my day related to my symptoms, which were taking over my life.

I'm feeling better now. I'm at 14 weeks and I'm no longer sick to my stomach and hating most foods, so I'm no longer suffering. But damn, I am tired. And when I'm not tired, any physical exertion makes it happen at a shocking pace.

The Dude and I went out for sushi with my cousin and his girlfriend, new to Toronto. We had a lovely meal, and then suddenly I was exhausted. I had to go home because I wanted/needed to spend the rest of the evening lying down and resting.

We had brunch with Buddy B and his girlfriend, and had a nice afternoon, walking around the neighbourhood, and whammo. I needed a nap, and wound up taking one that lasted nearly three hours.

Despite this recent social activity, I am actually seeing my friends less. I've become lame. My energy levels are at a minimum and though everyone assures me they understand ("You're making life. Of course you're tired!"), I can't help but feel like a wet blanket. I make fewer calls and I get fewer calls. I'm too worn out most of the time to initiate plans and I think everyone believes me too tired to join in the fun now, which has thus far been the case many times.

I keep waiting for the fog to lift, so to speak, but the fatigue remains. I get lonely sometimes. And then I go take a nap.

I can't help but feel too that if my mom were here, I'd really be enjoying my pregnancy a lot more. It seems on top of the physical symptoms there's a world of "Pregnancy: you're doing it wrong" advice out there that is souring my experience. I think a big part of the picture I'm missing is my mom's excitement and good vibes.

Frankly, I've been looking forward to and dreading this time in my life since she died. I knew doing this without her would be painful. And it is. It's an isolating sense of loneliness because no matter how many other people are happy for you, if your mother is gone, the person (other than your partner) that you need most and who would be the most involved is missing. You feel it. Sometimes it feels like a gaping hole.

Walk Of Hope

Today I participated in the Walk Of Hope. It was my second time out and I raised $300. It was emotional for me. September in general can be a melancholy time. September 20th is when my mom died. It'll be 12 years this year. In a few more years after that, she'll have been dead longer than I ever experienced her being alive. That's a sobering thought.

I have a pressure in my chest and a small pulsing knot lodged in my throat. Crying seems appropriate, but for now I'm going to write. I can cry later. And when I do, I won't feel so compelled to type anything. Tears from grief have a tiring effect. They lull you into a sort of complacency after you've fully let go. I suppose that's what tears are for.

I'm going to make myself a little vow. I'm going to try never to qualify the pain of someone's loss by how long ago it was. What is gone is gone, but love is love, and time means nothing. When someone experiences a loss they pretty much have no choice but to manage their pain. But ask anyone who's lost a loved one, or hell, lost their family from a divorce, or lost a relationship that really mattered. Years later you can still tell they feel it, you can see the cracks from where they've glued themselves together.

What I hate in contemporary society is this loathsome concept of moving on. Those who know nothing insist it means you should no longer care. That is impossible. Hearts remember everything, cliche though it may be to reference the heart, which is merely an organ. But it's what skips a beat, misses a beat, pounds and aches over loss. It's where the pain hurts.

I'm still mourning. I'm aching over losing someone I've not had in my life for 12 years. It causes me pain all the time, more often than I ever let on. I have my life, my home, my fiance, my cats, a real decent set-up all things considered. I work, I see friends, I enjoy food, I am happy. And behind it all, shelved within easy reach of my memory, is the grief.

This wedding has been bringing it out more often. Sometimes I'll sit here, like now, and I'll become overwhelmed with sadness I can't place. And when I really think about it, I always know where it comes back to. Unaccountable waves of sorrow arrive from one destination.

So I'll let myself think about my mother not being there to lace up my wedding dress, see me walk down the aisle, hear me exchange vows. Doing the walk today was a good feeling, but it was very sad for me. So now, at 2:30 a.m., I'll feel it.

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.

Aunt Jendra

I'm going to be an aunt. My brother is expecting a child with his ex-girlfriend. Or perhaps she's current. I'm not sure. But he's going to be a father, and regardless of his romantic situation, I'm emotionally invested in my first niece or nephew. How could I not be? My only brother is expecting his first child.

And it's so wild. I mean, this guy, my brother, is perpetually a teenager in my mind. He's always seemed so much younger than me. I think it's an older sibling thing. The Dude's older brothers are always calling to check up on him, probably because they feel the same way. It's hard to see your little brother as a grown man sometimes.

And now it's really hitting home. And I obviously have concerns. I mean, any unplanned pregnancy in a relationship that's not solid to a young couple is going to need some help. And I don't live in their city, which sucks. I don't want to be a twice-a-year aunt. I don't think I'll have much choice in the matter living three hours away, but knowing my brother could use some family support and not being there for him really bums me out.

The baby is due in September. They told everyone early. Most people wait till the first trimester is over in case of a miscarriage, which is a possibility early on. But I guess they were pretty excited and excited people like to share their news.

This is a big year for him and me. I'm getting married, he's becoming a father. This is grown-up stuff. My mom would be having a field day. Too bad she won't be there to be a grandma. This child would have hit the jackpot with my mother as his or her grammy.

I know I've been having some sorrow over my mom not being here for my wedding planning. It really hurts sometimes. I wonder how Jamie is going to feel about his mom not being there to meet his child or support him along the way. Probably he's feeling the loss.

2011 is turning out to be quite the year. And it's only February.

All in the family

I kind of can't believe how fast things are moving, how time is zooming by already. Mid February already. I was floored by how fast New Years had come and I'm getting glimpses at just how much longer I have to be in my 20s. Barely any time left at all.

The Dude turned 30 a couple days ago. We had a nice party for him at The Ballroom downtown, a new bowling alley that plays classic rock and has a sweet lounge upstairs. Oh, and by classic rock, I mean what is now classic rock: the music of my teenage years in the '90s.

I looked around and saw people my own age, maybe less a couple years, maybe more by a few years. Everyone was singing along to the music and I had flashes of dancing with my friends at school dances in grades 8 through 12. Oh, and for the record, I'm shite at bowling. But my memory for my teenage years is spectacular, more than it ought to be for my own happiness' sake maybe, but at least I remember lyrics, too.

I don't overly care much about music in general. I mean, I'm a human being so I do enjoy it, but it doesn't really meet my emotional artistic needs quite the way movies, books, visual art and even TV do. But I do enjoy a blast from the past, and music is a big way people of a shared generation connect with each other when they're going through adolescence.

The music at the bowling alley reminded me I needed to think about a DJ for the wedding. I am signed up at a couple wedding websites to help me keep track of what I need to be doing so I don't screw myself in the planning process.

The Dude and I have a cake consultation tomorrow, and now a DJ consultation this Saturday. I'm kind of jazzed about both. The cake means, well, cake. And cake is awesome. Nothing in life can't be improved with a little cake. And the DJ is something I'm getting excited about. I'm thinking of all the fun music we can plan to hear, the kind that makes you dance, the kind everyone knows and sings along to, the sort that is universally enjoyed and shared.

Still, in spite of the fact I enjoy the whole process, and even though I don't have to check in with anyone and can just do what I want, a part of me is bummed. This is usually a time when a woman's family comes together and gets involved. But my mom is gone, as are both my grandmas, and my godmother is across the country now, along with my closest female cousin. All my other aunts live at least three hours away.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself, exactly. I see the good things. I just can't help but mourn what I'm missing. I'm missing family who will share my joy with me and be a part of my process. I don't consider everything I've done since my engagement as being of ceremonial importance the way some women do ("But it's my last dress fitting! You have to come!"), but a little familial companionship would be comforting.

Maybe we should have thrown a small engagement party in our hometown, just because we see so little of our families in person and it would have been a way to have that family experience during our engagement. Our parents won't meet either. I'm estranged from my only living parent, so what's the point?

I suppose what I'm feeling is simply that: the lack of family in this whole milestone. I'm feeling like that lone chopstick. I do know they all care. I know they'll show up, offer good wishes and congratulations and be happy for us. I also know the only thing I'm really missing is my mom and in her absence I have no stand-ins to lean on. This is one of the times I acutely feel my motherlessness. The hole she leaves can't be filled by even the rest of your family. Such is life.

Traditions

I've been thinking about Christmas. I had some really nice ones when I was a kid. No sob stories here. Some people hate Christmas because of bad holiday memories from their childhood. I had a lot of fun.

My parents always warned me not to expect too much. I think perhaps when I was very young there may have been lots of presents. When I was 8, our family finances underwent some changes. Single parent households aren't typically rolling in money, but job loss can stretch things tighter.

But I never noticed fewer presents, really. I mean, there were fewer, technically, but I think what made the difference was my brother and I didn't feel our holiday was lacking. We had traditions. There was my father's family, over 20 people, packing into my grandma and granpa's post-war six-room house's living room. Exactly seven places to sit. Get up to go to the bathroom and you lost your spot. Those were fun Christmas eves.

There was Christmas eve before bed, my brother and I doing our pyjama race to see who could open their Christmas eve present first. There was waking up to a stocking in our beds and the rule of waiting till 7:00 to wake up Mom. There were always new movies and the yearly debate and squabble over which one we'd watch first.

Then breakfast. Then Grammy and Poppie's for dinner and more presents. Mom had a rule that we were only to get clothes, as they were needed. So we weren't wild over them, because kids never see the value in clothes, but we loved our family. Our closest cousins would be there and we'd play and swap stories.

Leading up to Christmas, my mom and I would go to one of her friend's for baking all kinds of holiday goodies that we'd stick in the freezer and bring out as needed: cookies, squares, cake, chocolate...

Things changed when we got older. Grammy passed. Then Grandpa five years later, and a year later my mother, and a year after that, Grandma. A lot of families fall apart after so many deaths, particularly when those deaths were of people who were like glue. But life marched on and Christmas evolved, not without sadness, but you find joy in the holidays where you can if you try.

And with the new Christmas locations to go to, different schedules and new significant others, things started to get sticky. My father played turf war over Christmas, which was needless to say a bad time for all. Did it with Thanksgiving, too. Any holidays you wished to include others or expand your repertoire of activities and visits he took as a personal affront. It doesn't make sense, so explaining it would be pointless, at least for today. So for a few years, Christmas was very unpleasant.

In the years we've been estranged, things have again grown into something cheerful and festive. And with a fiancee I've been with for four years, there's been some dividing up of holiday time to make sure we see everyone. And everyone does this. As you age, Christmas stops being about the presents and starts being about who you spend time with. I know a number of people my age still get presents, but that's dwindled for me for many years now and has almost reached nil.

There's a couple people I do exchanges with, but there's no actual "Christmas morning" type of thing in my life anymore. That part of my life has come to a close. And when I thought of how this year would be, waking up at my mother-in-law-to-be's house and eating breakfast, drinking coffee and being with the man I'm going to marry, I felt good.

And then we'll go to my aunt's (One of many aunts I always mention) for Christmas dinner and see about 25 of my relatives there. And then the next morning, it's off to the lake to see the Dude's dad and step mom. And there'll be questions about the wedding that I'll have answers to, and we'll eat festive things and sleep in and be cozy with warm drinks.

And I can look back on my mom and thank her for always making Christmas about family and tradition and the experience, and not the gifts. And traditions are important. Last year when my brother came up to spend Christmas with us after Jerry died, I laid a stocking out on his bed like our mom used to do when we were kids. In all honesty, I did it more for me than for me. You do little things to keep what and who matters alive how you can and where you can.

The Dress

I bought my wedding dress today. I didn't plan on it at all, but it was sort of meant to be.

I woke up this morning, my day off, and had nothing to do. So I thought I'd be productive. I'd chosen a wedding dress from an online store and had planned to buy it. After custom fitting and shipping, it'd come to $300. And being a pro online shopper and all, I saw nothing amiss with this.

But you tell enough people your plan and you wind up second guessing yourself. So I figured I'd try on some silhouettes to make sure I was making the right choice. I went to a discount place that had no selection and poor assistance and I tried on two dresses. Mostly it was to feel like I didn't waste my trip. They didn't work out.

I recalled a few bridal shops I was aware of in the city; I'd been noting them for a few months time now for just such an occasion. So off to Spadina I went, knowing there were at least a couple non-ritzy places that likely would welcome a walk-in.

Let me tell you something about bridal gown shopping. It's a weird way to spend a Monday afternoon. Most people go with at least a friend or two, a bridesmaid or their mom. I was alone. Now, I didn't ask anyone and this was on the fly, so that makes sense. And I have no mom and all three of my bridesmaids are in other cities, minus McPal (the fourth attendant and a bridesman, as it were), who is in town, but who would not have been free on a workday.

I never asked anyone, or even alluded to this shopping trip as a group activity. I have a few reasons for this. Some are practical and others are emotional and rooted a little more deeply in my psyche than I'm completely comfortable with.

Practicality wise, when it's just me, I can make a trip quick and efficient. I don't need to wait on anyone. I also don't need to consider anyone's feelings or tastes about the dress. I can just go with my own instincts and hunches, passing over whatever I feel like passing over.

Emotionally, I can't shake some conflicted feelings I have about planning my wedding. I think not having my mom to call about it is getting to me a bit. She's the one who'd be the most excited about it. Our friends are jazzed for us, and our families are happy for us. I'm happy, Dude's happy and all is well. I'm just feeling a flattened affect with the whole thing, that unclaimed-daughter emotion I get sometimes.

Way inside me was the feeling that since my mom couldn't be there, I didn't want anyone. It would only draw attention to the fact she was missing. Going it alone was easier. Back in college a classmate talked to me about his family's philosophy. They were Chinese and had a collectivist culture viewpoint that pleased me. They see the family as a bunch of chopsticks. The more that stick together, they harder they are to break. I remember hearing that and thinking, I am a single chopstick. I'm a metal chopstick, but I'm on my own

It's not like I have no family at all. I do. But I've been on my own in many ways for quite some time. Though no one has ever made me feel this way, I've never been able to shake the burdensome feeling I'm intruding on other families when I get too close to my aunts. My aunts are my surrogates, but they all have their own children. I never forget that.

So entering this bridal store solo had me feeling ambivalent. Despite not arranging or even trying to arrange a group of people to come with me, I felt a sense of loss and loneliness about the whole thing. But it still felt right, as right as it would under the circumstances.

I saw this one dress. It was beautiful, and completely not what I had been looking for. But it drew me in and I asked to try it on. I then picked two more, both empire waists with the sort of fabric I like, swishy and floaty. The lady had me try those ones on first. One was cute, the other not for me.

Then the dress. The sales woman helped me do it up, as it required help. And as she was fastening everything, she told me she had a feeling about this one, that she wanted to save it for last and that though she didn't normally do the full strapping-in for a try-on, she wanted me to see the full effect.

And I did, and my eyes welled up and I knew I'd accidentally stumbled upon my wedding dress. I only wanted an idea of good fits, but this was it. And while it was not $300, it was under $800 after tax. That was still affordable. I couldn't believe my good luck.

In this place I tried on three dresses. I made my choice. Gut instincts, no hesitations. And I reaped the few benefits of being a lone chopstick. I don't know anyone else who has the total autonomy that I do. Easy as that, I made my choice, confident in my ability to please myself, and with no one else's feelings to consider, I made my deposit and left.

I'd been waiting for this for awhile. All of my happiest moments make me a little sad. It's just how it is. Getting married is the hardest yet because it's the biggest mother-daughter thing I'm missing thus far. The only thing that will be harder is getting pregnant and giving birth.

Most people won't tell you this, but I will, and not because I'm dark or pessimistic. Rather I'm a realist and I think it's shallow to pretend it's not true. When you truly love somebody and they die, you never really get over it. You can find happiness again and you can enjoy your life. You'll cope and move forward. But nothing of real importance will ever make you fully joyful again because there will be that missing piece and it's never coming back. You learn to live with the ache.

Today the ache spoke, and I heard it. You let it say it's piece, you cry and then you reach into your inner resources and you get on with things and recall how beautiful the dress is. You play in your head how things would go if she were alive and what she'd say and how happy she'd be for you. It's like a fake memory you get to create. It's all you get, but that's okay. You're okay. That small moment in your life is passed now.

I'm okay.

Feels like home

So I switched up the design of ye olde blogge. Obviously, I didn't do the design myself, but I think it's more me.

I got a cheque in the mail for $100. It's an HST apology, more or less. I make under a certain amount so I got a rebate. I immediately and frivolously blew it on a new dress and other such fun items. Sure, I do have a big vet bill to pay off and a Mexican wedding/vacation to pay down, but...

This is for McPal.

So, anyway.

Speaking of McPal, the Dude and I had him and his boyfriend over for dinner a few nights ago for French food. We have really discovered that we enjoy entertaining. I like when people are in my home. It makes me feel good.

Growing up, my house was sort of a central hub for friends in the neighbourhood. Part of it was the central location in the subdivision. But mostly I think it was the atmosphere. My mom was into cozy decorating. You walked into the house and it was like being in a country home. Everything was comfortable and inviting, very few things were precious. The dining room opened up into a covered deck, filled with wicker furniture and items from flea markets.

Friends of my brother and me felt comfortable grabbing a snack from the fridge. People put their feet up. Everyone hung out. The house was always tidy if not perfectly clean. Lived-in would be the word. My mother did housework on the weekends. But she also made time to read and play Tetris. She was a fairly relaxed person, particularly for a single mother, and I think my friends responded to that and felt good about being in her home.

I want a home like that. I love pop-ins, I enjoy people feeling cozy at my place, I want to recreate that feeling. My home doesn't look like it's from the country, but it does have a kitschy quality to it (Thanks in part to the Dude and his predilection for bringing home curb treasure). I think the mishmash of stuff makes the place welcoming. In a way the living room is like the Island of Misfit Toys.

This is the first place the Dude and I have ever bothered to entertain in, and I think it's due to all the effort we've put into making it comfortable and pleasant here. In a way, for the first time in awhile, I feel more at home, rather than in transition. And that's weird because rather than than spending time in one place and growing into my apartment, I've been in constant flux and slowly over time my apartments have been growing into a home, through trial and error, accumulation and removal of furnishings. This place isn't the last destination either.

You know, one of the things that couples tend to have problems with is stuff. And when the Dude moved in, yeah, there were territory issues. But over time our respective tastes have compromised and merged fairly organically. It's a nice feeling to know he's been instrumental in feeling at home. In a way, he kind of is my home.

The Brown Thumb

It's the May two-four, the late Queen Victoria's birthday, who's ultimate legacy here in Canada is a number of fairly important thing, but mostly a day off and an excuse to buy fireworks you don't know how to operate properly. What's a young Canadian couple to do? Well, like the name suggests, you can pick up a two-four (That's a case of beer for those of you not in the know) like the 19+ year old crowd do and go camping. You could do like the 30+ year old crowd with children do and scout the community for activities. Or you could do what the 40+ year old homeowners do and start your gardening.

Know what big plans the Dude and I have? We're going to plant tomatoes and peppers on our deck. It's hard not to feel fuddy-duddy old, but we hate camping, don't drink beer, don't have a cottage, don't have children and frankly, we enjoy fresh vegetation in our stirfry and I heart toasted tomato sammiches. Though if there were a cottage at our disposal, hot damn, would I be there. Maybe next year.

Thing about this pot-o'-veg-on-the-deck venture is that I have a bit of a brown thumb. I like the idea of gardening far more than actual gardening itself. I've never had a flare for it.

I begged my mother to let me plant carrots and pumpkins in the backyard when I was wee. The carrots never were harvested. I don't know what happened, but I couldn't really get them dug out. They seemed stuck in the earth and then I thought something had gone terribly wrong. Like maybe they grew attached to some pipes or something. Hey, I was 8 and had an overactive imagination and no upper body strength. So they stayed there and perished at some point.

The pumpkin flourished. And then the vine took over the yard. We had a small lot and my mother enjoyed flowers and this pumpkin vine was making itself too cozy near all her hard work and closing off a walkway. So she had me rip it out before any pumpkins could bloom. Which is really too bad because it's the only thing I've ever managed to make grow, and I still wound up killing it, and on purpose.

My mom often had me help her plant her flowers each year. And I would and I'd water the gardens every day. I felt I was being very helpful one day when I saw some strange looking greenery growing alongside the house in a place I'd never seen anything grow before, and took the liberty of plucking them from the ground. My mom's afternoon work was destroyed.

She had a real green thumb, often pruning other gardens when she saw it was needed. We'd be on our way into the grocery store and she'd stop and start pulling off the dead leaves and buds from Value-Mart's carnations. I didn't inherit this gift. Oh, I inherited a joy of picking at stuff, but not limited to things that ought to be picked, and rather aimed anything that can be picked and perhaps should be left alone.

But today we're going to give it a go. The Dude is out collecting the soil, pots and supports and such while I stay to shower and get ready for the day. Then we'll go select our seedlings, who don't realize it yet, but their lives will now hang in the balance of luck, a poor record of gardening and my good intentions.

And maybe we'll also grab some brunch. Happy May two-four!

11 Mother's Days

It's Mother's Day. It's a nice concept, meant to give people an outlet to celebrate their mothers, or the mothers of their children, people who generally are unappreciated throughout the year, or who you gave a lot of grief to growing up, and who are utterly indispensable.

The Dude is on the phone with his mother, catching up, wishing her a happy Mother's Day and getting her French onion soup recipe. He's making it for me tonight. I'm no one's mother. I also have no mothers, not even a grandmother. This day all at once means nothing to me, hurts me, and makes me dread and look forward to the future. Someday I'll be a mother, which I want very much, and I'll be without my own mother's guidance and support. It'll be bittersweet.

My mom liked Mother's Day. She was a single mother with an ex-husband who was trying and spotty with support payments. The Kraft Dinner and beans and wieners I ate as a staple in childhood was more of necessity than preference. She did her best on a tight budget. We didn't eat out often, but when we did it was a treat. We were always told not to expect much on Christmas, but I never recalled feeling disappointed. We didn't generally vacation, but trips to the beach and a cottage some years were adventures.

Once when my brother and I were young, my mom picked us up from our after-school daycare and we drove past our house. We were confused and bugged our mother to explain herself. All she said was that the car was making the decisions and we'd just have to wait and see where the car would take us. Turned out the car drove us to Pizza Hut. Then afterward, the car wanted us to go to the movies. My mom was cute like that.

My cats, Smokey and Jerry, were a surprise that I came home to one day. And she liked to fuss over their wellbeing. Mostly, if we fought in the house, she'd tell us to stop because we were upsetting the kitties. When we tore the wallpaper from my bedroom walls and the kittens romped in the scraps, she'd laugh that kitties think everything is there for them. She'd often wonder out loud if the cats were happy, and be concerned that they weren't.

She was shy about sex and talking about it. When we watched PG-13 type movies together, she'd want to fast-forward the mild sex scenes, even though I was 12. When I reached my menarche, she was happy, but in the end could only advise me to stay away from boys for awhile. When I required a bra, perhaps she was waiting for me to ask for one, but I had absorbed her embarrassment over the subject. In the end, I think it was her sister who prompted her to buy me one. I was put on the pill when I was just under 16 for medical reasons. This prompted our one and only sex talk, which she delivered on the way home from the doctor, and it went something like this:

"You know the pill doesn't protect you from STDs."
"Yeah, I know. I'm waiting till marriage anyway"
(This was a convenient stance for me to take at the time, being generally nervous about the topic as a whole and figured putting it off was a relief)
"Okay, but you might change your mind. You need to use a condom."
She cleared her throat and that was that. And she wound up being right.

My mom liked to tackle other important topics with me, like feminism, domestic abuse, eating disorders and body image, and empathy. Her strong messages on those issues still resonate with me today. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind.

When she got cancer, at first I was terrified. Then I reasoned there was no way my mother could die. You never think it could happen to you. I couldn't imagine a world in which she didn't exist. I couldn't see how my life could move forward if she was gone. So I didn't think about it. I wouldn't think about it.

Things started to matter more. Talking to her about my day, for example. My inclination was to be secretive. But I didn't want to chance missing out on conversations while I could still have them. One hug stands out in my mind. We were in the kitchen and she was standing there, bald from chemo, and I asked for a hug. She was happy to oblige and we stood there holding each other for a long time. And I love that memory. She was so easy to make happy.

Our last real conversation was in her bed. She had this habit of reading in her room, under the covers, and like a typical teenager, that was the only time I wanted her attention, when it was focused on herself. And I think she liked that. It became a ritual. A few months before she died, it was the summer, I was 16 and she told me how she felt about me as a person. I don't remember the conversation. But I do remember how she ended it. "I know that no matter what happens to me, you'll be okay."

And that stuck with me. When I feel lonely for my mother, or if I feel like I need her, that's all I have left. But it's something. I have her faith in me.

I miss her. Until you've been unmothered, you have no idea just what a hole it leaves inside of you. But it's left me with some unexpected gifts. With each passing year, I've inherited more and more of her traits. I have complete autonomy, and in the absence of needing a parent's approval, I default to being my mother's daughter. I think I'm more like her than I ever would have been if she'd lived. I channel her a lot. The strangest things have become funny. I take myself less seriously. I take morbid pleasure out of being embarrassed, a quality of hers that made me cringe when I was a child. I'm gullible, like she was.

But I'm stronger, too, because I've had to be strong. Necessity is the mother of invention. My mom, in her good parenting, me strong enough to sustain losing her. That's the irony of losing a good mother. You can withstand losing such a valuable person because they were so valuable.

My mom, on a dark day, once morbidly said, "I'm worth more dead than alive." In a response that only one her children would have replied, I said, "No mom, you have sentimental value."

Happy Mother's Day to you, Mom, wherever you are.

29

Hey, last post was my 100th! Awesome.

Yesterday the Dude and I celebrated his birthday a few days early. He's been working so much, that we figured a Sunday was the only day safe to make firm reservations. I like his birthdays. They're always so relaxed. He's not big on parties for himself.

So we slept in and he opened his presents. I gave him some Adobe Photoshop manuals he wanted, which made him happy. We lazed around all day, then went out to dinner at the Keg Mansion. It serves his favourite steak, so it's an easy standby. It's not really much of a causal dining experience. Every time you go they ask you if it's a special occasion. They brought the Dude an ice cream cake with a sparkler.

And so now he's 29. Well, he will be on Wednesday, but who's counting? He says he won't care when he turns 30, but who doesn't care at least a little? I know I'll care. Hell, I named my blog after it. It's a milestone birthday. Your body changes in your 30s. Your priorities often change. It strikes me as one of those ages where you've got to be more serious about your life. The 20s are about making mistakes, figuring out who you are and what you want. You're allowed to be an idiot.

If you're still an idiot in your 30s, you're not just young anymore. You are actually an idiot.

Thinking on my parents, my dad was a married father of two by 29 (though the married part would not last long into his 30s). And at 29, my mother was childless and unmarried. I know how she spent her 30s. She got started on a family. But her 20s were spent working, some travel, moving around, living in the city and having relationships. Had I been more curious about her when she was alive, I'd know more.

But as a kid I only wanted to know about her childhood. And as a teen, I only wanted to know about myself and my friends. Her 20s have a lot of question marks for me. My aunt, her closest sister and friend, tries to fill in the blanks. But trying to tell someone else's life story is a challenge. No matter how close you were or are, you still don't know all the details and chronology can get confused and you remember things differently, and it's from your perspective so certain events or people may have seemed more or less important to you than they may actually have been to the main character of that life story.

I was thinking about this at dinner, though less organized. The Dude wanted to know what I was thinking about. I kept these thoughts to myself at the time. It wasn't really Keg Mansion conversation.

I've been thinking about the daughter I hope to have one day. The more a woman knows about her mother's past, the better off she'll be. Even if it's sad or terrible or boring. I wish my mother had kept a diary. Or written some letters. There's something that seems wrong about her dying, beyond how untimely it was. I should have known more about her.

Revamp

So Smokey is okay. Still a diabetic, but he needs less insulin, or so the vet is thinking. So that's all well and good. However, like predicted, he's going to need special care in about two weeks. I'm going to do at at-home glucose curve. Oh yes. See, I have to test his blood sugar once an hour for a day. Yeah, so drawing blood from my cat hourly should be a good time. Good way to spend a Sunday. But it's Smokey and I loves him, so I'm obviously going to do it. I never knew being diabetic was so expensive. Those test strips are about a buck each. I'm glad I don't have it. Jebus.

In more superficial and girly news, I finally get my hair done today. I haven't had it cut and coloured since... Late October. It's February. I just kept putting it off and now it looks like ass: roots, split ends, no shape, blah-blah-blah.

So here be the before picture:

Note the grease, as the roots are less obvious in this light.

I'm still trying to grow it out. I'm several inches away from a goal length that is vague and mysterious. I'll just know when I have enough hair. I started growing it out around the same time I quit wearing pants a couple years ago. Yeah, I avoid pants at all costs, unless a dress or skirt is just far too impractical.

My late 20s seem to be calling to me to be more feminine. I was actually never really that girly in my teens. I had short punky hair. I never wore the kilt for my uniform after grade 10, opting for pants, and I wore skater sneakers instead of dress shoes. I had a bob in college, dressed like a hobo, and wore makeup about twice a year.

After college I settled into moderation and looked more like a normal woman. I acquired a couple girly things to wear, grew my hair to my shoulders and started wearing makeup half the time I went out.

But this, this is something else entirely. I feel sad when I have to wear pants. I really enjoy putting together a nice look and making my face look more attractive. I love the process of making myself pretty.

I remember before my mom died, I went to see her in the hospital. I was 16 and she saw me in an outfit she liked (rare) and she said that it looked like I finally found "my style." And of course it was just wishful thinking on her part because she would never see how I'd turn out and she knew it. But I was wearing a skirt that day. And so that little memory makes me smile.

The Walk

Today I walked the Winner's Walk Of Hope. It was 5km for ovarian cancer. I raised somewhere around $600-something. I felt really proud of myself. I think it's the first really worthwhile thing I've done all year.

My mom died of this cancer when I was a teenager. In a week's time it'll have been 10 years. She was 49, I was 16.

When I was working in an office, my co-worker of some years would bring me April daffodils from the Cancer Society and I'd watch them bloom in my basement office. I have a daffodil tattoo on my hip, which I got when I was 19. But otherwise, I've not done very much other than remember her, and feel bad on Mother's Day.

Today was different. I bought a sunflower for the walk and when it started, I turned on my iPod and listened to music that inspired me. I had my sunglasses on and I cried a little behind them, as I wondered if my mom was proud of me, and I saw people wearing shirts saying things like "Team Colleen," and "For Mama."

I made really good time. I finished in under an hour. I was exhausted, but I felt like I gave it my best effort. My mom was always really happy when I was active outdoors. I was a pretty sedentary kid. I remember how excited she was when I joined the track team.

I don't have much more to say. I hope she was watching.

This is actually crossing the finish line.
I used that sunflower to harass Dude all the way home.