Things That Are True - I Want to Ride My Bicycle, I Want to Ride My Bike

I was sick today - managed to get His Impness to the school bus stop and return home before I revisited the contents of my digestive tract. Word to the wise: smoothie is not so smooth on the way back up.

When I'm sick is the only time I actually miss having a car.

I had, for logistical reasons, the use of HWSNBN's car all last week, and I was surprised at how much I hated it. Navigating traffic, looking for parking, having to always be aware of how much time was left on the meter. Ugh. I used to equate having a car with having freedom, but after almost a year and a half of cycling everywhere, I have to say I don't see myself ever going back. I've grown used to just locking up my bike and walking away, not worrying about it being broken into or getting towed. I've enjoyed the money I don't have to spend on parking. I like being able to take bike lanes or snake my way the through lines of cars waiting at a red light. I like feeling the wind on my face, and hearing what's going on around me. I resented the hell out of the car - despite the rain and miserable weather we had last week, I found myself wishing I was on my bike.

If I had a bell...

And HWSNBN's car has heated seats, so that's saying something.

But when I'm sick? A car seems like a really good idea. Fighting back puking on a bike is just not fun. Fighting back vomit in a car isn't fun either, but at least it feels like no one can see the ridiculous faces you're making.

This morning I made it home on my bike without breaching the confines of my digestive system by sheer force of will. You can call me Iron Jaw.

Hope tomorrow's a better day.

Things That Make Me Ashamed - Shouty Mom

The truth is, I haven't been liking myself very much lately.

I've been letting things slide, I've been missing opportunities, I've been slow to react, and slow to finish things, if they get finished at all. I've ignored this blog, ignored writing altogether for probably the longest stretch of my adult life. I couldn't figure out why I cringed every time I thought about sitting down to put my thoughts in order.

Then I figured some stuff out, and it's not pretty at all.

I have some baggage about being ignored; being made to feel less than.

No four year old is really great at listening. The Imp, energetic and full of questions and entranced with all the shiny things is not good at listening at all in the morning rush before school and work.

He's a great kid. He's thoughtful, and generous, and sweet. Affectionate, whip-smart, and curious. He gets excited about every little thing, and greets each day with a let's go! attitude that I often envy.

But he's not so great at listening.

And I'm not so great at being not listened to.

-----

It happened gradually, but I started shouting at him sometimes, to get his attention. After six times of asking him to do something with no response, I'd increase the volume to let him know I meant business. It was effective for a while, then it faded into the white noise of Imp's life.

So I started shouting to get his attention a lot of the time.

Then instead of just being a question of volume, a note of frustration crept into the shouting. Then the frustration turned to resentment, and soon it felt like I was shouting all the time, angrily barking orders at Imp every time I needed him to just do something.

I became Shouty Mom.

The morning excitement in Imp's eyes was turning to resistance and resignation, and that's when I realized that I didn't like myself very much. That I hadn't liked myself very much for quite some time. I was horrified by the parent I'd become without noticing.

Three days ago I hit critical mass. After a particularly difficult morning, I cracked. I just could not stand the idea of starting one more day fighting with The Imp about all the minutiae of our daily routine; breakfast, getting dressed, picking up his toys, getting his for-the-love-of-all-things-holy shoes on so we could just get out the door.

I could not, as a human being, spend that much time frustrated, angry, and living my life at top volume.

So I stopped.

And it's been hard. Not the stopping shouting, that's the easy part. It's a relief, to turn the volume down, to dial back the anger, to just get really quiet. I've kept my demeanor calm, my tone reasonable, and my voice low. Instead of shouting, I speak quietly enough that Imp has to get close to me to hear what I'm asking him to do.

The hard part?

(I'm ashamed, deeply ashamed, to admit this.)

The Imp's gotten used to the shouting. The Imp doesn't know how to deal with the not shouting.

The shouting is awful, but it's been consistent enough that it's comfortable for him, even if it's all kinds of wrong.

(I've been on the receiving end in an abusive relationship. The echoes of that here are enough to make my fingers shake as I type this.)

Because the dysfunction (temporary, it hasn't been going on that long, and I'm self aware enough to have caught it, for which I am eternally grateful) is what he knows, this sudden change to quiet, even-toned, non-shouting Mommy is discomfiting for The Imp.

He's flailing, striking blindly, lashing out at me to try and provoke the reaction he's accustomed to. It's been awful, seeing him escalate and escalate really bad behaviour because he wants me to shout at him. He's even asked me to shout at him. I've been handling it - we've been handling it - by limiting attention to inappropriate behaviour (make sure he's safe but ignore the outbursts) and lavishing attention on him when he's well behaved. Today there was a lot of progress, and I'm as proud of that as I am ashamed of why it was needed.

I've been crying a lot. A lot.

But I haven't been shouting.

Things That are Random - Thursday in November Edition

My poor, neglected blog.

Seems fitting somehow that the last time I posted was in New York. Like everyone else, the last two days I've been able to think of little else. Like everyone else, I loved New York. I reveled in the cliche of being enchanted with the city. I made little mental tick marks on the list in my head of New York experiences that I just happened upon. Ride in a yellow cab. Tick. Come around a corner and see the sunlight glinting off the top of the Chrysler building. Tick. Subway trip. Tick tick tick.

The thing about New York is that even if you've never been there, you can't help but feel like you already know it, a little. An ersatz version, surely, but the city figures as a central character in so many books, movies, and tv shows, that we all have a shared experience of the city - even those of us who have never been there. It feels familiar, the landmarks comforting.

A little souvenir of New York I brought home for The Imp

I loved sitting in Bryant Park people watching. I loved walking around Chelsea and the Garment District, Soho, the Village. I loved observing the private moments that happen in public in a city that large - like the woman in midtown changing out of her sensible flats into killer heels on the sidewalk just before squaring her shoulders and stepping through the doors of her office tower, or the business man shrinking away from the vocal shoe shine guy calling him out loudly on the state of his footwear. "No corner office for you!"

I loved it when I finally figured out that what I thought were raindrops beginning to fall were actually dripping air conditioners in windows above me as I walked through the August heat. I loved the casual disregard New Yorkers had for traffic signals. The only people waiting at lights to cross are tourists. After a couple of days, I too sauntered across the street in the face of oncoming traffic just as blase as the next guy, secretly thrilled with the notion that a fellow tourist might mistake me for a New Yorker.

I am an urban traveler. I love getting lost in crowds, I love the encounters with the unexpected. I love the energy; it feeds me. Camping or a cruise would be my worst nightmare. Getting lost in New York? Perfect.

Which is good, since I got lost a lot.

We wandered around, my traveling companions and I. We emerged, blinking, into the sunlight from the subway tunnels and I managed to pick the wrong direction every. single. time. Gwen and Sandi were ridiculously good sports about all the doubling back we had to do. I'm not sure why they kept following me after the 17th or 18th time I went confidently off in the entirely wrong direction, but we stumbled on a couple of great little restaurants that way, so I think they've mostly forgiven me.


Theory: once you've gotten a taste of New York, you get home and start saving money to go back. I know I am.

-----

I don't have anything to add to the common discourse about the devastation in New York. It's not possible to look at photos of destruction and loss and feel nothing. I can't pretend to know the city; I only spent a week wandering its neighbourhoods.

It just feels closer than it once did, is all.

The thing about social media in general, and twitter in particular, is that it vaporizes distance. Geography becomes merely a descriptor when I can chat in real time with a woman hunkered down in her apartment in midtown Manhattan in the middle of the worst storm to hit New York in living memory. I was worried about her situation as I saw more and more shocking photos flitting by in my twitter stream. She was concerned about me as she saw news of earthquakes in British Columbia fly by in hers.

-----

I can't get this song out of my head.

"We are calling for help tonight on a thin phone line
As usual we're having ourselves one hell of a time
And the planes keep flying over our heads
No matter how loud we shout
Hey, hey, hey, hey
And we keep waving and waving our arms in the air but we're all tired out
I heard somebody say today's the day
Big old hurricane she's blowing our way
Knocking over the buildings
Killing all the lights
Open your eyes boy, we made it through the night"

-----

Being on twitter, the night of the storm, felt like we were all sitting together in the dark holding hands.

Things That Are True - List the Second

Already Friday again, and here I sit, at my computer after 10pm, as usual. Thus, my second of 100 lists:

Ten Songs I Love and Know How to Play on the Guitar Even Though I'm Supposed to Be a Music Snob and Sneer at Some of Them

• Closer to Fine - Indigo Girls
• Hotel California - The Eagles
• Never Set the Cat on Fire  - Frank Hayes
• Icy Blue Heart - John Hiatt
• Famous Blue Raincoat - Leonard Cohen
• If I Needed You - Townes Van Zant
• King of the Road - Roger Miller
• 38 Years Old - Tragically Hip
• Romeo And Juliet - Dire Straits
• I Don't Like Mondays - Boomtown Rats

Wanna come over and jam?

Things That Are True - Random Despatches from a Friday Afternoon in March

Sweeps up. Takes out the trash. Vacuums up the spiderwebs.

Oh hi. It was getting a little dusty in here, thought I'd do some tidying up. I didn't expect you, please, come on in.  

Pulls the dust cover off a comfy chair. 

Here, make yourself comfortable. Now, what have I got that I can offer you to drink?

-----

Yeah, it's been a while. I don't know what happened. One day I was writing, then for many days I wasn't. No reason. There I sat, not writing. And the blog sat too, waiting patiently. I interpreted its longing looks as accusations, and kept my distance.

I know it makes no sense.

-----

I went for a walk today. A longish walk; about 5 kilometres. I walked in the sun and the wind, over concrete and asphalt and water, noticing things I wouldn't have seen had I been cycling, or on the bus, thinking only of my destination and how fast I could get there. I looked up, and around, and I saw an eagle making lazy circles over the Granville St bridge. I saw indisputable signs of spring: buds on branches, cherry trees in bloom, unapologetic tiny daffodils spreading cheer in small sidewalk gardens, and the promise of tulips.

I stretched out my senses, so long turned inward away from Vancouver's soul-destroying never-ending winter rain, and I felt grateful for many things.

This has been a gradual awakening, I'm realizing now, over the last several days. Last weekend I picked up the guitar I haven't played in months. This week I dug my camera out of hiding and put it in my everyday bag. I straightened out the mess on my desk. And finally, today, I put fingers to keyboard for more than 140 characters at a time.

I don't know why. Maybe it was the delicious light streaming in through my window this morning.

-----

Eyes the pile of clutter in the corner.

There's still work to be done here, but this feels like a good start.

Things That Are True - I am Unique. Also Awesome.

"What makes you unique?" asks Nadine of todaysparent.com.

"I am AWESOME!" I want to roar back into the internet. "I am excellent; I know how to use a semi-colon! I know things. I have thoughts. I am articulate about them!"

Unfortunately, every time I sit down to write a post about my strong voice, my principles, and my dorky love of grammar, I come up empty. It's very much like a job interview I once had.

"What are your best qualities for this position?" asked the interviewer.

"I'm detail-oriented, deadline-driven, and have strong communication skills," I replied confidently. Then he asked me how my communication skills were strong, and I completely blew it. Couldn't think of a single example. I stammered, and blushed, and felt like I might wet my pants. It was awful.

I've always been great when I'm just thrown into a situation – figure it out on the fly and get it done. Ask me to trumpet my own qualifications? I turn into an idiot. Who almost wets her pants.

I don't know why this is. I'm not exactly modest:

My own business cards decry my awesomeness

I'm quick-witted, and funny, and well-read, and I've been all over the world. I can hold my own in any room. I can dance in heels until two in the morning. I speak English, French, and Spanish. Despite having grown up in a tiny town in the Yukon, I'm living in the heart of Vancouver, and I do okay. I know how to play guitar, and will play and sing badly but enthusiastically for anyone who will listen. I was once the chick singer in an R&B/Funk band, and I played the tambourine like nobody's business. I worked for twelve years in Vancouver's film and television industry, and was really good at it. I am an eighteen years sober recovering alcoholic. I've come out the happy side of an abusive relationship. Despite not really knowing how to use my camera, I take pretty good photographs. I am an expert in packing light.

I am a fiercely loyal friend. I eat my own body weight in chocolate on a daily basis, but if I had to choose between chocolate and cheese for the rest of my life, I would choose cheese. I'm not capable of not welling up if I see someone crying. I no longer own a car; I cycle everywhere. I'm a real brunette. I'm a damned fine cook. I turned forty without losing my mind. I hate it that I can always see the other guy's side of the argument. I own my own business designing little boys' clothes. I know all the words to the "Big Bang Theory" theme song. I have a crush on Peter Mansbridge. I will never tell you something looks good on you if it doesn't just because it's on sale. I live in a 900 square foot apartment in the heart of downtown Vancouver and never want to own a house or have a yard.

I suck at parenting sometimes, but I mostly get it right. I suck at being married sometimes, but mostly get that right, too. I write about the times that I get it wrong, and I write about the times that I get it right.

One of the times we all got it right

And here are three of the times I've written about things that matter to me:

My thoughts on Remembrance Day at Vancouver Mom

Stargazing

International Women's Day



This post was written as a job application, of sorts. I'm hoping to be considered for a blogging gig at todaysparent.com. I sure hope they don't ask me about my communication skills.

Things That Are True - 100 Things That I Am

Earlier today, the lovely Schmutzie said on twitter:

I replied, "Challenge accepted!"

She posted her 100 adjectives here, and mine are below.

I am, among other things:

1) gregarious
2) intelligent
3) compassionate
4) distracted
5) funny
6) organized
7) fair
8) inconsistent
9) open-minded
10) talented
11) perceptive
12) truthful
13) lazy
14) determined
15) fierce
16) grateful
17) scarred
18) discerning
19) curious
20) profane
21) insecure
22) respectful
23) musical
24) imaginative
25) privileged
26) active
27) strong
28) messy
29) analytical
30) trustworthy
31) persuasive
32) demanding
33) supportive
34) idealistic
35) bilingual
36) judgmental
37) frugal
38) crafty
39) realistic
40) fearful
41) tearful
42) faithful
43) generous
44) critical
45) stylish
46) buxom
47) principled
48) dissatisfied
49) sober
50) tardy
51) thoughtful
52) envious
53) discreet
54) considerate
55) hopeful
56) impatient
57) uneducated
58) spontaneous
59) healthy
60) conformist
61) irritable
62) literate
63) earnest
64) nitpicky
65) interested
66) charming
67) cynical
68) mulish
69) well-traveled
70) facetious
71) anxious
72) gloomy
73) enthusiastic
74) empathetic
75) loving
76) contrary
77) engaging
78) hesitant
79) capable
80) restless
81) brainy
82) dismissive
83) accepting
84) aloof
85) feminist
86) fidgety
87) witty
88) creative
89) derivative
90) unapologetic
91) mindful
92) stinky
93) sensitive
94) graceful
95) polite
96) confused
97) contrived
98) loyal
99) energetic
100) complex

A few things came to mind as I quickly wrote out this list:

1) I found it really hard to stick with adjectives. I kept wanting to use [adjective noun] like "great cook" or "good singer".

2) I tried to stay away from physical descriptions, like brunette, short, tall, etc. I wanted to delve into who I am, not what I look like right now. That was more difficult than I expected. (I couldn't resist "buxom" because a) it's true, and b) it seems like such a friendly word. You never hear about buxom but cranky heroines or barmaids.)

3) It was easier to come up with negative words than positive ones, and some of the words I chose could be negative or positive, depending on the context and the reader's connotative associations. I leave it to you to figure out which 33 are the negative words.

4) The positive adjectives are how I believe or want other people see me, and how I see myself on my best days. The negative adjectives, I think, are how I see myself most of the time.

5) Many of these words are directly opposed to each other; that doesn't make any of them untrue. I am at times idealistic and at other times cynical. I am at times aloof, at other times sensitive. I am both lazy and enthusiastic, I am both literate and, formally speaking, uneducated. I believe this is true for every human being I've ever met - we are complex and often contradictory creatures.


So that's my list. Anything you think I left out? What's on your list?

Things That Are True - Observations from a Small Island in the Pacific

A few observations from my last 48 hours or so:

You wouldn't think a two hour time change could wreak so much havoc on a family routine - but does it ever. We were woken our first morning in Hawaii by The Imp actually running tight circles in our hotel room, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy." Over and over. It was 4:30.

----------

We immersed ourselves in Americana this morning and had a highly salted and oversweetened breakfast at Denny's. The thirteen year old girl at the table next to us was having a Red Bull and nothing else at 9:00. I hope that she had a healthier meal when she too woke at 4:30 am. I'm kind of surprised we didn't see her later, running in tight circles on the sidewalk, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy."

Aside: the Denny's on Kuhio is possibly the whitest place on Oahu - except, of course, for the staff. But you know you're about to get value for money when the majority of a business' customers are octogenarians with fanny packs. And I'm talking about the men.

----------

The Imp is much more opinionated about how he wants to spend his time this trip. The difference between not quite three and almost three and a half is remarkable. Not only does he remember every single thing that we saw and did six months ago, he has very distinct notions about how and when he wants to repeat them. It's been an interesting couple of days, managing his demanding behaviour and trying to discipline him in a way that doesn't involve me spending hours sitting with a sullen child in a hotel room. Follow-through sucks, y'all.

But when he is behaving, it's a joy to behold:

Unless you have a heart of stone.

The Imp spent a bunch of time running up and down the beach across the street from our hotel. It's possible he was chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy," under his breath. What stopped him in his tracks was a dude with a metal detector working his way along the unoccupied bits of sand. Metal Detector Man was, as if straight from central casting, an octogenarian man with a fanny pack. The Imp was riveted.

----------

It's been a long time since I wore, or even much cared, about what was trendy in the fashion world. But here's fair warning for you: mom jean cutoffs seem to be a thing. That's right, waistline-meets-armpit washed denim cut so short that pockets flap around underneath their ragged hems. Cut so short you get to see whatever the bum equivalent of side-boob is. (Side-bum?) Based on the alarming number of young Japanese women I saw today sporting this look (because really, any number higher than one is somewhat alarming, no?) I am officially old and not-stylish. And I'm totally okay with that.

----------

Vancouver and Honolulu are, except for the weather, remarkably similar: both adjacent to ocean and mountains, both ethnically diverse, both highly influenced by a variety of Asian cultures, and both magnets for global investors who drive the price of real estate higher than the jobs provided by the local economy can afford. Of all the American cities I've visited, Honolulu actually feels the most like Vancouver to me - with the glaring exception being, of course, Vancouver's lack of palm trees and trade winds. The Imp keeps asking if we're still in Hawaii.

The Imp: "It doesn't look like Hawaii, Mom. It looks like Vancouver."
Me: "What are you talking about? How can you say that - the weather's beautiful today!"
The Imp: "It looks like Vancouver with all the coffee places."


We were exiting Starbucks at the time, so yeah.

----------

There were a number of times today that I was struck by what a cliche I am. A slightly frumpy, fifteen pounds overweight, middle-aged woman wandering around Waikiki, stopping at beach-side tourist restaurants to sip slushy drinks with a tower of fruit and paper umbrellas poking out the top, going to the beach and training my camera on my much doted-upon child. At one point I even was given an orchid to weave into my hair.

I'll admit, I felt self-conscious for about five minutes. Then I decided it didn't matter. I'm here with my best friend and my child, and we are enjoying the sun, and the ocean, and the family time. I tucked my orchid behind my ear, island-style, looked out at my boy running through the waves, and embraced the cliche.

If this is cliche, I'll take it.

And now, the boys are both snoring, and I am sleepy, so until tomorrow, aloha.

Things I'm Learning - Let it Snow

This morning, there was snow.

Allow me to give you some background: I was born and raised in the Yukon. I know all about snow. I have walked in it, I have waded through it when it was hip deep. I have shoveled it, I have skidooed through it, I have played vigorous games wherein one person "washes" another (unsuspecting) person's face with it. As a teenager, I ran with friends through foresty hometown shortcuts when it had been snowing long enough to accumulate on the trees, and used my fist and forearm to whack tree trunks as I ran by, leaving my friends to get caught in the mini-avalanches behind me as snow slid off heavily laden branches.

I know from snow, and I spent twenty years in the territory, enduring it more months of the year than not.

I do not like snow.

When we go to Whistler, I get a pedicure while HWSNBN hits the slopes. I have tried skiing, and I was so bad at it I got pity lessons from an instructor on his day off when I was sixteen. He was French, and even though skiing sounds more charming in French (chasse-neige!), I still can't do it without both physical and emotional scarring. I have tried snowboarding, but I was so bad at that, that by the end of the day I was manipulating my falling body to land on my chest on purpose because it was the only part of me not bruised into agonized submission. I have cross country skied (I was not good at that either), and I have snowshoed (none of your fancy city snowshoes, either, mine were bent wood and animal parts and moose-hide laces).

I especially don't like snow in Vancouver, because almost no one knows how to drive in it, and a few inches of the white stuff can lead to some pretty spectacular clusterfucks on my city's streets.

So when I looked out the window at 7:00 this morning to see snow falling past our 21st floor windows, I was decidedly not amused.

I woke HWSNBN to let him know that I was going to take the car to my early exercise class because it was snowing. At that exact moment, The Imp came blinking into the dim light of our room, and came fully awake justlikethat.

The Imp: "It's snowing?"
Me, disgusted: "Yes, it's snowing outside."
The Imp, excited: "It's snowing?! I want to see!!"
Me, still not impressed: "Well then, go look out a window."

The Imp ran to our dining room window and pressed his nose against the glass. Inches away, big puffy flakes drifted lazily past him. He actually clapped, and started jumping up and down.

The Imp, turning to look at me, beaming: "Yay! This means we can build a snowman! Yay!!"

That gave me pause. To The Imp, a Vancouver-born child of three, snow's not something to be endured; it's a thing of myth and legend. It happens rarely, and it's cause for celebration.

Me, putting on my game face: "Yes, honey. That means we can build a snowman."

I went off to my class, and the boys got up and had breakfast. By the time I returned an hour and a half later, the skies had cleared. And much to The Imp's chagrin, it had warmed up enough outside that any snow on the ground when I left had already melted away.

My snow-hating self was given a reprieve.

Two things:

1) It is way too easy to pass our biases on to our kids without even realizing it - with a smidgen less self-awareness, I would have obliviously squashed all The Imp's joy this morning. That's something to think about.

2) I need to buy The Imp some mittens. Next time it snows, I'm blowing off the exercise class.

The Imp in the snow, November 2010, almost exactly a year ago

Things That Are True - Evening Gloves

A kajillion years ago, I bought black satin evening gloves at a second hand shop. I bought them to wear to the cast and crew Christmas party when I first worked on X-Files as a production assistant. After spending all my work days outside in the rain in polar fleece and gore tex and hiking boots, the opportunity to dress up like a girl and go to a party was not to be wasted; I went all out.

Then I tucked the black gloves into a drawer of my dresser, where they sat, basically untouched, for the next fifteen years. One year, back when I was single, I got all dressed up to watch the Oscars by myself in my apartment. Evening gown, hair, makeup: the works. Why not, right? Just because I was single and alone didn't mean I couldn't be eccentric, after all. I pulled out the gloves and put them on, just for fun. And then I took them off almost immediately because they were making it hard to eat potato chips.

In the years since, except for the occasional purge of my wardrobe, they've remained untouched at the back of my top dresser drawer. Every time I go through my clothes I think about getting rid of them. What use are evening gloves when I'm asleep by 9pm more often than not? Where does black satin formal wear fit in my life parenting a three year old? Why bother hanging on to them?

But I never got rid of them, I think because over time they came to represent a side of me I didn't get to play with very often; someone other than maker of lunches, kisser of owies, and reader of bedtime stories. It's so easy to get lost in the mundane and repetitive motions of the every day imperatives. This business of being a grown up is usually more serious than not. Having those gloves tucked away reminded me that I was capable of dress up, of sparkly - of whimsy, even.

Tonight I got all dressed up and went to a party. At the last minute I remembered the gloves, pulled them out, and put them on. And it felt good.

Now that I'm home, makeup removed, tortuous (but gorgeous) shoes put away, and party dress hung back in my closet, I'll tuck the gloves back in to their accustomed spot in the back of my top dresser drawer. It may be fifteen years before I wear them again. I hope not.

But next time? I'm busting out my tiara from the wedding box and putting it on too.

Things That Are True - Four Questions

Apropos of nothing, the view from our dining room these days

The lovely and supremely talented Catherine Jackson wrote a recap post about Blissdom Canada '11, answering four questions that Catherine Connors asked at the beginning of her opening keynote. I've been meaning to do the same, and here's my stab at it:

What don't people know about you?

In the late nineties I was briefly the chick singer in a funk/r&b cover band made up of Vancouver film crew folk. We played a few industry parties, and fourteen year old me almost died of the squee once when Rob Lowe danced in the crowd as I sang "Chain of Fools".

What are some things about which you are knowledgeable?

Film/scripted television production
Baking pies, especially apple and lemon meringue, but I can't stand and won't make pumpkin.
Grammar
Formula One auto racing

What are some things about which you are not at all knowledgeable?

Coding/programming
Photography - although I take thousands of pictures, I still don't know how to work my very basic SLR
Modern art

What are some things that you believe?

I believe that friends are the family you choose for yourself. I believe that no one can silence me unless I let them. I believe that every person I meet has a story to tell, and experience I can learn from. I believe that it's important to engage with people with whom I don't agree and have my own assumptions challenged regularly. I believe that if you don't vote, you don't get to complain. I believe that dancing with a small child in my arms is the best possible use of five minutes in any given day. I believe that good food and good stories with good friends is the best kind of party. I believe that the act of making something, anything, connects me to basic truths about myself in a way that consumerism never will.

And I believe that connecting with others over shared experience - whether face to face or simply here in my little corner of the internet - keeps me more than five minutes away from being naked in a bell tower with a sniper rifle.

Thank you for being here.

(And it's possible one or two law enforcement agencies would thank you too, if they knew.)

Things That Are True - Burning Down the House

I am having that day; the day when I look around and feel like I'd be better off if I just burned it all down and started over. Picking through the embers and the ashes I'd find that which really matters to me, and just leave everything else behind.

Of course, the landlord might not be keen on me committing arson in or near his property.

It's a concrete building, but still.

A decade ago I was all about acquiring things. New furniture, designer clothes, a cool car; I was a good little consumer and diligently practiced acquisitiveness on a regular basis. Now, I would just as happily throw everything I own out the window (Except maybe my laptop. And one or two books. And the Armani suit I swear I'll fit back into some day.) as ever deal with any of it again. I feel like I'm constantly getting rid of things, and yet there's always too much stuff in my physical (and mental) space. It's like being at a rock concert that's just a little bit too loud (and that's how you know I'm getting old, as if a rock concert could be too loud, for the love of Mike) and not being able to leave.

It exhausts me, this stuff.

I am ever vigilant. The three of us live in 950 square feet. There is no room for excess, and yet it always feels like I'm not quite keeping up with the incoming tide. Toys are passed on the moment they're outgrown, books are read and given away, our clothes closets are purged regularly. I have foisted shoes on my friends, and traded a cast iron frying pan for waterproof cycling gloves. I have quietly divested myself of wedding gifts we don't use, appliances that take up more space than they're worth (how are you liking that juicer, Skot?) and been inching towards minimalism on several levels, but I still always feel like a wave of clutter is about to knock me on my ass.

So here's what I've been doing to strip away the things I don't want to deal with anymore:

• I sold my car. I didn't use it often enough to justify the expense, and when HSWNBN bought a new-to-us car in June, we decided to take the plunge and become a one-car family. I now bicycle everywhere with The Imp towed in a trailer behind me.

• I remove at least three items from my home daily that are never to return - even if it's just taking out the recycling, something leaves my house every day. I've put up photos on flickr and offered things free to the first taker on twitter. I've left stuff in the back alley behind our building - a guaranteed way to make it disappear in less than ten minutes. No way to change my mind and decide to keep things "just in case". 

• Anything new that comes in the house is balanced by something leaving the house. New toy in, old one goes out. New book, furniture, clothing, bedding, towels: same deal. 

Digital clutter: look how tidy!

• I'd been keeping old guitar, cooking, and crochet magazines because I might get to them someday. (Ah, the little lies we tell ourselves!) Instead of giving them valuable apartment real estate, I scanned the articles/projects I liked, and put the magazines down in my building's laundry room where they went on to find new homes. I now have digital clutter instead of physical clutter, but at least it's hidden away in a folder on a hard drive and not taking up space where I can actually see it.

Now I just need to figure out what to do with the detritus that somehow accumulates on flat surfaces. There is not a counter, table top, or cabinet that doesn't at some point fall prey to the migrating piles of paper that infest this house. It's like a plague or something. Or an STD. The piles just get passed from one flat surface to another and never really go away. How can I deal with this stuff? Someboday save me! I'm open to suggestion, people.

My goal, as I get older, is to have less and less physical stuff in my living space. I'd love to reduce what I own every year, so that by the time I die, my house is almost entirely empty except for the stacks of lush Persian carpets to gently break my final fall.

Sigh. A girl can dream.

Things That Are True - Blissdom Canada and Why I Blog

I went to Blissdom Canada, and it was seventeen kinds of awesome. I sat at a table of people who called themselves writers, and no one told me I was in their seat, or sitting at the wrong table. I called myself a writer out loud in front of other people and no one laughed.

We discussed the narcissism inherent in publishing on a public platform. We asked what makes a person a "real" writer. We talked about audience, and voice, and where our own boundaries are about what we feel comfortable with putting out there.

The conference sessions I attended were fantastic. I drank it all in greedily; this knowledge and practical experience of (dare I say?) my peers, and it left me giddy.

The takeaway, for me:


Blogging, women's blogging in particular, seems to break down into two basic styles: review/product/brand ambassador blogging, where it's a job, or a gateway to a job or some kind of income; and more personal blogging which is less a means to an end and more a need to get things out. I'm not saying one style is better or more engaging than the other, and there are those who do both and those who do neither. Generalization's always a tricky thing, but I did notice the same faces over and over again at the art track sessions I attended.


-----


I just have to write. As Tanis Miller, Bonnie Stewart, and Elan Morgan said in their session on finding your muse: inspiration is bullshit. Over and over again, I heard people talk about the need to just write. To get over the being stuck, to get past the fear of writing badly, to take it seriously enough to do it even when (especially when) it's really difficult. I realized that I actually don't care if I'm not one of the cool kids because I'm still using Blogger. I don't give a damn about ranking on google, or writing posts that are the right length and have the right keywords. But I will admit that writing at all is often a struggle for me, despite the fact that I can't imagine not doing it. I left Blissdom feeling so connected, so ready to come home and blog fearlessly.

And then I didn't.

I think about writing all day, every waking minute. I'm constantly composing posts and articles in my head, knowing just how I'll word what I want to say, and then I sit at my keyboard and excuses start to flood my brain. I get caught up in my own head, I worry about who might be reading, and I get stuck on things I need to write about that aren't entirely my story to tell.

It was liberating to hear that other people - people whose writing leaves me gasping, grinning, and weeping - struggle too. I've been inclined to think of myself as a failure because I can't just sit down and have the words flow magically all the time, even though I know intellectually that no one can.


What I need to do is just write.

-----

Finding your tribe is a powerful, powerful thing.

Catherine Connors, in her opening keynote, talked about intellectual hubris, the echo-chamber of surrounding yourself with people who already agree with you, and the importance of seeking out the other in order to make meaning and build community. It was a tremendous speech, and I don't disagree, but there's also value in finding the people who do think the way you do - if only to reassure yourself that you're not entirely crazy.

Like BlogHer back in August, Blissdom Canada was an amazing experience. The sessions were informative, and hilarious, and inspiring. The parties were fun!

But like BlogHer, the real takeaway for me was in the smallest of moments: staying up all night like college girls talking to my most excellent roommate, Jeanette; sharing a tearful moment in a crowded room; grabbing lunch at a restaurant with real tablecloths just because we could; connecting about the experience of living up north, bonding over a shared crush on Peter Mansbridge. None life-changing in and of themselves, but in the aggregate, a powerful thing.

These moments, these interstitial moments - away from the busy-ness, and business, of the conference itself - these shiny bits of truth are what I take home with me and treasure.

-----

And now I will hit publish, because I finally sat down and just wrote something.

Friday Confession - Impostor

I spend a lot of time avoiding doing the very thing that I love most.

I know. It makes no sense.

But it's true. I alphabetize things that don't need it, I cook, I clean, I sleep, I watch tv, I surf the web. I spend too much time on twitter. I do anything but write.

It's ridiculous. I've been writing in journals and notebooks, scribbling on the backs of envelopes and bar napkins, and composing letters in my head for as long as I can remember. (Okay, maybe not the bar napkins. That was a later development.) I started this blog as a place to organize my thoughts, share my ideas, and have a living record of my experiences as a parent. I love the sense of community it gives me, the power inherent in having a voice (whether anyone listens or not) and the thrill of learning from others who've trodden the path before me or are walking by my side.

And yet, I don't write. I avoid it like... I dunno. Laundry? I hate laundry. Avoiding that makes sense.

Fear, friends. Fear is the dream killer.

It's not interested in what makes sense. It doesn't care what's rational, or even what's true. Its only focus is to prevent risk. Any risk, real or perceived. And imaginary risk is its specialty.

Fact: All my life I have longed to be a real writer.

Jebus. Just typing that out loud has made my hands shake.

So yes, I've longed to be a real writer, whatever that is. (Is blogging writing?)

I even managed in second year university to enroll in Creative Writing 100, with the intention of majoring in that or journalism. I went to the first class; it was all about poetry. We were assigned to write an autobiographical poem. The night before the class, drunk in the student pub, I dashed off a few lines of suckage and handed it in at the second class.

The third class, the prof gave a prize (one of her own books of poetry, she probably had a basement full of them) for the best poem. To me. She thought my poem was the best of what had been handed in.

I knew it was a piece of crap.

I never went back to that class again.

I haven't really ever told that story.

----------

The tyranny of the blank page

People I respect and admire have told me they enjoy my blog. Out loud I thank them; inside my head I'm immediately discounting what they say. Based on my twitter stream, I've been told by someone who writes! professionally! that I should write a book. I joke that she's crazy. "From your mouth to a publisher's ear," I grin.

Recently at a party, I was introduced to someone as "Alexis, a very talented writer" and I almost fell out of my shoes. The Fear That Rules Me screamed, "No, no, no. Don't be ridiculous!" I managed to keep my game face on and shake hands like a normal person, but inside I was ramping up all the old arguments for why the person was so wrong.

But that moment made me pause. It's always interesting to catch a glimpse of yourself as others see you, like a reflection in a shop window as you hurry by. And in a heartbeat, I decided to stop discounting what I do and say in this space.

It's not easy.

I feel like a fool most of the time.

But the other day, as I met a friend, a writer friend, for coffee and encountered another friend, another writer friend at the same time, I introduced the two, saying "David, this is Heather. She's a writer too!"

And for a split second, I allowed the "too" to include me.

Then I did a crazy, crazy thing. A few days ago, I submitted one of my own posts for BlogHer's Voices of the Year. This one.

This is progress, yes?

Things That Are True - Ten Truths for Living

When an idea hits, it's better to act immediately than overthink. I have an unfortunate habit of questioning and analyzing and talking myself out of actually accomplishing much. Today as I was looking around trying to sort out what to tackle first on the Neverending Do List of Doom, it occurred to me that the first thing, the very first thing I should do, is write down ten truths for living.

So I did.

I didn't overthink, I just wrote. And I tried hard not to pass judgment; a particular struggle for me. To compile, in ten minutes or less, a list of Things That Are True. Not Things That Should Be, not Things I Need To Do, not Things I'm Doing Wrong. Just Things That Are True For Me.

A bit of the actual page I scribbled them out on. And look: I thought "truths" and wrote "rules" before I changed it back. Gah.

So here they are:

1. My physical environment affects my mental and emotional state and vice versa.
2. Procrastination is the dream killer.
3. Creating, making, doing are as crucial as breathing.
4. Physical well being - adequate sleep, good food, and challenging activity are essential.
5. The company of others inspires me and keeps me striving to do better.
6. Letting go of attitudes, patterns, and physical things that don't serve me is necessary to moving forward.
7. Being kind to others allows me to be kinder to myself.
8. Learning daily motivates me.
9. To learn, risk is necessary. Do the scary thing!
10. There is profound joy in being present during the smallest of moments.

The demons I fight daily tell me that the list is trite, that there's nothing particularly interesting there. That no one will care, or relate. I'm going to hit publish anyway, because I think that's how I'll be able to shout down the you-can't and the you-shouldn't and the why-bother.

Prove my demons wrong. Tell me: what are your Ten Truths?

If you'd rather write a blog post than reply in the comments, let me know - I'd love to link to it!

Things That Are True - UPIs

UPIs, I called them, with a shrug and a laugh.

Back in my early twenties, when I could drink and dance until the early hours with no consequences. A blur of friends, fun, and fluids of various varieties, made right in the morning by a twenty minute nap, a shower, and a fresh coat of lip gloss.

UPI: Unidentifiable Party Injuries

You know the ones I mean: "Whoa, how'd I get this giant bruise on my thigh? It just mysteriously appeared! How funny is it that I have no idea where it came from? Man, you'd think a bruise like that, I'd remember something!" I wore them like a badge of honour. The "I was so drunk!" rite of passage.

"UPI!" I'd giggle over drinks the day after. (Not to be confused with UPOs - Unidentified Party Objects - the debris left at your house after an especially raucous and well attended party. Mostly unwanted junk, but hey! that's a nice sweater. I'll keep that!)


----------

UPIs, I called them, ashamed and not meeting your eye.

I didn't name them until well after that awful relationship, the bruises long gone.

UPI: Undisclosable Partner Injuries

The ones I kept hidden under long skirts and long sleeves. He was smart; he hit me in the face only once. My split lip, I passed off as a cold sore. That bruise on my upper arm was a fall in the shower.

A hand-shaped fall in the shower.

Maybe that's why as summer approached and clothing might betray him, the abuse grew less physical and more emotional. Emotional hurt doesn't give anything away.

He was smart; he knew I wouldn't tell anyone. He was the only one who ever saw me like that; covered in bruises. After a while, even I didn't see them. I got really good at not seeing them. I was so used to wearing clothes that made them invisible, that they became invisible to me. I became invisible to me.

Me in 1996. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

A month after I finally stopped going back for more, I tried on my bathing suit in my new by-the-kindness-of-friends home. A summer day, the sunlight was streaming in through the open window onto my too pale, too long hidden legs. I was startled by the sight of smooth, unbruised skin from head to toe. I couldn't recognize that body as my own.

"No more UPIs," I quietly said to myself. "Ever again."

----------

UPIs, I call them now. Enough time has passed, the context has changed again. I'm back to the shrug and the laugh.

The bruise on my shin from lunging past the coffee table and not quite missing it in my haste to stop The Imp from leaping head first off the back of the couch. "I do parkour, Mommy!"

The sore ankle from the time I, sleep deprived and not paying attention, closed the car door on my own foot.

The bursitis in my left shoulder from carrying thirty pounds of squirm the times he refused to sit in the stroller and he refused to walk.

UPI: Unavoidable Parenting Injuries

The many and omnipresent small bruises from little knees, and elbows, and heels as I cradle a restive feverish toddler in my arms. The bumps and bonks as little hands fling toys across a room, or shove a book too close to my face. "Read me a story, Mommy!"

And this week, the large and unlovely bruise on my chest from a too-vigourous game of Tickle Me Mommy, toddler heel connecting with adult sternum as The Imp shrieked with laughter and kicked his little legs trying to squirm away from The Claw.

----------

I stood in front of the mirror yesterday to take this picture, and the memories started to sneak out of the box where I'd hidden them. Friends came over and I quickly threw on a sweater over my v-neck top so I wouldn't have to answer questions, and it all came tumbling back. And this post, originally meant to be a lighthearted look at the way my life has changed since I became a parent, oozed darkly out of me, beyond my control.

What can I say? I bruise easy.

Tuesday Confession: Daycare

Fact: The Imp is the best thing that ever happened to me. Ever.*

Fact: Without daycare I would be a raving lunatic.
 

I'm just not that mom. Sometimes I wish I was; the mom that can come up with fun things to do, crafts that entertain and educate, classes that propel development, playdates with age-appropriate activities. I watch other moms, people in my family and circle of friends who excel at that. The moms that can spend every waking minute with their children, and revel in every second of it. But I just can't. I have tremendous admiration and respect for the moms that are, but I've come to accept that I'm not that person.

So, The Imp is in full time daycare. Monday - Friday, 9am - 5pm.

I used to have a lot of guilt about it. I would berate myself daily, asking what kind of mother sends her kid to spend most of his waking hours with other people. (Other people who are vastly more qualified to spend time with him than I am - I don't have a degree in early childhood education, and they do, after all.) I worried about the cost, especially when launching a new business takes some time to show any income. The reason I started my own business was so that he wouldn't have to be in care, so that I could spend more time with him. So I could be that mom.

But the truth of it? It's not in me. I desperately need the me part of my day. I need that time to do grown up things, to have grown up conversations. And when I don't get that time, it is Not Good Indeed. I become impatient, frustrated, and highly irritable. I become Shouty Mom, and Shouty Wife, and I don't like myself very much.

So The Imp goes off to "school" every morning, and I run my business from home. Best of both worlds; The Imp loves daycare, adores his friends, and gets all the social stimulation, developmentally-appropriate play, crafts, and activities he craves. He's an only child - daycare has taught him him how to share, take his turn, and find his place in the world, independent of me. I'm lucky to have the freedom and flexibility in my work schedule to take him to swimming and gymnastics and pick him up early just for fun whenever I want.

So I'm not that mom. I no longer apologize for it - it's okay. Good even. Because I'm not impatient, frustrated, and irritable. Or shouty. And I'm not resenting the time I spend with him. I'm delighting in it.

And he's curious, and social, and a really, really fun kid to hang around.

And clearly he's thriving.

*Second best thing: HWSNBN, of course.

Things That Are True - Overwhelm

I've been feeling a little like I'm barely holding together the various unraveling threads of my life lately. I've reached a constant state of overwhelm. Nothing particular, just everything all at once. You know how it is. (Please say you know how it is.)

It's been a day.

I forgot my wallet and phone at home this morning. Never a good idea.

The Imp and I walked out of his gymnastics class (or if you ask The Imp, "I do parkour!") just in time to see my car in the process of being towed away. (I am an unrepentant receiver of many parking tickets.)

The bad news: I got another parking ticket.

The good news? The tow truck driver took pity on my walletless state, backed the car back into its expired spot, and left without further incident.

There's a good chance that The Imp standing on the sidewalk crying, "Don't take the car away! It's not broken! Don't take the car away!" over and over may have been a factor in the driver's decision to just get the hell out of there.

You win some, you lose some.

Sigh.

But this? This is made of win.

Things I'm Learning - Assumptions

When I was eight, my family went on a grand adventure. We sold or packed up everything we owned, said goodbye to friends and family, traveled across most of Canada by train, then flew away. Stops in Frankfurt, a week and a half in Israel, an unexpected three days in Greece, then on to Nairobi where we almost missed our flight to Antananrivo. A few hours there in an airport under construction*, and then a quick Air France flight to our destination, the place that would be our home for the next two and a half years: Reunion.

Map scanged from www.mapsofworld.com

We went there because my parents felt it was their duty to be of service to their religion. I also think it was a balm for a marriage in trouble - they were always at their best when it was the two of them against the world. I suspect also that they just had itchy feet. It was not the first time they'd done that kind of thing - but it was the first time with children. And, I'm sad to say, the last.


Reunion was both literally and figuratively the polar opposite of my hometown: Watson Lake, Yukon. The two are exactly twelve time zones apart. Where Watson Lake was sparsely populated and surrounded by miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles in every direction, Reunion was a small space, crammed with crowds of people everywhere. Watson Lake was in Canada's cold north, Reunion was tropical. Spindly gray-green pine trees traded for lush vegetation and palm tree lined beaches. Where Watson Lake was culturally homogeneous (if you ignored the First Nations population, which, let's face it, was pretty common nation-wide in the 1970s), Reunion was a mix of African, Indian, Chinese, and French influences. Where English was the only language spoken in Watson Lake, Reunion was politically and linguistically French. In the entire time we were there, outside of my parents' religious community, I recall meeting one other person who spoke English - a tourist who approached us when he overheard us speaking.

Left: downtown (I'm not kidding) Watson Lake, 2004   Right: typical St Pierre street, Reunion, 1979

Being in such a foreign environment challenged everything we thought we knew. I was a kid, I rolled with it. I showed up my first day of school with my Sesame Street French and my trusty Larousse pocket English-French/French-English dictionary, and I figured it out, as kids do.

My sister (left) and I (right), dressed up for our first day of school, knowing nothing, 1979. This was the last time we would wear socks for 2 1/2 years.

 But I was always aware of how different we were, how much we stood out. How different every minute of our day had become. Reunion had no tv to speak of then: a three hour broadcast every evening, which only mattered if you had a tv, which we didn't. No one we knew had one. At a time when peers in Canada were getting telephones in their bedrooms, we knew one person in our whole village who had a phone - and it didn't always work. Coming from a place where we thought nothing of leaving the tap running while we brushed our teeth, in Reunion we had running water only three days a week, and woe to the family that forgot to fill their cistern for the days without. Compared to the neighbours up the hill from us who lived in a corrugated tin shack without electricity or running water of any kind, we were considered wealthy beyond imagining because we had a refrigerator.

Everything was different; everything. Yet old habits die hard. In Canada, official language laws decreed that labels on food packaging be in both English and French. In the store, if the French side was carelessly left facing out by the shopkeeper, all you had to do was flip it over to see the label in English. In Reunionese shops, time after time, upon seeing the French label, we would turn the can around, only to encounter more French on the other side. For months and months (years, maybe) we did this - my mom, my dad, and I. (My sister was four and not yet reading when we arrived there.) Despite knowing intellectually that the labels were only in French, still we did this, and were jolted every time there was no English on the other side.


There is a powerful life lesson there. At the age of eight, my behaviour was already that ingrained, despite overwhelming evidence that it made no sense. Can it be any different at forty?

Maybe that's why I find it so difficult to make changes in my life - even positive ones. Because there are decades of ingrained behaviour - subconscious assumptions that inform every choice I make, every action I take. (Every smile I fake, every cake I bake...) Things I'm not even aware of trip me up.

And I think that's what our inner you-can't-do-that-and-who-do-you-think-you-are-to-even-try voices are. (We all have those, right? I'm not alone there?) Unexamined assumptions that hold us back. We've been listening to those voices droning in our ears for years, and they're a lot louder than the realities we encounter. Like the habit of flipping the package to find the familiar - except without the jolt of finding the unexpected on the opposite side. Since we're rarely jolted that way, brought face-to-face with these assumptions, we don't see them. And how can you change what you don't see?

I learned from comments on my post over at strocel.com yesterday that I'm not the only one who struggles with judging myself too harshly. Why is it so easy to show compassion for friends and strangers, and so hard to be that kind to ourselves?

Because we don't have the same kinds of assumptions about other people, that's why. We take their words and their behaviours for what they are - not what they appear to be through that lens of judgment we turn on ourselves.

So my question is, how can we jolt ourselves out of our everyday way of thinking, to see the reality of who we are, and how we appear to others? How can we change the assumptions we have about ourselves - hell, even figure out what those assumptions are, so we can work at changing them? So we move forward? So that we can, as Thoreau said, go confidently in the direction of our dreams?



*Aren't all airports, everywhere, at all times, under construction, or only when I'm traveling through them?

Things That Are True - Friday Confession

The Imp has been sick since Monday. Sleepless nights with a croupy toddler make me so very cranky. Last night, The Imp was awake, coughing, at 1:48 am. He stayed awake, clinging to me, needing a drink of water, his favourite stuffed toy, to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed, to sleep in his own bed with Mommy, to sleep anywhere as long as it was on Mommy. I held him, and I rocked him, and I stroked his hair, his back, his tired, coughing, wheezing little body. Because as parents, that's what we do, right?

It's 8:30 pm, and I just put him to bed for the night. Except for the brief times he was strapped into his car seat today, he has been in my arms, on my lap, or clinging to one leg or the other, for eighteen solid hours. Even when HWSNBN came home just before bedtime, The Imp still clung to me, crying, "Mommy, Mommy!" when Daddy tried to read him a bedtime story.

The last time The Imp was feeling clingy, in a hotel room in Victoria

Don't get me wrong. I love The Imp more than anything. I want to be there for him when he's feeling sick, especially when he's feeling sick. I want him to feel safe, and loved, and to know that I'll do anything in my power to help him feel all better.

But a full day of the constant contact, after a full week of the clinging, sleepless nights, and I'm just done. It's too much of a muchness. I've experienced as much touching as I can handle; I've reached sensory overload. My flesh actually crawled when he wanted to cuddle with me at bedtime. I just needed to have my body belong to me for a little while. But I sucked it up, and held his hand, and sang him to sleep.

Because as parents, that's what we do, right?

Cue the Mommy guilt.

Have you ever just had enough with the touching, or am I the only person who's actually that awful?