To the dad and his 10-year-old daughter on the bus: thank you. For your beautiful conversation. For the laughs. For the obvious love you share. For just being.
I watched the pair sitting across from me, having their conversation, and I smiled the whole way home. There was nothing particularly funny or engaging about their conversation. Except maybe that they were interested in one another, actually listening to each other. He was asking her about her day; she was talking about some dance routine she was practicing with friends.
"You know the eighties?"
"Yeah, I was kinda there," he responded.
I caught the eye of another passenger and we both giggled a little. The girl was oblivious to the little joke he was telling - mostly to himself - but she got that her dad was listening, and she continued on, talking about Madonna ("do you know who that is?" she asked).
It reminded me of my girls. We have full-on conversations now. It's amazing. They've been away at their Nana's for part of March Break, so I haven't seen them, but I got to talk to both of them over lunch today. Boo was the first one on the line. She was so excited to talk to me. But within about four minutes, I could tell she was getting antsy, then she blurted out: "do you want to talk to The Bean now?" I wasn't ready to let her go yet. I knew she had so many more interesting things to say. So I kept her on a bit longer.
It was so different from even just a couple of years ago. They would go stay with Nana and Grampa and the conversations I'd have with them over the phone were stilted:
"What are you up to?"
"Playing."
"What are you playing?"
"With the doll house."
Now, the conversations begin with me asking what they are up to, and they pretty much go on a long monologue, which I love. And we laugh together. And I throw curveball ideas at them, and they hit them out of the park.
I never used to find older kids very cute. I never even really noticed them. Now, I think that 4-6th graders are the coolest human beings on the planet. That girl on the bus - I couldn't stop listening to her and her stories about her day and her friends and what they've been doing. She, and my kids, have got so much going on. And they are interested in the world, and my girls are even starting to be interested in me.
Today, Boo asked me what I was doing, at work. So I told her I had lots of meetings, and between the meetings I was helping my team and answering their questions and talking through ideas. She thought that was neat. Then The Bean asked what my office looked like (they haven't been to my office since I began my new job in November). I started to describe it, but then I just took a few pics with my iphone and sent them to her. She saw them later in the afternoon and told me I have a beautiful office. Ordinary conversations, but they become extraordinary with the realisation that these types of conversations didn't exist for them until recently.
I wanted to reach out to that dad and his girl and thank them for making my day. Maybe also to tell the dad to enjoy this time with his girl. Then, I realised I didn't really need to; he was clearly enjoying her. Maybe that's what made it so fun to watch them. But it was certainly a good reminder to me to enjoy my two girls. Time keeps ticking along, and they just get more and more fun.
Wednesday, 12 March 2014
Friday, 21 February 2014
roof diaries
Today was the big test. The first thaw and rainfall since my roof was fixed (for context read "respite"). I've tried not to think about it for the past six or so weeks; this roof that may or may not be leaking, a drainpipe that may or may not need replacing. I pictured by kitchen and upstairs hallway walls being ripped up to replace the central drainpipe. The mess. The replastering. The cost.
I checked on my upstairs hallway wall and thought for sure I saw a new line of moisture. I checked the kitchen and touched the wall and was convinced that it felt damp.
I called the roofer in a panic. He came within 20 minutes. As he walked in, I told him I wasn't 100% sure that the walls were damp. But they sure felt that way.
Bill, my amazing roofer, came in and looked at the walls. He explained how old plaster behaves, with the lime and its instability. He touched the walls, knocked on them, took a good look. Nope. Everything is fine.
I apologised profusely for making him come out on a day like today, a day of rain and ice and plain messiness. He smiled and said it was fine, that sometimes we think about something so much that it's hard to tell. I felt like an idiot.
I am relieved. I must admit, too, that I am still watching. Not completely satisfied that this is over. Here's the part where I start to build trust. Trust in the work that Bill did. Trust that my house isn't a total wreck. Trust that, in fact, not everything that could go wrong, will.
Maybe we're turning a corner, this little house and me. Maybe I've cared for it enough in our first four months together that I've address all its bobos. Maybe we can just start living in the house now. That would be nice.
I checked on my upstairs hallway wall and thought for sure I saw a new line of moisture. I checked the kitchen and touched the wall and was convinced that it felt damp.
I called the roofer in a panic. He came within 20 minutes. As he walked in, I told him I wasn't 100% sure that the walls were damp. But they sure felt that way.
Bill, my amazing roofer, came in and looked at the walls. He explained how old plaster behaves, with the lime and its instability. He touched the walls, knocked on them, took a good look. Nope. Everything is fine.
I apologised profusely for making him come out on a day like today, a day of rain and ice and plain messiness. He smiled and said it was fine, that sometimes we think about something so much that it's hard to tell. I felt like an idiot.
I am relieved. I must admit, too, that I am still watching. Not completely satisfied that this is over. Here's the part where I start to build trust. Trust in the work that Bill did. Trust that my house isn't a total wreck. Trust that, in fact, not everything that could go wrong, will.
Maybe we're turning a corner, this little house and me. Maybe I've cared for it enough in our first four months together that I've address all its bobos. Maybe we can just start living in the house now. That would be nice.
Monday, 17 February 2014
mixed messages
Last week, I brought The Bean to an open house at the local high school. Besides the twin startling realisations that my daughter will be attending junior high next year AND that it will be at my alma mater, it was an interesting experience.
I have decided that the school is either really good at marketing (I work in public relations, so it's hard for me not to see the world through that lens) or it really is a great place to study and grow up. There is a gifted students program. There is an integrated arts program in junior high, as well as a concentration in various art media in high school. There are sports teams. There are social clubs and committees.
At the welcome plenary, the principal talked about how the school views its main mandate to be forming citizens of the future. Yes! I thought. This is exactly how I see my role as a parent. To grow these little humans into responsible human beings, to be good people. The rest will follow from that.
There was a lot of lip service to this by all the presenters, including the head of the physical education department, who talked about having students give out medals to others for sheer grit and determination. It's all about effort, not about outcome. It's about heart and strength, not about how many goals you've scored.
And then it was time for the highlight reel. The principal flipped through nearly a dozen notable graduates of the school. This former student founded her very own non-profit when she was still in high school, and today the organization ensures fresh drinking water for dozens of communities in Africa. And this alumnus played for Team Canada in Vancouver 2010. And this person is a high profile musician in a famous philharmonic. The list went on. Impressive, indeed.
But it all gave me pause. Where was I in there? Where were my classmates? What about the stay-at-home mom who raises her own free-range chickens, grows organic produce, and is raising three amazing children? What about the kindergarten teacher who takes care of nurturing dozens of small children by day, and returns home to do the same with her own two by night? What about the middle manager in the federal government who toils away to make her workplace an enjoyable place, all the while taking her responsibility as a public servant very seriously? The list goes on.
We tell our children that trying their best is all we want, but then we show them that what we value most is people who make a big splash. Why aren't we celebrating those who are simply good people? I am not saying that the dozen or so alumni who were profiled aren't excellent people. I have no way of knowing. That's the point: the principal didn't talk about the content of their character, but rather of their achievements. I am so much less interested in that than in who they are, how they treat others.
Of course I want my children to be extraordinary. The thing is, I think they already are. And neither of them are piano virtuosi, or math whizzes, or on the verge of founding their own organization. They are good people, with big hearts. They try hard, and since they are human, they sometimes fall down. They get back up. And that's the point, I guess.
Are our expectations and our words of encouragement at odds? How do we walk that fine line between encouraging them to achieve and being content with exactly who they are?
As I was growing up, I was told I could do whatever I wanted when I grew up. Ironically, that put a lot of pressure on me. It was only recently, only once I learned that who I am is exactly what I want to be, that I was happy. I want my kids to be happy now, comfortable in who they are. Perhaps the secret is in learning to be the very best of ourselves. The achievements, whatever shape they take, will come from that place.
I have decided that the school is either really good at marketing (I work in public relations, so it's hard for me not to see the world through that lens) or it really is a great place to study and grow up. There is a gifted students program. There is an integrated arts program in junior high, as well as a concentration in various art media in high school. There are sports teams. There are social clubs and committees.
At the welcome plenary, the principal talked about how the school views its main mandate to be forming citizens of the future. Yes! I thought. This is exactly how I see my role as a parent. To grow these little humans into responsible human beings, to be good people. The rest will follow from that.
There was a lot of lip service to this by all the presenters, including the head of the physical education department, who talked about having students give out medals to others for sheer grit and determination. It's all about effort, not about outcome. It's about heart and strength, not about how many goals you've scored.
And then it was time for the highlight reel. The principal flipped through nearly a dozen notable graduates of the school. This former student founded her very own non-profit when she was still in high school, and today the organization ensures fresh drinking water for dozens of communities in Africa. And this alumnus played for Team Canada in Vancouver 2010. And this person is a high profile musician in a famous philharmonic. The list went on. Impressive, indeed.
But it all gave me pause. Where was I in there? Where were my classmates? What about the stay-at-home mom who raises her own free-range chickens, grows organic produce, and is raising three amazing children? What about the kindergarten teacher who takes care of nurturing dozens of small children by day, and returns home to do the same with her own two by night? What about the middle manager in the federal government who toils away to make her workplace an enjoyable place, all the while taking her responsibility as a public servant very seriously? The list goes on.
We tell our children that trying their best is all we want, but then we show them that what we value most is people who make a big splash. Why aren't we celebrating those who are simply good people? I am not saying that the dozen or so alumni who were profiled aren't excellent people. I have no way of knowing. That's the point: the principal didn't talk about the content of their character, but rather of their achievements. I am so much less interested in that than in who they are, how they treat others.
Of course I want my children to be extraordinary. The thing is, I think they already are. And neither of them are piano virtuosi, or math whizzes, or on the verge of founding their own organization. They are good people, with big hearts. They try hard, and since they are human, they sometimes fall down. They get back up. And that's the point, I guess.
Are our expectations and our words of encouragement at odds? How do we walk that fine line between encouraging them to achieve and being content with exactly who they are?
As I was growing up, I was told I could do whatever I wanted when I grew up. Ironically, that put a lot of pressure on me. It was only recently, only once I learned that who I am is exactly what I want to be, that I was happy. I want my kids to be happy now, comfortable in who they are. Perhaps the secret is in learning to be the very best of ourselves. The achievements, whatever shape they take, will come from that place.
Thursday, 30 January 2014
selfishness of love
A few years ago, as my girls had passed the pre-school years, I began yearning for another baby. My partner and I had taken some pretty permanent steps years earlier to avoid unexpected surprises. The urge was strong, nevertheless. We even discussed - well, I urged, he reasoned - having things reversed. He would ask me, "but why do you want another one?"
The answer was never strong enough. Because I want a cuddly little baby to love and hold and care for, isn't exactly reasonable. But I got to thinking: does anyone ever have a child for a logical reason? I know many people who think that couples who are childless by choice are selfish. I came to the opposite conclusion: having a child is a selfish endeavour. There is no logical reason to want to create another human being to be on this polluted, violent, fear-filled earth. Whatever the reasons cited, they are for the parents' benefit. (As a sidebar, I always tell the kids that I had Boo so that The Bean would have someone to play with. But that's selfish, too: it keeps The Bean happy and keeps me from having to entertain her endlessly.)
That's not to say that we shouldn't continue having children. And it's not to say that being a parent isn't the best thing that ever happened to me - because it is. But that's the point: it's the best thing that ever happened to ME.
So it got me to thinking about romantic relationships. I've been single for a little while now. I have moments of wondering if I'll be single for decades like my mom was; after my dad died, she was single for 18 years! I tremble a little at the idea. I don't want to be alone. I want to be in a good, caring relationship. But… again, the main reasons seem selfish. I want someone to talk to at the end of the day, I want to be held when I'm sad and to have someone to toast my accomplishments. I want someone that I can care for and who will care for me.
I get bogged down in these thoughts, and it reminds me of a Friends episode where Phoebe is convinced that people never do nice things for others; they do them for themselves. Because it makes them feel good, one way or another. In her view, there's really no such thing as a truly selfless act.
Here's the thing: I think she's right, in a way. I love being helpful to others and taking care of my kids and my friends, and a partner, and even strangers. It makes me feel good. That's the point, though. I think that the good feeling is there so that I'll do it again. It's what makes us human. We're all connected to each other. We thrive in community. We're hard wired to take care of each other, to want to connect and be with one another.
I write this on my one evening of the week that the kids are with Dad, and I am alone. In a quiet house. Wanting to be with them. But also yearning for a partner. Selfish? Maybe. But I am ready to open my heart and care for someone, and have him care for me.
The answer was never strong enough. Because I want a cuddly little baby to love and hold and care for, isn't exactly reasonable. But I got to thinking: does anyone ever have a child for a logical reason? I know many people who think that couples who are childless by choice are selfish. I came to the opposite conclusion: having a child is a selfish endeavour. There is no logical reason to want to create another human being to be on this polluted, violent, fear-filled earth. Whatever the reasons cited, they are for the parents' benefit. (As a sidebar, I always tell the kids that I had Boo so that The Bean would have someone to play with. But that's selfish, too: it keeps The Bean happy and keeps me from having to entertain her endlessly.)
That's not to say that we shouldn't continue having children. And it's not to say that being a parent isn't the best thing that ever happened to me - because it is. But that's the point: it's the best thing that ever happened to ME.
So it got me to thinking about romantic relationships. I've been single for a little while now. I have moments of wondering if I'll be single for decades like my mom was; after my dad died, she was single for 18 years! I tremble a little at the idea. I don't want to be alone. I want to be in a good, caring relationship. But… again, the main reasons seem selfish. I want someone to talk to at the end of the day, I want to be held when I'm sad and to have someone to toast my accomplishments. I want someone that I can care for and who will care for me.
I get bogged down in these thoughts, and it reminds me of a Friends episode where Phoebe is convinced that people never do nice things for others; they do them for themselves. Because it makes them feel good, one way or another. In her view, there's really no such thing as a truly selfless act.
Here's the thing: I think she's right, in a way. I love being helpful to others and taking care of my kids and my friends, and a partner, and even strangers. It makes me feel good. That's the point, though. I think that the good feeling is there so that I'll do it again. It's what makes us human. We're all connected to each other. We thrive in community. We're hard wired to take care of each other, to want to connect and be with one another.
I write this on my one evening of the week that the kids are with Dad, and I am alone. In a quiet house. Wanting to be with them. But also yearning for a partner. Selfish? Maybe. But I am ready to open my heart and care for someone, and have him care for me.
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
freedom
In Sunday school class this past week, the kids were asked to describe what freedom means to them. Here's what my girls wrote:
The imagery in both of them floored me. We need to ask kids about concepts more. They get things far more than we imagine.
The imagery in both of them floored me. We need to ask kids about concepts more. They get things far more than we imagine.
Monday, 20 January 2014
so vain
For a few weeks now, I've been composing an entry in my head. It was entitled "Boo's self awareness." I was going to write about how she knows how smart, pretty and funny she is. But also about how she knows she is a diva and can be a handful. With her self awareness comes this amazing self confidence. It's really not the kind of confidence that can be taught. This kid was born with it. When she started walking, she had this amazing swagger; spine erect, shoulders back, she walked around like she owned the place. I laughed about it then, and still do.
I was going to write about how the other day she was setting up her Playmobil barn set, with the kids and all the animals inside - even the mice and the birds - getting ready for the imaginary coming storm. "Because," she said, "I'm like that. I like to take care of people and animals, and make sure everyone is safe and comfortable." What child knows herself to notice that she is like that?
And I was going to write about how she looks at herself in the mirror, not scowling or questioning, but fully, completely happy and satisfied with what she sees. I said to her a couple of days ago as she peered at herself in the full-length mirror in my room, "you know you're beautiful," not as a question, but more as a matter of fact comment. "Yeah," was her unselfconscious response.
These thoughts of her self confidence were on my mind, and I was feeling pretty proud of her, in the midst of an episode that shocked me a bit and caused a huge revelation.
Boo was saying something about how she's pretty, and I jokingly started singing Carly Simon's "You're So Vain." Boo asked me what vain meant. As I started explaining it - it's when a person feels that they're really beautiful or really good at something - something made me stop. Wait a second. I want her to know that that she's beautiful and good at things. That's not vain. Or if it is, then vanity can't be a bad thing.
Until relatively recently, I didn't think, not really, that I was beautiful. I didn't like my body. There were parts of my face I'd change if given the opportunity. I wasn't confident in many of my abilities, either. I was always taught to minimise my successes, achievements, gifts. And now that I am proud of what I have accomplished thus far in my life, happy with my body and how I look, I find it hard to admit it. Because so few people seem satisfied with who they are. We're sold a story that who we are just isn't good enough. That's why the beauty industry and the weight loss and fitness industries are doing so well. And the self-help sections in book stores are full of "be a better person" advice. I'm not saying there isn't always room for improvement. But at some point, isn't it okay to say, "I like who I am"?
So I stopped myself from finishing my thought to Boo (and The Bean, who was also in the room) about vanity. I just told them, "be proud of who you are; it's okay."
The teen years really are just around the corner. I wish I'd had half the confidence Boo has (and I am working hard at instilling it in The Bean). Because all too soon, there will be girls who will say, "she thinks she's SO special (or SO pretty)," which is meant to minimise who she is, take her down a peg. But I want her to think to herself, or even perhaps to say, "damn straight I am" and mean it. And own it. And walk around like she owns the whole place.
I was going to write about how the other day she was setting up her Playmobil barn set, with the kids and all the animals inside - even the mice and the birds - getting ready for the imaginary coming storm. "Because," she said, "I'm like that. I like to take care of people and animals, and make sure everyone is safe and comfortable." What child knows herself to notice that she is like that?
And I was going to write about how she looks at herself in the mirror, not scowling or questioning, but fully, completely happy and satisfied with what she sees. I said to her a couple of days ago as she peered at herself in the full-length mirror in my room, "you know you're beautiful," not as a question, but more as a matter of fact comment. "Yeah," was her unselfconscious response.
These thoughts of her self confidence were on my mind, and I was feeling pretty proud of her, in the midst of an episode that shocked me a bit and caused a huge revelation.
Boo was saying something about how she's pretty, and I jokingly started singing Carly Simon's "You're So Vain." Boo asked me what vain meant. As I started explaining it - it's when a person feels that they're really beautiful or really good at something - something made me stop. Wait a second. I want her to know that that she's beautiful and good at things. That's not vain. Or if it is, then vanity can't be a bad thing.
Until relatively recently, I didn't think, not really, that I was beautiful. I didn't like my body. There were parts of my face I'd change if given the opportunity. I wasn't confident in many of my abilities, either. I was always taught to minimise my successes, achievements, gifts. And now that I am proud of what I have accomplished thus far in my life, happy with my body and how I look, I find it hard to admit it. Because so few people seem satisfied with who they are. We're sold a story that who we are just isn't good enough. That's why the beauty industry and the weight loss and fitness industries are doing so well. And the self-help sections in book stores are full of "be a better person" advice. I'm not saying there isn't always room for improvement. But at some point, isn't it okay to say, "I like who I am"?
So I stopped myself from finishing my thought to Boo (and The Bean, who was also in the room) about vanity. I just told them, "be proud of who you are; it's okay."
The teen years really are just around the corner. I wish I'd had half the confidence Boo has (and I am working hard at instilling it in The Bean). Because all too soon, there will be girls who will say, "she thinks she's SO special (or SO pretty)," which is meant to minimise who she is, take her down a peg. But I want her to think to herself, or even perhaps to say, "damn straight I am" and mean it. And own it. And walk around like she owns the whole place.
Sunday, 12 January 2014
respite
It is the January thaw. Without fail, every year, there are days in the middle of the deep freeze, when we get a respite of a sort. If you can call freezing rain and icy, impassible sidewalks and streets a respite. The thaw wreaks havoc in all kinds of ways. I remember living in an apartment where the stairs to our second floor flat were enclosed but unheated, and apparently not waterproof. The constant thawing during the day and freezing at night turned the whole flight of stairs into sheer ice. The bottom six or seven steps were a frozen slide. It was awful.
At least then we were renting. And while we weren't in control of when it would be fixed, at least we didn't have to pay for it, and we weren't responsible for the logistics. Now, the thaw has wrought havoc on my house. The house I own. The one for which I have complete and sole responsibility.
The roof is leaking. The roof, which I know was done in 2008 and appeared to be in good condition in September, is leaking. I have a hunch that it's the central drainpipe (it's a flat roof). And I have the good fortune (cue sarcasm) of having the drainpipe on my side of the semi-detached home. So my kitchen wall has a single tear of a dried, rusty stain on it. And my brand-new ceiling in the upstairs hall is showing signs of dampness.
My first reaction was, perhaps obviously: Are. You. Kidding. Me! I would have thought that my next would have been to cry, but it wasn't. Perhaps after having seen the guts of much of my house, seeing more isn't so daunting. I honestly believe that it's all fixable. I don't have endless buckets of money, but it's all fixable. But I am feeling down. I haven't much energy left for the logistics of it all.
Moments before I discovered the damp ceiling, a neighbour I met only this afternoon dropped by to invite me and the kids to dinner a little later in the evening. I accepted. Then I discovered the damage, and I so did not feel like going. But it was a blessing. I met a very kind man and his two lovely children - a girl Boo's age and a boy of 14. The six of us got to know one another over a delicious meal, and not once did I think of my house and its spilling guts. A respite. A real one.
Wish me luck. I hope I can sleep tonight. I have a tendency to let things roll over in my mind again and again to the exclusion of sleep (I didn't have one peaceful night's sleep through the two months of intense renovations). I need to learn to let go of it. Goodness knows it'll be there in the morning.
At least then we were renting. And while we weren't in control of when it would be fixed, at least we didn't have to pay for it, and we weren't responsible for the logistics. Now, the thaw has wrought havoc on my house. The house I own. The one for which I have complete and sole responsibility.
The roof is leaking. The roof, which I know was done in 2008 and appeared to be in good condition in September, is leaking. I have a hunch that it's the central drainpipe (it's a flat roof). And I have the good fortune (cue sarcasm) of having the drainpipe on my side of the semi-detached home. So my kitchen wall has a single tear of a dried, rusty stain on it. And my brand-new ceiling in the upstairs hall is showing signs of dampness.
My first reaction was, perhaps obviously: Are. You. Kidding. Me! I would have thought that my next would have been to cry, but it wasn't. Perhaps after having seen the guts of much of my house, seeing more isn't so daunting. I honestly believe that it's all fixable. I don't have endless buckets of money, but it's all fixable. But I am feeling down. I haven't much energy left for the logistics of it all.
Moments before I discovered the damp ceiling, a neighbour I met only this afternoon dropped by to invite me and the kids to dinner a little later in the evening. I accepted. Then I discovered the damage, and I so did not feel like going. But it was a blessing. I met a very kind man and his two lovely children - a girl Boo's age and a boy of 14. The six of us got to know one another over a delicious meal, and not once did I think of my house and its spilling guts. A respite. A real one.
Wish me luck. I hope I can sleep tonight. I have a tendency to let things roll over in my mind again and again to the exclusion of sleep (I didn't have one peaceful night's sleep through the two months of intense renovations). I need to learn to let go of it. Goodness knows it'll be there in the morning.
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