There's nothing like forking out hundreds of thousands of dollars - most of which isn't your own money - to make things feel really real. Especially when you're the only one on the hook for it.
I remember buying our first house over five years ago. It was stressful and hard and there were moments of wondering if this was the right thing. But there were two of us in it. There was someone to bounce ideas off, to be there as a reality check: is this crazy? Is this the right decision? Is this too much money? Is this the right place for us? And we'd talk it over and calm each other down and laugh and dream, together.
Now when I wake up in the middle of the night, worrying that maybe this is the single biggest financial mistake ever, there is no one to talk me off the ledge. No one to say: this is a great deal! And we're going to rock it! One evening last week, I discovered a weird banking snafu; I realised that I wouldn't be able to close on the date I'd negotiated. I started to panic. What if the seller refuses to change the date? What if this all falls through? What if this house isn't going to be mine after all? How am I going to be able to afford anything in this (freaking) neighbourhood?
I felt so alone. It was too late in the evening to call anyone. So I lay awake, wondering what I would do. Of course, the wrinkle got ironed out the next day between my lawyer, real estate agent, and mortgage broker. But not before I cried with relief after talking to my agent.
It's all become very real for the kids, too. Boo has been especially emotional lately. She doesn't like talking about her feelings all that much. On the odd occasion when I'm feeling down and The Bean asks me why I'm sad, Boo will pipe up: "Don't ask her that! It will make her feel more sad!" I try to tell her that talking about how we're feeling helps, but she refuses to listen.
Last week, after Dad dropped them off, Boo was very sad. She said she missed Dad, and she started to cry. After a bit of cajoling, I got out of her that she wants the four of us to be living together. I found it a little odd that this would be coming up now, after nearly two years of being in separate houses. My mom pointed out to me that it makes sense: the kids have probably been holding out some sort of hope, even if unconsciously. My buying a house makes things a lot more formal - and final. Momma and Dad aren't going to be living together anymore.
In the excitement and nervousness about the new house, I do feel the sadness from time to time, too. This really is it. The house title has been transferred over to Dad. I have my portion of the principal on what divorce lawyers call "the marital home." And I'm about to use those funds to buy a totally separate house that is just mine, for just the girls and me. This is big. And very, very real.
Monday, 30 September 2013
Saturday, 21 September 2013
EEEEeeeeee!
That, my friends, is the sound of a pre-teen squeal of sheer excitement. But it is not coming out of The Bean; it's coming out of me.
I've bought a house. It's been nearly three weeks of visiting the house, visiting it again, putting down an offer, negotiating the price, settling on a price, getting quotes, lining up the financing, signing myriad papers, lost sleep (lots of lost sleep), house inspection, second guessing, more lost sleep, and one final decision: I'll take it.
The house, not unlike my life right now, is a project. It is 80 to 90 years old, and the last time it was on the market was in the 1950s! So the little old lady who had lived there had been there for a while. And it shows. The kitchen is classic 1950s - ugly. The bathroom is ancient and needs gutting. The windows are original wood casing. The furnace is actually older than me. But because it hasn't been touched in 60+ years, there are advantages. All of the wood trim in the main floor and most of the second floor is unpainted and gorgeous. The dining room still has the unpainted wood wainscotting. There is hardwood throughout, some of it covered by other flooring. And, as the house inspector pointed out, when work hasn't been done, at least it hasn't been done wrong or poorly. You get to do it and make sure it's done right.
The new place is in the same neighbourhood as Dad, and just a block from my current house, which I'm renting. Given the neighbourhood, I'm getting the house for a song. Oh, and I get it in nine days (yes, NINE!). I'll be giving my notice in the house I'm in now. I'll have just under two months to pull up floors in three rooms, update some of the electrical, gut and redo the bathroom, get a new furnace, replace the windows, paint, and get the floor refinished.
I've got quotes on all the work. I'll be doing some of it myself and already have at least a couple of volunteers to help with some of the demolition.
The house itself is a little quirky. Like there's a sink in one of the bedrooms. As soon as I told the kids about it, The Bean called dibs. And the closets are weird: there is none in the room with the sink, and the other two bedroom closets aren't deep enough to put a hanger in. Thank goodness we're already experienced with small or non-existent closets and have armoires.
It is time to start building new dreams. And they start in this new little house. The three of us are very excited. And happy.
I've bought a house. It's been nearly three weeks of visiting the house, visiting it again, putting down an offer, negotiating the price, settling on a price, getting quotes, lining up the financing, signing myriad papers, lost sleep (lots of lost sleep), house inspection, second guessing, more lost sleep, and one final decision: I'll take it.
The house, not unlike my life right now, is a project. It is 80 to 90 years old, and the last time it was on the market was in the 1950s! So the little old lady who had lived there had been there for a while. And it shows. The kitchen is classic 1950s - ugly. The bathroom is ancient and needs gutting. The windows are original wood casing. The furnace is actually older than me. But because it hasn't been touched in 60+ years, there are advantages. All of the wood trim in the main floor and most of the second floor is unpainted and gorgeous. The dining room still has the unpainted wood wainscotting. There is hardwood throughout, some of it covered by other flooring. And, as the house inspector pointed out, when work hasn't been done, at least it hasn't been done wrong or poorly. You get to do it and make sure it's done right.
The new place is in the same neighbourhood as Dad, and just a block from my current house, which I'm renting. Given the neighbourhood, I'm getting the house for a song. Oh, and I get it in nine days (yes, NINE!). I'll be giving my notice in the house I'm in now. I'll have just under two months to pull up floors in three rooms, update some of the electrical, gut and redo the bathroom, get a new furnace, replace the windows, paint, and get the floor refinished.
I've got quotes on all the work. I'll be doing some of it myself and already have at least a couple of volunteers to help with some of the demolition.
The house itself is a little quirky. Like there's a sink in one of the bedrooms. As soon as I told the kids about it, The Bean called dibs. And the closets are weird: there is none in the room with the sink, and the other two bedroom closets aren't deep enough to put a hanger in. Thank goodness we're already experienced with small or non-existent closets and have armoires.
It is time to start building new dreams. And they start in this new little house. The three of us are very excited. And happy.
Tuesday, 17 September 2013
can't fight the tears
There is much going on, at home, at work, in my personal life. It's only Tuesday, and it feels like it should be Friday; that's how eventful it's been.
Today, I signed the divorce papers. These are the documents that will be filed with the court. In a few months, I will receive the final papers, declaring the divorce complete. I wasn't sure how it was going to go. I didn't feel anything getting ready to go into the mediator's office this morning. I was careful not to apply my mascara, and even to pack some of my makeup for afterwards (crying can make an awful mess of blush, too). I am nothing if not at once pragmatic and vain.
But there was nothing. I went it, read through the documents, signed and initialed in the spots marked off with tiny Post-It notes. Within ten minutes, I was back on the road, heading toward work. I didn't cry. I listened to the radio, which is sometimes a mistake in such circumstances, and I did get teary when I heard the GooGoo Dolls' "Iris" - specifically the line, "You can't fight the tears that ain't comin'." Yes, I do see the irony. But once the song was done, I was fine again.
The moments I see coming like this - those ones I can brace myself for. And I think, for better or for worse, I am good at that. It's the unexpected moments that throw me facedown into an emotional pit. Like looking for and finding the marriage certificate. Or any Blue Rodeo song that comes up on the radio. Or coming across one of the kids' baby pictures. They all remind me of what we had. Of the things that, while I don't actively try to forget, I still keep to the side. The memories are both beautiful and painful. I think that's called melancholy. That's the phase I'm moving into.
Today, I signed the divorce papers. These are the documents that will be filed with the court. In a few months, I will receive the final papers, declaring the divorce complete. I wasn't sure how it was going to go. I didn't feel anything getting ready to go into the mediator's office this morning. I was careful not to apply my mascara, and even to pack some of my makeup for afterwards (crying can make an awful mess of blush, too). I am nothing if not at once pragmatic and vain.
But there was nothing. I went it, read through the documents, signed and initialed in the spots marked off with tiny Post-It notes. Within ten minutes, I was back on the road, heading toward work. I didn't cry. I listened to the radio, which is sometimes a mistake in such circumstances, and I did get teary when I heard the GooGoo Dolls' "Iris" - specifically the line, "You can't fight the tears that ain't comin'." Yes, I do see the irony. But once the song was done, I was fine again.
The moments I see coming like this - those ones I can brace myself for. And I think, for better or for worse, I am good at that. It's the unexpected moments that throw me facedown into an emotional pit. Like looking for and finding the marriage certificate. Or any Blue Rodeo song that comes up on the radio. Or coming across one of the kids' baby pictures. They all remind me of what we had. Of the things that, while I don't actively try to forget, I still keep to the side. The memories are both beautiful and painful. I think that's called melancholy. That's the phase I'm moving into.
Friday, 6 September 2013
dreaming my dreams
I've come to realise that while I am a realist and a pragmatist in many ways, at my core I am a dreamer. I make plans in my head - constantly. Sometimes, it's mundane plans like what route I'll take home, or what chores I'll do and in what order. Those are the plans that organise my life. But then there are the bigger, wide-open, blue-sky plans. Like travelling. Or a new course. Or what kind of life I'm going to build. Those are the plans that create my life.
There are many things that are hard about separation and divorce. One of the ones I hadn't really counted on was mourning the loss of dreams. We had planned so many things. We had started travelling with the kids. We'd even done some adventure-type travelling, including a five-day hike in the Andes with the girls. We were planning more of it. And then there were plans for our house, various renovations we wanted to do to make it just the way we wanted it. And the plans to simply grow and be together. All of these plans were dreams, really, of building something amazing. We did a lot of dreaming together.
Our wedding song was the Cranberries' "Dreaming my Dreams"
I'll be dreaming my dreams with you
And there's no other place
That I'd lay down my face
And be dreaming my dreams with you.
Just thinking of that song makes me weep. I can't even bring myself to listen to it. Because it all just evaporated. Not the past, or the good memories, but the future. Poof! Like that, my future was gone, in a sense.
I am mourning those old dreams, still. And it's hard to take the old dreams and just remove him from the pictures and imagine them just as my own now. It's like I have to start fresh. Do something totally different, otherwise it just feels like refurbished dreams. And it still hurts.
I am stepping out of the in-between phase and into my new life. Inventing it all takes time, I suppose. But I'm starting to dream new dreams, little by little. One by one.
There are many things that are hard about separation and divorce. One of the ones I hadn't really counted on was mourning the loss of dreams. We had planned so many things. We had started travelling with the kids. We'd even done some adventure-type travelling, including a five-day hike in the Andes with the girls. We were planning more of it. And then there were plans for our house, various renovations we wanted to do to make it just the way we wanted it. And the plans to simply grow and be together. All of these plans were dreams, really, of building something amazing. We did a lot of dreaming together.
Our wedding song was the Cranberries' "Dreaming my Dreams"
I'll be dreaming my dreams with you
And there's no other place
That I'd lay down my face
And be dreaming my dreams with you.
Just thinking of that song makes me weep. I can't even bring myself to listen to it. Because it all just evaporated. Not the past, or the good memories, but the future. Poof! Like that, my future was gone, in a sense.
I am mourning those old dreams, still. And it's hard to take the old dreams and just remove him from the pictures and imagine them just as my own now. It's like I have to start fresh. Do something totally different, otherwise it just feels like refurbished dreams. And it still hurts.
I am stepping out of the in-between phase and into my new life. Inventing it all takes time, I suppose. But I'm starting to dream new dreams, little by little. One by one.
Sunday, 25 August 2013
sorrow and thankfulness
My kids are pretty tough cookies; it takes quite a bit to make them cry or need to come into bed with me when they wake up at night. So I knew something had shaken Boo when she came into my room a few weeks ago and asked if she could sleep with me. She had had a nightmare and was in tears. As she nestled into me, she told me in whispers of the terrifying things she had dreamed. She had been wandering around a city, and she knew that there was a war. She was alone and was looking for me but somehow knew that I had died. But she kept looking because she knew she just needed to find me. I held her close, trying not to cry myself.
When she was tiny, she would have dreams or imaginings about monsters and frightening imaginary creatures. I could always calm her down by telling her that I was here, and I could keep her safe. That everything was going to be fine. That those things weren't real.
Suddenly, I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her that war isn't real. That children losing their parents isn't real. That me being right beside her was going to make everything okay. I just held her as close as I could without making her more scared. I must have done something right because she was fast asleep within a few minutes. But I lay awake, thinking of all those children in the world living Boo's nightmare for real. With no one to hold them close, to promise them that everything was going to be okay. That the things they fear aren't real. My heart broke for them and I cried and cried in the quiet darkness.
Today the floodgates of sorrow opened again, this time for a real person with a real story; not an idea of the millions of frightened people facing war and hunger and death, but a real person who has tasted freedom and peace and life, who will soon lose it all again.
Over the past few years, our little church, which is very welcoming yet had been surprisingly homogenous (read: white), became home to a growing number of Burundian parishioners. Many of them are refugees who came to Canada recently and made their home in our city. They had found a home with us and told their friends and family members. And more came. Those in our midst are refugees who came here to seek asylum, to ask our government to let them stay because they faced certain violence or even death if they returned. Some still had family members back home, living in fear. We saw many of them reunited over the years and have rejoiced much with the arrival of spouses and children. And even with the birth of new children.
So today was especially heartbreaking: we said goodbye to a member whose refugee hearing came and went and who got a negative decision. Appeals failed. Requests for humanitarian consideration failed, as did a last-ditch plea to stop the deportation. She will be leaving in two days. We surrounded her and put our hands on her and her husband, and we prayed. I don't know this woman well, but the tears streamed down my face for the fear she must feel that I can't even imagine. For the loneliness that must surround her. For her. And for so many more like her whose lives and safety are so precarious.
In that profound sorrow, I understood something real. I have a gift. So many, many gifts. The sorrow I've been carrying around for the past few weeks has felt very real, but it has made me blind to the beauty of what I have. The black cloud has made me rather self-centred. It has blocked the view of the blessings - the many, many blessings - that I have. My life, my children. The fact that we have never wanted for food, or shelter, or clothing. In fact, we have more of each of those than we need. That we do not fear for our lives or our safety. That we can freely speak our minds and our hearts. That we have friends and family that we love and with whom we can be in contact. I have a good job; the girls are free to go to school and be as educated as they please.
The angst that I've been feeling can be diminished to a flippant hashtag: #firstworldproblems. And they really are. I feel like I should beg forgiveness, of God, of the universe, of those suffering around the world, for being so whiny. For forgetting my blessings. For not being more generous with the blessings I do have. For not opening my heart and mind and whole being to seeing what good I do have and working to somehow share that with the world.
I feel completely helpless in the case of this Burundian woman who will be sent back to a situation she fears may kill her. I can do nothing to help her. And I could let that get me down, too. Somehow, though, I think that if I were in a terrible situation and I saw people around me who had so many, many blessings, I'd want them to be happy. I'd envy them - no question. But I'd want what they have so that I, too, could be happy.
It is said that the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings. It is time to start being thankful.
When she was tiny, she would have dreams or imaginings about monsters and frightening imaginary creatures. I could always calm her down by telling her that I was here, and I could keep her safe. That everything was going to be fine. That those things weren't real.
Suddenly, I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her that war isn't real. That children losing their parents isn't real. That me being right beside her was going to make everything okay. I just held her as close as I could without making her more scared. I must have done something right because she was fast asleep within a few minutes. But I lay awake, thinking of all those children in the world living Boo's nightmare for real. With no one to hold them close, to promise them that everything was going to be okay. That the things they fear aren't real. My heart broke for them and I cried and cried in the quiet darkness.
***
Today the floodgates of sorrow opened again, this time for a real person with a real story; not an idea of the millions of frightened people facing war and hunger and death, but a real person who has tasted freedom and peace and life, who will soon lose it all again.
Over the past few years, our little church, which is very welcoming yet had been surprisingly homogenous (read: white), became home to a growing number of Burundian parishioners. Many of them are refugees who came to Canada recently and made their home in our city. They had found a home with us and told their friends and family members. And more came. Those in our midst are refugees who came here to seek asylum, to ask our government to let them stay because they faced certain violence or even death if they returned. Some still had family members back home, living in fear. We saw many of them reunited over the years and have rejoiced much with the arrival of spouses and children. And even with the birth of new children.
So today was especially heartbreaking: we said goodbye to a member whose refugee hearing came and went and who got a negative decision. Appeals failed. Requests for humanitarian consideration failed, as did a last-ditch plea to stop the deportation. She will be leaving in two days. We surrounded her and put our hands on her and her husband, and we prayed. I don't know this woman well, but the tears streamed down my face for the fear she must feel that I can't even imagine. For the loneliness that must surround her. For her. And for so many more like her whose lives and safety are so precarious.
In that profound sorrow, I understood something real. I have a gift. So many, many gifts. The sorrow I've been carrying around for the past few weeks has felt very real, but it has made me blind to the beauty of what I have. The black cloud has made me rather self-centred. It has blocked the view of the blessings - the many, many blessings - that I have. My life, my children. The fact that we have never wanted for food, or shelter, or clothing. In fact, we have more of each of those than we need. That we do not fear for our lives or our safety. That we can freely speak our minds and our hearts. That we have friends and family that we love and with whom we can be in contact. I have a good job; the girls are free to go to school and be as educated as they please.
The angst that I've been feeling can be diminished to a flippant hashtag: #firstworldproblems. And they really are. I feel like I should beg forgiveness, of God, of the universe, of those suffering around the world, for being so whiny. For forgetting my blessings. For not being more generous with the blessings I do have. For not opening my heart and mind and whole being to seeing what good I do have and working to somehow share that with the world.
I feel completely helpless in the case of this Burundian woman who will be sent back to a situation she fears may kill her. I can do nothing to help her. And I could let that get me down, too. Somehow, though, I think that if I were in a terrible situation and I saw people around me who had so many, many blessings, I'd want them to be happy. I'd envy them - no question. But I'd want what they have so that I, too, could be happy.
It is said that the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings. It is time to start being thankful.
Friday, 23 August 2013
loneliness
We all have our own kryptonite. It usually dates back to our childhood; it's that intangible thing that we couldn't have. For some it's recognition, for others it's respect. Or feeling capable, or safe, or important. Its opposite becomes our Achilles heel, the weakness that will destroy us. Mine is loneliness.
I think the hardest part of this separation has been feeling lonely. I have no one to come home to and share my day with. No one to commiserate about work, or the loads of house work piling up. No one to share the pain of losing a loved one. No one to share a laugh about something the kids did. No one to share memories with. It is quiet and lonely. Damn lonely.
It drives me to distraction. I have filled evenings with all kinds of things: hanging out with friends, exercising, surfing the internet, work, food, HBO, late night dancing, singing at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me from remembering that I am lonely. I would almost sell my soul some days to keep from being lonely. The nights are the worst, with the crickets chirping and darkness waiting. The resolutions I'd made to be good, to do the right thing, to be healthy, they evaporate.
In the morning, I become sane again. My promises to myself seem so clear. My reassurances that loneliness is okay resurface. And I breathe.
I think the hardest part of this separation has been feeling lonely. I have no one to come home to and share my day with. No one to commiserate about work, or the loads of house work piling up. No one to share the pain of losing a loved one. No one to share a laugh about something the kids did. No one to share memories with. It is quiet and lonely. Damn lonely.
It drives me to distraction. I have filled evenings with all kinds of things: hanging out with friends, exercising, surfing the internet, work, food, HBO, late night dancing, singing at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me from remembering that I am lonely. I would almost sell my soul some days to keep from being lonely. The nights are the worst, with the crickets chirping and darkness waiting. The resolutions I'd made to be good, to do the right thing, to be healthy, they evaporate.
In the morning, I become sane again. My promises to myself seem so clear. My reassurances that loneliness is okay resurface. And I breathe.
Sunday, 11 August 2013
meet The Bean
The Bean's nickname dates back to before her birth, to that little grainy picture of her we got when she was about 13 weeks in utero. She had a sweet little turned up nose (still has), a funny brow-ridge inherited from her Dad (mercifully non-existent now), and she appeared to be the size of a bean. A little kidney bean with a perfect little profile. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl, so we took to calling this little creature The Bean. And it stuck. Even years later I would walk into a room and tell her Dad, "The Bean is sleeping soundly," or "The Bean doesn't look too well today."
The name is more nostalgic these days than descriptive. Perhaps The Bean Pole would be more apt, given that she is a ten-year-old who is all elbows and knees. And hair. Long, thick, beautiful hair that is at times stunning and elicits stares from boys (oh, I see them), and at times snarls up like a three-year-old's whose mane hasn't seen a brush in a month. She is in that in-between zone right now, being both a child and on her way to adolescence.
The Bean, once we had figured out how to get food into her, was an easy baby. She slept 10 to 12 hours a night by the time she was six months old. She would crawl into her room to play on her own when she was ten months. She hardly ever had tantrums. She listened well and was quite quiescent. Unless it had to do with us helping her. You see, The Bean has an independent streak a mile long. Her first full sentence was "me, stairs self!" At 18 months, she didn't want anyone holding her hand to go up and down the concrete stairs to our apartment. If I tried to put her shoes on for her, she would kick and scream and then simply take them off so that she could do it herself. It drove me mad.
Besides the independence, The Bean is a sweet, kind hearted kid. She is sensitive, but doesn't show it. Outgoing, but has the voice of a fairy: light and ephemeral.
I am careful to describe her because I don't want to put her into a box. As parents we sometimes fall into that trap. I know I do it, but I want to try to keep an open mind. After all, I know that I am a bundle of contradictions; why would I not allow my child to surprise me from time to time? But people ask: are your girls similar? My clear and quick answer is: no. Not at all. And then I try to describe them, and I realise that I am putting them in boxes. The Bean is the quiet one; her sister is the boisterous one. The Bean is X and Boo is Y. The list could go on and on if I let it. So let me simply use a stream of consciousness approach. The Bean is: soft, gentle, sweet, kind, understatedly funny, wickedly smart, loving, generous, affectionate, and thoughtful. There are negative things, too. She takes a long time to complete tasks, which drives me to distraction. She is easily frustrated, but it may be the bourgeoning hormones. She rolls her eyes (she gets that from me). She stomps off. But she forgives quickly and eagerly.
In short, she's a great little person. Tales of our adventures will surely paint a fuller picture than this attempt to capture her here.
The name is more nostalgic these days than descriptive. Perhaps The Bean Pole would be more apt, given that she is a ten-year-old who is all elbows and knees. And hair. Long, thick, beautiful hair that is at times stunning and elicits stares from boys (oh, I see them), and at times snarls up like a three-year-old's whose mane hasn't seen a brush in a month. She is in that in-between zone right now, being both a child and on her way to adolescence.
The Bean, once we had figured out how to get food into her, was an easy baby. She slept 10 to 12 hours a night by the time she was six months old. She would crawl into her room to play on her own when she was ten months. She hardly ever had tantrums. She listened well and was quite quiescent. Unless it had to do with us helping her. You see, The Bean has an independent streak a mile long. Her first full sentence was "me, stairs self!" At 18 months, she didn't want anyone holding her hand to go up and down the concrete stairs to our apartment. If I tried to put her shoes on for her, she would kick and scream and then simply take them off so that she could do it herself. It drove me mad.
Besides the independence, The Bean is a sweet, kind hearted kid. She is sensitive, but doesn't show it. Outgoing, but has the voice of a fairy: light and ephemeral.
I am careful to describe her because I don't want to put her into a box. As parents we sometimes fall into that trap. I know I do it, but I want to try to keep an open mind. After all, I know that I am a bundle of contradictions; why would I not allow my child to surprise me from time to time? But people ask: are your girls similar? My clear and quick answer is: no. Not at all. And then I try to describe them, and I realise that I am putting them in boxes. The Bean is the quiet one; her sister is the boisterous one. The Bean is X and Boo is Y. The list could go on and on if I let it. So let me simply use a stream of consciousness approach. The Bean is: soft, gentle, sweet, kind, understatedly funny, wickedly smart, loving, generous, affectionate, and thoughtful. There are negative things, too. She takes a long time to complete tasks, which drives me to distraction. She is easily frustrated, but it may be the bourgeoning hormones. She rolls her eyes (she gets that from me). She stomps off. But she forgives quickly and eagerly.
In short, she's a great little person. Tales of our adventures will surely paint a fuller picture than this attempt to capture her here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)