Family resemblances

This morning at work I had something in my left eye. It would not be budged. I went to the bathroom to see if I could dislodge it; on the way it left of its own accord. I went and peered closely into the mirror, and my first thought was

 

I look more and more like my mother every day.

 

*****

This is not a bad thing. My mother, mid-sixties, is aging very well. She has lovely soft skin and bright eyes and her hair is only mixed with grey even at her age. She looks after herself, which I am ever grateful for, because I very much enjoy having her around. A girl can never have enough mothering, even at 35.

 

The resemblance is merely curious, because for my entire life I have been told that I look like my father. Oh so much like my father, and like his mother, who he resembles (if only tangentally, given the mix of genders.) I see my father in my son, and it makes me smile. But my own resemblance to my father’s mother only makes me frown.

******

My paternal grandmother was a short, beautifully plump woman with a bright smile, big blue eyes, and white curly hair. She was funny, and energetic, and kind, and wonderful. I have only sense memories of her, but what I remember of her is all positive. Her skin was soft, her voice melodious and British, and when she took my young self into her arms for a hug, I remember only comfort. I remember she loved Vicks lemon cough drops that I coveted and she would share with me; I remember she used to fill the little wooden nut pot in her living room just for me. I remember she used Oil of Olay face cream on her face; I still do today. I remember having tea with sugar in, as much as I wanted. (How she managed to cope with a four year old high on caffeine and sugar, I don’t know; perhaps at that point she went and had a nap and left me to my mother.)

I remember loving and adoring her so much that as a very small child I used to wish she was my mother.

That woman died when I was only seven years old.

****************

Every single day I drive within a short block of the apartment block where she lived; sometimes if I have to run an errand, I walk right by it. Today I went into the pharmacy where she used to buy those Vicks lemon cough drops, where she used to go hand in hand with me, and would occasionally buy me chocolate. The place still smells the same. I see the park we used to play in and the little forest outside the door.

And as much as I adored her and my grandfather, and as much as the sight of that place at one time in my life filled me with raging excitement, the place now only fills me with sadness and ambivalence, with a strange kind of melancholy that tugs my heart but doesn’t bring tears. A passive sad acceptance of the past, if you will.

That woman that I loved so much died when I was seven, but physically she lived eight more painful years.

My grandfather was diagnosed with a terminal – albeit slow – disease the Christmas I was seven. He was 74. My grandparents met “late” in life – in their late twenties, I believe. My father wasn’t born until four years after they married, when they were both 32. And fifty years later, in his personal memoirs that he left to his three sons, he still wrote about her with a reverence and a love that brought me to tears when I first read it. They were everything to each other, and when it was known that my grandfather would die, my grandmother gave up.

She had suffered from post-partum depression following the birth of her third son, when she was 37 or 38. She had had a breakdown in her fifties, and had bounced back to lead such a full life that she used to regularly cross country ski in the Rockies in her seventies. But the news of my grandfather’s illness and death shocked her so badly that she fell into a depression – and perhaps a dementia – from which she never recovered.

When he died three years later, she was so far gone from herself, she didn’t cry. She never really mourned the man she shared her life with for fifty years. And for the next five years, my father, the closest (and oldest, dutiful) son would take the ferries every second weekend to visit her in a nursing home, as he knew his father would have wished. I cannot even imagine now how hard it must have been for him to go there, and see her, his beloved mother, broken down. She knew who she was, who he was, and what they all had lost. The woman he had known all his life, the woman who had tended him as a child, raised him, held him, was gone and in her place was a woman who looked like her, but was devoid of emotion, detached, sad … thin, sick, distracted. Unable to care for herself or for (or even about) anyone else.

As for me – well, my father did his best to explain to me the depression and the loss of a woman I had so adored, but how do you explain something like that to a seven year old? It would have been easier to explain dementia, but the woman I knew was still there, she still knew me and remember when my birthday was, she was just … stripped of everything vital. He ended up telling me that she was sad, because she had realized she was nearing the end of her life, and hadn’t managed to accomplish everything she wanted to.

You can imagine what effect this had on me. A teenager who drank heavily in university, who had sex far too early, who counted down the days until she could leave her hometown and finally get something done with her life. Because there was no way I was going to end up, 75, and be like that because I had missed something important to me.

It’s something I still struggle with, albeit to a lesser extent that I did as a late teenager / early twenty-something. Post-divorce in particular, when it occurred to me that I might never have children, the spectre of depression over this loss was particularly horrifying.

Perhaps it had such an effect on me because I had always felt such an affinity for this woman, my most adored grandmother. Because I recognized myself in her, and she, I think, in me. And it occurred to me, at some point, I don’t even remember when, that we shared the same genes and that clinical depression could some day be my lot in life.

It’s a terrifying thought. Depression took her away from me, robbed me of eight years of her life, when we could have been together. I don’t want to be like her.

And now that I have my own son, a son in whom I can see my father, it’s too easy to picture his own face with the haggard look my father’s often carried home from those bimonthly visits. Watching me lose myself late in life, robbing him of his mother and aging him before it should.

 

 

But it ain’t all necessarily so.

 

Following the birth of my son, I watched myself carefully for signs of depression. I went for walks regularly and forced myself to go out and socialize, even though I am a homebody, because I knew it would help. I ensured that my partner and my midwife and my doctor and some close friends knew I was worried, and they were careful and watching. And … nothing. It never materialized. At least not as anything more serious than occasional post-baby blues.

 

Even post divorce, depression never really surfaced. Oh, I was sad, don’t get me wrong. But I think our culture these days focuses too much on the pursuit of happiness and doesn’t allow people to feel sadness when something sad happens. I was sad. I was sad and angry, and I was sad and angry for a long time, much longer than I think I should have been, might have been had I felt culturally sanctioned to express those emotions more clearly and openly. But not once did I lose the ability to get up in the morning, lose my ability to laugh on occasion, lose myself – the things I associate with depression. And sure, I have to work on my anxiety and stress levels, it’s true. It’s also true that those two things can be associated with depression, a lack of ability to fully cope with the stresses that accompany modern life.

 

But so far, none of these problems has morphed into anything that can’t be cured with some hot tea, some yoga, and some time alone. (Sometimes lots of time alone, I admit.) And it’s possible that it never will. Her fate won’t necessarily be mine.

 

Seeing my mother’s face looking back at me from the mirror this morning I am reminded that I also have her genes, and her own mother’s. Two women who have navigated life’s trials with nary a waver. In my mother’s case this hasn’t meant anything more tragic than life’s usual losses -- treasured aunts and uncles, and both her parents. Tragic enough, but not unusual. But in my grandmother’s life tragedy includes the birth and subsequent loss of a child who was born disabled, the loss of her husband at an early age, and single parenthood of two young boys (my mother being a mother herself by the time her father died). Nothing to sneeze at, and yet she maintained her own equilibrium throughout.

 

I think it’s also clear that I don’t have that kind of equilibrium. I don’t face life’s tragedies with my shoulders squared and my face into the wind. I admit I cower.

 

But neither do I give up. And genetically I suppose that makes sense. I might not be the strongest woman I can imagine. But neither am I likely to end up as my father’s mother did.

 

I can tell, just by looking in the mirror.

Outta the mouths of babes

So this colleague I mentioned earlier with the new three year old daughter is a good friend of mine, and one of the things I've wanted to do since she brought her daughter home was have them both over for a playdate. Our kids are almost the same age, after all, and I thought perhaps the little girl would enjoy having a peer to play with. 

I did want to wait until they were more bonded as a family before doing so, so I haven't set anything up, nor mentioned it to The Boy at all. But meeting her today, seeing her speech issues, I have to wonder: I have a kid who gets frustrated with his younger daycare mates, who frequently expresses this frustration to the daycare providers ("He's not answering me! He's not listening to me!") I get frequent accounts of who can and can't talk at the daycare, and the speech issue is a dividing line between "babies" and "friends". He will not play with the babies, he cannot communicate with them. And I think the last thing this wee girl needs is a peer to play with who not only points out the things she cannot do, but gets frustrated with her because of it.

So I did what The Boy does best, and talked to him about it. I mentioned that mommy's friend has a new daughter who is the same age as he is, but she can't talk. That I think we should invite her over to play, but that she won't talk to him. He determinedly told me that she was only a year old ("Babies who are only one can't talk, mommy") but when I reiterated again that she was in fact three years old, but couldn't talk, that he could talk to her and she would understand but that she couldn't "use her words" to talk to him, he paused for a moment and said:

"Mommy, that's ok. I'll share my words with her, and then she'll be able to talk."

Mommy melted. He seemed very pleased with this solution.

I further explained that while that was a tremendously nice thing to do, that it wouldn't help and that she would just have to learn to talk on her own. And then of course he wanted to know why she couldn't talk. So I explained, very carefully, that I didn't know, but that maybe it was because she hadn't had a mommy or daddy before, and that this made her very sad, but that now that she had a new mommy (two, actually) that she was going to learn and be happier. 

My son was further intrigued to learn that she had no daddy, although less surprised than he was about the no talking, since several previous classmates had similar family situations. But he did then pipe up with, "That's ok, I'll share my daddy with her too."

Change

This morning I got to work and got packing. We are leaving our current office space and moving to a new space, and this means for me moving from an office I have sat in for five long years. A great office, with a thick noise-proof door, with a wall to wall window that actually opened (a rarity in this establishment). And we are moving to a new place where I also have an office to myself and a door and a great big window -- albeit one that doesn't open, alas -- so I have it good, I admit.

And then after packing box after box after box -- I helped pack up the rest of the office as well -- I went to my child's daycare for his very last day, to sit on the tiny chairs and eat cake and somehow find the words to say to the daycare providers -- thank you for taking care of the most precious thing in my life so very well. Rest assured that what I said was inadequate, because short of "I will give you my first born, I am so grateful" there was nothing I could have said to express it. And really that would have been counterproductive.

But you know? I hate change. Or rather, I hate change that isn't entirely under my control. I've changed my own life pretty radically before, but because *I* make the decision and *I* make the change, it's easy. Changes that other people instigate that I have to cope with are harder. 

Now I didn't weep while leaving my office nor when we finally left the daycare -- but it was a close thing after they gave me his goodbye present and when I finally walked out the door and the teachers all gave us hugs. But I still greet the evening feeling melancholy. 

We start afresh on Monday, but this weekend, the inbetween inbetwixt interim change time, this weekend I know I will sit and think and be just a little bit sad that things are changing. The old office was a place where I cried post-divorce, where I sat through my funk for months and felt safe doing so. It was a place later that I cried with happiness when pregnant, that I was happy to come back to post-maternity leave and turn on the old familiar radio and sit at the familiar desk and look out the same window and do the same work. It was comfortable, it was easy, it was good to work in a place that felt that relaxing.

The old daycare was the childcare place I finally felt really and truly happy with, that really and truly worked for us. His first place was a disaster; the second was very nice but really inconvenient in a number of ways. This daycare was close by and convenient but most of all it was good. It was SO good, and I saw there my son's potential unfurl and him transform from a shy, retiring kid too afraid to talk to a leader amongst his (admittedly tiny) peers, a confident child who talked and played and participated. And I loved going there each and every day, knowing that when I left him, since I had to, he was happy and cared for and loved every minute.

Monday I will leave my son at his new daycare for the first time (but only for an hour to start), and I will go into my new office and start unpacking boxes. It will be a whole new thing, and I know I will love it. The new daycare is with great kids and great caregivers and he is SO ready to be with older kids. My new office has new (non scuzzy) carpet and a new desk and no asbestos in the walls (yay!) and a new kitchen nearby instead of in an entirely new wing and we'll finally all be together and it will be good. I know that he will be as comfortable in his new space as I will be in mine. Eventually.

But just for now, I will let myself feel just a little bit sad.

Fancy edumacation

So this weekend I had a gift certificate to a local bookstore, for a fair amount of cash (ca-ching!) and so we hied ourselves there with the idea to spend it relatively equally between three family members. We bought our son four books, three of which were on dinosaurs and one on general "science" -- a kind of catch-all book that addresses astronomy, plant / animal life, cells / molecules, and energy. Age appropriate, for the most part. 

Lately The Boy has been thrilled about dinosaurs, stomping around the house and roaring. We hadn't bothered to get him any books -- I don't even know where this came from, to be honest -- but he is totally besotted with them, and pretends he's a Tyrannosaurus almost every day. Anyway I figured he should find out exactly what a Tyrannosaurus IS.

So Sunday morning on the way for breakfast out, my son looked up and me and said, "Mommy, dinosaur means "terrible lizard" in Greek!". And this morning, he pointed to a picture of DNA for his father and declared "Daddy, this is DNA. It's inside me."

I kind of wonder if we've done him a favour or just made the first forays into ultimate geekhood.

But the good news is that one of the books is SO scientific that there's even a picture of the dinosaur ... er ... relieving itself. And we are relieved ourselves (ha!) to know he's just a three year old because he just cannot get enough of the dinosaur pooping. 

The G word, again

I've mentioned here before that The Boy is a reader. He started reading before he was 18 months, and at just over three, can sound out pretty much any word he comes into contact with. The kids at daycare get him to read to them. We read to him, but he can read any of his own books. He also has a pretty impressive ability to understand books -- we've read Fantastic Mr. Fox to him, as well as most of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I think he takes a fair amount of it in, too. At least, he can sit through several chapters and makes comments about the pictures that indicate he's getting at least the basics, but more than that ... hard to tell.

When this first started, we were pretty wigged out, but since then ... things kind of slowed down. He's not doing quadratic equations at three. I mean, he is starting to figure out the concept of adding, but his cognitive advancement isn't leaping forward in a way which would lead him to Cambridge at 8, so we're learning to take it as it comes.

One thing we've been really careful to avoid is any talk of giftedness around him. We don't refer to him as gifted or tell him he's gifted. We don't even tell him he's smart. In fact, I realized the other day, we don't talk about it at all. And he's at an age now that I think he realizes that he reads and the other kids don't and that this is unusual -- how can he not figure that out when every substitute teacher they have at daycare comments on it, when everyone asks him what signs say? So perhaps at home we need to just acknowledge that this is happening and talk about what it means (he has a neat and somewhat unusual ability at this age) and what it doesn't (that he's a freak).

So this evening on the way home, I decided to mention it. He's been talking about it recently, and he started again.

Him: I can read big words. I can read little words. I can read big words and little words!

Me: yes, you can!

Me: You can read all sorts of things. Did you know that it's unusual to read at only three years old?

Him: ... 

I wait. And wait. And wait.

Him: yes.

Me: (trying again) Not many other little boys and girls can read words at only three. Did you know that?

Him: ...

I wait. And wait. And wait.

Him: yes.

Me: That's a pretty special ability you have, you know.

Him: .... 

I wait.

Him: Sowbugs eat wood. 

Me: Yes. Yes they do.

I guess he doesn't want to talk about it either.

Materials fail

This evening, eating dinner ... 

The Boy: Let's cheers, mama!

Me: (raise wine glass to his orange plastic cup of juice)

clink! It makes a pleasing clinking noise instead of the *clunk* of plastic together.

The Boy is surprised, and laughs. "Yours is METAL!" he says gleefully.

Then looks at his own. "And mine is ORANGE!"

Why? It all comes down to evolution

My kid has decided that "Why?" is the most fascinating thing anyone can ever say. 

Me? I've decided that my head will explode.

Me: Come on, let's go get in the car!

Him: Why?

Me: Because we're going to daycare!

Him: Why?

Me: Because mommy needs to go to work!

Him: Why?

Me: Because we need money to buy things, like the house and food.

Him: Why?

Me: Because ... otherwise my head my explode, get in the damn car.

....

 

Me: Get in your seat please!

Him: Why?

Me: AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! 

I have decided that he doesn't ever want to know the answer, he just wants to see how crazy I can get. In all seriousness, I do think he does it partly because he thinks it's funny to just keep saying it, he's not actually curious about the reason. 

The other day, he did this with his dad and The Man ended up uttering the phrase, towards the end, "It all comes down to evolution." I think I'm going to end up saying that to end the endless whys. 

Because really? So often, it just does. 

Giants

This morning my son and I were chased about the house by a giant who was half frog, half tadpole, and half antelope. Given that description I was more than happy to run, it sounded terrifying.

Disadvantages

There are disadvantages to teaching your child that the short-hand for "vaccuum cleaner" is "the sucker" and that it sucks up dirt. Which is a perfectly logical explanation, of course, since that's what it does and this is especially important to provide to a child who hates loud noises. And when you have three cats and a ground level entry and the floor is almost always filthy.

The downside? Is that once your child comes home from daycare with shoes filled with sand from the sandbox, he will empty them onto the floor and then, knowing usual procedure, will yell at you across the house to "Suck it mommy! SUCK IT!"

The advantage? I REALLY needed a good laugh today.

Apparently I don't have much to say here these days

I looked at my log of posts and realized that I haven't posted in a week, as of this morning's post, and thought that was awfully strange considering the last four months I have been posting quite regularly. I don't know why this is; it's not like work has been so terribly busy that I haven't been able to write. Somehow the entire month of April has just gotten away from me and I am completely astonished that it is already the 20th tomorrow. 

We spent the weekend getting ourselves into readiness for the next daycare. I've been a terribly negligent parent, and still have my child in a 'muddy buddy' of 18 months size (how they squeeze him into it is beyond me) (we don't have to purchase snowsuits here in Vancouver, just rainsuits. I remember having one as a small child as well.); he also has boots far too small and I think he's been wearing leftovers from the daycare for months now. He needed a sunhat as well and a blanket and sheet (the last daycare provided sheets; his blanket is now too small as well). Funny thing about not having a crib is that I have no crib sheets to spare and had to buy a completely new one for a child I am greatly hoping will never nap at the new daycare. 

We also took ourselves to a number of stores trying to find a "push bike" for our child -- these things all in fashion these days with two wheels and no pedals that small kids push along and figure out balance with. Our son was quite enamoured of this prospect until we actually found a bike, whereupon he tried it and pronounced it "too tippy". Which is exactly the point, of course, but we also figured that dropping $100 on a bike he didn't actually like was sheer foolishness. I suppose that given his parents' propensity for idle pursuits, he's not likely to suddenly gain a wish for physical activity ... although I admit that does kind of worry me, and I am greatly hoping that The Man's stated desire to get back on his bicycle for his commute will inspire our child into more interest in things active. 

Although I admit that 35 years of reading, writing, knitting, and other slothful activities sure has been enjoyable for me. 

This afternoon we took ourselves to the birthday party of The Boy's special friend, to which his mother had invited as many as fifteen families, which completely astounded me. She confessed to me when I arrived that she had no idea what to do with them all and I privately thought that perhaps fewer families might be a better choice for a party for a child turning three ... much more manageable. But I think my own preference for teeny tiny parties -- or no parties at all -- is probably a bit pathological and perhaps such a large gathering is more normal than I assume. In any case we enjoyed our short stay, for the most part, and even had some cake, with pink frosting. I am glad it's not my only three year old boy who has a liking for pink.

And tomorrow ... well, back to work, of course. Nothing much to report there. We are moving offices in two weeks or so and I have been in my office for ... god, I can't even admit it ... almost five and a half years now ... and so there's a great deal of detritus in there. I've been trying to go through it all for a few weeks already, and have finally gotten down to a single filing drawer and a shelf of boxes, so the end is in sight, and I'm looking forward to moving into a new office with hardly anything in it besides what I actually need. Quite a concept. I will miss this old office, though, it's been a nice one, with a big window that actually opens and a door that actually closes, allowing me a nice amount of privacy and alone time that's sorely lacking in my life these days. The new office also has a door and a window, which is fortunate, but the window won't open and I think I'll miss the fresh air greatly. I suppose all the more reason to actually leave the office once in a while.

Annnnd this is why I haven't posted in a week. Because the small details of life? Not so terribly thrilling. 

University living, all over again

I fell asleep last night in my son's bed at 8pm, in my jeans and t-shirt. I woke up later and removed my bra and my belt and just went back to sleep. This morning, arising fully (almost) dressed, I realized that this is something I haven't really done since I was a university student, and it got me to thinking: what else about having a child is like being in university?

* endless dinners of pasta (because that's all the kid wants to eat, not just all you can afford. but still.)

* being awake at 4am

* waking up at same hour because someone else's bodily fluids runneth over (ahem)

* waking up at same hour because someone else has the munchies

* living in a house that constantly has dirty dishes / garbage / mess.

* constantly feeling tired

* constantly feeling like there's something else you should be doing and never getting to it.

And The Man constantly laments those halcyon days of university. I should remind him more often that this is just the same.

Easter Sunday Swimming

So it turns out that Easter Sunday morning? A great time to go to the pool! WAY fewer people than normal, especially for a holiday weekend! Go figure.

Alas, since we haven't been to the pool in a while, we have reverted to a child who is terrified of water and didn't lessen his vice-like grip around my neck for pretty much the entire hour we were there. Most of me is sympathetic, because I hated the water as a kid and to be honest, still hate getting water in my face. The last part of me desperately wishes he wouldn't inherit this fear. Because I really do think that learning to swim is an important skill, and it's one I never learned because my mother eventually gave up on swimming lessons because of all the screaming. 

We went to a pool in the next town south of us -- somewhere we'd never been, but which was highly recommended for children. And it was fun. The usual -- so it seems, these days -- things: a wave pool, a place for climbing, water slides, etc. Only it was the wildest wave pool I have ever been in. Seriously, it had the power to bowl over both me AND The Man, who I might add is 6ft tall and 200+ pounds, not scrawny. I mean, I guess that you're not supposed to STAND in it, but even floating at one point I went under, WITH THE KID IN MY ARMS.

We went home at that point. 

So perhaps less than successful, but I tell you I will definitely be going back next Easter Sunday. Can't miss out on the pool when it doesn't need crowd control.

Frogging

Many years ago -- pre-child -- I bought some Noro Kureyon, and proceeded to make a sweater out of it. A sweater I never wore. Not once. Barely even around the house. It was a strange construction, with seams on the outside, which was weird. But weirder still was that the cut of it made me look like a linebacker. I admit that I am not terribly blessed in the bust department, but it's not SO bad. I am not that broad shouldered.

But alas I had knitted and sewn and tucked in ends, so that picking it apart was a pain. It took me all my free time yesterday and some more time this morning. So now I have nine balls -- give or take -- to create something new. Recycling! It's good for the environment AND my economy.

The problem now is that it will take at least ten balls to make a sweater. Which was a problem I had before, to be honest. The sweater, in addition to making me look like I was ready to head out on a field to play ball, was also cropped. Which is not a look I really think is great for me these days. And finding another ball that is the same dye lot as something I bought four years ago?? HA HA HA.

So now I'm thinking -- what kind of sweater can I knit with one ball short of a sweater? I was thinking a vest, which I know was very much in style this last winter, but to be honest, I'm not sure I would wear it much. I'm not really a vest person. Although perhaps I would be if I had one I liked, and that fit. 

Or perhaps a sweater with a deep scoop neck, to be worn with a t-shirt? Or one with cropped sleeves? 3/4 length sleeves? 

I know you are all sitting on the edge of your seats with anticipation, but DON'T WORRY, I will keep you posted.

I live such an exciting life.

In actual exciting news, we're having a nice weekend. There will be ham, and friends for dinner today and tomorrow. And perhaps some swimming at a Vancouver pool. And we saw aunts and cousins, and got lots of nice hand me down clothes and shoes! Shoes with spiderman on them, that light up!

OK, wait, that's not as exciting as I thought. At least not for adults.

In other news

My child hammered a spider to death this morning. I am torn between this being an unspeakable act of violence and a child that was merely curious as to what happens to a spider when you squish it.

Either way I am secretly relieved that one of the biggest spiders I've ever seen is no longer lurking in my bathroom sink.

Yesterday, my colleague sat in my office and wept

It was her last day, before her parental leave. She and her wife have finally managed to finalize an adoption, and they are leaving today to bring home their two babies. Or rather, one baby and a preschooler. She had come to my office to a meeting, to finish off a few files, and we ended up -- as one does -- speaking of the children and how wonderful this was and how excited she was. 

She didn't cry because of finally creating the family she had always dreamed of (although she and I both have shared some mutually sappy moments over that)

She didn't cry because she was leaving work and was scared.

She didn't cry because we had given her presents.

She didn't cry because she was so happy.

....

She cried because we were going to her baby shower. Because we had given her a baby shower, just like we had given everyone else who had had a baby a baby shower over the past few years (although I missed mine, with a baby who came three freaking weeks early. They sent me photos of them eating my cake instead.)

She cried because it was so normal and so accepting, and remembered back to when they had gotten married and we'd given them a card and a present, and now that they were having a family we got them gift baskets and organized a shower party and it was just so normal.

It makes me want to cry to think about the things she has gone through that she feels like this is a real accomplishment, being treated like a real human being. I cannot even fathom not giving her a baby shower, it would feel so insulting and so mean and so wrong.

I lead a very sheltered life, I do. I grew up in a nice suburban household to parents who are still married to each other, in a nice neighborhood in a nice town. Now I live in a nice part of town with my partner and my child and I drive a reasonable car to a good job. I've had my share of heartache -- see: yesterday's post -- but I realize that getting a divorce from a guy I loved and trusted is really small potatoes in this crazy world. I can't even fathom what she's been through that this is such a big deal.

I hope when The Boy is an adult, lesbians who have families won't cry because they are given babyshowers; it will be a normal reaction to a new part of one's life, a mere celebration of a family's expansion.

And frankly, while I'm on my wish list, I also hope that when The Boy is an adult, that if he and his partner have a child, that maybe his work colleagues will give HIM a babyshower, because we really don't pay much attention to fathers and how their lives change when babies arrive -- we only really celebrate the mom (and as someone who carried a child, let me just say -- this is something worth celebrating!) but men become dads too, and this is something worth recognizing, celebrating, and acknowledging. If only for the usual "heh you'll never sleep again" comments.

Remembering the good

As many (most?) of you readers know, I got divorced from my university boyfriend / the boy next door / that rat bastard several years ago. It was a part of my life that was inexplicably, overwhelmingly painful, for a number of reasons. A part of my life that I will in some ways never get over, always carry the scars from, when I graduated from my fairytale life into a gritty reality that I never really wanted to know. 

It was a big wake up call. It was realizing what heartbreak really is, and isn't -- it isn't that high school boyfriend, or even missing that boy that you really did love very much from a long time ago. It's coming home and realizing that the man you pledged your life to, in front of all those you held most dear, doesn't respect or like you enough to be honest with you, to keep trying in a relationship, to keep those very basic promises he made to you so long ago. I will love, honour, trust you, have you as my beloved all my days.

We wrote our own vows, called each other our beloved. I have never again used that word to describe anyone; it no longer has any meaning. 

One of the hardest parts about such an acrimonious and poorly handled break up is that for years, I could only recall the pain. The injustice of it, the angry, angry memories, the deep bodily scars that scratched over my soul that morning in November when everything broke. I remembered the fights, the disagreements, the disconnect, the unhappiness. I remember dividing up our things, I remember the continuous betrayal of drawing out the proceedings for literally years longer than they should have been. I remember the satisfaction I had when I finally got a good lawyer and forced him to capitulate. You can break everything I held dear, but I will in the end screw you over for money, which is poor satisfaction, but at least I did something to let you know that it was Not Okay.

And the worst part of that is that I can't fathom how I ever loved someone so evil. And it makes me feel awful because what kind of person am I, that I could ever have loved someone so horrible? How could I have been so duped, so taken in, so stupid, so self-loathing to have loved someone like that?

He became a monster. 

It's been almost seven years now -- I've now been with The Man longer than I was married, for pete's sake, we have a kid and a house and a life together. But it's only now that I can remember some of the good things. Disconcertingly, I find myself missing him. I don't want to miss him. I remember what he did to me, and it feels like a betrayal of me, of everything I hold dear, to miss him. 

But I also think that maybe this is good. Maybe this is partly forgiving myself, finally, for loving him. He wasn't a monster. He was a man, a weak man, who couldn't be honest with himself or me, but he was also someone who sent me flowers at work, and wrote nice cards, and bought food he knew I loved, and liked to read and who tried -- but failed -- to be a good person. I have a new iPod, and I play the songs I remember from our earliest days, days like this at the beginning of spring, and I remember how excited we were to have found each other, how we were about to embark on a life together, and how our faces used to light up when we saw each other. I remember our first apartment, I remember the tiny basement suite he had, I remember the bed in the living room and eating fruit and whipped cream in the wee hours of the morning while we whispered about the wonderful future we would have together.

It wasn't all bad. I wasn't crazy to love him, I wasn't bad to think it would last. I was just young, and hopeful, and naive in the ways that people can inflict pain upon each other. I wanted to believe that there were always happy endings. And there just aren't, always.

I grew as a person from that experience, I grew into someone who is, I think and I hope, a better partner and a better mother and a more thoughtful, empathetic person. A quieter person, a more introspective person, a kinder person. I hope. I wouldn't trade what I have now for even five minutes of the last relationship, even five minutes at the beginning. But it's good to remember that beginning, remember those songs and those moments that was the genesis of it all, remember that we did love each other once. 

And forgive myself, because I was 23, and it was romantic and I loved him, and I could never ever have forseen that the guy who grew up mere blocks from me, whose brother I went on school trips with me, who cooked me breakfast in bed, could later betray me. 

My only fault, in the end, was ... nothing. 

Torturing my child, only $20!

One of the things I put off most in terms of child care is haircutting. We just haven't had great experiences with it, despite the fact that there is a nice place near here that has cars! to sit in and Treehouse! playing. 

But my kid is looking a little ... rough. And by that, I mean, seriously, his hair was out of control. And so we went today, and I mean it literally when I say I was totally depleted at the end of it. I swear it was as though I were sticking him with needles, with the crying and the flinching and the sobs of "stop! stop! I'm all done! I'm ALL DONE!" And I'm not usually impatient with my child -- or at least, despite what I write here, I try not to be -- but I really did want to hunker down in front of him and yell -- Jesus, kid, it's a HAIRCUT, not thumbscrews!

But I didn't, I soothed and cajoled and hugged and held and promised and did all the things one should, and then hoped that they would cut it so short that we wouldn't have to go back for many many months.

My GOD, going to the dentist with him is easier than this.

Dare we hope?

That Spring has finally, truly arrived in Vancouver? It's been flirting with us for six weeks or so, with flowers here and there and buds on the trees, but then weeks of cold rain, or even snow. Today it is supposed to be sunny and 19. NINETEEN! Shocking, I tell you. Well, not so shocking for Vancouver for April, but shocking considering that five days ago it snowed. 

Yesterday it was also nice -- if not quite so warm -- and we took ourselves down to Granville Island in the morning (which The Boy insisted on pronouncing "Grandpa Island" no matter how much we enunciated, and then when we arrived said "grandpa??" upon alighting from the car. Ooops.). We arrived relatively early -- early enough to find a parking space with only TWO rounds of the enormous car park, which was clearly amazing for a Saturday. Of course everyone in the city had the same idea, and the place was impossibly crowded. There was a huge line of cars waiting to get in when we left, and some lady had been hovering in our area of the car park waiting for a spot. Just sitting there in the car. Such are the realities of life in Vancouver.

But despite the crowds and the lack of parking, it was still a great outing. The Boy ran about like a crazy person chasing birds and watching the musicians, and let me tell you, we got a lot of exercise chasing after him. But then we got to sit down on the dock and watch the birds and talk about the boats and smell the salty sea air, and buy things for dinner from the market and remember once again what I love about this city.

If only we didn't have to brave the galloping hoards to do it.

Knitting stuff

Every time I sit down to write a post with photos, I forget that blogspot is horrible for incorporating pictures and makes me put them in first, in reverse order, before typing. It's a huge pain, and I really wish they'd work on that. I wonder if it's perhaps because I'm using a Mac? Who knows.

Anyway, I have been busy lately with knitting, although not as busy as before when I was churning out socks at a terrific rate. I have been jonesing for a new project, but was determined to finish at least one of the three pairs of socks currently on the needles before I bought new wool. And I did, and I feel terribly virtuous. Here they are:

Here's a close up of the cable. I'd do it again, but I'd give it some purl rows to set it off and make it more noticeable. After all, I put in the work ... why not show it off more?

I'm particularly proud of this little innovation*: one of the problems I have with socks is the trouble I have with placing the heel. I've solved that problem before with ribbing the top of the foot and leaving the bottom plain, but I didn't want to do that this time. So I just included a single purl row on each side -- easy to add when you just finish the toe -- and continued it up the foot. And then when you're ready for the heel, you know exactly where to start and stop the heel -- just include both purl rows! No counting! Whee!

The purl row is also hardly noticeable, it's just a small indent up the foot.

And now for something completely different: Lucie. I went to the LYS with my birthday money and was all set to buy this nice wool / silk blend that was variegated, like in the pattern. But although they had some nice colours, they didn't have enough of the two that I wanted. So I sat and debated ... maybe I could get away with just a little less, not do the crochet ribbing at the bottom, for instance, or not at the cuffs, or something. But the crochet edging is one of the nicer additions to that pattern. So I hummed and hawed (how does one haw, exactly?) and thought some more and thought ... well, if I'm going to knit this sweater, I really do want it to be perfect, and asked if they had something else ... 

And they did, but this is a wool / cashmere blend and I tell you ... just holding it made me fall in love with it. It was slightly more expensive, but still within budget and so I started on it last night in great glee. I am hoping it knits up as nicely as I think it will. 

I am actually pleased this isn't variegated -- I do like that, most of the time, but I really had hoped for a solid sweater this time around. Esp. since I know that the yarn I was considering pools a lot, which I think could look pretty but wasn't the look I wanted for this sweater. 

Anyway, I will post more photos as it goes along, but I think it'll be slow going -- lots of tiny stitches, and not much time to knit. I'm hoping to have it done by the end of the summer, for fall. 

That's what I have so far, two hours of knitting. Oh, including unwinding the hank and winding it into a ball, sure, but still. 

But what do I knit for but for the fun of it?

*Oh, I'm sure I'm not so creative to be the first person ever to think of this, but allow me my little delusions. I haven't seen it before, so I can claim for now to have made it up.

Explaining religious holidays in a non-religious household

Easter is next week. This is something I am aware of mostly because I get two short weeks in a row. 

Also because my child came home today and told me. Seems they prepare the children for this event. They have decorated baskets so that they can collect the eggs at the daycare easter egg hunt. There's even been talk of the Easter Bunny. So of course my three year old asked me, as we drove home ... 

"Why is Easter coming?"

Uh. I have no idea what to say, so I just say the actual explanation.

"Easter is a religious holiday, when people -- not us, per se -- celebrate the fact that a major religious figure -- Jesus is his name -- died and was reborn on Easter. It's kind of like Christmas, which is also a religious holiday, when people celebrate the birth of the same guy. (editor's note: should that be Guy?) Now I don't know how the Easter Bunny figures into this, but on Easter we eat chocolate."

"Chocolate eggs" he says. "And chicken ones."

"Yes," I reply.

And then later, "Honey, did I answer your question?"

"No," he says with no hesitation.

Mom: 0 points for holiday explanations. 

But seriously, when one isn't Christian -- or even when one has no comparable religious holiday that one can use as an example ("We don't celebrate Easter, but remember when we celebrate X holiday? That's our holiday and Easter is a religious holiday for Christians.") how does one relay the whole concept of religion to a three year old? Because one can't reasonably explain Easter without the context of the religion to which it belongs.

Or should I just have gone with the Easter Bunny and left it at that?

April Fool!

It snowed this morning. God is having a joke on Vancouver.

My son was at a friend's this morning, and was an angel all morning, so said the other mom. Since then he's been ... less heavenly. There's been the screaming at the baking attempt. There's been the water all over the (still unfinished) bathroom floor. There's been the whacking of his mother with a barrette, and the penny pot onto the floor, and a million other small instances that make me want to hang my head into my hands and think ... what the hell gave me the idea I'd be any good at this?

Although clearly if he can comport himself well at a friend's house, I must be doing something right. Really, all we want from our children is the ability not to embarrass themselves -- or us -- in public. 

All the same, I did look at the clock at 3pm and curse the fact that it was two hours before I could have a drink without feeling like I was descending into dangerous territory. Sure, it's five o'clock somewhere, and that place is here in a mere 16 minutes.

The Boy will be in full time daycare in a month, and there is a big part of me that feels I will miss these days, when there's just the two of us and we can take our time and do what we feel like and the city's less frenetic than it is on weekends. And I will, indeed, miss those days where we went to the beach and there were naps and we read books and we played well together. 

I won't miss these days, of the constant "it must be MY way" shrieking, and the belligerence, and the craziness.

The good or bad thing about three is that I get all of that in one day. Outright defiance followed by arms around the neck and a soft "I love you mommy." It's a strange age.

And now I should go and see what he's up to. And google "what happens when your preschooler eats three bananas in a single day".