Me and Fanny McGee

Today’s Globe and Mail ran an article on friendship – female friendships – noting that “While the dissolution of a romantic relationship can be hard, the break-up between best friends can be even more difficult.” Perhaps more difficult still is not having the gift of friendship.

I’m not really sure why the subject of friendship is so preoccupying to me lately. If I scratch the surface to ferret out what may actually be troubling me, I suppose it is a few things: recent contact from high-school friends via Facebook; the increasing oppressive presence of my in-laws that has me dying to explode in a safe space with a venomous self-pity monologue about all the crazy ass things they are doing and saying; ageing.

I often chalk up my neglect of friendships to the huge extended family that I have – there are innumerable aunts and cousins about who I know I can turn to for help, advice, solace. They have known me forever, know my family dynamics, are trustworthy, and care. I don’t need to see them or speak to them all the time – but when the chips are down, we are all there for the other, no questions asked. It is the ultimate safety net. But it isn’t only that many of the personal needs friendships fill are for me filled by family…it is also me. I don’t particularly fare well in the demands of friendship. I suspect I internalize too much, feel too hard, empathize too intensely, and ultimately get burned out. I also suspect that the relationship with my extended family, where contact and check-ins are not part of the equation to love and support, means that I am a bad friend…I figure I am there if you need me full stop, but not so much for the casual chat. And the art of the casual chat, it seems to me, is the basis of many friendships.

I suppose too that I haven’t ever been comfortable in groups – circles of women who meet, share, support and have fun. I never was. Even doing gender studies in university and graduate school did not change my aversion to anything that smacked of “group sharing” – I seem to recoil from exposing myself in any meaningful and honest way at all to a group.

So why does the subject of friendship interest me so much lately? Surely it isn’t just because of a few voices from the past, the pressures of in-law cohabitation, or feeling mortal. Maybe it is being at a stage in my life where I am finally quite chuffed with life – I love (while also hating) my career, I have an amazing, funny, smart and drop-dead gorgeous husband who I adore, I am a Mom to the bestest little boys ever - and who ever thought THAT would happen! - my life has become what I never, ever thought it would be. So maybe it is simply that, when I managed through no planning or good management on my part to have everything I long thought was out of reach, I have relaxed enough to wonder how others, how those who long ago or not so long ago crossed my path and whom I remember kindly and fondly, are.

Or maybe, for the first time in my life, I am in sore need for a girls' night out and have no idea how to go about having a girls' night out, unless it is taking Fan the dog for her last walk of the day. Any ideas out there?

Of pork and other things...

For those of you (all 1 of you) hanging on (or benignly disinterested in) my every written word, let me put you out of your torment. Yes, I did it.

The pulled pork was surreal – sensuous, melting, slightly sweet and spicy – gently bathed in home made sauce (two kinds, choice was up to the diners), swaddled in lovely, doughy, fabulously unhealthy white flour rolls and accompanied by creamy, slightly sweet, coleslaw. It was sublime. And for the first time in 5 months my father-in-law did not look up from his plate to utter his only words at dinner which are always “And now, what is for dessert?” – he was simply too sated, too enraptured by the pulled pork to even remember the word dessert.

Topher, of course, had his usual whole wheat macaroni and parmesan cheese. Winston, of course, ate what ever I put in front of him but did keep scanning the dinning table for any signs that the previous night’s wild mushroom risotto was making another appearance. How I could birth two such different children in terms of food preferences is a mystery to me. For the past year, Topher has eaten nothing but: raisin toast with peanut butter, cheerios, oatmeal, dry raisin bran, grilled cheese, berries, spaghetti with parmesan (fresh grated, don’t you know because he won’t eat any other kind) and whole wheat macaroni with parmesan. Throw in the occasional home made pizza (with ONLY kalamata olives and mozzarella, go figure) and you have his complete diet. Meat has never, ever passed that boy’s lips. Ever. Not. Even. Once. Vegetables, well, I have managed to sneak in the odd carrot or two. Winston on the other hand is a serious carnivore, a flesh-food gourmand. Steak, chicken, pork, shrimp, fish (but not salmon), hotdogs, hamburgers, sausages, bacon – you name it, he scarfs it back. The more flavour, the better – dinner with him is a serious of frantic efforts to stem the tide of angry screams when he has run out of tzatziki, garlic-lime-chilli pepper crusted shrimp, sharp cheese, steak with teriyaki, grilled vegetables, and risotto.

So dinner tonight, now that I am famished and thinking about food will be: cedar planked Atlantic salmon, boiled new potatoes tossed in butter and herbs, cucumber yogurt salad and grilled vegetables very lightly tossed with a roasted tomato dressing. If someone is crazy enough to expect dessert after this, they can wash themselves a peach.

Oh yes, and I did the shopping for afore said undergarments. A near-mortgage payment later and I am hoisted, pert, comfortable and quite pleased with myself. Bra Chic. Highly recommend it. Highly.

It ain't Paris, but it will do for now....

For reasons that defy simple, short and sensible explanation, I am getting ready to head home from work very early today and indulge in two things that I have wanted to do for a very long time.

The first is to shop for a very expensive, very pretty, and very magical (ie supportive without looking like steel girders) bra. One with no purpose what-so-ever (ie not maternity or nursing) other than to enhance where enhancement is need, reduce where reduction is needed, and lift spirits along with…well, you can fill this part in yourselves.

The second is to try making pulled pork. On the bbq. With a spicy rub and sweet, sticky, spicy sauce to mop onto it. Accompanied by heaps and heaps of coleslaw in a ridiculously fattening creamy dressing. This alone should kill about 4 hours of time and about 6 weeks of a regime of early morning walks and one martini evenings.

Yup. Lingerie and pulled pork. These are the things that will make me happy today. Not world peace, just lingerie and bbq pig. I’d hang my head in shame to be so shallow but the image of shredded pork on a floury, fresh roll with creamy coleslaw, the sauce dripping down onto my plate – and of course, of my newly swaddled chest – just keep over-riding all sense of proportion. And I may just have a second martini tonight…

I just read the most recent post from http://notdrowning.wordpress.com/ and just about lost my dinner laughing. Oh my god, too funny for words and rang all too true, except for the black lacy underwear part as it has been far too long since that has been a staple of my wardrobe.

But it rang true otherwise, this whole too much information syndrome that infected me at motherhood..... I was actually was on a professional phone call today when I found myself launching into a story about how my preschool son likes to make his penis into shapes. As in “Look Momma, it’s a snowman” or “Look Momma, I made an angel with my "wikkkee” Personally, seeing my son discover his "wikkkee" has brought my pre-marriage dating history (like there is any other...well, actually....no seriously hon, that was just a joke....) into a stage of understanding that 10 years of therapy could not. Men and their “wikkkees”...it is a complete, compelling and non-replaceable relationship. But I digress. Point was that on a professional call I actually started talking about my son and his penis. Totally out of context to anyone else who doesn’t share my seriously and prolonged sleep deprived state of existence, with a baby still gnawing on my breasts twice a day, all sorts of bodily fluids splashed on me before my first cup of coffee in the morning, and oh my god where are my clean nylons for that interview, and why in god’s name is the baby wearing his brother’s underpants on his head kind of life.

It is a bit cliche to say "I don't remember signing up for this," but it is true. I don't. I don't remember other career moms showing up at work with peanut butter smears on their suit jackets, or pulling out Tonka toys and diapers instead of the required meeting notes from their purses as all sorts of on lookers smirked and shook their heads. Before motherhood I don't remember starting my day off at 5 a.m with someone with a near full set of teeth sucking on my breast as though life depended on it before then having to clean up in the following order: dog puke from the back door mat, brown and yellow "refuse" from a nappy, pee off the change pad, the baby, myself, then pick up dog shit from the river parkway walk as I try to loose the martini bulge that I conveniently choose to call the last five baby pounds, wipe another baby ass, help the three year old aim for the toilet with his wikkkee spraying merrily around the bathroom like a coked up fire hose....coffee still pending, I might add.

Nope, this isn't what I thought would be my lot when we decided to "give it a whirl and see what happens." Love my life but hate the associate body fluids. Too much information, I know.

With Apologies to President Obama...

So early this morning in the bathroom, while taking care of personal business as I held shut the under-the-sink cupboard with one foot, held to toilet roll with one hand, and made a mad grab for the falling towels from the towel rack with the other, I sprung up from my perch to smash a mosquito against the shower wall. Got the mosquito, while 14 month old Winston got into the cupboard, unravelled the toilet roll and pulled all the towels off the rack. It is still early days, but I think he has inherited my multi-tasking (dis)ability…

But it all led to the idea popping into my head: What was the big deal about U.S. President Obama’s fly killing move the other day? I mean, crap, he was just sitting there, both hands and feet free for pete’s sake. Which led me to starting thinking about just how male-dominated the media is…I mean this killing a fly with one blow merited THAT much press coverage? Try stuffing a tantruming 2 year old into a snowsuit, boots, hat and mitts when you are 8 months pregnant, similarly bundled in winter gear (like I didn’t already feel fat enough without also being wrapped up in bulging down outerwear) and then carry him – and the packages from the shopping centre - out to the car while he thrashes, screaming at the top of his lungs all the way that you are not his “good mommy, I want my good mommy right now” AND then fend off security as you try to throw him into the car seat as he arches his back and flails about. Now that is worthy of world wide media attention.

I mean really, a million times a day across the globe, women are killing metaphorical flies (or here in Canada, mosquitoes) barehanded in one blow, not as they sit calmly unencumbered in arm chairs, but while they have preschoolers hanging off their necks, climbing up their legs, babies tugging at their tops, opening up cans of paint and wandering around with nail guns in their tiny hands. How about a little media recognition of that for a change? And a whole lot less about this Mommy War nonsense.

No wonder we can't have world peace....

So…yesterday’s Globe and Mail - self titled “Canada’s National Newspaper” – ran a short collection of articles on the “Mommy Wars” - this supposedly never ending feud between stay-at-home moms and working-outside-the-home moms over …well, I’m actually not really sure what the feud is about. Mommy Wars are supposedly between these two groups of moms about who is the better mother, what is better for children, selfless vs selfish…but what is really at the root of it somewhat escapes me. Although I suspect if we all think back to high school we can all remember a group of young women that just weren’t happy unless they were making someone else miserable.

I’m not particularly interested in whether the women staying at home raising their children approve or disapprove of my own decision to work and have a career in addition to being a mom to my two wonderful (and right now, filthy) boys. They can snub me at playgroup and the playground, keep in their tightly knit cabal and gossip to their hearts content within my hearing (although it is often viciously about each other, pity whoever among their group that is absent that day!!), and rebuff all efforts at common civility in what is a shared community space. But they may not step over my children in the sandbox as though they were bothersome Dickensian street urchins; they may not behave as though the play structures are there for the amusement of their offspring alone by shooing and blocking my own darlings; and they may not turn a blind eye when their tots bang or push either of my children but intervene vigorously when the same behaviour is dished out to one of their friends.

I don’t care if they believe all women should produce only children in this capitalist society of ours and then stay put to raise them, or if they believe that my “selfish” decision to work places my children at risk, or if they are jealous, bitter, thwarted or bored; happy, fulfilled, challenged, or entertained. I care that they show my children the same kindness, consideration, and interest that I show to all children that I encounter. I care that children are taught by a parent about friendship and common civility, about generosity, sharing, conflict resolution, and respect for others – even with they are different from us in how they look, sound, or in what they do. I suspect if we all raised our children that way we could finally put an end to the nonsense of Mommy Wars…certainly we all have more important things to fuss about, don’t we?

What is friendship? How does it change over time, after years without contact, through different life circumstances? I’m not sure if these are the questions that have been nagging at me for a few weeks now, or if it isn’t more the question of what does age mean or matter? Either way, I am uncharacteristically uncertain and rocked.

I met up with a friend from high school recently. We hadn’t seen each other or been in contact since we were about 19 – except for one brief encounter at the train station over 10 years ago. We had shared an underage love of vodka, coffee and cigarettes, skipped classes together, gossiped together – she was who I wanted to be with when the urge to be naughty and risky struck me during my teenage years. She was vibrant, alive, with a cutting, intelligent wit and she was undeniably beautiful - with flashing dark eyes, high cheekbones, long, dark, dramatic hair and pale skin. The perfect foil for my anonymous Nordic blondness.

So arranging to see her after so many years was exciting and fun – I was full of anticipation of a new, yet familiar playmate to burn off some energy with, laugh about life with, be a bit naughty with – someone who knew me, but didn’t know me...

She is ill. Seriously ill. Her speech is difficult, halted, breathless, unable to support intonation. Her hands are locked in spasms. She walks with aid of a cane. Her children are almost a full generation older than my own ...her son old enough to have fathered my eldest. She feels her life has been lived. I feel like I am finally just getting started. My marriage is new, my children still babies. My career is still ascending, my household a state of perpetual confusion despite outsourcing about all aspects of its care and upkeep. She seems, and not just because of being ill, in her outlook, her experiences, her interests to be a generation older than I.

But we were friends. We know things about each other that go deep and are still true. Is this enough to support the renewal of a friendship? Can I be good enough, evolved enough, to see past who she was and accept who she is and befriend that woman? Can I admit in my heart that what really has rocked me was that she is a real, breathing reminder of my own mortality, of the fragility of my life, of my quickly ebbing youth? Can I come to terms with my fear that knowing her – this new her – does not mean that I have become old too?

Here I go again....

It was once suggested to me that I had best learn how to finish what I start. I remain unconvinced the old “finish what you started” adage has much value other than conforming to some self-punishing protestant ethic or other....but despite a history of not following this suggestion made long ago, I feel guilty about some things left incomplete, hold regrets about others, and worry that I am in some way defective at worst and flibberty-gibbeted at best. Certainly I fear I lack the ability to stick it out when the going gets tough. And I am again feeling that old feeling of wanting to flee, of needing a change in path and direction, the impulse to – gasp – quit.


The source of discontent this time is my career...which seems to have stalled rather spectacularly. I have just returned after a full year’s paid parental leave, to the executive leadership development program that I was chosen to be part of prior to finding out I was pregnant with baby number two. Part of the development program is to undertake a series of progressively more complex and senior executive position assignments. Problem is, while I have spent that past 12 months changing diapers and doing laundry, the work landscape has changed and there are few assignments from which to choose. In fact, there are next to none.



So maybe it is time to leave this program unfinshed, quit this career path and start fresh. Leave this chance of a lifetime program that I have started, just as I left past interests, left my doctorate, left my first marriage, left friends....no drama, no long drawn out passionate angst – just flee quickly, near silently, without looking back.

Here I go....

The boys are both asleep, the husband is out with friends, the in-laws are safely tucked away in their basement suite, and I am taking a moment to renew an acquaintance with a long-ago friend - writing.

I have survived a week of career frustration, night battles over bedtime with a tenacious 3 year old, early pre-dawn mornings nursing a baby, meal preparation, laundry, grocery shopping, cuddling, reassuring, soothing, and fulfilling others. Now I need to find my own voice, my own pulse, my own skin.

Now where on earth did I put them?