Families are complex things. I know this - my own family is a mess of complexity and I have had enough therapy over the years, at different times in my life, to begin to become somewhat accomodating to the messiness that is my family. For the last seven months I have also had my spouse's family living in - well, my living room. And complex is the least of the adjectives I can find to describe this situation.
Tonight, after seven months, they are gone - back to Africa. And I miss his parents deeply already, while at the same time I am also finally exhaling for the first time in a long, long time. With their being gone now also comes the possible end of any real familial closeness with the other part of his family here in our city....and although I care deeply for the two small off-spring that come with this package, their parents, my spouse's brother and wife, well, I hope for an at least temporary reprieve from their seeming need for drama, complaints and complications.
But while tonight has finally afforded Spouse and I a chance to compare notes on the he-said, she-said aspects of the past seven months, I am still struck by the complexity, the bizarreness of familial relationship. What it is that actually binds us together in families? In the case of my own brother and I - different as we are - it is a spoken understanding that no matter what, the bottom line is that we will always be there for each other. That doesn't mean we always get along, doesn't mean that we approve of how the other lives, that we always feel some kind of Hallmark card kind of love for each other - it seems to be, as he and I have worked it out over the years, that we will not need the other's approval yet we will back each other up when needed, no matter who or what the opponent may be. And we don't talk all that often, although we live in the same city; we don't live similar lives at all; we don't even see the same way on alot of things that with anyone else would be non-negotiables. But when we are together we manage to say more without words than with - we are, no matter what, no matter who, a united front, and would be if circumstances had been different, friends if we met. God help anyone who tries to bring the other one down - because there is a second wave lined up and ready to attack if necessary.
It is not merely DNA, not merely genetics, not merely environment or a shared history and background that binds my brother and I together....except all of these contributes to an often unspoken understanding when needed. At the base of it all, we just like each other even when we don't (something only siblings may be able to understand) - as people and accept each other for who, what, and how we have become. Neither needs the others approval. What we have together is deeper than that. So familial relationship is the tie that the public see, and is the tie that brought us together - but it is not all that there is.
Without that simple yet oh-so-difficult aspect, how do siblings get along in adult life? How do you begin to accomodate vast differences in morality, in responsibility, in daily actions and choices? And how do the parents caught in this vortext cope? I have seen my in-laws' hearts broken over the divisions between their children and at the same time seen my own parents frustrated at the unquestioning wall my own brother and I can draw between them and us.
How will my boys be when they are older? Will they be friends not only because they are brothers but because they genuinely enjoy each other? Or will they be at odds - not because of birth order or any other environmental factor....but just because?
I hope I will not one day be as my my mother-in-law has been, in tears over the wide gulf between my children that nothing or no one can bridge. My spouse admits he will always, no matter what, be there for his brother. But I think it is not for the same reasons that my own brother and I say the same thing. Acceptance versus duty-by-DNA. My brother and I are an unquestionable team because we choose to be, not because we must be. Which way will my own two boys go? And what is my role in the outcome?
Showing posts with label family life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family life. Show all posts
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Don't fret....Fan the dog got fed in the end
I am at a loss. Wait, no I am not. Just had a brilliant idea. Will deal with brilliance in a moment...
Spouse is doing his neuroscience thing in California this week while in-laws and I keep the home fires burning...the boys are shattered with missing their father, I am in sore need of his calm, rational, normal view of life, and the Fan the dog, well, suffice to say we hit an emergency tonight when we realized she was out of food - and trust me, with a hungry labrador that constitutes an emergency.
How I will manage all of this once my in-laws return to South Africa is beyond me. Our new nanny is lovely and fits in beautifully, but still there is so much to do, remember and manage...I am terrified of what is to come. Topher is a gorgeous boy, but so intense, so demanding emotionally that it is hard to keep up with is needs - and Winston, well he is so easy, so compliant that he is easy to get lost in the shuffle of life and business.
I know everyone else manages this work-family thing with aplomb and grace. But I seem to be falling short.
Will get back to focusing on flash of brilliance, that of course, had nothing at all to do with what is really bothering me.
Spouse is doing his neuroscience thing in California this week while in-laws and I keep the home fires burning...the boys are shattered with missing their father, I am in sore need of his calm, rational, normal view of life, and the Fan the dog, well, suffice to say we hit an emergency tonight when we realized she was out of food - and trust me, with a hungry labrador that constitutes an emergency.
How I will manage all of this once my in-laws return to South Africa is beyond me. Our new nanny is lovely and fits in beautifully, but still there is so much to do, remember and manage...I am terrified of what is to come. Topher is a gorgeous boy, but so intense, so demanding emotionally that it is hard to keep up with is needs - and Winston, well he is so easy, so compliant that he is easy to get lost in the shuffle of life and business.
I know everyone else manages this work-family thing with aplomb and grace. But I seem to be falling short.
Will get back to focusing on flash of brilliance, that of course, had nothing at all to do with what is really bothering me.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
5 Reasons not to go home tonight….or to school…ever.
5. MIL and Poor Fan the dog are engaged in full out war over tomatoes…Poor Fan the dog is constantly sneaking into the garden to chomp tomatoes right off the vine – ripe or not, it makes no difference to her. MIL is incensed and has set up an obstacle course of slides, basket ball net, patio chairs and various push toys in an effort to keep Poor Fan the dog out of the garden.
4. Topher and Winston are wailing over lack of access to their slides, basket ball net and various push toys.
3. MIL is livid with me and spouse as we care not one little bit that Poor Fan the dog is munching on all the tomatoes.
2. Spouse is already in deep depression over the inevitable approach of winter.
1. I’m out of vodka.
And somehow I have to find the inner strength and serenity to deal with the inevitable approach of Topher’s first day at school. To be honest, it is not some sentimental weepiness or nostalgia that my little guy is now old enough to be heading off to kindergarten. Rather, it is the reality fast approaching that I am now embarking on a career of intercession and mediation between the school system and my spawn, and I suspect this is not going to be fun for any of us. Not Drowning, Mothering (http://notdrowning.wordpress.com) is all too clear in a I’d-rather-laugh-then-break-down-and-cry kind of way about the tyranny of late passes, missed days, school breaks, “professional development” days etc., and while her posts are dead funny, they also terrify me about what is to come. And, although the first day of school has not yet arrived, I have already had my first what-the-hell-was-that conversation with the school.
Back in June, the school sent an information package to parents and one of the pieces was a letter that outlined how the little sweeties would be introduced slowly to school. Part of this entailed me (although why I assume it has to be me and not spouse is something to save for another post) bringing Topher to school for a one-on-one classroom visit, AFTER which, the helpful information form written by the school clearly said, he would have the chance to attend, in a small group, school for 3 mornings over two weeks. Note this is to be AFTER the one-on-one visit. So blow me down if the school hasn’t buggered up the dates and times so that he starts attending school BEFORE he has his one-on-one visit.
I’m thinking, despite not being and educational specialist, this is not what they intended. But for the last 3 months I have tried unsuccessfully to reach the school to sort this out. Of course, being summer, no one is at the school to sort this out…until today. And blow me down again, but they don’t seem to be able to get a handle on the concept of BEFORE and AFTER…nor see the need to follow the procedure they have so clearly outlined in the ever-so-helpful information package.
So, here’s what I say: first time I get sent off to the office for a late pass, the first time I am late handing in a parent consent from, the first time I forget to call the attendance office to inform them Topher will be absent – and catch crap from the school for such infractions, I will haul out this coffee-stained, vodka drenched information package, wave it hysterically in their faces and yell “Cast not the first stone!!”
Now, I’m pretty sure I am not heading into this with the best of attitudes. Those who knew me during my own days at school will know that I have a perverse love of going up against the administration. But honestly, am I going to entrust the education of my son to a system run by adults who still are shaking on the concepts of BEFORE and AFTER? This does not bode well at all…not for any of us unfortunate to be thrown together in the education of Topher…
4. Topher and Winston are wailing over lack of access to their slides, basket ball net and various push toys.
3. MIL is livid with me and spouse as we care not one little bit that Poor Fan the dog is munching on all the tomatoes.
2. Spouse is already in deep depression over the inevitable approach of winter.
1. I’m out of vodka.
And somehow I have to find the inner strength and serenity to deal with the inevitable approach of Topher’s first day at school. To be honest, it is not some sentimental weepiness or nostalgia that my little guy is now old enough to be heading off to kindergarten. Rather, it is the reality fast approaching that I am now embarking on a career of intercession and mediation between the school system and my spawn, and I suspect this is not going to be fun for any of us. Not Drowning, Mothering (http://notdrowning.wordpress.com) is all too clear in a I’d-rather-laugh-then-break-down-and-cry kind of way about the tyranny of late passes, missed days, school breaks, “professional development” days etc., and while her posts are dead funny, they also terrify me about what is to come. And, although the first day of school has not yet arrived, I have already had my first what-the-hell-was-that conversation with the school.
Back in June, the school sent an information package to parents and one of the pieces was a letter that outlined how the little sweeties would be introduced slowly to school. Part of this entailed me (although why I assume it has to be me and not spouse is something to save for another post) bringing Topher to school for a one-on-one classroom visit, AFTER which, the helpful information form written by the school clearly said, he would have the chance to attend, in a small group, school for 3 mornings over two weeks. Note this is to be AFTER the one-on-one visit. So blow me down if the school hasn’t buggered up the dates and times so that he starts attending school BEFORE he has his one-on-one visit.
I’m thinking, despite not being and educational specialist, this is not what they intended. But for the last 3 months I have tried unsuccessfully to reach the school to sort this out. Of course, being summer, no one is at the school to sort this out…until today. And blow me down again, but they don’t seem to be able to get a handle on the concept of BEFORE and AFTER…nor see the need to follow the procedure they have so clearly outlined in the ever-so-helpful information package.
So, here’s what I say: first time I get sent off to the office for a late pass, the first time I am late handing in a parent consent from, the first time I forget to call the attendance office to inform them Topher will be absent – and catch crap from the school for such infractions, I will haul out this coffee-stained, vodka drenched information package, wave it hysterically in their faces and yell “Cast not the first stone!!”
Now, I’m pretty sure I am not heading into this with the best of attitudes. Those who knew me during my own days at school will know that I have a perverse love of going up against the administration. But honestly, am I going to entrust the education of my son to a system run by adults who still are shaking on the concepts of BEFORE and AFTER? This does not bode well at all…not for any of us unfortunate to be thrown together in the education of Topher…
Thursday, August 13, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Ahh...home sweet home....
Typhus, typhoid, H1N1, cholera – god only knows what it is but disgusting sickness has descended on our chaotic home like a biblical plague. Winston has been spewing fluid from both ends for a week now and totters pathetically around on stick legs looking every inch like a poster child for a children’s charity serving the third world; Topher is leaking thick, viscous green snot from his nose like nothing I ever want to see or experience again in my lifetime and clutching his neck screaming “it hurts right to my bones!”; husband is snuffling and shuffling around the house like a dishevelled sanatorium in-patient; father-in-law is lumbering (barely) pathetically from room to room when he isn’t lying in bed groaning, while mother-in-law and I carry on, feeding, bathing, wiping, swiping, stripping beds, doing laundry….all the while popping any pill that even remotely promises to get us through another hour without collapsing in feverish heaps.
But I think we may just have begun the long climb out of this fetid darkness….this morning, after the carpenters arrived at 6:30 a.m to continue building the front porch following a two-week unexplained absence, after pulling the dog out of the tipped over trash bin where she was supplementing her scientifically approved diet with day old shrimp shells, rotting lemons and something that for the life of me I still can’t identify, after getting the sofa ready to be picked up and replaced due to leaching leather dye (sometime between 9 and 1 o’clock today – could they be any more vague?), after husband announced he had a flight booked to leave this afternoon and would be gone on business until the weekend, after emptying the dishwasher, making 3 breakfasts, organizing the day’s wash which in addition to the usual boy mess included the previous night’s fun and entertainment of feces-covered baby blankets and 2 quilts, after trying 4 times without success to have even one sip of my coffee, I surveyed the scene and realized: Topher was not gripping his neck in agony, Winston was actually eating some solid food and drinking again with real gusto, father-in-law was well enough to surface before noon to wait for his food to magically appear before him, mother-in-law was calm and in control, and the sun was actually shining. So I did what any self-respecting, intelligent, exhausted woman would do – raced for a shower, dressed, grabbed my car keys and headed to the office where at least I had the faint hope of getting to drink a cup of warm, if not hot, coffee. And here I will stay until duty forces me back to the little bit of hell that is my home to chauffer family members to doctor appointments and then make dinner, clean up toys, bath, nurse, sing to and cuddle two little boys into bed, and then pour myself the world’s biggest, coldest, driest martini on record.
Wish me well. It has already been a very, very long day.
But I think we may just have begun the long climb out of this fetid darkness….this morning, after the carpenters arrived at 6:30 a.m to continue building the front porch following a two-week unexplained absence, after pulling the dog out of the tipped over trash bin where she was supplementing her scientifically approved diet with day old shrimp shells, rotting lemons and something that for the life of me I still can’t identify, after getting the sofa ready to be picked up and replaced due to leaching leather dye (sometime between 9 and 1 o’clock today – could they be any more vague?), after husband announced he had a flight booked to leave this afternoon and would be gone on business until the weekend, after emptying the dishwasher, making 3 breakfasts, organizing the day’s wash which in addition to the usual boy mess included the previous night’s fun and entertainment of feces-covered baby blankets and 2 quilts, after trying 4 times without success to have even one sip of my coffee, I surveyed the scene and realized: Topher was not gripping his neck in agony, Winston was actually eating some solid food and drinking again with real gusto, father-in-law was well enough to surface before noon to wait for his food to magically appear before him, mother-in-law was calm and in control, and the sun was actually shining. So I did what any self-respecting, intelligent, exhausted woman would do – raced for a shower, dressed, grabbed my car keys and headed to the office where at least I had the faint hope of getting to drink a cup of warm, if not hot, coffee. And here I will stay until duty forces me back to the little bit of hell that is my home to chauffer family members to doctor appointments and then make dinner, clean up toys, bath, nurse, sing to and cuddle two little boys into bed, and then pour myself the world’s biggest, coldest, driest martini on record.
Wish me well. It has already been a very, very long day.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Wishing in vain upon a star....
I have the post-vacation blues in a really really bad way. Back now from a week at an isolated ocean front cottage on Nova Scotia’s North Shore all I can do as I sift through the mountain of laundry, mouldy vegetables in the refrigerator and slide back into the daily routine of finding reasonably clean clothes for work, is scheme up ways to get us all back to the North Shore – for good. All we’d have to do is sell our home, quit our lucrative jobs, unsettle the boys from the bosom of their extended family, and move half a country away....how hard could that be?
Maybe we could try goat farming...use the milk for making soap to sell at a roadside stand to tourists. Or start up a garlic farm and put aside various garlic jams, oils, spreads – and hell, why not – soaps, to sell at a roadside stand to the same passing tourists...or maybe we could move to the nearest Maritime big city where I could get a new job in a new office, husband could get a new job with a new evil empire pharmaceutical company, and we could retire each Friday evening to a seaside cottage and stop on our way to purchase goat milk soap and garlic chutney from little roadside stands set out in an effort to attract the few passing tourists...
Topher and Winston would grow up windswept, rosy cheeked and self-reliant. I would become relaxed, environmentally conscious and have real Wellingtons to wear, not Canadian Tire replicas. Husband would become relaxed, return to his love of painting, and develop a resistance to Canadian mosquitoes, deer flies and black flies (who knew South Africans were such babies when it came to bug bites!), actually have a good reason to wear his real Wellingtons, and we would all gather around the fire in the evening, watching the dog twitch her paws as she slept soundly nearby.
Or maybe I could just grow up and get back to the laundry....
gj8hdvzx49
Maybe we could try goat farming...use the milk for making soap to sell at a roadside stand to tourists. Or start up a garlic farm and put aside various garlic jams, oils, spreads – and hell, why not – soaps, to sell at a roadside stand to the same passing tourists...or maybe we could move to the nearest Maritime big city where I could get a new job in a new office, husband could get a new job with a new evil empire pharmaceutical company, and we could retire each Friday evening to a seaside cottage and stop on our way to purchase goat milk soap and garlic chutney from little roadside stands set out in an effort to attract the few passing tourists...
Topher and Winston would grow up windswept, rosy cheeked and self-reliant. I would become relaxed, environmentally conscious and have real Wellingtons to wear, not Canadian Tire replicas. Husband would become relaxed, return to his love of painting, and develop a resistance to Canadian mosquitoes, deer flies and black flies (who knew South Africans were such babies when it came to bug bites!), actually have a good reason to wear his real Wellingtons, and we would all gather around the fire in the evening, watching the dog twitch her paws as she slept soundly nearby.
Or maybe I could just grow up and get back to the laundry....
gj8hdvzx49
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Saint Kate
Lately I’ve been getting up at 5 a.m. – not because I want to, mind, but because the Winston is determinedly up at that hour. Not so long ago he would cuddle for an hour in bed next to me, allowing me a few more precious minutes of sleep, but not any longer. The boy is up and no amount of snuggling, cuddling, nursing, whispered cursing or threatening is going to get him to lie still for one more moment.
So, I’m up too. Now, a reasonable person right now is asking, “Why isn’t your husband getting up once in a while and letting you sleep in?” – to which I say, “Brilliant question!” But I have no answer. I suspect is the “penis rule” – you know, the one that means they have to hold the remote control, dress the kids in dirty clothes, consider mowing the lawn once every 10 days a major contribution to the household chores, can’t figure out how to open the dishwasher to put in dirty dishes….I think you get the drift. The “penis rule” also seems to cover both hearing the baby cry at ungodly hours and getting up at an equally ungodly hour with a crying baby.
But actually, I’m okay with this ungodly hour thing. Because it is an amazing ace in the hole. I’ve got this routine….nurse Winston, pull on some over-stretched Lulu Lemon things, grab sneakers, the dog and Winston and head out into the dawn for a walk. Summer had finally arrived to our sub-arctic mosquito swamp so it is lovely – and we walk through the parks down to the river and back into the neighbourhood to do some hills. Winston is happy in the stroller playing with his toes and blowing raspberries at any passing joggers, Fan is happy sniffing the air and running through the long grass, and I am contentedly deluding myself that this walk is going to help firm up my stomach and tighten my ass. Best of all though is that when we get back home, the house is still dark and quiet….I can have coffee, read the paper, eat breakfast and absently poke yoghurt into Winston’s mouth in relative peace and quiet.
No histrionic Topher, no husband banging through cupboards looking for what is right in front of his nose, no mother-in-law singing out inane non sequiturs, no father-in-law standing about in his socks, waiting for someone to notice he is hungry so the food can magically appear in front of him…. just Winston and I munching and slurping away. And for all this, this getting up early, enjoying the fresh air, a peaceful breakfast alone, I get an added bonus….everyone thinks I am a saint. A martyr. A gasp – good mother! Genius. Now I just need to figure out what my party trick is going to be this January when it is minus 30 outside…..
So, I’m up too. Now, a reasonable person right now is asking, “Why isn’t your husband getting up once in a while and letting you sleep in?” – to which I say, “Brilliant question!” But I have no answer. I suspect is the “penis rule” – you know, the one that means they have to hold the remote control, dress the kids in dirty clothes, consider mowing the lawn once every 10 days a major contribution to the household chores, can’t figure out how to open the dishwasher to put in dirty dishes….I think you get the drift. The “penis rule” also seems to cover both hearing the baby cry at ungodly hours and getting up at an equally ungodly hour with a crying baby.
But actually, I’m okay with this ungodly hour thing. Because it is an amazing ace in the hole. I’ve got this routine….nurse Winston, pull on some over-stretched Lulu Lemon things, grab sneakers, the dog and Winston and head out into the dawn for a walk. Summer had finally arrived to our sub-arctic mosquito swamp so it is lovely – and we walk through the parks down to the river and back into the neighbourhood to do some hills. Winston is happy in the stroller playing with his toes and blowing raspberries at any passing joggers, Fan is happy sniffing the air and running through the long grass, and I am contentedly deluding myself that this walk is going to help firm up my stomach and tighten my ass. Best of all though is that when we get back home, the house is still dark and quiet….I can have coffee, read the paper, eat breakfast and absently poke yoghurt into Winston’s mouth in relative peace and quiet.
No histrionic Topher, no husband banging through cupboards looking for what is right in front of his nose, no mother-in-law singing out inane non sequiturs, no father-in-law standing about in his socks, waiting for someone to notice he is hungry so the food can magically appear in front of him…. just Winston and I munching and slurping away. And for all this, this getting up early, enjoying the fresh air, a peaceful breakfast alone, I get an added bonus….everyone thinks I am a saint. A martyr. A gasp – good mother! Genius. Now I just need to figure out what my party trick is going to be this January when it is minus 30 outside…..
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