Find me at https://miriamwestland.substack.com/
Impending D40M
The problem was really the size of the snowflakes. They were so big, they demanded emotion. My eyes filled with tears and before I knew it, I was crying.
Disclaimer, 40 is inching its way towards me, and I am acutely aware of how quickly time is moving forward. I feel like a young woman, full of life and feeling, often stuck in nothingness. I feel full of wonder, empty of purpose. My knuckles are rudely expanding, I have deeper wrinkles, and more questions. I have fewer friends, more needs, and a curiosity about what’s left of my life. I work out. I empty myself. I fill up on love as much as I can. I search for more, I ask for less, and hope for what I have to be enough. I listen to music constantly, read endlessly, and have become disenchanted with Netflix. I worry about the future, suffer the present and reflect on the past, hoping there is meaning hidden in these timelines. No wonder a slow snowfall unravels me.
I walk the dog through the neighbourhood, the street lights shining on the snow as it floats down, then make a right and head to the park. I huff over snowbanks and make my way toward a tree. There are 3 small pumpkins in the snow, neatly sitting in a row next to a cedar shrub. The oddity of them being there gives me pause. I make it to the tree and can’t help it – I sink to the ground and lay down, the winter air against my skin, the cold flakes melting on my face. The dog absorbs the flakes, lifting her nose to the sky, I lift my face to the stars. The dog sits. My raised knees lift the bottoms of my pajama pants and snowflakes land on the bare skin of my ankles and I memorize the sensation. A quick scan to check for an episodic mental illness crisis but I give myself a clean bill of health. The river is in sight, the smell of wood stove is in the air, and so I let myself indulge in feelings.
The truth is, my outer world is the product of a concerted effort to not live my passion. I worked hard to leave an area of my life that made me feel intelligent, valued and connected so that I could work 9-5 and not carry the weight of passion around. It’s a heavy load, and with kids and trying to sort life out with no roadmap, it was too much. But this lack of outer passion is creating a disalignment that I am feeling more and more each day. I feel crooked, bent, like I’m at odd angles and trying to maintain my balance.
Of course my inner world is bursting with life, colour and spirit. I notice everything, and I memorize it for easy retrieval. I imprint moments so minuet it might seem useless to keep them, but why wouldn’t I want to remember that smile while that song was playing at volume 32 in the car and the headlights behind me burned into the rearview mirror but there was something beautiful about the pleasure inside our car juxtaposed with the aggressiveness outside of it?
My inner world is so busy I get tired throughout the day because there is so much to sort through. It is so vibrant I need sunglasses to protect my heart’s iris for fear of blinding it with emotion. I journal, I write, I share. I used to think that feeling things so deeply was boring, or a skill that was superfluous. But when I read the works of people who feel things as deeply as me, or meet people who use words that reflect the depth of my heart, I feel a pulsing ache pump through me and I remember that I was meant to be here. But now that I am so far away from my passion, how do I get it back?
Does every woman approaching 40 feel this way? Will I be in an introspective trance for the next 4 months, make a wish on 40 candles and then be okay? I’m suspicious of such an easy resolution, so I gather my strength every day and brace for a long stretch of crisis.
First Crush Grandeur
Dear Readers,
For context, my son is the kid who upon hearing his parent’s anniversary was the next day, burst into tears because we hadn’t given him enough warning for him to prepare anything special. After being soothed that a) it didn’t really matter, everything has been closed for two years and therefore b) there was still time to organize a nice evening – he quickly formulated a plan.
We’re going to order pizza and I’m going to light a ton of candles but they are going to be in along line – no I get to design it mum – and then you will both stand on either end of the candles and take turns blowing each one out – ONE AT A TIME – and then when you meet in the middle at the last candle you will make a wish and then blow it out at the same time and it will be so romantic. And I’ll set the table and the 4 of us will eat together but we won’t disturb you so it will be like you are on a PRIVATE DATE.
And so, we followed his plan, eating awkwardly while we pretended our kids were not there at the table with us, while our son beamed a million care-bear stares at us. Indeed, we realized it was his anniversary.
At 8 years old, my son has been planning a family life for as long as he could formulate thoughts about the future. His drive to be a dad, to have kids he can play with and a partner he can live with (we get to make our own rules!)has been focussed and detailed, right down to his proposal.
The proposal – I’m going to be honest- needs some work. The detailed gist of it involves taking his fiance into a forest, blindfolded, at night. He then leads her to an empty clearing. He removes the blindfold and suddenly a circle of light blinks on, accompanied by the unsynchronized clicking of flashlights held by both his and her family members that my son has secretly invited and positioned in the woods. This is his cue to drop a knee and ask her to marry him. She can’t say no with so many people watching he has casually mentioned.
I have gently argued that a night-walk in the woods with a surprise attack might be construed as creepy, and that the pressure tactic of an audience to get your desired response is a bit passé, but for now, it’s all about the grandeur for him. For those of you familiar with the TV comedy New Girl, my son has the same sense of boundaries as Winston’s pranks; elaborate bordering on illegal.
Over the years he’s had a few crushes. They have lit a spark in him, exciting him that he can have passionate feelings. At every announcement of a new crush, he is thrilled at the possibility that this could be his True Love. Pragmatic parents that we are, we support the excitement, but also follow up with ‘probably not, but so exciting that you have a crush!’ The crushes have come and gone, and his disappointment at discovering that she wasn’t very nice after all, or that his feelings waned over time were good lessons I pounced on. Getting to know somebody really well is the best thing you can do; Paying attention to your feelings is so important. I want him to be a strong, vulnerable, generous man. PS I have no idea what I’m doing, literally just winging it.
With his most recent announcement of his newest crush, he took it to a new level. He wanted to share his feelings with her. We talked about how great, how scary, how important it is to communicate honestly, to know the risk but take it anyway. He worked himself into a tizzy many mornings: I’m going to tell her today – but would come home empty-hearted, saying he hadn’t been able to muster the courage. Such powerful things, these Big Feelings.
He tried writing notes with big letters and lots of hearts. I didn’t want people to find it and then embarrass me.
He tried practicing speeches. I couldn’t do it at recess, we were never alone.
One day, after weighing all his options and feeling good about any outcome, he was ready. We were in a cold snap, and as he dressed for school he stopped struggling with his boots as something dawned on him, landing on his face and causing his face to furrow as he formed careful words.
I just realized that when I tell her I like her, I’ll be wearing a snowsuit.
This was not the grandeur he had imagined, and he did not stoop so low as to declare his love for this girl dressed head-to-toe in waterproof polyester.
Time passed.
Then one day, my son came home. Upon ripping off his winter clothes and throwing them in the hall Pick those up! MOM SOMETHING HAPPENED and kicking off his boots Please put those away! YOU’RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE IT Put your lunch bag in the kitchen! he interjected my tidiness discipline with MY CRUSH LIKES ME BACK!!!
Get the popcorn, Mitts on the heater! can wait. Excitedly, he throws his hat on the floor, delighted there is no italicized rebuttal from me, and flops on the couch.
So, we are near our cubbies and she asks me to come over, so I go over and she says she has something to tell me, so I’m like okay what is it and then she leans in and says really quietly I have a crush on you. So then I say back really quietly, well actually I have a crush on you too. MOM CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? WE LOVE EACH OTHER. So then later in the day she sends me a note MOM YOU WERE RIGHT NOTES WORK GREAT and it says on it it says do you like me? and there were two little boxes and one box says yes medium and the other box says yes more than medium and MOM SHE LIKES ME MORE THAN MEDIUM! So I checked the more than medium box too and GUESS WHAT MOM we are going to be each other’s Valentimes!
I haven’t celebrated Valentine’s Day in a long time. I am happily married and have no need for such nonsense. But this year, this year will be a year of grandeur, if my son has anything to say about it.
Lockdown Leftovers
Disclaimer: The following is an ode to myself, a creative expression of what has been real for me for the past year, so cannot be argued. It is a written account of my life and perspective during the pandemic, as a mother of children (not) in school. The ‘us’ and the ‘we’ are me and my husband. I have been living in Ontario, where schools have been closed longer and more often than anywhere else in Canada. Restrictions have been touted as the ‘strictest in North America’ – and so my experience is one that applies uniquely to me, my family, my school aged children, in Ontario Canada. I also know my experience is one from a place of privilege.
Nate went to school today. A new school, in a new province. No big sister, no friends to make eye contact with. All by himself, 7 years old. During a pandemic that has robbed him of free play, social interactions and in-school learning for about a year. His desire to go to school is still alive. His need to be in school was never in question. Today those two realities aligned as he waved good-bye to us while marching into the building. The relief I felt walking away from that moment unearthed many thoughts and feelings that have been growing steadily inside me since March 2020. Crevices of hurt and unpredictability for more than a year have been cracking and expanding inside my body that I have wondered when I would simply fall apart completely.
Nate went to school, and rocked it. He was brave and open. My daughter is not so lucky. She does not get to go back to school to finish her grade 8 year with her hilarious class that kept her laughing under her mask all year. Her peers kept her relaxed, while restrictions tightened around her. Her introverted nature was balanced by her friends who were louder, riskier and more gregarious than her. She watched them and learned that taking small risks was okay – even funny at times. She was learning how to be balanced, how to be challenged – all just by being in close proximity to her peers. As time moves forward, she gets a bit more set in her nervous ways, comfortable being alone, isolated away from her 13 year old friends. Her physical activities have been cancelled and now more than ever she is nervous about what others might think of her if she steps outside, makes too much noise, or breaks a rule. What
I witness is sometimes beyond the normal behavior of a 13 year old. Each day chips away at my kids’ confidence, experience and social development, and I worry that when we finally understand the extent of the damage, it will be too late to undo it.
This year has been a challenge no matter where or who you are, but for us as parents of school aged children, we have been fighting overtime. We have been managing our own personal battles, as well as fighting on behalf of our children. We have been fighting for normalcy, routine, outlets, play, health, activity, mental health, access to the outdoors and education. We have had to fight against risk, boredom, judgement, disappointment, stress, anxiety, isolation, loss of peers, disengagement, de-motivation, depression, inactivity, delayed development, missed educational milestones – with very little support. Let me repeat, because I don’t think everybody understands: risk, boredom, judgement, disappointment, stress, anxiety, isolation, loss of peers, disengagement, de-motivation, depression, inactivity, delayed development, missed educational milestones. Those are a lot of dangerous things to fend off suddenly without a lot of preparation. Each one can result in major harm if left unchecked, and each kid is different. Suddenly as parents we were fighting off all of them, every day for each kid for months on end. It was impossible. The model we were given was ‘every family for itself’ because we were not allowed to gather. We struggled and fought in the best way we knew how with whatever resources available – which were not very many because no resources were deemed essential. We were left to fight with no support, no back up, and we were not allowed to voice our concern. Our doctors were not allowed to voice their concern. We smiled and nodded in zoom meetings and tried to pretend things were normal. Some days were better than others so we quickly posted on Instagram to remind ourselves that we were still here, that we could do it – look at us making it.
Instead of trying to provide our children with what they needed, policy seemed to feed them the scraps left over after the adults had gorged on a feast of protective measures. The pandemic mostly threatened the physical health of one vulnerable group, and mostly threatened the mental health of another. Policy made a choice that had negative impacts on kids, and to deny that simply indicates to me that you do not have kids/kids in school, or work with children on a daily basis. And when we tried to voice our concern, we were accused of not caring, of being heartless, while our hearts bled for our kids’ hollow year and declining presence. Whether both groups could have been spared such a tumultuous year, I don’t know, but moving forward in the right way will require that we bravely acknowledge reality and start working to make up for it. After all, children are the future, or was that just a line we were fed?
It has been an exhausting and terrifying year and it is not well documented. It is not in the news like it should be, but I know why. Families are inherently private. The intimate details of watching a child retreat from the world is not a riveting headline. Private moments of watching a child’s anxiety increase, or having bedtime conversations about deep hurt and mistrust of the world are not moments parents typically experience and then think to call CBC about. These moments build on themselves slowly and quietly until one day you barely recognize your children. They look too tired, or have too much energy; they can’t communicate properly, or can’t leave the house. They pour their feelings into gaming or YouTube, missing the opportunity to learn how to manage emotion. Suddenly you have a real emergency on your hands, but calling the press is the least respectful thing you could do. So it’s not in the news. And community has been restricted. So we don’t talk about it.
Of course kids are resilient, and many children will bounce back. They will bounce back with the concerted efforts of their families, neighbours, or others aiding them along. Teachers, counselors, peers, coaches – everyone will begin to influence our kids back to a place we recognize. But some families are more exhausted than others. Some teachers are burnt out, many counselors are overworked. Parents of babies and toddlers have been isolated during a foundational stage of community building. These caregivers have also been left out of the conversation, and I ache for families that have been depleted repeatedly this year. Some people have had to dig deep, lost jobs, and the bounce back may take longer, or not happen entirely. Many kids will not have coaches, others will not respond well to teachers, others still will not lean on friends anymore. Families may have suffered lasting damage from the lockdowns, friendships may be forever altered and help for those with deeper anxiety might be too far out of reach – destined to be carried into adulthood. I wait hopefully to watch governments quickly funnel money into community centers, camps, learning programs, clubs, health care, schools, all with subsidization available to balance the demand that is about to explode and the financial aid that is going to be needed, but I might be waiting a long time.
Ours has been a battle that is not easily seen, and so it is not easily fought. It is not easily supported, despite parents being a unique group of front-line workers. The last year has resulted in many injured families, and injuries take time to heal. Re-opening provinces like Ontario will trigger a sense of normalcy, but we must be aware that residual pain lingers. As we move forward, my hope is that society offers kids this healing through patience, questions, involvement, and engagement. The kids will be all sorts of things in the months and years to follow. Nervous, awkward, excited but let’s try to remember why. They were pushed to the sidelines during formative years, and now we must prioritize them to be front and center.
To my beautiful kids. To all the kids, I wish we had done better. You are worth the fight, and luckily, there’s no off-button for us. We will keep at it, keep fighting for you, because we know you are our future.
37
I’m 37 now which means nothing except I’m halfway to 74 and now might be a good time to evaluate things before moving forward.
At 37, my eyebrows have made a comeback, having been left alone for 2 years. I’m in a healthy relationship with my hair dresser. I have spare wrapping paper under my bed for last minute gifts like a real adult. I have salad tongs that I’m proud to use with company. My car is paid off. I am 37 and I have laughed hysterically with both my children. I have shamelessly boasted about my depth of knowledge to my kids and have explained to them the laws of gravity. It has something to do with apples. I navigate the parenting waters pretty well, despite some recent near fatal emotional drownings.
At 37, I have friends. Some are old treasures from high school, some are more recent. I have followed my passion and pursued the arts. I have chosen to redirected my focus to a life more predictable. I have crushed, fallen and married. I read all sorts of encouraging memes all day and tell myself I should follow their advice. I read language-rich novels that tickle my heart’s belly and maintains a dictionary of words and phrases that I can’t spew up fast enough.
I have fewer impulses to be arbitrarily liked, to ask for permission.I deeply enjoy the relief I feel at not being younger than I am. I know what it means to keep trying to get a job, to keep working at a relationship and to keep telling my kids I’m actually just winging it. Having tools to manage are a gift that the years have given me. At 37, I have a beautiful life. A lot doesn’t scare me anymore.
However.
I am 37 and I’m constantly unravelling. I am a spinning compass of potential with a broken magnet. I have a degree in acting which means always the co-worker, never the manager. I love writing and sharing it with others, but have only a blog to show for it. Sometimes I experience an ache so paralyzing from not being in the arts, I have to go to bed. I have a deep unease living in me. Sometimes it’s in my throat, sometimes in my stomach. It moves around my body throughout the day but I am always carrying it, even if I am able to perform my tasks and play my roles. Sometimes a good day is measured by how many emotional showers I don’t have.
At 37, I have actual opinions about #politics, #justice and other hot hashtags, and have to choose when to voice them. Some friendships have matured, others have funeralized. My children are developing a skepticism of my knowledge and challenging its shallow depths. I worry about how much time I have left to be care-free about anything – everything seems so weighted. At 37 my body needs constant attention, otherwise it screams its years.
An evaluation can be useful. It can bring into focus what has been learned, and what is being developed. I always appreciated my school report cards, and remember devouring my teacher’s comments. I’d compare with my friends and decide who was the teacher’s favourite and then we’d buy some gummies and have a playdate. 37 is a bit more lonely, I must say. Nobody is offering me grades, and instead I have to do it myself. Comparing is the stuff of evil – ask any self-help meme – so must be avoided. And there are no favourites. Everyone is busy, and favouritism waffles in and out depending on who you’re spending time with.
Evaluating myself is difficult. But at this time, reporting on the accomplishments made, and the hardships still being lived, I’ve decided 37 gets an E. E for Effort. My comments would be : “Shows resilience and an aptitude for expression. Needs support when feeling overwhelmed. Is encouraged to find new ways to make tasks easier while rising to challenges.” I haven’t stopped, and I will keep getting up. If 37 years has taught me anything, it’s that Effort has brought me this far, and will carry me further still. Effort is a form of love, and I am lucky to have so much love inside. Effort is something to be proud of. Time for some gummies.
A Valentine’s Morning
The alarm goes off at 5am and I’m out of bed at 5:05. It’s easier if I get up earlier so that I have more time to drink my tea. This is simple math, but it has taken months to learn and it’s still a challenge. Get up on repeat until I have my jogging pants, socks and sweater on. The dog hears me and her bag lady nails tap on the hallway floor to the bedroom. I worry about the noise to our sleeping downstairs neighbours. She paces while I dress, pee, put water in the kettle. My husband is in bed, but will be getting up soon for an early morning yoga class. We kiss, and wish each other a good day. We both forget it’s Valentine’s Day.
It’s special-weather-warning cold out, but the dog doesn’t notice. We get to the field and she waits while I de-mitt and unhook her leash. She has 15 minutes off leash and she bounds and buries herself in the snow. She tries to find sticks. We talk. I’m no longer angry at these early morning walks. Her happiness makes me happy and even in the cold I enjoy her goofy lopping and begging for a game of fetch. When we get home, we pass my husband on the stairs. Another kiss. He has poured my tea.
In the time it takes to let my tea steep, I moisturize my face, judge how old I look, and massage my face hoping to remove some years. I feel trapped in wanting to stay looking young but wanting to age gracefully; hating my face, can I really look this ugly? Is it the mirror? I need a jade roller, but at least my hair is okay. I feel guilty for spending energy on such selfishness and then fuck it, I turn off the light.
Sitting on the couch I drink tea and scroll through the news. Suffering, fear, anger all in tidy headlines. The quiet of my little living in contrast to the headlines makes me feel grateful and guilty. My beautiful children sleeping without a care in the world thanks to dumb luck. The older I get, the more I realize that silence is wealth. I read about displaced families and think about how little it would take to break our sense of security. I read about protests and promises, scams and suicide and think about the world my children will grow up in. I shove my worry away for tomorrow morning.
I look at the clock and have 15 minutes to say my goodbyes. I hate waking the kids up, but after trial and error we have discovered that everybody’s morning fares better if the kids get a goodbye from mom.
I step lightly into my son’s room, hoping to avoid the LEGO I asked him to move out of the way last night. I climb the ladder. Some mornings I feel like a nimble cat and feel so proud of my health and agility, other mornings I feel like I weigh 300 pounds and that climbing the IKEA ladder is dangerous. I can feel his sleeping heat as I round the top of his bunk bed, and I lift my knees over his duvet and find him at the top of his pillow. He smells like sleep and some would say it’s morning breath, but I kind of like it because he’s only 6 and there is still a sweetness to it. Call it a placebo effect but I start to smell his baby breath, the smell of sleep and breast milk and I can feel him in my arms while he nursed during those long nights and I knew he had the safest, warmest, coziest place on earth being on that couch with me for months, and because of that we were the richest people in the world.
My arm slips over his hot body and he grabs my hand to hold to his chest. Sometimes he whispers ‘hi mom’ and I reply ‘hi darling’. We rest. My brain races between gauging how many minutes I have to stay like this before I have to get up, and how to best alchemy the moment into a memory. This morning he rolls over and tells me about dreams he had. There were pirates all lined up at the edge of a boat, all standing one by one and then one of them fell into the water – they were all bad guys – and then the next one and next one – Like dominoes? – Yeah like dominoes, and they all fell in – Oh my goodness – and then one of them slipped and there was a door and another door and I thought he was dead, but there was actually a tube connecting the doors – Oh my goodness – and so I went through the door and there was another door – Wow – Mom, don’t say wow like you’re bored – Sorry, I’m just trying to follow along –
I rise up on my elbow and he says ‘no please lie back, for one more minute’ and I lay back down and say ‘one more minute and then I have to go to work.’ He finishes his dream and we start to move off the bed. Halfway down the ladder, ‘help me down mom, I have to pee so bad’ and I lift his 6 year old body off the ladder and he stumbles on some LEGO. ‘Mom, I stepped on LEGO’ he says with a laugh cause he knows, and I enter my daughter’s room. I find my daughter in the dark of her room and have an elaborate conversation with her. Hi honey. Hmmmmm. Have a good day okay? Hmmm hmmmm. I’ll see you after work. Hmmmmm hmmmm. Text me. Hmmmmmmmm. Pre-teen.
I feed the dog, check the fridge for anything easy to grab and say one last ‘bye everybody’ to no response but I know they heard it and that’s why I say it. I open the door and head out into the cold.
Saturday was a Mistake
It’s -26 on a Saturday morning. Before I know that though, before I check the numbers on my weather app, I foolishly tell my son we will go skating today! This is my first mistake. There will be no skating.
My second mistake is deciding that because of the freezing weather, I might enjoy reading in bed for a bit longer than usual. A second cup of tea, a few extra chapters. It seems harmless, but it’s a mistake. Kids demand me to get out of bed, I feel lazy for being tired, protesting their protests and I remember why the term ‘week-end’ is misleading if you are a parent.
Somebody said ‘Well read women are dangerous women’ and these days I’m more inclined to think ‘Well read women are miserable women’ because is it just me or does the more you read make you a tiny bit more angry, a tiny bit more antsy, a tiny bit more frustrated at the uphill battle in all areas of life on this doomed planet? This sudden dark turn is arguably my next mistake, but anyway, as the day inches toward 9am, I make my 3rd mistake by looking up a book a friend had recommended. Fed Up by Gemma Hartley. The subject of the book speaks to me so loudly I read multiple reviews and watch an interview while simultaneously regretting having this additional knowledge in my brain. What’s the subject of the book? Something about emotional labour…
My next mistake, Mistake #4, is holding a family meeting with my children where I impart partial wisdom from Mistake #3 onto the kids in order to avoid children who grow up into adults who perform emotional labour for free. Although I don’t use the word emotional – I use observational. Also thoughtful. Also organizational. I focus on housework. The mistake is in not really planning what I want to say, so currently the kids have multiple definitions in their head about what observational/thoughtful/organizational labour means and after the meeting, we spread out and practiced my preaching by observing what needed attention/cleaning in the apartment.
Mistake #5 is letting loose my keen sense of observation and a tally of all the things I will tend to.
- The toilet paper rolls that never get replaced in the little toilet paper stand
- The weird slurping sound the dog has made for days because her water needs to be refreshed
- The soap/hair scum in and around the sink/toilet
- That piece of garbage that has been sitting in the middle of the hallway for 4 days that needs to be picked up and moved to the garbage
- The leftovers that need to be thrown out
- The sweater under the kitchen table that has fallen and stayed there for over a week
- The Christmas presents that don’t have a home, or that need to be mailed
- The picture that is hanging on an angle
- Watering the plants, tidying the pillows, vacuuming, picking up the tumbleweed hair balls that collect in corners, making the grocery list, taking out the frozen meat for dinner, planning for the following day so that it’s full but marginally restful, encouraging the kids to turn off Netflix, then having to do something with them, walking the dog, making lunch, having snacks ready, reading half a page of my book and feeling guilty, doing 50 leg lifts on one side and worrying that I won’t have the opportunity to do 50 leg lifts on the other side, and now I’m just going through my day, planning and watching myself and thinking about all the things that always have to happen.
Mistake #6 is the thought that it would help if I wrote all this nonsense down.
By 1pm, I face the afternoon, having promised my son we would paint his toy chest. Mistake #7 is choosing to listen to music (my music) while we paint, which sends my 11 year old into her room with a huff and leaves my son to comment on every. single. song. But the music makes me feel semi-independant, and levels my mood when things inevitably go sideways.
By 3pm, I have played two separate board games with two separate kids at separate times. I have completed three puzzles, finished two coats of paint on the toy chest, had a cup of tea, written a few sentences here and there, and journeyed with Pearl Jam, Arcade Fire and Leon Bridges. I look to the evening, where surely mistakes # 8, 9 and 10 are waiting. I have dinner to face, a dish I am uneasy about and I’m starting to snap at the kids because it’s been too many hours, and there are too many left.
By the end of the day, my only hope is that my mistakes don’t leave any lasting marks, and that perhaps on Sunday I will wake up wanting to keep track of Triumphs, and find time to do those 50 leg lifts on the other side.
The Best Friend Tier
Best Friend isn’t a person Danny, it’s a tier.
Hitting nails on heads since 2012, Mindy Kaling crushes it. This tier is a cherished haven, and usually spans years of fortitude, is emotionally cultivated and is rooted in time, honesty and deep challenge. It’s a winning lottery ticket, a rotating panel keeping the influx of emotional wealth ever flowing. Depending on the day, the situation, the need, I can reach out to the person that my guts need.
I cannot manage finances, take out the garbage and giggle on the couch with moisturized, smooth legs draped over my partner’s lap. I cannot laugh at his jokes, pay bills on time and offer our kids a healthy dose of discipline. What am I, a 1950’s housewife? At a time when we search, swipe and date looking for the one to be our best friend, lover, co-parent, financier, home cleaning company, impulse controller/instigator, life coach, and sounding board – it’s a matter of survival for me to have a stash of individuals that can energetically come to my aid when my partner is tapped out. The idea that one person can fulfill all our needs is a deep insult to me, and has created far more stress in my relationship than necessary. If only our vows had included “Within this sacred union of marriage, we will outsource support and not solely rely on each other because neither of us is capable, nor deserving of such an impossibility”. If I go for too long without connecting with my BFT my wifing starts to falter. My mothering starts to fumble. The correlation is obvious, and this aspect of my health must be a non-negotiable.
Getting the quality time to interact with these precious people who live on this sacred Tier is paramount. Like any garden, the Tier needs tending, watering, sometimes weeding. It keeps the bowels of my soul healthy. As an extravert, I am at my best when my heart is tethered to the heart of others. I am at worst when I float aimlessly without these anchors. Finding the time is a challenge. Coordinating the time is near impossible. A trip without the kids here, a coffee with the baby there. A post-bed-time beer every 4 weeks, or a flurry of text messaging mid-day for the serious stuff. We get creative, focussed, serious about the need to make it happen. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. When will I learn that it must?
It never happens often enough. I always want more and need replenishment at a faster rate than my depletion. I feel guilty for needing more, even though I know it would make me better, keep me sane. I struggle to remind myself how important this is, to accept that these heart strings don’t snap. It’s hard to explain to my partner that sometimes it’s specifically not him that I need. When the BFT is populated with the right people, the demands of every day are manageable, the laughter flows easier and my ability to give back is strengthened. How is something so simple, so goddamn difficult at the same time?
Can we just agree that we are soulmates and have an open relationship?
That’s kind of what we are doing.
Great, we are always on the same page.
Gotta go, somebody is screaming my name.
Stay strong. At least we have each other.
Totes.
A splash, a dash and an anxiety attack
One of my deepest #shames, #lifefails, is my paralyzing inability to cook for my family.
Yikes. There. I said it.
I instinctively equate this issue with having a real disinterest in nurturing my family, for which I suspect judgement is in right order. Oh, I can emotionally feed my children home cooked guidance that has marinated in years of experience, observation and are tender, delicious and nourish the soul – but put me in front of an oven and I argue the kids don’t really need to eat. Do they? On top of the mommy shame rests a heavy weight that socially, I place a lot of value on the women who can cook. It’s a symbol of having had the time and space to practice; it’s success, generosity and maternal instinct all rolled into one tasty dish and I worry that my life has manifested by way of sucking at it.
In an effort to make me more comfortable in the kitchen, my husband has purchased as many self-cooking appliances as possible. Rice cookers, slow cookers, blenders, bullets, and most recently the Instant Pot. However, due to my aversion to manuals, these appliances tend to cause me anxiety and I have managed to reverse cook rice, burn steak and slow cook chicken to death in these machines. I know one setting on the Instant Pot, and everything shall be cooked using that setting, whether it’s meat, vegetables or yogurt. The embarrassment is deep when something simple goes wrong, and I often feel like I am making things worse just by showing up. I have served my children uncooked batter, salty pie crust that nearly hospitalized us for dehydration, and really. bad. bread. And so I cook wearing heavy armour, protecting me from when the kids get that look on their face. I don’t want to experience The Deep Hurt. I’m too old to be set back a few childhood issues.
Believe it or not, I’ve made a lot of progress in that last 10 years. Ask my husband. The fact that he fell in love with me while I was eating a balanced diet of canned soup and alphaghetti and tolerates my incredible disappearing acts when it’s time to cook supper, is a miracle. I love when he talks about that early time – about how much he loved the decor of my apartment, how beautiful and alluring I was. How one day he opened my cupboards and blinked into the darkness, having his first second thought about our relationship. He still laughs about how simple and salty my diet was, and I remember feeling like I had stepped through the wardrobe into Narnia when I walked into his apartment and it was filled with spices, rice and cooking pots that only my grandparents had.
However, I have recently discovered a chink in my own armour, and there may be a way into the world of cooking for my battered and bruised self-esteem. I have stumbled upon these magnificent pieces of writing called recipes, within which structure and safety is offered. Yes, I’ve screwed up some meals even though I followed a recipe, but because I’m following direction, when there is a screw up it’s the recipe’s fault. It didn’t say to cook the dough. Inside the world of these recipes, I am able to pretend I am a cook, and I have moments of relaxing just prior to the brocoli burning, or right before I taste the sauce. I’m not yet ready to interpret and improvise, but I can already imagine a time when I will be. And these moments, built carefully on top of each other, will one day result in a tower of confidence in the kitchen. Maybe. Hopefully.
One recipe at a time.
She’s 10. (mic drop)
She was named in the hospital, after naming her Charlotte. After learning she was a girl (what?!). After the kerfuffle between the OB and lead nurse who took her away from me. After she had spent a mere 11 minutes in the birth canal, too fast to squeeze those tiny lungs clear. After sending my friends home because I didn’t know how long the birth would be. After an afternoon of my partner and our best friend feasting on burgers and shaving his soon-to-be-dad head. After calmly announcing I think I might be in labour, and getting a coffee down the street. After watching my belly get bigger and my ability to predict the future get smaller. After watching people shrink away, or step up. After seeing the little blue line and smiling in spite of my fear. After my boyfriend gently suggested I take a pregnancy test, and blinking at him like he was speaking a different language.
Monica. The name landed on her so hard there was no removing it. Not after all that.
Monica rocked my world. She knocked everybody I knew on their ass. Her arrival made people nervous. Her multiplying cells sped up my life. I spoon fed her apple sauce and she force fed me focus. There was a lot of kicking and screaming, from both us. Fuck she was a tough baby. Do you remember? Do you remember how tired I was? How loud she was? She looked like a porcelain doll and sounded like a siren. Monica asked things of me I felt offended to have to answer – like Do you have what it takes Mir? Her method of communication ensured her survival, as though she knew she had been born to the un-ready. She kept me awake, kept me on my toes and kept me in line. Monica knew. She’s always known.
Monica screamed her way through infancy, like the notion of being a baby was infuriating. Her lack of control, her limited communication, compounded by her dumb parents who couldn’t read her signals – it all seemed to overwhelm her. It was like she had done this before and she knew she was shit-out-of-luck having to do it all over again, and so she raged with a fire only newborns possess. But when she stopped long enough to connect, her presence was breath-taking. Do you remember?
Toddlerhood redirected her energy. Her developing language calmed her, gave her a voice. Her developing voice empowered her, gave her a will. Her will was so strong I often found myself in a deadlock with a 2 year old that felt unnaturally balanced. My inability to maintain my authority speaks more to my wavering expertise as a young mother, but her intelligence has always been a little unnerving. It is hard to stand behind an argument when the conviction of your opponent is unrelenting and comes from one so small, with a fire only toddlers possess.
Today Monica sits on the edge of pre-teen. She doesn’t care for endurance sports, documentaries, or Danny from The Mindy Project. She loves hearing stories about herself and staying up late with her parents. Insightful, emotionally intelligent, focussed, quick as a whip and if she tries – or if her brother pins her down – she can be silly. When she flirts with the carefree I breathe a sigh of relief. Stay childish. Stay light. She has always had a tendency to know, take on, feel and understand too much.
As soon as she could talk, Monica wanted to know where she came from. You were picking your parents I said – a response that captured an intuitive feeling that I had been selected for this job. From the moment she dropped from a star and took up shop in my body, I knew she wasn’t mine. I felt the weight of being a guide, and at times I have protested hard. She’s watched me fumble, heard me apologize and still seems to like me. Every day she’s a step ahead, and every day I try to keep up.
She’s beautiful.
Smart af.
Shockingly empathetic.
Conservative to a fault. Monica.
Motherhood often feels like a bad basement party; dark, loud and somebody is always standing lonely in the corner. I don’t find I excel at the endless tasks, restrictions, stresses and failures. I shirk many conventional behaviours that motherhood demands and make an effort to dress as well as I did when I was childless. But true to form, Monica knew what she needed and landed herself in a family that is brilliantly flawed, fiercely loving and knows she belongs to the future. After 10 years I can see the value in that, and am grateful the future came to me when it did.
Wrinkles and Dust 