Find me at https://miriamwestland.substack.com/
Category Archives: Universal Topics, Personal Opinion
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.
Witness Me
When I was a kid, I would watch and read celebrity interviews with obession. The impossible questions, followed by the ready answer. As an audience member, I was held captive by their words, the seriousness of their sharing. I marveled at the gravity of their experiences. Naturally, I began to mimic my way through imagined interviews. Usually conducted by Oprah Winfrey. The confidence behind their brand of living was something I craved and wanted to emulate. I familiarized myself with key phrases like ‘I have no regrets’ or ‘Pain made me stronger’ and rehearsed them in earnest.
At 34, I still talk to myself like I’m being asked important questions; like my answers matter to a room full of strangers. It’s a delicious self-indulgent feeling, and I admit that I have these conversations on my dog walks, in my car, or in the bathroom mirror, mugging my way through the thoughts. If I can’t talk it out, I have to write it out.
Over the years, this interview enactment has morphed into a way for me to process my life. Even though it comes from me, the voice being interviewed is an omniscient one that casts an intelligent, high status light on my issues. And thank god I have one voice in my head that takes my shit so seriously. So seriously that she has no shame answering the darkest questions, is willing to give eloquence to my confusion about life, my fears about motherhood, my female wickedness and stand behind them publicly – whether through words or the right tonal inflection. All my private interviews are televised, obviously. All my writing is written with the intention of going viral. If there is an absence of audience, the process does not work.
This need to share, to fumble for the ball in front of a hungry stadium is something that has made me quietly uncomfortable. Why the audience? What void do I have that is so vast it requires strangers to feel validated? Validation – my most elusive lover. Sexy as shit. Toxic as fuck. Validation – that evil sin that keeps me from colouring outside the lines. Validation makes me feel fickle, immature, superficial, and yet, and yet! I pine for it with a gross suffering.
Then: https://tryingtobegood.com/yoga/its-okay-to-want-to-be-seen/ followed by 3 distinct emotions: 1) Intense self- forgiveness 2) Instantaneous compassion for all those professional sharers 3) Overwhelming gratefulness for the internet.
I felt like I had been pardoned for a gruesome crime. I felt like I had found water in the dessert. Sooooooooo….yeah. I have a need to be seen. I have a need to be deeply seen – almost to the point of insatiability. My guilt at needing this is paralyzingly real and therefore I tend to let the world off the hook. I spin in circles waiting to be witnessed, terrified that I have a need that must, it must come from outside myself. It has to come from you. From that group. From them. Otherwise I live in solidarity confinement.
When I don’t let this confident voice sift through the tough issues in order to one day drop it in the middle of an unsuspecting crowd, I suffocate. I bury myself alive with the weight of my toddler emotions, my hair trigger sensitivities. I slyly coax myself further out into deep water and then belly laugh at my own drowning. Conversely, if I’m not ready to write it out, not ready to be interviewed, it means whatever the topic, it’s too soon. There must be confusion or angst around it and I have to wait patiently. I have to wait for that inner voice to develop enough confidence that there is no more shame.
Finally, I am standing safely ashore. Check check, I say into the mic.
O.W. So, tell me: After all the ups and downs, after everything you’ve been through, and know you’re going to face, do you have any regrets?
M.W. Oprah, get a grip. I have no regrets.
Thanks Jerry.
Jerry Seinfeld once said ‘There is no such thing as fun for the whole family’. I didn’t hear him say it, but it sounds like Jerry. Dry. Witty. True.
This simple statement has become a bit of a mantra for us. We say it every time something fun goes south. It’s a gentle reminder that it’s not really our fault. It’s the cause and effect of trying to find an activity that suits the needs/moods/interests/attention/fascination/imagination of 4 different humans.
Today was one such day. Would you like to come on a short road trip with us and then spend the rest of day in our company? If you need reassurance that your family is normal, or a reminder to never have one, this could be right up your alley.
8am: Everything is pretty normal. Dog has been walked, tea has been made. Kids are eating their weird breakfasts (butter/peanut butter/jam on crackers followed by a plum…?) and I’m excited about the day’s events. A short drive to the Bonnechere Caves. An Ontario marvel. A childhood memory I’m excited to pass on to my offspring. Then comes the question from my daughter “Is it going to fun?”
Um.
“What do you mean is it going to be fun?’ I ask/hiss/threaten.
“Yeah, like are we running around caves, or is it like somebody narrating the whole time like those movies I don’t like” (documentaries)
At this point everything turns on its head. I explain what’s going to happen, she sinks into a deep depression, and her brother starts to tease her. I channel Jerry and recite our mantra, and my husband predicts that everybody’s “play acting bad moods will soon turn into actual bad moods.”
10 minutes later I am doing angry dishes, he’s having an angry shower and my son is stomping around trying to fit in.
8:50: I find a note on my bed written by my daughter that is an example of her character and pulls everybody out of their funk. Well, not my husband. He was the last one to join us in the actual bad mood, so he lingers there for a tad longer, making him an easy target for me and my daughter to pick on and encourage to ‘let that bad mood go’. Shameless.
The road trip is only an hour and half. In that short time period all the predictables happen.
- Kids laugh and play until they are crying and mad at each other.
- My son finds a potato bug in the car and becomes best friends with it.
- My son loses the potato bug and we listen to “I want my bug back” for about 10 minutes.
- “Mom my penis is hard”…. okay, not so predictable.
- My daughter decides opening her window on the highway is the most dangerous thing she could do and refuses.
- “Mommy look at me” plays on repeat and I respond with ‘wow’ ‘oh yeah’ ‘hmm’ ‘huh’ in a monotone reserved only for the dying.
- “Stop hitting yourself”
- etc.
11:30: We arrive. The activity itself is a success. The kids are captivated, the caves are cool and our tour-guide is just awkward enough to give my husband and I some good material for the ride home. We park next to a family with kids named Ezekiel, Judah, Isla and We-Think-Our-Kids-Are-Miracles and I hide my eye rolling behind my sun glasses.
1:30: The trip home goes as one would expect. A bit crankier, a bit louder, my husband a bit sleepier at the wheel and I keep staring directly at the sun to catch this solar eclipse everyone keeps talking about.
3:00: Arriving home means dividing up tasks like feeding kids, walking the dog, buying the groceries and an hour later, it’s time for me to leave the family and go for a run. I don’t much like running, but I enjoy being alone, I enjoy the slight sense of punishment that running gives me and I enjoy a quick orgasm after. After my run my husband is off to punish himself at a boxing class and I am left to make dinner. I don’t like cooking, but I do like following instructions, so if I have a recipe I’m good. The kids hated it.
6:30 – 9:00: As evening wears on, my patience runs thin, my love dwindles. I just need everybody to go unconscious now so I can scroll through feeds, lie on the couch and conjure up energy for tomorrow. In a short span of time my son breaks a wood working tool, I force him to own up to it, we start one book, he chooses another, he picks two books, I begin one, he wants the other, I start that one while he cries with a blanket over his head because he wants to sleep with the broken tool, he finally shuts down, moves his pillow to the hallway to fall asleep, creeps into my room to say his entire bottle of water is travelling slowly down the hallway, my husband and daughter are spending a relaxing few minutes with each other so I put a stop to that immediately and bark at them to clean the kitchen, I clean up the water, I tell my son I don’t want to see him again tonight, he asks for a kiss, I kiss him on the forehead, he says ‘no the lips’ I kiss him on the lips, I barrel into my room and decide now is the time to capture the day in writing.
Of course even that activity gets interrupted by the rest of the evening. It never ends. But by 10:22 I am sitting in darkness, surrounded by unconscious people who will wake up and make everything loud again in 10 hours. In this moment, I think everybody is happy.
So there Jerry.
(This post is dedicated to Shelagh, who challenged us to write one blog post a week for the next four weeks. To you Shelagh, a slice of life for you to snack on.)
Chilly morning
The morning’s cool air hits my arm, having breezed in from the open window and I tuck it under the covers, feeling a heat wave that draw my eyelids back down to their resting place. The sleeping bodies of my son and husband offer enough heat to keep me dozey for days. A little foot is hooked between my thighs and the sweet’n’sour smell of sleep waffes into my nose. I turn my head, re-open my eyes to the bright grey sky. My son’s hand is softly open on my pillow, holds no tension and I instinctively place my thumb in the palm of his hand, wondering if he’ll still squeeze it in his ripe old age of 3. He is so quiet when he sleeps. I smile at this profound revelation. He is so beautiful – looks like my grandfather, reminds me of my father, behaves like me. I don’t want to get up, I know that moving my body risks stirring him awake and then the quiet will end. After his 3 years; my daughter’s 9 years, I am tired. I am wounded and I react badly to loud sounds.
The cool air nudges me out of my nest and I breathe my last soft moments. I eye my husband lightly snoring on the other side of the bed, the cat curled around his head. When I get up I will put my socks and pants on in preparation of taking the dog out for her morning walk. I know that I will put my jacket on louder than I need to, that I will not try to stop the dog leash from hitting the wall and I will begin my day resenting that my husband is still enjoying the warmth beneath the covers. After 10 years, I am tired. I am wounded and I react badly to men lying in bed when there is a dog to walk.
Outside, the street is covered in a light frost, the bushes decorated with winter garbage. My dog lunges for squirrles. I’ve stopped reprimanding her. I duck down the streets I am least likely to run into anybody, because I do not have the energy to discipline her anymore when she whines for the attention of other dogs she is desperate to play with. I walk through the chilly air and know my husband is getting up, risking the great threat of our son waking up to my absence and having an early morning tantrum. He must be terrified every morning. He precariously gets up, having already faced one of the biggest fears we carry, and he turns on kettle. He wakes up our daughter and he makes the tea. I bring the dog to her favourite place to do her business. He empties her lunch box from yesterday. I pick up dog poo. He makes one or two or three or four breakfasts. I stroll myself down an extra street, he makes a lunch or two. We meet in the living room before 7am and I drink my warm tea. There is little to say.
Convincing the kids that the morning is chilly, and therefore requires appropriate attire, is each and every day a shocking challenge. In the moments that I wrestle shoes on unresponsive feet I curse the chill that first woke me. When I’m hunting for the only sweater that my son wears, I curse the frost that refuses to leave our city, that forces me to lose my temper. I blame it for my lack of patience, for my quick swear words directed at my shitty kids, and I imagine a world that is warm and requires no layering of clothing.
Oddity: I am unapologetic about loving hot cars. It’s my favourite moment, on a hot summer day, to climb into a hot car and just suffocate in the heat for a few moments. I am always the last to roll down my window, ignoring the shouts and chides of my family who are pushing their faces to the down rolling window for their fresh air. I wait until I’ve sat in the dead heat just long enough and only then will I break the hot weight by letting the fresh air stream in. My love for hot cars is rivalled only by my hatred for cold ones. Like a cruel punishment, we have somehow managed to get to the kids up, fed, prepped and dressed for the day; we have managed to get them down the hallway of our building – our building filled with crazies who constantly leave signs about not running, not shouting, not toddlering in the hallways – without pissing anyone off; we have literally stopped to smell the dead flowers (dead from the persistent frost) … only to be met with a cold car.
Our daughter gets dropped off behind her school – a glimpse into her growing embarrassment of her parents. ‘Drop me off where nobody can see us together‘ her eyes hiss. Her only job when getting out of the car is to say good-bye to her adoring brother. My son keeps his eyes stuck on her from the moment she unclips her seatbelt until she disappears down the path. He waves with an exuberance that breaks my heart every morning – and he cries if he is robbed of a proper good-bye. My daughter knows this and exerts her power over him every once in a while by ‘forgetting’ to wave, by ‘smiling’ with her lips tight and her eyes rolled. When she does this, my husband and I roll down our windows and shout at her to ‘wave properly! Smile! Say good-bye to your brother!‘ It is exponentially more embarrassing for her but I am committed to making her life miserable each and every time she tries to shirk her morning responsibility.
Our son gets dropped off at daycare – and it can really go either way with him. Sometimes he runs into the arms of the workers and sometimes he clings to our legs in not-so-silent protest. The exit is swift and sometimes gut wrenching.
Childless, my husband and I often drift glazed-eyed over to the coffee shop down the street. We order our resuscitating coffees and dreamily listen to the banter of the staff behind the counter. We remember the days that we had the energy to worry about social graces, exams or something else more promising than financial woes, pre-teen development and tantrums. Their life seems so meadow. Ours feels so back laneway. No Entry. Private. No Trespassers. Coffees in hand, minds heavy, we head to work. By going to work we leave the morning behind and talk weather, make jokes, run errands and make good impressions. We know the evening is waiting for us.
Being An Adult
Sometimes I forget that I’m older then when I last checked 10 years ago. I seem to eternally hover in my mid 20’s, and often it’s surprising to see my friends celebrate their 30-something birthday and then realize I’m next. It’s not that I don’t want to age, it’s that sometimes I feel that I’ve missed it’s happening. I look in the mirror and I look older. I come home and there are two kids waiting for me. There is evidence that I have been adulting, but the things that I thought would make me an adult while in my youthful 20’s are perpetually out of my reach. I wrote out the list, ad lib, and realized that not only do I seem unable to check off the items, but I can’t seem to make a new list, one that is probably more realistic. Here is what I’ve been banging my head against, in all it’s miserable glory:
Signs of (Unattained) Adulthood That Plague Me On a Daily Basis
- I need a big(ger) apartment. No. I need a house. I need a house so that I can have people over and cook dinner for them and tell them it was no trouble at all!, and then it will look like I’m doing okay.
- I need matching sheets and sham pillows so that my adulthood is validated, like I’m winning at this adult game. Also, those matching bedside tables. Maybe an accent wall. Definitely a dresser.
- I need at least one piece of leather furniture, Miriam Come on!
- I need to stop using cinder blocks and wood planks as shelves.
- Laminate flooring is for losers.
- Towels that are older than 5 years is a sign of life dysfunction.
- The filling of my pillows must match. One feathered, one foam? Jesus, when did I become such a failure?
- The cupboards are disorganized. Tea and medication on the same shelf? Spices and a cheese grater? Canned food and a cat brush? This is an all time low.
- I need to start planning for a successful life right now. Why didn’t I start right now 10 years ago?
- Google has the answers. “What should I be when I grow up?” There are a surprising number of hits. “Changing careers”. Too broad. My husband tells me I’m too vague when I Google. “Best careers for Miriam”. I end up taking an aptitude test that has 71 questions of multiple choice and then I have to pay twenty dollars to get the results. Hang your head and go back to scrolling through everybody else’s PPL (projected perfect life).
I try to conjure up my blessings, a quick substitute for a new list of what it actually means to be an adult. I mean, if there’s one thing Western Society is great at reminding me, it’s to Be Grateful asshole – accompanied by photoshopped images of somebody’s zen travels and tanned skin hiding under GAP Body underwear. It’s hard to fail daily at the one piece of advice constantly thrown at me over newsfeeds, petition emails and viral ad compaigns. But I keep trying. So I made a list. I’m good at lists.
A List of Things To Be Grateful For You Ingrate
- Keep it Simple: You have a roof over your head. You eat fresh food everyday. You take hot showers, and cold showers, depending on your mood. You have family, you haven’t experienced deep trauma and you aren’t isolated or alone physically or emotionally. Simple. Stupid.
- Your son thinks you know everything. Proof: “Mommy, how come you know everything?” (I will shamelessly nourish this delusion for numerous years)
- You have 2 beautiful healthy children, and a handsome, hilarious husband. (Screw white picket fences, you tell yourself while staring at real estate listings and comparing the impossible with your bank statement)
- Your husband makes you laugh to the point of tears running down your cheeks or legs at your expense, his expense, your kids’ expense, and neutral life observations. He knows you so well it’s scary. Honey, please remember to read the labels when buying things; I always know you’re wrong when you say your 99% sure about something; No matter how amazing your life is, I know you’ll only post about how imperfect it is. Too true honey, too true.
- You have wild, beautiful friends all over the country. Some are artists, some are new mothers, most are more successful than you. All of them are unapologetically authentic, which is really your only criteria for friendship, and one of the hardest things to find. All your friends seem to really like you, which gives you tremendous strength while you forge ahead on this adult path.
- How many more of these do I need?
- You have a job that is in the arts – and as a graduate of one of Canada’s top theatre schools (out of…5?) this is huge. As a trained actor who has made people laugh and cry (remember when I made you cry Jessica?) because of your insane talent on the stage (your words KShaw, not mine – also she never said that but she was thinking it) it is a miracle that you are working in the arts. You’re not the artist, but you’re part of that world. Yes, you are doing more admin work, more IT support, more stamping and mailing, more supply ordering, but still. You get to say you’re working in the – Never mind, can I move this up to my first list?
- You still need to listen to music loudly, alone, dancing, singing to ground yourself. You still have fun moving your body in different ways to music and are slightly convinced it keeps you young. In spirit. Nothing is stopping the physical decay.
- No major health issues – you know how quickly life can turn around when you suffer from light illnesses. Kids continue to need you, money still needs to be made – there is no amount of gratefulness that can sufficiently amount to how grateful you are for this. Should probably be #1 on the list you numbskull.
- Despite a visceral aversion to parenting, you do have some excellent mothering qualities. Mostly just being present and honest. Your kids won’t have memories of veggies cut into little shapes in their lunches or super organized birthday parties (See blog post titled ‘Let Me Invite You to (Judge) My Birthday Party!’) but your kids are emotionally intelligent because of your emotional demand, will ask you tough questions and have a sturdy self esteem. Take that adulating!
Ultimately, I have the unnerving feeling that I might be wrestling with these lists forever. Maybe there is no ‘ah ha!’ moment when an adult finally becomes an adult. Maybe adulting is just multiple lists of what you are failing at, and what you have to be grateful for. In my true youth, I wouldn’t have thought to make these lists. My youth was a blissful ignorance of lists. I can’t imagine the other lists waiting for me around the corner…I should stop now, or I’ll start making a list of possible lists that I’ll be making in the next 10 years.
Wrinkles and Dust 