FINDING CHRISTMAS

I may have realized last night, in the middle of it, another night of bad sleeps, that we (and I mean all of us) put a lot of responsibility on to the shoulders of Christmas. We want Christmas to solve world hunger and war. We want Christmas to have the miracle of neighbours getting along and religions to blend and mesh. We want the empty parts of us to fill with all the things that we've been longing for our whole lives. We wait, with breath held a little, for everything to change because .... afterall, it is Christmas.

I'm the most guilty of everyone I know. I wait with my eyes squeezed shut for the magic to find me that I remember from when I was little, when life was perfect without question, when I didn't worry and even know that my mother didn't really like me all that much, when I didn't worry if I was perfect or not, because children just accept what is. I crawled under the Christmas tree in the dark, shifting the parcels off to the side and listened to Perry Como croon about the night before Christmas and the magic of it all descended right on to my skin where I could feel it soak in and fill my heart with that wonderful sense that all is right with the world even though I knew it wasn't. Christmas was like a sedative that smoothed back my hair and made me pray for peace, not toys or candy or surprises, just peace.

I want my children to not care what is under the tree, not care about what I can't buy them, not care where I have come up short as a mother and a human being. I want them to just be glad that we have this moment, this second in time when we are all together and the memory of that will be the glue for the rest of the year, will be the magic that fills some of those empty days that undoubtedly will come.

I want the magic of Christmas to make up for all the human-ness of the world, the mistakes, the cruelty, the poverty, the imbalance of life. But most of all, I want the magic of Christmas to confirm to each soul I love (including mine) that we are all incredibly special just the way we are.

Merry Christmas. I think if I move my little tiny tree upstairs to the livingroom that Christmas magic will happen.

by W A Stewart, December 21, 2009

CHRISTMAS CRANKINESS

That's the short title.
The long title is SELF-DIAGNOSIS OF THE WARNING SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS OF CHRISTMAS CRANKINESS.

I was yelling at the television this morning and I thought perhaps, after some introspection, that I may be suffering from Christmas crankiness. The technical term is bummer-syndrome. There may be some other words that define the lack of ho-ho-ho, but suffice to say the symptoms are not always obvious.

I thought in the spirit of giving I would share my wisdom with you. So, if you have any of the following symptoms you have bummer-syndrome.

1. You are extremely offended when you see a commercial about Broadway's new release of The Wizard of Oz. You begin hollering at the television about the fact that the original came out 70 years ago and what happened to originality and that this Dorothy is a fraud and Judy Garland would roll over in her grave. All what seems like a perfectly normal reaction.

2. You are so angered by the above that you want to get off the couch and kick the cat, except you don't have a cat and getting off the couch seems like excessive exercise.

3. You start making a list of the worst Christmas parties you ever attended and you get stuck after the first entry. 1983. Pickle Lake. Host is in kitchen with pals. Flatulence and matches are involved and cheering the official song of The Blue Flame Club. As if that's not bad enough you were (I repeat, were) married to the host.

4. You've picked your snowman up and returned him to his position on the front steps for the last time. You are in the basement searching for the chainsaw. After pulling the chord for forty-seven times you give up and get a hammer and turn your snowman into kindling even though he's been your favourite decoration for several decades. Not any more.

There are a few others and variations of the above do occur, but I'll stop there. I was just outside in the blizzard looking for the end of my driveway. I had tied a rope around my waist with the other end tied to the backdoor in the name of safety. A man and his dog came along. The dog stopped to pee on my shovel.

"Are you ready for Christmas?" the man asked in a cheery voice.

"You bet," I answered. "Going to be the best Christmas ever."

I think that may be the biggest clue. My only remedy? Resort to alcohol or hibernation.

by W A Stewart December 10, 2009

BREASTS

Finding myself standing in the supermarket in only my underpants, my breasts exposed, was shocking, inappropriate, inconvenient at best. I tried to act nonchalant as if this was ordinary in the hopes I would be less conspicuous. I tried to steady my breathing, crossed my arms across my chest to hide the flesh of my breasts beneath my arms. At least that's how the dream went.

I wakened relieved, able to exhale with a tremendous gust, happy that I was suitably attired in a nightgown, tucked safely in my bed, a long distance from the supermarket. I thought of my breasts as I waited for sleep to pull at me again.

Breasts may be the one single thing that makes me aware of my woman-ness. Not in a sexual porn star way, but breasts are a measure of me. They are the signal of most changes in a woman's body.

Born without breasts, all too often we die without them. The changes recorded in our breasts become the measure of our pasing, proof we have indeed made the journey. At birth, we are rather homogenous from the waist up, gender non-specific so to speak. We are able to collide and bump into one another with little regard for femininity or masculinity. The path alters though, all too soon, and we come to a fork in the road and life changes.

Our breasts begin as meaty thickness. The muscle on our chest is more defined now. Greater skills have been acquired as we stretch beyond jumping rope and rocking baby dolls and our experiences, more diverse, have added to the muscle there. Our chest almost whispers of womanhood but only almost for there still lingers an innocent notion of gender-less.

Almost over night, the tissue in our breasts spring to life in a quick determined announcement, a loud voice really. "I am a girl!" Our breasts are firm, speak for themselves, bold, want to be seen, willing to show off. They go where we go without hesitation, leading never following. Sometimes they frighten our mothers who insist we cover them more adequately and sometimes they alarm our fathers who all too often look away.

Breasts throb just before we have our period as though a warning sent to have us prepare. They ache and tighten when we become pregnant, often the very first sign. When we diet, breats are the parts of our body that cheer us on, usually the first to shed unnecessary fat.

Creation comes filled with change, emotion. The mere hint of pregnancy and the shift is immediate. Our breasts enlarge and take on a song of nourishment. They demand us to pay heed to their purpose rather than their playfulness. They are tender, needing care. When we first hold our infant there, the pain gives way to relief and we see what was intended. The smooth skin stretching over our breasts reveals the veins that keep them nourished. Any baby's voice releases the dam and the flood is powerful, we can feel it surging to our toes. Our breasts are engorged for a time, as we tentatively hold this new child, a bit unsure, uncertain, but as we become competent and comfortable the tissue softens, accepting the challenge.

The years go by and our breasts remain fairly static, change is minimal, not easily detected. Then we discover our breasts have softened just as we have, accepting the bumps and disappointments in our journey along with the celebrations and hurrahs. They take a position somewhat lower, less bold, a little quieter and the line from our underarm is a smooth gentle slope. They are restful, not needing much in the way of frolic, not wanting to stand up and be noticed, but they comfort us like an old friend and we hope we never have to part, hope cancer does't take that which tells our story, that which remembers who we were and knows the road we travelled.

by W A Stewart, December 7, 2009

'TIS THE SEASON

Lists make my word go round or, at the very least, give me a false sense of security that my world is intact, that as may variables as possible have been tied down, placed in order to some degree, allowing me to manoeuvre (that's a really tough word to spell) through the dangerous waters of cooking or cleaning or the ever-perilous grocery shopping. I need lists because once I leave the house, step over either the front or back door threshold, my memory is wiped perfectly clean, without a trace or a hint of what I was headed for.

I arrive at the grocery store hopeful, excited, adventurous. I could have simply needed milk, my list stark and bare save that one item. Without a list, I wander around the grocery store gathering pomegranates (that will soften and eventually be laid to rest on garbage day), avocados, a writing journal (because one can never have enough of those). My healthy intentions flourish at the grocery store. I've always wanted to cook eggplant, if for no other reason than its remarkable colour. I intend to make gazpacho soup and eat dried cranberries. N0, no, no. The list keeps me and my bank account safe.

This time of year I make gift lists, my favourite of all lists. I prepare them on my computer, secured by my secret password from prying eyes. I use a green font for those things I've purchased and a red font for those I haven't found or that may be subject to reconsideration. I refer to my list at least once daily and feel the excitement of Christmas wiggle in me with the sense that this will be the best Christmas ever.

While I was out for my run this morning (well, I did run 53 steps which is exactly 3 more than yesterday so that qualifies as a run), I got to thinking about my favourite gifts over the many past years. I got some grand ones and some curious ones but the one I remember is a fluorescent study lamp when I was about thirteen. When I built a nest in my bed out of
pillows and blankets, the light made me feel creative and safe, as if I was the only soul on earth, a lovely feeling when one isn't really alone at all.

My most precious gifts are easy to list:
- an unexpected hug from my teen-ager (which almost all hugs are - unexpected)
- a daughter running in the door with a breathless account of some experience, with the words best day ever mixed in
- a kiss on the back of my neck while I did dishes
- my father exclaiming what an amazing rhubarb pie I had made for him while he tried to saw through the crust with subtle strength
- someone I love uttering the words in an almost prayer-like tone, I need you
- a hug when I don't know how to ask for one
- friends showing up to help me move without being asked, bearing lasagna and wine
- the sound of my daughters getting along, their laughter floating in the window and settling over me like a warm blanket
- sunshine in November

None of these things can be wrapped with pretty paper and ribbon, but they are the things that matter most.

by W A Stewart, Nov 27/09

RECYCLING AT ITS BEST

The cuffs were frayed, frayed almost through and the thin red stripe on the cuff was almost faded away. The zipper had been repaired, replaced even, with a zipper that was just a bit too long and the ends had been folded in, the teeth scratching at my chin if I wasn't careful. I loved that jacket.

I loved that jacket because it had been Dale's. He was my cousin, the one who hated milk. I loved his jacket because I loved him and admired his perseverance while he sat with two glasses of milk in front of him that had to be consumed before he could play, a torture test of sorts. He never won. I wondered why he didn't just drink the milk with meatloaf and mashed potatoes or with cookies. It was one of life's puzzles.

There were many days when I refused to take the jacket off when I came indoors, refused and stomped my feet and folded my arms. One of the few battles I won. Maybe the only battle. I wore that jacket until my arms were much too long and the waist of the jacket crept up my torso and I found myself wishing I wouldn't grow.

Hand-me-downs, bags of surprises that made an ordinary day special. Rummaging through the pile of treasures from a family with girls slightly older than my sister and me, made me feel like a very lucky girl. Hand-me-downs were recycling before recycling had a name. Hand-me-downs were recyling at its very best. The chain was well established in our circle of family friends. Our house was the last stop. Growing up on a farm provided enough opportunities for scuffs and frays and rips, so that the usefulness of the clothes found its end and I never had to part with those items that were on my favourite list.

I dragged Dale's jacket around for years, kept it as a shrine to childhood, that glorious time when labels meant nothing and donning a beyond-worn-out jacket with stains and elbows out made me feel capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound, made Dale feel close enough to touch.

I have a box of "things" that my daughters wore when they were little, clothes I can't part with, can't recycle. I stopped the chain before it became one. This bag of clothing is like grade one artwork or a mother's day card. I can picture Aimee with her four-year-old body in her gymnastic suit, twirling and bending and imagining all things, trotting along behind me while I coached children in gymnastics. I can hold the fabric against my cheek and the twenty-six years vanish. Laurie played the piano in her huge cloth diaper and rubber pants, one sock on and one off, her eyes wide with a huge smile, her little fingers gently pressing the keys, the sound gentle and undisturbing, comforting even. The sound of the rubber pants now is much like the music then. Thea and her little yellow dress that became a top that became something too small that I had to sneak out of her room at night to wash and put back before morning. I see three-year-old Samantha toddling across the yard in her fleece-lined denim jacket, a hand-me-down, with her arms out-stretched, wanting me to save her, when I still could.

by W A Stewart - Nov 23/09

THAT SEX THING

I was thinking about sex this morning. I thought that might get your attention. It's not the easiest subject to discuss so perhaps it's better that you aren't looking at me, that we aren't both in the same room.

I've had a vision, most of my adult life, of what good sex might be like, an idea that formed right after I discovered what bad sex was like. I figured I'd recognize it, it being good sex, right away, the way you know a good friend immediately when you've been introduced. You shake a hand that feels at once safe and trustworthy, as if you've been through all kinds of things together, sort of like coming home.

I know there is sex for sport and fun. I've heard of this or certainly seen it on television when they're selling toilet bowl cleaner or knives that cut through shoes. But at my age, I'm hardly up for games of that sort. If I were, I would imagine a panel of judges seated at desks beside the bed or beside the kitchen table or wherever this game is to be played.

There'd be an announcer. All official sports require a deep-voiced announcer. The microphone would drop down from the ceiling and maybe the announcer would be in a boxing ring sort of apparatus. "In this corner wearing no shorts is ..." and his voice would boom from the speakers with lights dimmed. "Come out fighting and may the best man win." Not that the man has to win but why break with tradition. "Judges are compiling their results," he'd shout, pretending to be speaking in a whispering manner while spitting into the microphone on the piling part. The crowd is hushed waiting for the scores. The judges look strained, as if the weight of such decisions is almost too much for them.

The Russian judge, always less lenient with the west, is the first to raise her card. 6.4 it reads. The audience exhales dramatically and they look at each other confused and uncertain. The judge tips her head and raises her eyebrows as if to say, "Well, there was definite excess skin on the neck and the upper arm could have been tighter and her rhythm was slightly off." She isn't swayed by the crowd's ill-placed affection with the underdog. I put my teeth together and suck the air through them as if I've just been given a flu shot in the hip with a ten-gauge needle.

The German judge holds up her a 6.8. Ouch again. I don't even imagine her reasons, but I'm sure it includes lost points for getting a charlie-horse in my right calf. I run my fingers across my shins to confirm if they were freshly shaven. Not. Damn. An oversight.

Then the Canadian judge leaps from her chair with a generous 8.0 and waving her card madly. "I'm sorry," she begins. Did I mention she's Canadian? "She did her best. She really tried. So the dismount was a little wobbly, the entry was smooth. She has had four children. Let's not forget that. She didn't ask for much in return. More of a peacekeeper really."

Bless her soul. Can always count on the Canadians.

That's the scene that plays out in my head, sometimes with a sprained ankle or twisted knee. Perhaps my first inclination to take up tennis instead was the better choice. So, sex for sport just isn't in the cards for me.

There was a time, probably somewhere in my teen years while trying hard not to imagine my parents in the clutches of sexual passion, when I thought sex was abandoned in middle age in preference for reading or meditation or cycling. I may have been a bit presumptuous. I do apologize. It seems the longing for physical contact and intimacy prevails through our entire life.

Nudity at my age seems a scary proposition. But it shouldn't be, should it? If sex is about caring and intimacy and respect and all those wonderful things that each of us craves and wants, then sex should be easy and fluid and there shouldn't be a panel of judges present. There should be trust before there's anything else, trust that assures you that what came before certainly had value, but it is this moment that counts. Trust that assures you no comparisons are made to younger participants and no instruction or evaluation is necessary, just the gratitude that being together is all the ingredients required.

I think life is about relationships and the rest is just details. I saw that on a notice board somewhere. So, if we're lucky enough to have someone that we wake up thinking about and go to sleep caring about, then the cuddling up and all the rest of that stuff called sex should not require a rating of any kind.

I've always been a bit of a dreamer, longing for things that maybe don't even exist, imagining how it might have been had I been whole. Perhaps my vision of sex is just the nonsense of foolish schoolgirls. Or ... maybe not.

JOB HUNTING

I think I might have mentioned that I am seeking gainful employment. I try not to whine or put my panic on paper but I woke up this morning feeling as though my credentials or job strengths would fit on the back of a postage stamp. Not a good feeling. I can see my resume in my head. Specific skills ... I kick ass at kakuro and sudoku. Then I got stuck, couldn't think of anything else.

I am an accountant by training and education but a writer in every cell of my body. Writing, however, does not pay the hydro bill. I have moments of utter despair. Am I unemployable? Too old? Should I be put out to pasture?

So I sat and got nostalgic for a moment. (yah, I know ... my favourite pass time). I was remembering my first job. My first paying job this side of polishing my dad's shoes on Saturday nights for a dime. (First of all I remembered stashing my dimes in a pony hair change purse and then realized how morbid that was. Some pony gave her life so that I might save my coins in the pursuit of personal wealth - I felt regret, but I digress. )

I just realized I have my sweatshirt on backwards - no wonder I can't find a job.

My first job was at the Fort Frances Clinic where I walked round and round a large ping-pong table for 50 cents an hour. It was the new age of computers. The OHIP billing records came on dot-matrix printed forms that were all connected and would have stretched from one end of town to the other. They were sorted numerically and of course, had to be ripped apart and sorted alphabetically. I was thirteen and my comprehension of the alphabet became flawless. I got this job because my dad was the manager of the clinic and no one else wanted it, least of all him. I put on hundreds of miles around that table and learned immediately that my get-rich-quick scheme needed some tweaking.

I was promoted sometime later to filing clerk and part-time receptionist and general all purpose go-fer-girl. I loved working where my dad was, loved looking at him in his glass-walled office and knowing he was the most important cog in this wheel and feeling immense pride.

From that I became a dissector in the anatomy lab at university getting the cadavers (human bodies) ready for lab class the next day. Sounds gruesome but it was fascinating. I got paid $10 an hour, which was considerable in those days.

I worked for the Ministry of Natural Resources on creel census and deer survey and on fires. It sounds fun but the deer survey literally meant finding deer feces (yah, poop) and counting it. Glamorous? Not so much. I coloured maps for the MNR, too, and stayed between the lines.

I left university knowing full well I was not going to be a phys-ed teacher or use my minor in Calculus for the greater good. So I stumbled headlong into accounting and that took up the rest of my working life with a few side trips with my real estate licence and being a dairy farmer. Oh, it's all so colourful. The real estate thing was my most detested job. It was 1988. A chimpanzee could have made money, so that wasn't the issue. It was the selling thing. I would struggle to sell water in the desert. Selling requires a healthy dose of self-confidence. I'll say no more.

I was a flight attendant. In the north. Briefly. It was fun. I pretended it was glamarous, but I like the stories that have come from it, stories that give my past a bit of colour and shape.

My point is, I've held a lot of jobs over the thirty-four years of pretending to be an adult. The notion of feeling used up and/or useless is slightly overwhelming and wakes me from a deep sleep with alarming regularity and with night sweats that I refuse to blame on menopause. My resume (or should I say my CV) would be fourteen pages long if I rambled on about all the jobs and skills I have developed.

I've never been afraid before to try something new. Or perhaps I should state more clearly that I haven't been afraid to be afraid, if you know what I mean. So what has changed? Is this what aging does? Takes our courage and messes with it?

Maybe I could be a server in a lovely restaurant. I could make a pleasant evening even more pleasant for those who dine out. I'm friendly and cheerful. Or maybe a grocery store checkout person. The lady in Hanover always gives me recipe tips and makes me feel like we are friends. I could do that.

Or what about a hardware store clerk or in a building centre? I've built a barn. I learned a few things about power tools doing that. Surely that gives me some credentials to find the right aisle for the three inch screws with a robertson head. I know the difference.

I could be a greeter at Walmart but I'd rather not. Please, not yet.

I could pump gas but the cold makes me stupid and forgetful.

I could ....

LADY BUG, LADY BUG, FLY AWAY HOME

I used to love lady bugs when I was a kid. I loved their bright red bodies with the brilliant black spots. I drew them on the edges of all my papers, lady bugs with long curly antennae, even though I knew that wasn't correct. Call it poetic licence.

My grandfather told me lots of stories about lady bugs when we'd do our adventures through the woods or long rides in the car. He was the Clerk-Treasurer of the Municipality of Alberton and always took the scenic route to the office with me in tow. His tales were varied and I thought a bit creative.

Lady bugs were connected in some way to the goddess of love and beauty. I thought this was a good reason to admire them because being loved and beautiful seemed like a good thing. Lady bugs meant a good harvest and we were farmers so that was another good reason to form a fan club.

My grandfather said the Germans believed that counting the spots on the lady bug could predict something about harvest but I can't remember the details of that one and it seemed a bit of a stretch. The French said lady bugs signalled good weather while the Austrians came right out and asked the lady bugs for good weather. If you want something you may as well ask for it. The Swedes were more romantically inclined and perhaps more determined to get married so a lady bug walking on a girl's hand meant a marriage was imminent and conversely, if the lady bug flies away then the girl should follow the direction because that is where the love is coming from. Counting spots also indicated the number of children. All my lady bugs had two lovely spots so that foils the notion right there. A lady bug landing on you is good luck but if you brush it off, bad luck will prevail. There were others but my memory can't quite dig them up.

They call them ladybirds in the U.K. and other places and sometimes lady cow. The image of that I find quite worrisome. Probably no need to explain. The Asian lady beetle (not my indigenous lady bug) was introduced in the States successfully in the 1980s for some scientific reason that I have come to sincerely doubt. It is called the Hallowe'en lady beetle because it invades our homes this time of year to prepare for hibernation. No kidding!

Asian Lady Beetle be warned! There will be no hibernating in my house, you stinky orange imposter! I shall hunt you down and stamp you out.

These beetles have out-competed my dear lady bug in most areas and even devour my lady bug when food choices are limited. The best solution to rid your house of these pesky fakes is to vacuum. But with an addendum. Don't frighten them! Why? Because they give off a staining ink and a horrendous odour. Don't frighten them? What am I supposed to do? Sneak up on them? Call ahead?

I'm thinking of donning my Ghost Buster suit for Hallowe'en complete with vacuum and hire myself out to rid homes in our area of these menacing annoyances. I've just picked another out of my hair and it seems he was startled by my squeezing him firmly between my finger and thumb. No catch and release for these varmints.

Who you gonna call?

MIGRATION

We hear them this time year, their honking songs filling the fall air, air that has a bit of a bite to it. Sometimes I can't help myself and I push aside the curtains that hang next to my bed and strain to see them pass over top the house or yard.

The geese honk and call and answer each other and then I begin to wonder. First I wonder why they use up precious energy to chatter back and forth. What are they saying? Are they encouraging one another to keep flapping their wings the way one marathon runner might encourage another.

"You can do it, not much farther now," they might be saying.

Or are they complaining.

"Whose bloody idea was this?"

"What a bunch of lemmings. Georgette heads south and we all follow like lambs to the slaughter."

"What happened to free thinking?"

"I'm going east. I hear the people are nice there," Doris says.

"They've got nothing else to do, why wouldn't they be nice."

Then Doris heads east and all the other geese are quiet for a few moments. Then the honking begins again.

"Idiot," they say. "She'll regret that decision." But perhaps inwardly they all envy her courage but can't admit it.

Why do they go? Are we all just migrating somewhere but our flight path is just less noticeable, but not less remarkable. Does something stir in us that makes us get off the couch to rake the leaves for reasons other than saving the lawn. Maybe when we see the geese flying overhead, practising their alphabet, and we examine our own choices and begin to feel the notion of change or movement wiggle in us. Maybe we walk a different route to work the next day or don some bright coloured fabric and leave the sensible black in the closet. Maybe we part our hair on the opposite side or cut it, changing the style we have coiffed for fifteen years.

Maybe we're more dramatic and stick a "for sale" sign in the front yard or join a gym or read a book or ... write one. Maybe we take a trip and ride a zipline to conquer our fear of heights before being able to conquer something, anything, becomes impossible. Maybe we clean a closet and toss out things that we once thought were precious, but mean nothing to anyone but us and someone will have to throw it out so why not that someone be us.

Maybe we forget why we quit writing or calling our best friend from third grade and dial their number or write a letter. Maybe we ...

It's a gorgeous sunny day after a long bout of rain and dreariness. I had to walk. The leaves floated down; they're too wet to crunch under my feet, but I remember the sound clearly enough. I love the colours of the leaves and their shapes and I am tempted to collect them and make a bouquet.

Then I begin to imagine my own migration. What path will I take to "rest" up for spring? Where will I lie my head and exhale?

THERE SHOULD BE A LAW

It's Thanksgiving!  Turkey. Stuffing. Gravy  ... and Ishgy-Gishgy Cake. No, I must apologize right up front, not pumpkin pie.

This cake has a formal and former name of Chocolate Chip Cake. The recipe was passed down from my father's mother. She died when I was four, but I do remember the soft yellow mittens she knit me and this cake.  Its name was changed when its preparation was rushed.  You never rush Chocolate Chip Cake and if you do ... the result is an ishgy-gishgy mess.  Hence, the name.

I'd share the recipe with you but I've been sworn to secrecy by Samantha, daughter number two. She'd disown me if I disclosed the secrets of this delicious masterpiece and she needs no fuel for that cause these days.

I got up early to make the cake for daughter number one.  We are all spread out this Thanksgiving.  I am in Vancouver with Aimee and loving being in her space. Aimee and I laugh and sometimes for no other reason than to laugh.  We just can't help ourselves. We are that funny (by our own admission). I started assembling the cake parts this morning. I left the butter out overnight to soften and miraculously, the butter was still on the cupboard waiting for me this morning. No  one had put it back in the refrigerator when I wasn't looking. I had to smile (and almost laugh) remembering those occasions when some misguided samaritan put my softened butter BACK in the fridge.  I remember a particular tirade, probably pre-christmas, the season of perpetual hope and joy. 

I got up to make cookies in an effort to chisel away at my "to do" list, only to find my pound of butter back in the refrigerator, hard as nails.  I began to rant.

"I live with a family who've never hung up a jacket in their life!" I may have yelled, modestly I hope, with a hint of tolerance I pray.  "You've never made a bed without prompting, never emptied a dishwasher without coaxing, but the butter you put away!" I may have ben shrieking by this point.  They all ran for cover not feeling particularly thankful or hopeful.

Ahh, but not today. My butter is soft and malleable, ready to create Ishgy-Gishgy Cake and I realize I may have mellowed in my old age or those around me have figured out, "Don't mess with mom's butter."

But really, in all fairness. There should be a law about such things.  Wouldn't you agree?

OUT THERE

I'm not against cleavage, but I shouldn't have to see it at the breakfast table. With four daughters of reasonable or greater endowment, there's been a healthy serving of "breast" at most meals. I try to resist the urge to pull their necklines a touch higher but often fail. I'm then met with an annoyed, "Mom!"

I'm talking about my own cleavage though. I've not been an advocate of "have it, flaunt it". I'm a fan of the turtleneck, everything tucked in tight and out of sight, a nice secure feeling, my private parts all ... private.

So, I challenged myself to "put them out there" at a recent reading engagement. I was reading my fiction so I felt naked through to my very core so how was a little cleavage going to feel any worse and it could be a response to my new mantra, "do something that terrifies me at least once a week if not every day".

I stood behind the microphone, trembling and blushing and began to read. As I looked down I saw cleavage, my cleavage, bold and brash and I wanted to cover my chest with my arms and apologize and dash from the room. But I held my ground, read as clearly as I could and reminded myself that these breasts of mine fed four daughters, and deserved a moment in the limelight and a little applause. "Well done," the crowd could have been saying about my breasts rather than the story. "Thanks for coming out, now get into some flannel and call it a day!"

What's on for tomorrow? A barrel ride over Niagara Falls?

A REAL BABE

My over fifty status allows me some privilege, though not much. I qualify for an honourary PhD in mothering; that goes without saying. I don't know, do I wear a cap and gown when I receive my doctorate? It is awarded to those who remain standing when the curtain falls on motherhood. The grand-poo-bah of scroll handling will shake my hand and remind me that I need not remember to tell anyone to hang up her jacket or to brush her teeth or never again worry if my progeny have made their beds this morning. It's all out of my hands.

I should also get some kind of recognition of the decathlon of relationships I've subjected myself to. I realize I don't qualify for a gold medal, but I will most definitely receive a participation badge.

But the particular privilege I am thinking of today falls into the realm of medical investigation; peeking, if you will, into my privates, my inner workings. First of all, I'm over fifty so I get an all expense paid trip to the mammogram machine, kindly referred to as if age hasn't created a sag we can squeeze out any live tissue that has survived. And by the way, try not to move while we do it. I feel so special, part of that inner group, like insider trading, those special individuals who are invited to the party on the other side of that door and no, you don't need to check in at registration. You just come right on back. So lucky.

Along with mammograms are the happy ultrasounds. Painless. They look at my gallbladder, liver, kidneys, pancreas. Turns out, I have a textbook pancreas. It's lovely and healthy. I beamed with pride when the technician told me that, while she paused and stared with admiration into her computer screen. I think I saw her hand go to her chest in awe. I dropped my eyes. I am, if nothing else, humble.

Later, I boasted of my pancreatic prowess to my friend. I may have been a bit smug but my pride is indeed well earned and certainly noteable.

"That's lovely," Allison said. She seemed sincere. "But I had a colonoscopy last fall. The doctor took my hand in his. You have a very clean bowel, Mrs. Montgomery, he said. I blushed," Allison confessed. "My eyelashes may have fluttered."

A clean bowel? Does that trump my textbook pancreas? Is that like a royal flush (pardon the pun) over a straight?

I have a colonscopy coming up. That's the next thing on the list of peeking. I can hardly wait. I could have a very clean bowel, too, if I stop eating right now. It's only three weeks away. I could dazzle the O.R. staff. "Wow," they might exclaim, with their hands at their throats in disbelief. "You could shoot a canon off in there. Hey, Bill!" they'd shout to the custodian mopping out in the hall. "You gotta see this clean bowel!"

I may not be much to look at after thirty years of mothering. But by gum (one of my favourite expressions, never outdated) I have a textbook pancreas. Beauty may be skin deep, but there is no measure for inner beauty. On the inside, I'm a real babe!

IF I GET TO HEAVEN

If I get to heaven, hoping my good deeds outnumber my bad, I have some questions for the guy in charge. I used to imagine a panel of angels or celestial judges sitting high above me, glasses perched on the ends of their noses, their wings slightly dusty but impressive and they'd be frowning as they assessed my entrance request. They recalled the cheating in grade 13 Chemistry (of which I was not the benefactor). They looked knowingly at each other while I squirmed and sweated. The speeding ticket came up that I flirted my way out of and have never confessed my blatant misuse of personal resources. And then of course, my failed marriages. Then they'd send me to the escalator where a red devil with a fork would raise his eyebrows and smile his evil smile. "Going down?" he'd ask.

But now I imagine a rather cheerful party going on behind door number three. I sign in and turn over my list of unfinished ambitions and unrealized hopes. I slide into my heaven-issue robe and go on in.
"You made it," everyone would say in unison, as if they'd been waiting but partied on to pass the time. "That parenting thing was a real killer, aye?" they'd say, slapping me on the back and pulling me into the circle and handing me a diet coke (because I can drink diet coke there and not worry about my hiatal hernia).

The questions I would have that need clarifying, aside of underarm hair, are quite numerous. So if I had to list them in terms of priority I'd begin perhaps with some easier ones like: Why exactly are we compelled to have babies, knowing full well they will inevitably become teen-agers. Okay, maybe that's too hard. World poverty perhaps is a little easier to explain.

Why are so many elderly people frightening? Have they consumed their supply of patience? Is patience a fixed amount like the number of eggs a woman can release (which I might tell upper management were far too many in my case)?

Why do some people litter and/or never stoop to scoop?

Why does it rain when I do laundry?

When did I start hating pets?

Why is my hearing reduced in inverse proportion to my state of nervousness?

Why do expectations seem so high in fast food restaurants?

Why do I buy so many books that I may never read?

Why do I need someone else to tell me I'm okay?

Why do others appear to be grown-ups when I feel like a child and I'm past my best-before-date, and do I really want to be a grown-up? Will that mean I have to age or at least notice I have aged?

Okay, this is all too difficult. I'd better go back to running and eating properly and plan to die later when I've got my list of questions sorted out.

JUST A MATTER OF GEOGRAPHY

Have you ever had a day, a week, or maybe even a month, when you wanted to run away, run away from the neighbour's barking dog and your barfing cat and your teenager's messy room and your feeling of inadequacy? You think that if you could just run out of the door, leave the iron on and the laundry on the line, and didn't even bother to grab your toothbrush, that life would be okay. You just went to the airport and they gave you a ticket to ... maybe Victoria (not much snow). You'd sit beside a small quiet person on the flight who didn't pry or snore or feel compelled to share the details of his gout with you.

When you arrived, you found a little yellow cottage in a quiet neighbourhood, with a white fence and lots of trees, fruit trees perhaps. This cottage is yours and you didn't have to unpack or jump through hoops to get it. It's just yours. And when you collapsed on the comfy tan couch with no cat or dog hair on it, you knew you had arrived at home.

No where in this house does dissatisfaction reside or loneliness or self-doubt or fear or grief or sorrow. It's just safe here and you fall asleep easily and waken refreshed and worry never bothers to wiggle its annoying self inside of you. It's a fresh start and you can be all the things you imagined yourself to be before life got in the way and shoved you off track.

I think of that person I would have been, wanted to be. She had an easy confidence about her that didn't borrow the energy of others but created her own. She understood the suffering of those she loved, cared deeply about it, but didn't own it and didn't feel responsible for it. She had a lightness to her step that came from knowing herself and smiling at the good bits and being patient with the not so good bits like a had-babies abdomen and her red face that blushes easily but not as often as it once did. She was the kind of person that felt joy for the small things like warm September days and fall flowers, Thanksgiving turkey that was moist and heaped high with savoury stuffing and creamy mashed potatoes, the sound of people laughing those genuine kind of laughs without knowing the reason because it's just the sound that matters. And someone has loved her for her whole adult life, put his arms out to shield her from the scary parts and saved her from uncertainty while she wrapped him up with her gentle hands that smoothed back the hair on his forehead and when she looked in his face, she saw all that was him and was glad for it.

In this new place, she could put her hand up and move to the front of the line. "It's my turn," she would say gently and everyone would nod and move aside while uttering, "Of course, of course."

I want to run away to this place because I'm certain it's all just a simple matter of geography.

DADS ...

I was having a bad day. I still may be having a bad day, but my brain has become more contemplative and less worried about my unfortunate circumstances. I was driving to Owen Sound, taking this turn and that, to avoid following large slow-moving vehicles. The grid-like roads in Bruce and Grey may not be sexy, but they make getting around things virtually fool-proof.

I came out on a sideroad where the school bus had just burped out three similar looking tots. Triplets? Not sure, but that's not the point. Dad was there waiting and he immediately slung three tiny backpacks over his shoulder. My heart made a noise and caused me to pull over to catch my breath.

Dads. Mine died when I was young so I'm a bit of a dad worshipper. I miss him every day of my life, but more so this time of year because I left him to go to my first year of university and a few weeks later, he left me. He died. But oh, what a dad he was!

So, I saw this dad on the side of the road and I remembered looking up at my dad and knowing, the way only children can know, that dads fix life. They save us from carrying backpacks, they scare the monsters out from under the bed without discussing whether there were any there in the first place, and they even make pancakes.

My girls don't have that. I've tried to be all things for them. I've tried too hard some days, but I'm not a dad and I can't be a dad. I can only be a mom.

Most of us eventually grow up and realize that most dads are pretty special and even resemble super-heroes on some days, but they can't save us from everything. Life sometimes knocks us down and scuffs more than our knees.

But when I saw that dad hoist the backpacks up on his shoulder and try to hold three little hands, it was nice to know there are some super-heroes out there. And I got to remember my own. He was the best sort of super-hero. He was my dad, the guy that, though he couldn't, wanted to save me from everything.

So I guess my day did get better.

I WIN!!!!!

I got a call on Friday. A very kind business-like voice from the Alzheimer Society called to inform me my short story had won their recent writing contest. I, for ten or eleven minutes, was a winner!

I felt like a winner, smiling around my empty house with no one to tell. There was a bounce to my step, I felt thinner around the middle, my hair less grey. I'm not ever aware of the wrinkles on my face (that mirror thing again) so the wrinkles didn't bother to shift. It really was quite a lovely moment.

For those ten or eleven minutes the fact that I feel unemployable, am living in a rental house of less than acceptable standards, have a cat with what seems like bulemia, that it is only day two of grade twelve and my youngest and only daughter in residence has decided that attending a mandatory assembly was just beneath her standards of acceptable activities, just didn't matter. (Talk about your run on sentence.)

If I could manage a long enough look in the mirror, I might have smiled at myself, that knowing kind of smile, coyly accepting recognition of my incredible talent, blushing, my hand on my chest.

"Me? Oh, I'm so surprised! Well, I don't have an acceptance speech prepared, but I'd like to thank the academy ...." I might have got carried away just slightly.

This writing thing is a lonely undertaking with very few accolades, very few moments in the sunshine, but ... I do so love it. In fact, I can't help myself.

So, thank you Alzheimer's Society and The Downtown Bookstore. Thank you for the opportunity and the phone call on a day when I needed a reminder that I do some things well.

AN ANGRY DAY

I'm having an angry day. It could be the flu or it could be the old lady at McDonald's today when I went in to use the washroom. Okay, that's not entirely true. I did have a burger; it was a weak moment (talk about your true confessions). Some older woman pushed another lady out of the way. I wanted to ask the pusher after she got her food if it was worth it.
"Your retirement schedule a little tight these days?" I might have asked. "Thought you'd abandon common decency to get your chicken nuggets a minute and a half sooner?"
I comforted the lady who got shoved. "Just laugh it off," I said. "She must have been really hungry." We laughed, that kind of sincere laugh where you throw your head back and you can't help yourself. Except that I was a fraud. I wasn't laughing on the inside. I wanted to go and pin a badge on the pusher's husband. Most Patient Man Alive or perhaps The Stupidest. I wanted to knock her fries on the floor and scream at the top of my lungs. I didn't, but wanting to frightened me a bit.

I've not been prone to public rage. I'm indignant in private when I watch the news and see the injustices of society that seem to prevail above all things, like weeds that grow in the harshest of circumstances. I get on my soapbox and preach with the best of them, but wanting to pop some elderly lady in the chops seems slightly inappropriate. It set the tone for the rest of my day.

My eldest daughter has gone back to school. Her Masters. She had to do an ice-breaker, a get-to-know-your-fellow-students sort of thing. We laughed about how we hate that. Aimee and I feed each other in the "I hate this or that" category. I hate dog hair. She hates lazy people. I hate toothpaste in the sink except when it's me that spits it there. She hates bureaucracy. Okay, we all hate bureaucracy. I hate being forced to be friendly. I like spontaneous friendliness, the sincere kind. I can be friendly, but I detest being forced to do so. Forced to turn to my neighbour and introduce him or her to the rest of the group. Just once I'd like to throw proper decorum out the window.

"This is Ethel," I would say. "She has bad breath. Ever think of a mint after lunch, Ethel. Throw caution to the wind and try it." Then I'd make up the rest. "Ethel here does relaxation yoga on Thursday nights instead of going to choir practice. I'm not sure what she has to relax from but each to their own. Her top teeth are artificial but other than her left eye and right foot, the rest of her is quite authentic. She frequents McDonald's and does her lunch time workout there to keep her calorie intake down by shoving unsuspecting patrons out of the way. Oops. I digress. Loretta does her hair every two weeks whether she needs it or not.

Maybe that borders on nasty. Could be the angry thing is getting the better of me. Maybe I could just jump up from my seat and throw my arms over my head and sing like Ethel Merman.

"Getting to know you, getting to know all about you." From the King and I in case you are poorly informed. I'd use my best Broadway voice. I was raised on a steady diet of show tunes. I know every word to every song from Oklahoma, My Fair Lady, South Pacific. You name it, I can sing it. Picture me with a pretend microphone in my hand, belting out my musical repertoire while the other members of the ice-breaker scene sit dumb-founded, mouths gaping. Ahhhhh, it could be grand.

Hey, I just noticed ..... my angry is gone.

hum, hum, hum

The Long Drive Home

I left her there. Laurie. Confederation College. All the way up in Thunder Bay. On her own.

I didn't cry until after, until I'd walked around the corner; felt my stomach tighten, squeezing the promise I'd made to be "cool". She looked brave, hesitant but brave. Wanting this decision she'd made about school to be the right one, feeling slightly a faded version of herself without Lloyd, the sweetest and kindest boy on earth, and without Lana, the kind of friend who loves us through everything.

We did the tour - where's the cafeteria, the most important detail. We listened to the fellow with the blowhorn assure the moms, both smalltown and otherwise, that their children were in good hands, my life's work could be entrusted with their skill and experience.

But do they know she doesn't like to ask questions, doesn't like to raise her hand and draw attention to herself? Do they know she doubts herself some times, doesn't believe in all the possibilities that are Laurie, doesn't realize she is special and gifted and unique? Do they know she likes a fan blowing in her face when she sleeps, that her MAC computer doesn't seem to want to communicate with the college's schedule? Do they know she forgot her toothbrush in the car, that she is still recovering from mono, that she can be a fussy eater, that she's quiet when she worries?

Of course, they know all these things.

But they don't know how much I'll miss her. They won't hear my voice cheering from 18 hours away for her success. They don't know I have unbelievable faith in her.

Or maybe they do.

It was a long drive home. A quiet one. A time of remembering. But also a time of imagining and feeling unbelievable excitement for Laurie. After all, it's her turn.

GROWING UP

I remember thinking that I would be changing, soaking, rinsing, washing diapers forever. I couldn't see the end of the tunnel or even a hint of the light through my ever-fatigued eyes. I spread four daughters over thirteen years and, though in hindsight that wasn't the wisest of decisions, it was fruitless to reconsider because there was no going back for a do-over.
I remember picking up shoes: barn shoes, play shoes, dress shoes, school shoes, endless shoes and silently wishing that fewer feet lived in my home (though I wouldn't have traded a single pair of those precious feet). I remember lunches and homework and last minute science projects and collecting leaves with a flashlight and typing up essays in the wee hours of the morning while correcting grammar and spelling and trying hard not to sound too much like a mother. I remember four heads of long hair of which a few succumbed to the ever-dreaded headlice. And I remember wondering if motherhood would be the end of me, my demise, my Achilles heel so to speak.
But here I am, delivering my third daughter to college in Thunder Bay next week. She has mono with a helpful dose of liver stress. She is packing and putting up a brave face and trying hard to look excited about this next adventure called her life. And I am feeling unbelievable grief. When I put myself in her shoes I feel like rubbing my hands together with excitement, imagining all the possibilities in her life, this fresh start, this discovering who she really is and who she wants to be. But there are moments when I wonder who I will be without her. She is the soft place in my life that I go to lick my wounds, to look into the most sensitive eyes that exist anywhere on earth. She is privately strong and quietly fierce and I hope she sees that side of herself when she looks in the bathroom mirror that will no longer be down the hall from my bedroom.
I've had a headache for four days and no matter how much ibuprofen I take, it just won't go away. The headache is called being someone's mother, not wanting to let go when I know I must, not wanting to cry when I know I can't help it, not wanting to beg for more days when I don't have any left in the bank, no more chances to do a better job, no more opportunities to make sure you've taught her everything she needs to know about herself and about the world.
How will I drive away and leave her in a city that is more than a sixteen hour drive away? How will I keep from crawling into her bed each night and sobbing into her pillow because I need to hear her voice and drag my fingers through her hair?
I will do it, because I am a mom and I've done it before and survived. It just worries me that this could be the one time, the one heartache that does me in. It's not good-bye, it's just ... I'll see you later. But it will never be the same. It was never supposed to be. It's called ... growing up. Me growing up, not Laurie. She's already done that.

Two Mississippi...Three Mississippi....

I took a long look in the mirror this morning. By long, I mean I did three Mississippis. That's long for me. The mirror and I are not friends, hardly even acquaintances. It's part of my new approach to life or more specifically, my new approach to me: forgiveness. And that starts with looking me in the face. Baby steps though. Start with a glance. One-Mississippi-Two-...
It's been a journey, to put it mildly. I won't get into the details just yet. We'd need a big pot of tea or a couple of bottles of wine for that. It's the stuff that fuels the writing, wiggles the pen, disturbs the sleep. And no, I'm not grateful in any way for the bumps along the road, but I am accepting. At fifty-four, it's foolish to be anything else.
I've been mothering for thirty years. As I'm writing this, it's thirty years to the day when the first labour pain popped my eyes open and I sat up abruptly from sleep. My first thought was, "Holy shit!" What was I thinking? I didn't have a clue of how to be a mother. I was having a hard time just being a someone, how on earth was I going to look after a person I didn't really know. Maybe I should reconsider and just keep walking around pregnant for my remaining days. That seemed the better choice despite grabbing on to parking meters when I walked downtown and the person inside me decided to twist her head (though I was sure it was a his head) to let my cervix know it had some work to do.
How bad could this labour thing be? My good *&^%$# grief! Who could imagine pain like that. Thirty years later I still squirm in remembrance. Still set my bottom jaw and bend my knees and lean forward at the hip and want to growl a hugeARRRGGGHHHH.
I survived. I made it through that and three more "live" births and seven of the other kind. Just details. We'll get to that. All I need to focus on is I'm still standing.That's a great start!-