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!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, September 21, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
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 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.
Monday, September 14, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
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
"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
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
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.
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.
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