A Fall Reading List For You

A word to you, dear reader:  I had included the links to all the books listed below in my original posting, but somehow the gremlins got in and the links did not work properly.  I’ve disabled the links for now, and I’ll try and fix them asap for you, so please return here if you’re interested.  Thank you, and so sorry for this.  (Really, I want to swear like a sailor and scream like a banshee, but I will refrain). 

I’ve been doing alot of reading, and realized that I have not posted about what I’ve read in a very long time.   Every day is a good day to read, but in the Fall, I start wanting to read even more.  

I recently attended an information night at my daughter’s new school (she’s in grade 7, Lord help me), where the teachers presented their curriculum for the year, and I was duly impressed with their enthusiasm and desire to teach children in that age group.  I could never be a teacher, so to me, anyone who chooses to do this of their own volition, who holds the education of children over and above their desire for advancement or to make money, has my respect.    

That night, G’s French teacher presented her material, but before she did, she began by saying that someone who reads every day holds the keys to not only understanding  themselves, others, and the world, but to learning  how to learn.   Which is very important for a teacher facing a classroom every day;  children who don’t read have a harder time learning, and eventually become adults who don’t read and can’t stay focused. 

I’m fortunate that my mother gave me this gift of reading from the time I could flip the pages of the books lining our bookcase, and thankfully P & G have inherited this same love-for-reading gene, in spite of the attention-grabbing computer and video game worlds.   I can’t imagine not reading, and next to music, reading and writing are my most favourite activities. 

Ever notice how you can tell that you’re having a conversation with a book reader  as opposed to someone who rarely reads anything more than traffic signs?   Formal education, social status,  home environment,  physical health, family……all those things are moot when it comes to talking with someone who reads on a regular basis.    I’ve tread very shallow waters talking with university graduates with great family connections, big important careers, fabulous wardrobes, perfect nails and fancy licence-plated vehicles that cost more than my yearly salary.   I can tell they don’t read (much) because the mutual interest goes no further than what’s on the outside.   The conversation quickly becomes vacuous, and eventually all about them. 

But I have done some amazing deep-water diving, talking with readers from all walks of life, who have some or  little or no formal education, family lives that are less than stellar and usually turbulent, who are unemployed or toiling at a day job while nursing that passion that burns inside of them, be it playing in a band or moonlighting as a chef, or just trying their best to be their best.   I think of the richness that has been added to my life by knowing people who were illiterate, people who would love nothing more than to be able to read but who’s circumstances have prevented them; these people give so much grace and wisdom to those around them.     There’s much to be said for not judging a book by its cover, or its past, present, and future……

People who read formulate opinions and are able to consider others’ thoughts with a little more equilibrium.  People who read can express themselves in ways that build their confidence, which comes in real handy for those who are shy.    People who read can talk about a variety of things with others, they have the opportunity to dream and let their thoughts take flight with what they’ve read.   They are stimulated  spiritually and mentally.   Not only that, but a reader’s brain undergoes all these great synapses that allows them to stay focused, to pay attention, which is important for children and adults alike.   People who read learn patience, learn how to connect ideas, they learn to take their time to learn.     

Now before there’s an uproar over the value of someone who reads over someone who doesn’t, let me clarify that someone who doesn’t read is not someone who can’t read.   Someone who can’t read probably has more skills and a finer-tuned mind than someone who can read but chooses not to.  What a waste.   I guess I can’t imagine what it would be like to be quite capable of reading, but of not being interested, of not having that fire lit inside. 

The next time you’re reading, or you see someone reading, don’t make the mistake of thinking that reading is a passive, non-engaging, anti-social activity.  There’s alot more going on than what you see, and the benefits to humanity that come from the simple act of reading are endless.  Think about that while you have a look-see at books I’ve loved reading in the past few months. 

 

Oryx and Crake  by Margaret Atwood

A gift from Mr. C., which we brought with us for Ms. Atwood’s personal autograph when we met her last November.  A thrill of a lifetime for me (thank you, Mr. C.) .  I devoured this story, and was not disappointed.

Why Do I Love These People?   by Po Bronson

This book has the capacity to renew your belief in the power of family.   Each story in this book was touching and had something in it to which I could relate.  It’s the kind of book you want to buy for everyone you know.

Night Gardening  by E.L.Swann

I know, it’s a romance.  But it’s not your ordinary romance.  It’s way more sensuous, without being ever being trashy or silly.  I think I found this book at the library book sale, and I liked the cover.  I was surprised by the central characters, who are not your typical main romance characters.   It’s a beautiful, very sensual story of two older and wiser people…..there should be more stories like this.

 

Listening Is an Act of Love : A Celebration of American Life from the StoryCorps Project

Another gift from my sweet Mr. C.  I took this book along with me when the children & I visited PEI in July 2008, to have a reminder of my husband who was still living in Florida at the time.  I would read it at night in the  little by-the-sea cottage that I had rented for the week, while the kids slept,  and I’ve re-read it since then.   Surround yourself with good things, I say.  This book  will be dog-eared, I’m sure….. it already has tea stains on it.  A sign of being loved.   

You’re In Canada Now….. A Memoir Of Sorts   by Susan Musgrave

Another twice-read book……Susan Musgrave is one of Canada’s poets and so far, her life has been veeeerrrryyyy interesting. 

Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin

I found this book at the library book sale, read it in two days, then discovered it was a teen fiction.  I don’t know why that mattered, and actually, it doesn’t.  And I’m sorry to admit that, had I known beforehand that it was a teen fiction, I never would have probably picked it up, let alone read it.   So much for not judging a book by its cover, or in this case, its gendre (I think the reason I took it WAS because of its cover!) The story is thought-provoking, the characters endearing, and I would probably read other of Ms. Zevin’s books.

 

Longing  by J.D. Landis

This was one of those $2.00 bargain books at Chapters (which they don’t have anymore….that store really has changed over the past few months…..it’s not so much fun to go there anymore, but that’s another story for another day).  The story intrigued me, and when I began to read it, my intrigue continued to grow.  This is a book that makes you want to learn more and more about what  you’re reading, about the characters (in this case Schumann & Wieke), about the historical places and events that were going on, it makes you want to seek out their classical compositions and find performances of their work on YouTube.  This is a book that you underline passages, because they are so well-written, or they have struck that C chord in your heart.  I will have to re-read this book a second time, but much slower.  The first time, I was reading it through, anxious and wanting to know what was going to happen next.  It was like eating all the chocolates that I could in one sitting, and knowing they tasted good and sweet, but not really getting the chocolate high, you know?  The next time I read this book, I will savour it and take my time to research the historical characters as I come upon them in the book, so that I can have a better context.    

How To Lose Friends & Alienate People:  A Memoir  by Toby Young

OMG! OMG! OMG!  Read the book then see the movie, like Mr. C. did, or see the movie then read the book, like I did.  But do both.  This was a hilarious read, and much deeper and thought-provoking than I thought it would be, after seeing the movie.   Despite all that he says and does, in the end I was cheering for him.  I’m looking forward to reading his next one. 

The Weight of Water  by Anita Shreve

A dramatic account of an historical event on the U.S. east coast, this author has magically woven a very different past and present into a story where crossroads are reached and to continue the journey requires courage and trust. 

 

Homer & Langley  by E.L.Doctorow

Holy moly, what a discovery I’ve made!  When I saw this new book in the New Arrivals section at the library, I quickly nabbed it.  Hot off the presses!   And I was not sorry.  The story itself is fascinating, but I’ll let you read the book and its reviews.   Go on Wikipedia and search for the Collyer Brothers AFTER you’ve read the book.   What entranced me was  E.L. Doctorow’s writing style.  He is an American treasure who  transforms words into works of art.  This was a book where not only did I lose myself in the story, but I found myself reading and re-reading passages because of  the sheer beauty and genius of this writer.     And imagine my delight when I was looking at the book titles in our bookcase at home, and came across E.L. Doctorow’s Sweet Land Stories!  I must have got this book somewhere along the way and shelved it for a rainy day……Ah, would you look at that, it’s raining……

To you, dear reader,  I thank you for taking time out of your day to read my thoughts on reading, and I hope these book recommendations will give you hours of enjoyment and lead you to other writings that bring goodness to your life.  See?  That’s another, lesser-known benefit of reading:  someone is thankful you read their stuff.  

Love,

Chantal

Being

End-of-the-school-year (G is gone camping for 3 days with her class, little graduation ceremonies, school concerts, outings).        Soccer season starts (P is playing competitive soccer this summer, which means 2 games per week  one hour after I get off work, which means rushing to pick him up at school, then trying to find time to get something nutritious in his body, then get him to his game on time…..plus practices and tournaments…..need to find alternative to McD’s….find time this weekend to come up with fast easy things to eat that can be prepared at home & taken along).       Mr. C has a new job (have to brush up my massage skills to counter those 10-hour days on his feet….and need to make those minutes left over at the end of the day count.   It’s nice to take care of those you love).     New digs await us in a few weeks (we haven’t started packing yet…..but we are SO ready for our new place with THREE bedrooms!  No more mouldy apartment……).    Meeting my new sisters-in-law (SIX of them!) and their families next week at a family wedding for which I don’t have a dress yet…….I tried one on yesterday, a nice cream silky number with a beautiful purple flower print & a sash, except I looked like a big grape   (no pressure, I still have 7 shopping days left……minus 3 soccer nights and one child’s friend’s birthday party evening, so 3.5 days left, really….ok, there’s a little bit of pressure there); need to find something that makes me look like I am, a happy woman, wife and mother, not something that makes me look like I’m rushing from one thing to the next, trying to keep up with this culture that imposes too much on everybody, and certainly something that doesn’t make me look like a giant fruit, no matter how tasty. 

So I’m taking this little moment with you, to breathe and thank God for all my blessings.  I don’t usually like to ask Him for favours, but if I can be given what I need, to be the mother, the wife, the woman that I have to be, that’s all I can ask for.  And I’m willing to put all my energy into being that being.   In spite of my human frailties.   Maybe because I’m such a human.

Blessings to you as you go on living your day and being your own being for those you love. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Wolf Cub, Do Your Best

He stood in the centre of his pack, promising to do his best.  Straight as an arrow he stood, shy,  his cheeks a little flushed when he unexpectedly had to say why he wanted to be a cub (“Because I love the Scouts and I want to have experience”). 

My son made his Wolf Cub Promise last night, to do his best, to love and serve God, and to do a good turn for someone everyday.  For three weeks, we’ve been talking and practising, going over the motto, the law, the maxims, the left-handed handshake, the hand sign.  As we drove to the school gymnasium, he was nervous, worried he would forget what he had learned in front of his pack. 

I reminded him that his grandfather, my dad, was a Scout Leader for decades, and one who was much loved and respected by the youth he guided and by the other leaders that he worked alongside.  I told P that his grandfather was smiling down on him right now, and that P should remember this when he was making his promise:  that my father was also a very shy man who overcame it to serve others all of his life, a Scout through and through. 

P’s father attended the little ceremony as well, and we took lots of pictures.  When P received his neckerchief and his badges, as well as his Good Deed coin, he was beaming, and so were we.  As the Cubs sang out their song of praise and guidance, my thoughts went to my father, wishing he could be here to know my boy, to witness this little moment in a school gym, just as he had attended countless ceremonies like this in his day for boys who have grown into men, men who hold special memories of my father as their Scout leader.  

When we arrived home, P showed his treasures to Mr. C., and we looked at the pictures from the ceremony.   I took P aside and presented him with a gift on this special day:  12 years ago, the Scouts held a Jamboree, and presented my father with a special plaque, honouring him for his dedication and hard work throughout his life for the Scout movement.  Translated, it reads:   For you, Victor.  You are always ready to help the Scouts without expecting any reward.  Baden Powell would be proud of you as we all are.  The District thanks you.

When P unwrapped the plaque, I explained what it was, how my father had been so proud to receive it that summer day, how he would have wanted P to have it, and how I was now passing it on to him.  The look of sincere joy on my son’s face said it all.  He had been asking to see my father’s mementoes from his scouting days for some time, and I kept putting it off.  I’m glad I waited until this moment.  I know P did not expect me to actually GIVE him something of my father’s, so that made it all the sweeter.

The plaque now rests in P’s room, on a shelf he cleared especially for his Cub Scout things.    This warms my heart to no end, to be reminded of my father through my son’s experiences as a Wolf Cub.  As I told P after giving him the plaque:  You are a generous boy, and you have an open heart, full of love for others,  always ready to do your best.  Just like your grandfather. 

P thinks being in Cub Scouts is the best thing, and he thanks me often for signing him up, even though he was extremely shy.   After last night, though, I think sometimes it’s a gift I gave myself, to see and feel my father again. 

Dad, your grandson’s tenderpads have toughened up…..he’s ready to follow his pack on their adventures.  You would be proud of him……

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Honey, I Think There’s A Teardrop On My Letter

“He can come Friday night if he doesn’t cry for you on Saturday night.  And he can’t be following me around, clinging to me 24/7.   It’s up to him.   And if  he starts coming here every other Friday night, too, we’ll have to revisit the financial arrangement.”

I hung up the receiver, swallowed the lump in my throat, and turned to the pile of  letters on my desk.  They needed my signature, gotta mail them out, they’re dated today.  Don’t cry.   Pick  up the pen and sign your letters, if not, they’ll be stale-dated and you know what that means…..you’ll have to re-do them.   Don’t cry.  Drink some tea; it’s hard to cry when you drink something. 

Ok, deep breath and don’t don’t don’t think about how your heart is breaking for your little guy.   Don’t think about how you are still regretting separating from the children’s father nearly five years ago now,  because of the hurt and pain that the divorce has caused.   Don’t think of how callous and selfish Father of Children sounded when he firmly stated that P can come one extra night if he meets his criteria (no crying, and he has to keep himself busy).  Don’t think of how you can’t imagine yourself ever saying: “Nope, I don’t want P to stay with us if he cries because he misses you.”  or “Here, take your daughter, she’s driving me crazy and I can’t live with her anymore.”  You know you’ve thought those things, everybody does, but you’d never say it, and you certainly wouldn’t follow through on it.   Don’t think about how you would much rather put up with some crying at night then seeing your boy only 4 days a month.  Don’t think about how selfish YOU sound, worrying about your kids’ hearts and feelings when so many children have it WAY harder than yours do.  More guilt.   Don’t think of  how much P is missing out on his life with his father, with his little baby brother whom he adores.  Don’t think of how P is at the age when he wants to be his Dad’s shadow,        10 years old is when your Dad is The Superhero Of The World, isn’t it?   Don’t think of how P is slowly being alienated.  Don’t think of how this never would be happening  if you hadn’t left that marriage  in the first place, so this is your fault again.   Don’t think of the guilt you feel about the divorce, don’t think about the guilt, don’t think about guilt, don’t think…..don’t think.   

Too late.

I set the pen down, put my elbows on my desk and hold my head in my hands.  Defeat and sadness wash over me.  I don’t even realize I have tears rolling down until I hear one teardrop hit the letter, Mr. Client 28476’s letter.   Shoot….that kind of snaps me out of it, and I quickly soak it up with a tissue, blow my nose and hope to heck nobody walks by my desk with a cheery good morning.   Surely, the person who sits on the other side of me will wonder what the heck all the sniffling’s about.

I look at Mr. Client 28476’s letter and the teardrop has dried up, no wrinkly spot.  Good.  Phew.  I sign it, and think about Mr. Client 28476 receiving this letter with my now-invisible teardrop.   He’ll never know that the letter-writer was having a melt-down while she signed it.   He’ll never know that in the margin of his official-looking letter, there’s the trace of sodium chloride and water, a tiny unproductive pool of sadness and sorrow.  

Can someone pass the hugs and the chocolate, now?

Ok, I’m at work, you can’t hail a hug like you hail a taxi.   But I get the next best thing….Mr. C calls before I go for lunch, and I fill him in on my depressing  morning conversation with P & G’s father.  In his reliable, comforting way, my husband manages to lift my spirits and renew my confidence in myself, without bringing down the father of my children.   Sitting at my desk, listening to his words through the receiver, I can feel his arms around me, his hands smoothing my hair back, kissing my tears away; the chocolate is melting in my mouth.    My afternoon is much better, and a phone call from P, fresh and so hyped up  from his first day at soccer camp, is all I need to restore my faith in my ability to keep doing the right thing by my family, despite the guilt. 

I realize this might not be a big deal compared to what you may be going through, and because I know this,  I really try to keep things in perspective.  Sometimes though, telling yourself  it’s no big deal is the same as repression, which leads to depression, which is anger turned inward.   Know that I’m offering up my struggles for you, so that you can have hugs & chocolate, too, when you need them.  

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

From Mayberry to Sud-Berry

Do I have to tell you that parenting is not for wimps?  Of course not.  You know this already.   Everybody knows that.  You learn this from the moment you begin to express in public your desire to have children.  Everyone and his dog will tell you how having children is the easy part, it’s raising them that tests your mettle.    Somehow, the instinct and desire to procreate tunes out the part that warns of the boatloads of patience and consistency that you’ll need.   THAT YOU MIGHT NOT HAVE.  Somehow, you BELIEVE people when they say “Watching them sleep at night makes all those struggles during the day worthwhile.”   Somehow, you think that once you’ve cleared the baby years and the toddler years and the pre-school years and those pre pre-teen years, that you’re home free, piece of cake.   Somehow, you think that the diapers, the nursing, the trying-to-figure-out-what-that-crying-means, the YEARS OF NOT SLEEPING, are things of the past once your children enter their pre-teen years. 

WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!  Diapers are replaced with you constantly reminding them of the importance of DAILY bathing,  the challenges of nursing are replaced with the challenges of how to get nutrition into their bodies without actually resorting to something resembling a torture chair, and what used to be called the  Name That Cry game  has now been expanded to Name That Attitude/Whine/Mood Swing game, Version 6.8.  The only thing that remains consistent are the years of not sleeping…..they sleep, but you, on the other hand, cannot for the life of you teach your body to unlearn sleeplessness. 

Now, close your eyes and imagine yourself trying to do your parenting thing, with all its faults and inconsistencies, all its mistakes and failures, on your own, without a partner to support you.   That’s one challenge many of us face.  Now, close your eyes again, and imagine yourself finding the love of your life, bringing that person into your family circle, and trying to do your parenting thing, your faulty, inconsistent, failing parenting thing in full view of your new spouse.  You would think that having someone by your side would make things better.  And it does, truly nothing can beat having someone who loves you in your corner. 

But I didn’t think it all the way through, you see.  I was looking at all the benefits and the positive impact on myself that having my new husband in our lives would make.  And those benefits really do outweigh the struggles, just as the little moments spent with my kids that make my heart swell with love for them outweigh the maddening moments when I bite my tongue from wondering out loud “Who ARE these children, and please take them back!”.  

What surprised me, and you can go ahead and call me naive because you’d be right, was how I did not anticipate that when things sometimes get chaotic in our family, and I’m called upon once again to mediate, to lead by example, to lovingly and patiently correct behaviour when all I wish for is a mute button,  I feel like the parenting spotlight is shining on me even brighter.  I see all of my shortcomings, all of my flaws are highlighted and magnified for the love of my life to see. 

It’s embarrassing.  I am so not ready for that close-up.  Thankfully, I’m slowly learning that Mr. C. wears glasses coloured with love and understanding. 

Becoming a blended family is a delicate dance.  The adults in the relationship need to have a very strong attachment to each other, because their committment and love for each other forms the core around which they ALL dance.   It’s like a maypole, festooned with ribbons, and each person holds a ribbon in their hands, dancing around.   When the pole to which the ribbons are attached is strong and supportive, the dance will continue on, even if the ribbons get tangled and some dancers miss a few steps; in its consistency, strength and unwavering support, the pole (like the couple’s love) gives each dancer what they need to continue.   Support.  Forgiveness. Love. Understanding.   

Since Mr. C’s arrival in our family, he & I have had to be patient as our love for each other reveals itself to be a strong core for our family.  I marvel at my husband’s inner fortitude, and his ability to continually give me his support and optimism, in spite of seeing me at my weakest mother-moments.  Mr. C, in all of his imperfectness, is perfect for me, especially for the Mom-me (ok, he’s perfect for the womanly-woman-me, and the creative-woman-me, and the spiritual-woman-me…..heck, he’s just so perfect for me, but you get what I mean).  So what does Mayberry have to do with all of this?  I’m glad you asked.

My husband is a movie-buff, especially old black-and-whites.  When he arrived, he brought boxes of DVDs, filled with movies and TV shows.  Sometimes the kids will ask to root through the boxes, but their attraction to and appreciation for old black-and-whites are not as developed yet.  But one day, Mr. C. took out a boxed set of the Andy Griffith Show.  He had been home with P, who was sick, and they watched an episode or two together.  That night, P told his sister about Opie and the gang, and so we sat down on Sunday evening to watch the first DVD.  I had heard of the Andy Griffith Show, of course, from my parents and sisters, but I had never watched it on TV.    But it had been a week of high tension in the household, and although I was very skeptical that my 12-year-old daughter would sit through an episode without rolling her eyes or casting criticism, I was looking forward to all of us watching something different. 

Kids will surprise you. 

Mr. C. & I kept looking at each other over the kids heads, and smiling in that ”Ah-Ha we’re on to something!” way, as the kids laughed and enjoyed one episode after another.   To our amazement, the kids loved it.   Heck, I loved it!   Whatever it is about that TV series, it works.    The more we watch it together as a family, the more we laugh at their corny jokes, the more we wonder what life was like when haircuts were 25 cents,  the more we talk afterwards about the morals of the stories.  I know it’s scripted and all that, but sometimes seeing someone else dealing with issues in a way that’s respectful of others helps me in my own life.   

We now have regular screenings of the Andy Griffith Show (we may have to buy the next boxed set, Mr. C.),  it’s something we all look forward to watching together; no one’s drifting off in the middle of the show to do something else, and I still get a charge out of hearing the kids or Mr. C. laugh at Barney Fife’s antics.  Since Mayberry has come into our living room, the tangled ribbons of our maypole have untangled somewhat, giving us the much-needed breathing room to once again be able to offer each other support and love.  It’s not a TV show from the 60s that can miraculously erase all the hurts, but for us, it was a small bridge that we crossed together, to reach a new place to continue our blended-family dance. 

I’ve been working on this post for awhile now, and it’s fitting that I’m done writing it today, because today is Mr. C’s birthday……in all that he does for us, with all of the right things that he instinctively knows to say at the right time to make us all feel like we are shining stars, in all the little ways that he lightens my load, I’m convinced that HE is a gift to the kids and I.   During one episode of the Andy Griffith Show, Opie asks Andy:  “Is there anything I can do for YOU, Paw?”    To which my son turned to me and said: ” Hey!  That’s what Mr. C. says to you EVERY day!” 

Happy birthday, Sweetie…..

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxoxo

Growing Pains

My son has a simple concussion.  So said the emergency room doctor.  P was sitting on a bench in the gym at school, bent over to tie his skates, getting ready to enjoy the outdoor rink with his classmates, when the kid sitting across from him managed to whack him on the bridge of his nose with his skate blade, which was covered with a skateguard THANK GOD.   I don’t know how one’s foot can accidentally come up suddenly and so hard that it nearly knocked P unconscious, but it did….especially when the foot in question is attached to the body of a child known to be more than a handful.    I guess it’s not that hard to imagine  a class of 10-year-olds fidgeting around, anxious to get out on the rink, one can easily picture a kid sitting there, dangling his legs, waiting for the teacher’s all-clear to go outside, trying hard to be patient, then….WHACK! 

P said he fell forward, then couldn’t remember what happened or what people were saying.     The secretary called me at work, explained what happened, that his nose was very purple and he was in pain.  On the way there, I mentally prepared myself to what I might see (she hadn’t mentioned blood, so that was good), and I set my face in an expression of tender motherly concern, with my mouth glued in the form of a gentle, it’s-gonna-be-alright smile.  If the injury was horrible, I didn’t want P to be shocked by my shock.  

But it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting……his nose seemed somewhat swollen, but apparently the swelling had gone down quite a bit thanks to an ice-pack.  He was sleepy, though, and dizzy, and had blurry vision….time to head to the hospital.   In the end, the doctor declared him neurologically-sound, and that the concussion symptoms should clear up within the week. 

P’s injury today brought back the time when my daughter G choked on a rubber toy a few years ago….that was an ambulance ride we won’t soon forget.  http://crrz07.wordpress.com/2007/08/01/deja-vu/ .    

I’m afraid I really didn’t have any direction that I wanted to take by writing this post, nor do I have any particular message or life-lesson.   No rhyme or reason.   I just needed to write this out.  It’s been a very emotional  walk in the Parenting Park lately, one that is testing my motherhood mettle.  My daughter G has been feeling the consequences  of making bad choices, which means that I’m the one making her feel those consequences.  Tomorrow morning, her father & I meet with her teacher to discuss G’s behaviour at school (it’s a little jarring to hear several teachers tell you that G is not the girl they know her to be).  I’ve decided not to give a detailed account of what’s been happening in the past six weeks, because I don’t think I would feel too good if my mother blogged about my behaviour to the whole world.    Let’s just say that  pre-teens are a whole different animal.  

I can’t be sure that I’m ready though.   I’ve gone through some heavy thinking lately, as opposed to heavy drinking, to which heavy thinking about family life can sometimes lead to; thankfully not in my case (but I’ve thought about it!).  Anyhow, back to my heavy thinking about being a parent…..so I cycle around & around the block of guilt, spinning my wheels….I return to the fountain of regret and soak long enough to watch my toes turn into wrinkly raisins…. I run through the forest of anger (at myself, at God, and ultimately back at myself)……Then, tired & spent,  I sulk in the What-Did-I-Do-To-Deserve-This sandbox.  

Our children really are like gifts…..when you open a gift, you have no idea what’s in it.  What if it’s something you don’t really like?  We don’t select our kids like we select a pair of shoes or a box of chocolates.   We accept our children graciously, through Grace, with Grace, because of Grace…..and we do our best to love them through all of the joys, pains, triumphs and disappointments.   

Because for them, we are also like a gift……children can’t choose their parents any more than parents can choose their children.   With Grace, we can help our children grow into the gifts that they are.  And hope that we become the parents that they need. 

 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Dear Little Blog

I’m sorry.  I’ve been neglecting you.  I HAVE been thinking about you, but that doesn’t quite cut it, does it?  So what if I’m thinking of you?  Thoughts are not the same as giving attention, nurturing, loving, caring.  So what if I have a gazillion thoughts and ideas in my head, a myriad of things I want to fill you up with, dear little Blog?  They mean nothing if I can’t find the wherewithal to even come into your house with my special pass key.   I sometimes feel so neglectful of you, that I can’t even face the screen that asks for my user name and password.  What if you spurn me, what if you pout and don’t ever want to open yourself up to me again?  What if I let this go so long that I can’t find the passion that I felt initially?  Or the courage to even come and say hello?

It’s kind of been like a crisis, trying to regain my momentum and write again.  Never mind the momentum…it’s balance that I’m seeking.   Equilibrium.  I know where the answer lies…..I know I just have to let it be and it will come.  That the more I look to be balanced, the more it eludes me. 

http://fc69.deviantart.com/fs32/f/2008/231/7/4/Rotational_Equilibrium_by_xentek.jpg

In my defence, I do want to let you know, dear little Blog, that I have had reasons for not visiting you, let alone spending a few hours with you where you gladly take in my musings.  You know my family life has changed a little now,  my husband is by my side, my son is now living with us full time while my daughter continues alternating between our home and her father’s home.  There are MANY things that require one’s attention when one becomes a blended family, and although every night my husband and I remark that despite the struggles we feel that things are going much better than we expected, there are still alot of emotions and personalities to consider. 

And at work, lots of changes there, too, that need some getting used to.    And my faith, I sometimes struggle, sometimes not….And I’m not sleeping so good.  And I need to exercise more but don’t feel like it because I’m not sleeping so good.  And I’d like to not be so darn sensitive and cry at the drop of a hat.   And children need their mother, even when they act like they don’t, even when they cause you worries and tender moments, sometimes back-to-back.    I seem to be whining, dear little Blog, as if I’m finding excuses and justifications to ignore you, but I’m not.  I have everything to be thankful for, and  so much to write about, but these things that form the core of my life are all-consuming at the moment. 

So here’ s my olive branch, I ask you just to be patient a little while longer, dear little Blog, while I try to find the center, knowing that I get such pleasure and satisfaction, and deep personal gratification from sitting down and filling you up with my thoughts. 

 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Waiting For Ballast

It’s 4am.  I should be sleeping.  But I’m not.  I’m here, with you, dear Blogfriend.   

I feel stuck.  Some parts of my life are on hold, waiting patiently for the days of glory to finally arrive; I know they will, it’s the waiting part that gets a little hard sometimes.    Some parts are stuck in this adjustment and adaptation of trying to have a normal life, when in fact it’s only myself that I feel I’m fooling in this adjust/adapt dance (I know, I know, who has a normal life, eh?).  Some parts are making me feel irrelevant, like I’ve  overstayed my welcome, which kind of hurts when I’ve come to see those parts as forming my friendship base.  Some parts are sorrow-filled cups of melancholy of not being able to be with those I love; we all live that to a certain extent, I know this.  Some parts are frustrating me with their chronic unfulfilling agendas, in an environment that I look forward to being away from more and more.  Some parts are lying dormant,  they’ve fallen to slaves of Master Time,  they’re censored by outside factors or by my own over-developed sense of thinking too much and second-guessing myself.  Spinning my wheels instead of just doing it, whatever “it” is.   Some parts are waiting for me to let them go, some parts I wish would let ME go, with their tentacles of guilt and regret. 

And I’m crying all the time.  Even as I type out those words, tears come to my eyes, and now I have to pause to blow my nose.    I realize that, at this time of my cycle, I cry easily.  But this just feels like more than your regular emotional pre-menstrual run-up.  It often comes out of nowhere, unheeded, triggered by the slightest things that I won’t enumerate here because I’ll just start crying again.  It’s affecting my work, my life with my family, my driving, my own sense of self-control (I don’t seem to have any).  It prevents me from talking with others if I happen to feel I’m in that crying-zone, I refrain from stating my opinion for fear that my passion about something will only cause me to start crying, I’ve become a pro at changing the subject and refocusing the attention on the other person, away from something that I might find too emotional.  It’s frustrating and I’m tired of it.   I wake up (when I get some sleep) with puffy eyelids from crying the night before, which makes me cry again, because putting mascara on eyelashes that jut out from puffy eyelids results in smears, no matter how careful you are. 

So if anyone knows of anyone who suffers from crying jags like this, please please hold them and tell them it will be ok.  It will probably make them cry even more, but crying when you’re being hugged feels much better than trying to suppress your sobs alone at your desk,  or alone at the kitchen counter while you try to make alot of noise in the sink in an effort to channel your tears into something productive, or alone in the bathtub, or alone in your bed with the covers pulled tight around you like you did when you were little and scared of the dark.

And my dreams, I dream all the time, sometimes several dreams in one night.  I remember most of them vividly, like the one I had before waking you up, dear Blogfriend…….In my dream, I had slept in the same bedroom as my children, but I had gone to bed before them, for some reason.  In my dream, I woke up early, before dawn, (like I do in my waking life), and saw them sleeping in the dark.  I quietly walked out, into the bathroom, and discovered I had started my period.  And I seemed happy about this.  In my dream, I was only on day 22 of my cycle, just like I am in my waking life.  But in my dream, I was thinking to myself that I must be pre-menopausal, if my period is beginning to be erratic.   And I seemed happy about this, too.  It was a calm dream, even towards the end when my son was crying because he had an accident outside the bathroom door, where he had been knocking & knocking with urgency, but I couldn’t hear him. 

Then I woke up, saw it was 3am, and couldn’t get back to sleep.   I could make alot out of this dream…..my children are at their father’s this week, so I’m dreaming of them because I miss them.  The part about starting my period early is probably related to all this crying and me trying to find a sane explanation for it, hoping that it’s hormonal.  The last part, about my son crying at the door just makes me feel sad, and that when divorce is a part of your life, just like most losses,  you feel incapable of being the complete parent that you want to be. 

And the calmness throughout the dream?   I think it has alot to do with how I feel when my children are away:  when they’re with me, life is busy and fraught with laughter and arguing and shouting, going to school, going to work, and getting on with the joy of being together even if we often have “episodes”.   When my children are away, I turn inwards and think about how much I love being their mother, despite our difficulties, which I don’t always think about when we’re right in the trenches, so to speak.  It’s like when you watch your children sleeping before turning in at night, after a full day of family living: you feel that calmness come over you, you’re grateful for having had one more day as a parent, for having lived through joys and tears and frustrations.

You know how sometimes, in life, you’re faced with situations that all seem to be going nowhere, all at the same time?   And then something happens, a door cracks open, and the rest falls into place?  Maybe that’s why all these parts in my life seem stuck, maybe that calm feeling in my dream was there to show me to trust in what I’ve been given, that all those stuck parts are gifts, and that ballast is on its way…. 

Excuse me while I blow my nose again……sheesh.

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Et tu, Vegan?

A few months ago, I adopted a vegan way of eating.  It was a natural progression for me, as I had been vegetarian for about a year prior to that, so eliminating all animal products from my diet as much as possible was an easier accomplishment than giving up caffeine was.   Going caffeine-free was physically painful for a few weeks, whereas there were no negative effects to becoming vegan. 

Except the social ones.

I did not become a vegan to judge other people’s ways of eating or living.  I still feed my children animal products (although on a much lesser scale than before), for several reasons.  They divide their time between my home and their father’s non-vegan home, and I need to respect that.   I don’t impose my choices about food on my children, on my husband, on my friends.  If I’m invited for a meal somewhere, I rarely mention that I’m a vegan; I’ll just pass on what I don’t eat, and load up on what I DO eat.  If asked by my host if I’d like a piece of that pork tenderloin, I’ll just say “No, thanks”, and comment on what a great meal they’ve prepared.   Having manners and being polite is about putting other people at ease, which I feel is more important than imposing my views.   Unless I was allergic, I don’t feel it’s necessary to advise in advance that I’m a vegan.  Of course, the topic might come up, and then I’m fine with discussing it, but other than that, you probably wouldn’t know I was a vegan unless I told you I was.

When I’m asked why I became a vegan, I usually say it’s because I want to be healthier.  Which is true.  My first reason is that this is about me.   But it’s not the only reason.   Here are reasons number 1098, 1099, and 1100:

After being vegetarian for a while, I read  Slaughterhouse: The Shocking Story of Greed, Neglect, and Inhumane Treatment Inside the U.S. Meat Industry by Gail A. Eisnitz.    I’ll warn you right now, if you decide to read this book, be prepared to be emotionally affected.  And probably physically ill.   But knowledge is power, not the kind of power to dominate, but the kind that gives freedom for people to make this world better.  

I receive email health hazard alerts, product recalls, and food-poisoning outbreaks from the Canadian Food Inspection Agency   http://www.inspection.gc.ca/english/toce.shtml.  As my daughter has allergies to nuts, it’s sometimes helpful to know when a food manufacturer has failed to indicate on their labels that a product does in fact contain nuts.  With the recent listeriosis outbreak in Canada, I’ve been receiving on average TEN emails per day from the CFIA, with the subject heading as Listeria.  Another reason I’m grateful for being a vegan.  In fact, it’s this recent deadly meat crisis that has prompted me to write this post.   Nine people have died so far from this. http://www.cbc.ca/health/story/2008/08/29/listeria-fri.html   As I’m editing this post, I’ve just read that one person has died and 87 others are infected with salmonellosis in Québec. http://www.cbc.ca/health/story/2008/08/29/samomella-que.html

Being a vegan is challenging in the sense that you need to pay attention to what you’re putting in your mouth, and finding acceptable food subsitutes can be tricky.  But it’s dealing with the social aspects of being a vegan that can sometimes get on my nerves.  Ok, really it’s dealing with narrow-minded nincompoops that gets on my nerves.  When you tell someone who is not a vegan about your being a vegan, you will be put on the defensive, even if you’re not skating defense.   You would think that you are stabbing them in the back by their surprised and dismayed reaction, as if you’ve betrayed the human race.  People react to a vegan the same way they react when the topic of religion comes up.  They’ll pull all they know out of their brains to counter anything positive you might say about veganism.  Heck, you might’ve only uttered those three little words, “I am vegan”, without any malice or without passing any judgement on their lifestyle, just as a general non-offending comment, and they’ll immediately rip you up and down with fallacies and misguided facts on nutrition.  Then they’ll smugly say something like “Ha, I bet you still eat chocolate, though? Eh?  A chocolate-eating vegan!  Yeah, that makes alot of sense.”  This from the mouths who chow down on hormone-injected dead flesh, who suck in over 4,000 chemicals in 10 minutes on their cigarettes, who think pop is a good subsitute for water.   Whoops, guess I’m passing judgement there….I never said I was perfect.

In fact, I know I’m not a perfect vegan.  When my children have a blast baking up a storm in the kitchen on a rainy afternoon, and they go through great efforts to create a tea party in the dining room, AS IF I’m going to refuse to taste their gooey brownies or their chocolate toffee bars!  To me, the experience of feeling close with my kids, seeing their expectant eyes as I bite into their yummy treats, and their mile-wide smiles knowing we’re sharing way more than just food, is for me as nourishing and transcendental as prayer.  And as much as I’m willing to break my vegan “rules” for my children, they along with my husband are also my main reason for trying to take care of myself as best I can. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Wanted: Professional Eggshell-Walker

Having a pre-teen daughter makes you grow up real fast as a parent.  Up until this time, you have been a parent-in-training, a rookie.  Ha, and you thought you had graduated to your senior year as a parent once your daughter became a tween.  No no no, now you are on probation, in Purgatory, you need to be purified before you can earn your wings.  And the purification is done by fire, not water, which might make Hell look just as good.    

I was a girl once, I’ve gone through puberty, I should have an edge in understanding & knowing what to do with my own daughter.  But I forget what it was like.  I think that’s a natural design because why on earth you would want to remember that time in your life is beyond me.   And yet, with every angst-filled moment that I spend with G, I cringe with memories of that awkard stage. 

Even if I have gone through the first 11 years of her life with her, I am not prepared for this pre-teen-toddler that my daughter has become.  Even if I have listened to and thought I understood what other parents of pre-teens were going through as they described the tantrum-du-jour of their little Jeckyll and Hyde, I know for certain that nothing can prepare you for this:

G (opening & closing every kitchen cupboard, including the cutlery drawers):  Don’t you have ANY snacks for the movie tonight?

Me:  Well, I can make some pop…..

G:   LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!!  (stomp stomp stomp slam)

Me:  ….corn……(oooookkaayyyyyy……)

Five minutes later, as I’m making popcorn for her brother: 

G (smiling…no really, it’s a real smile):  Can I have some, too? 

Me (who are you and what have you done with the diva-tween who lives here?):  Sure, you bet……(please God, let there be enough of her favourite popcorn seasoning left…I don’t think we can survive two fires within 5 minutes of each other….).

This is a minor one, there have been more serious tantrums and outbursts that have kept me awake at night, days of feeling it’s been one big long never-ending trail of anger & nastiness.  And I know there will be more to come (thank you, Mr. C. for your unwavering support from a thousand miles away….). 

Lately, bickering is almost a constant, the days have rudeness on the menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  Long, interminable days of me counting the minutes until the next explosion (so far, 10 minutes is the record to beat)…..moments where I feel there is no hope,  that I’m missing the boat in giving her what she needs, because obviously if I did then she would not be swinging like Tarzan between such strong emotions (I forget that hormones are at work here).  I look forward to bedtime & lights out so I can have some time to go over WHAT THE HECK HAPPENED TODAY WITH THAT CHILD, and find a better way to be a mom to this sweet-and-sour girl….  

As I tuck her in, something about that time of the night lets her unlock her heart, finally.   I become privileged to her trust, which she is very careful of protecting to begin with (sounds familiar), and so I know that in this moment, I better step up to the plate, or else risk losing her.  I inhale deeply, lay my hand on her head…..and so the sadness pours out of her, and it triggers in me something from far away.  I recognize her pain in the girl I once was, especially the pain of trying to say what was in my heart and being told to stop crying already.   

I listen to my girl-on-the-verge, I soothe and I listen as she tells me her feelings of being left out since her stepbrother was born a few months ago, and how she feels she’s not important to her dad & stepmom, that she can’t do anything right when she’s there, that her brother P can do no wrong in their eyes, that the baby cries alot…..

And like a baby, she cries in my arms, big sobs and gulps, lots of Kleenex.    In a way, I’m so grateful that she’s feeling sad and wants me to hold her while she cries, because G is very much a hands-off kid who at best, tolerates hugs (she’s invented the Sideways Hug, where if she’s asked for a hug, she’ll turn her body sideways and hug you with one arm while her other hand pushes you away).   But in these bedtime confessionals, it’s really me who’s receiving absolution:  I’m given the reason for why I became her mother.  Not just a mother, but her mother.  My parental insecurities and doubts fade away,  my anger and resentment at her outbursts and mood swings of the day dissipate, as do my hurt feelings at taking her negative behaviour towards me personally.  

In her sadness and pain, I’m the one she turns to, I’m the one she wants comfort from, even if moments earlier, I was the Wicked Witch of the West. 

This is what God must feel like.   

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo