Billy Bob: Take Off, Eh?

Note to you, dear reader:  When I started this post at around 9pm, the interview was on YouTube, I uploaded it on my post so that you could see it.  I’m double-checking it as I always do before I publish a post, and lo and behold, at 11:15pm, YouTube states that “We’re sorry, this video is no longer available”.   ISN’T THAT CONVENIENT?!?  I’m thinking SOMEbody has his hillbilly knickers in a knot…… I’ll give you the link anyways, in case it miraculously becomes available, but if it doesn’t load after 30 seconds, you know something’s up:   

UPDATE AS OF April 9 at 7:00AM:  THE LINK TO THE INTERVIEW NOW WORKS JUST FINE   SO GO AHEAD AND CLICK ON IT FOR THE FULL EFFECT:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJWS6qyy7bw

I found this unofficial but excellent version of the interview’s transcript, which might help put things into context for you (and this blogger is pretty interesting, too!): 

http://rankin-inlet.blogspot.com/2009/04/almost-complete-transcript-of-billy-bob.html

However you read this, it’s up to you……So here we go, with a one and a two and a one two three four:

Billy Bob Thornton says Canadians are mashed potatoes without the gravy.  Canadians are very open-minded about their music, but I’d be surprised if The Boxmasters succeed to turn ”gravy-less” bland, unresponsive Canadian concert-goers on to their brand of music after Mr. Thornton’s less-than stellar interview.   I was embarrassed for his band members, who seemed to genuinely want to talk about their music.   Watching the interview, you could tell that they knew what was coming, they could see the top of Billy Bob’s head about to explode.  These are three grown men used to cleaning up after one big baby’s hissy fits.   Kind of sad and painful to watch.  Maybe they’ll consider dumping His Royal Arse and continue their musical journey on their own while gaining the respect of their peers and some fans along the way.

Much will be written about this, much already has.   Here’s my two-cents.

 BBT is a legend in his own pot-polluted mind.    Kudos to Jian Ghomeshi who, in typical Canadian fashion, showed class throughout the  interview and even treated King Billy Bob with respect that wasn’t earned.    The deal that BBT made with the producers of Q was that there were to be no questions about Mr. OscarWeiner’s film career (only primadonnas “give instructions”; real hard-working, touring musicians are more than happy to talk about their music and their achievements to everyone who will listen).  And not once did the host of Q ask him anything remotely connected to movies or films or anything he had done in the past.  All his questions had to do with music, with the band, with his musical influences.   Standard questions that are asked of anyone who is relatively new (which the Boxmasters are), questions that let the audience discover a little more.   To these questions,  Petulant Thorn-ton answered with the same “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  As a means of introduction and to put it all into context, the host mentioned that BBT was an actor (Oh horror) and that music was always a priority for him, that the other stuff was something that sidetracked his musical aspirations.  You can see DivaBob rolling his eyes, with his mouth hanging open, ready to sling-blade whatever gets in his way next.   

Mr. Thornton, did you really think that your band would get on the radio up here or anywhere for that matter,  if you hadn’t been Billy Bob Thornton-award-winning-actor-screenwriter?   And to be quite honest, Mr. HeadStuckUpMyArse, no one outside Arkansas has heard of the Boxmasters, so isn’t the point of touring & doing radio interviews to get people to listen to and appreciate your music?   

Egos are a funny thing (in the funny-weird way), and celebrity egos are even funnier (in the funny haha way).   Billy Bob was being a billy bob, when he actually thought that he’s as musically relevant as Tom Petty.    Tell me, quick quick, when I say Tom Petty, what’s the first thing that comes to mind, eh?  I have at least 12 songs playing back-to-back in my head, enhanced by the images of album covers and concert footage I’ve seen since I was ten.  Over THIRTY years’ worth.     

Good, okay, now….tell me, quick quick, when I say the Boxmasters, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?  

……………………….

Did you draw that blank or did I?  Exactly.   Next week, no one will care about or remember who these guys are.   The Boxmasters are here in Canada to promote their 3rd CD, opening for Willie Nelson (who couldn’t get Jessica Simpson to open for him…nuff said) at several venues in Ontario.  Judging by this interview, and by the lame comments about Canada that “Bud” posts on their touring blog, I’m guessing that they’ll remain a blank entry in the collective consciousness of music-lovers. 

Take off, eh?

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Lord, Love A Duck

Another winter storm, and yet it’s April.  Sigh. 

Last week, the weather was cold but sunny.   Driving into the entrance at my workplace,  every morning last week,  I would see this mallard couple waddling across the intersection, coming from the old age home next door and making their way God-knows-where.   They were just the two of them, he with his bright blue/green head, she in her camouflaged dress.  Ducky and Lucky, I named them.  I wondered where they were doddling to, as there isn’t any body of water nearby.   They’d have to fly over the boulevard to get to a creek, so why not just fly there from here, why take the risk of tottering  across a busy intersection in morning rush-hour traffic?  

One morning, I was turning into the entrance, checking to see if they were there,  when I saw him,  alone.   Alone in the middle of the intersection.  He was just standing there, hardly moving, but  looking back now and then towards the old age home.  I was wondering where his partner was, I couldn’t see her.  I slowed down and stopped my car, the mallard clearly in my view to my left.  I looked to the right, on the grass.  There she was, tentatively approaching the edge of the curb, and there he was, waiting in the middle of the road for her, stopping traffic to allow her to make her way safely to him, so that they could continue their journey together. 

They must have this incredible communicator built in, because when he turned to her, she stopped and stayed on the curb, as if he was signaling her that there was danger.   Then he turned and continued on his way across the road, where he waited for her on the other side.   I would have gladly stayed parked there in the middle of the road to give her time to cross, but I sensed that she was waiting for me to move on.  So  I slowly edged my car  forward and drove off, checking in my rearview mirror.  There were no cars coming, and I saw a little brown form waddle quickly but cautiously across the road to her mate.

I could imagine the quacks and the coos as she reached him, her little heart beating fast underneath her speckled feathers. 

“Good job, Lucky!” 

 ”Phew! I was scared!  That crossing seems much bigger when I’m alone!  Thank you, Ducky, for waiting for me….” 

I imagine that Ducky’s little heart must have been beating hard, too, as he watched her cross that road. 

I don’t suspect that Lucky and Ducky will be there tomorrow morning, what with this storm blowing everything all over creation.   They’ll probably be sheltering themselves somewhere, huddled close with their heads tucked under their wings.    Which is good, but too bad for me…..I’ve been looking forward to seeing them together, their small, fragile naturalness up against harsh metal and asphalt.  Defying the odds to journey together in this world.  Determined to make it, and to make it as one.   They sort of became a little symbol of hope in a world that can sometimes be cruel and unforgiving.  

In a couple’s life, there are many moments.   The most important ones, the ones that are life-changing, are the smallest ones…… Secretly watching him read and studying how his eyebrow arches up in the most perfect way as his eyes move across the pages……  Catching the tone in her voice and knowing she’s said something really ordinary, but she’s said it to you, which makes it extraordinary…….   Being absorbed in your respective books at the coffee shop, and feeling his hand squeeze your knee, under the table……..    Making her laugh…….    Hugging him for the millionth time, and being taken right back to that moment when you first hugged him and knew that this is where you wanted to be for the rest of your life…….   Watching her move around in the morning, getting ready for the day, and being sad that she’ll be out in the world for a few hours without you……   Letting him see you cry………    Remembering her eyes on you when she promised to be your true companion……..   Holding on to his hand as you negotiate the slippery sidewalks…….   Catching her scent on her coat as you help her into it…….   Hanging on as long as possible to that intimacy when you’re the only two people in the whole world…….. 

All these small moments are so fleeting, so ephemeral sometimes, they can even be missed completely…..and yet, they are what love is built on.   Love constantly forgets itself.    To love someone, there needs to be a setting aside of egos.  Easy to do in the beginning of a relationship, and something that requires care as the relationship grows.  But the rewards of truly loving someone, of loving someone truly, are immeasurable.   

Those small moments, I can’t imagine taking them for granted, and yet we do.  We all do.  Life is what it is, a great ocean of joy and sorrow.   For some reason, lately, I’ve had Liam Neeson on my mind, and wonder how do you move through the death of the person who was your center?   How do you enter into the dance of grief for the One who gave you those small, fleeting moments upon which you built a life together?   All those small moments must be excruciatingly painful when they resurface in grief.   Heartbreaking and bittersweet….and yet….it’s those small moments that heal.   Natasha Richardson’s tragic death, when she was at the prime of her life, gives rise to many questions on life itself.   Years after my parents passing away, I am still grappling with grief.    

And in all of this grappling, I’ve discovered that, for those who remain,  death is not a closure.  You cannot find closure from losing your spouse, your lover, your parent, your child.    You can seek closure, but you won’t find it.   On my grieving path, I’ve found that death is more like an opening for the living.   Those small, fleeting moments that make up your memories of the person you love who has passed away, those small moments come back to you.    They’re painful to recall, certainly when the loss is new and recent, but also especially when they surface at a time when you feel you’ve entered a more settled phase of your life in grief.   

The reason you were given those small, fleeting moments with your loved one while they were living is so that you could live through your grief when they’re gone.  

Which is why we need to remind ourselves now to cherish the small moments with those we share our lives with, to not take them for granted.  Because when you’ve passed on, your spouse, your child, your parent will need those small moments that you shared together, so that they can find the open door to life.  Ultimately, that’s what grieving is, finding the open door to Life.

I may not see my little mallard friends again, and hopefully they’ll have safely made their way to where they need to go.   Their small moments of caring for each other will go far in building a life together.    Funny what you can learn from a duck…….

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Skål!

 Way back in 1990, almost 20 years ago now, my first husband and I took the one and only trip we would ever take  together in our entire 17-year marriage (a weekend in Montreal 5 years after the birth of our kids doesn’t count).  I know that sounds like a sad commentary on the state of our marriage, and it is.   In retrospect, our lack of taking time to be alone together was a contributor to our eventual disintegration as a couple.  That, and many other factors, of course.   A marriage of nearly two decades doesn’t fail on one issue only, just as an enduring marriage doesn’t hinge on one aspect.  There are many spokes to the wheel of love, and it takes two to keep it turning.

So back in 1990, the  Meech Lake Accord was on its way to defeat,   the Oka crisis was unfolding,  The Tragically Hip won a Juno for Most Promising Group, going on to become one of Canada’s most influential bands,  the Hubble Space Telescope was launched, leading to important breakthroughs in astrophysics.    And M & I were flying to Stockholm, Sweden for three weeks of discovering a new country.    I had always wanted to visit a Scandinavian country, and to his credit, M was game to go anywhere I chose.  So we saved our money, planned our itinerary, including a side trip Baltic Sea cruise to Leningrad (before it became St.Petersburg again) and set off on our adventure.

It was an amazing trip,  my first time flying, a learning experience in self-sufficiency, and an awakening to how big, beautiful, wonderful and small our world is.  We met Swedes  (the most healthy-looking and attractive people on this planet that I’ve ever seen, from the youngest baby to the oldest grandpa);  our trip was coloured with their warmth and humour.  We befriended Polish immigrants who worked at the student residence where we were staying, and we enjoyed many late nights being regaled with stories from their country and served extra helpings  on our dinner plates of the most delicious Swedish meatballs I’ve ever had.  On our last morning, we had to leave early, before the breakfast canteen opened, but to our surprise, our Polish friends had prepared a huge breakfast tray for us, with way more food than the usual yogurt and cereal!  

We met the friendliest Americans from OshKosh, Wisconsin, from California, from New York.  Some of them we met while in Stockholm, some we met on the cruise to Leningrad.   On the ship, Fred and Winnie, a couple in their 80’s from New York who were seasoned world travellers, took us under their wing and were delighted that the youngest couple and the oldest couple on the cruise were at the same dinner-table.  We were pretty smitten with them, too, and felt very protective of them when our group ventured into Leningrad for an evening at the circus; Fred and Winnie were immediately surrounded by young Russians wanting to exchange cigarettes, but M & I worried for nothing…Fred and Winnie were prepared with a shopping bag of chocolates and American flag pins that they doled out to the boys while never breaking their stride on their way to board the bus to take us back to the ship. 

We met a German Mercedes-Benz dealer on that cruise, whom we avoided after our first encounter, convinced he was a spy or smuggler or dealt in some type of illegal activity.   A little  overactive imagination while travelling is a good thing sometimes.

We walked everywhere we could in Stockholm, we got lost on the bus (we weren’t really lost, M was getting upset, but I just told him “Hey, if we stay on it, eventually the bus will return to where we got on, and then we won’t be lost anymore”).    One morning on the bus ride from our residence to the centre of the city, I saw a woman across the aisle from me who had a lidded basket on her arm, and out popped the head of a sweet little dog!  I was amazed that animals were  allowed on public transport.  

Another day, with our overactive imaginations in high gear,  we thought we were being tailed by someone on our way to the Toy Museum and tried out our evasion techniques (but we weren’t really being tailed…..at least that’s what we told ourselves).   We drank strong coffee that cost $2.00 for a teeny tiny cup in outdoor cafés, we marveled at the cleanliness of a city with nearly 2 million residents.   Walking with our trusty map (which we forgot on a park bench somewhere on our very last day),  we quickly learned the main streets and spent our days wandering and discovering this beautiful city.   We visited the island of Djurgarden twice,  the Skansen museum, and the very impressive Vasa Museum with its fully restored 17th century Vasa Ship that sunk on its maiden voyage.    Stockholm Palace was grand, and watching the changing of the guard was something else.  During our tours of all the museums, during our walks along the cobblestone streets and alleys lined with centuries-old buildings, I came to realize how new my country was in comparison, how here in Canada we don’t have this identity steeped in thousands of years of history.  We cruised the archipelago, we visited the Nordiska  museum, we went to the Museum of Modern Art.    Our newly-bought 35mm camera came in handy and we  took a gazillion pictures.  Which brings me to the point of this whole post.

When I separated, I made sure to take all the photo albums and pictures with me.  I sifted through them all afterwards, giving M his pictures and those of him and the kids, and of course all the pictures of the kids that we had double prints of.  But the pictures and souvenirs of our trip to Sweden, I kept those.   I don’t know why I needed to hang on to them, but I did.   I haven’t looked at them since I moved out, which has been almost 5 years ago now.

If you have a look-see on my sidebar, (yep, right there on the right), there’s  a link to Archerfoto, which is the website of one of THE primo photographers whose work leaves me dreaming.   Her photographs of buildings, nature, people, streets, animals, they ALL pull me into their world.  I know diddly-squat about taking pictures except point & shoot, but I’m amazed at all I’ve learned just staring at her wondrous photos that she has on her website.  I have to hold back on commenting on every one, lest she thinks I’m some obsessed fan, but I swear, every single photograph that she puts up there elicits a reaction from me, there’s a story in each one of them being written out in my head as I contemplate them.    And you can tell alot about a person’s creativity, quality of workmanship,  and level of skill by the comments of photographers and non-photographers alike.  I visit her site daily, eager for the new photo, but just as grateful to browse and locate my favourites.

So when she came out with this new site  to display more of her unique and beautiful work, I was excited at the prospect of losing myself in her world, of  stopping to figuratively smell the roses (and the tulips), and especially of being inspired in my own creative writing.  Because that’s what gifted artists do, they inspire the rest of us to imagine and dream and create.

I know, I know, I’m getting to the point of this whole post now.  I clicked on her new site, Amy Archer Photography, and I scroll the galleries, wondering which one to open first.   The title “Family In Sweden” catches my eye; as I slowly cycle through this “family album”, I’m floored by how I’m transported right back, nearly 20 years ago, to Stockholm, to the colours, the cooling dark green of the foliage, the building facades, the sunlight reflecting off waterways, bathing the city in warm liquid gold.  I’m back in Djurgarden, feeling the cool June breeze.  I can smell the highly-polished scents of the museums enveloping the murmuring of tourists, I’m sitting again at the open-air restaurant in the middle of the city by the life-size chess game with the soft wind blowing clouds to hide the sun, momentarily turning the brightness into muted tones of shade and coolness.  Kind of like the Swedes, bright and cool. 

Through the sharing of her pictures, Amy has allowed me to connect to a time when I lived  a special dream of visiting a country that I had longed to see since I was a young girl.  I was a soulfully sad girl back then who grew into a soulfully sad but content woman, and I seemed to identify with Swedes for some reason, admiring their clean living, their social structure, their industriousness and inventiveness, their soulful sadness that seemed as ingrained in them as it was in me.  Since then, I’ve discovered that soulful sadness underpins warmth and joy, and that we are complex humans, no matter where we come from. 

And maybe that’s what Amy’s pictures give me, a sense of warmth and joy in their tranquility, in their reflectiveness.  That even in something that brings me sadness and melancholy, and makes me feel that I’m still in mourning for a marriage failed, I’m renewed and continue healing.  

I discover a deeper self, one who brings much to the life of her children.

I uncover the womanloverfriend I have become for my Mr. C., who helps me keep the wheel of love turning.  

Most of all, I recover the young girl with dreams of writing and living a simple life. 

Thank you, Amy…..you are a gift. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxox

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

Marry Me

I fell in love with you before I even saw you, before I even heard your voice.  Your words captured my heart, and they weren’t even romantic words, then. Yet.  But they were the words of a gentle/strong man, a gentle man, a gentleman.  I try re-reading those emails to see where exactly we fell into each other, at what point did we surrender to that knowing…..but I don’t know when exactly it happened.  I like to think that that knowing, that hidden sense, was always there, waiting to be discovered.  Patiently waiting. 

I’m a woman, just an ordinary woman, you’re a man, just like any other.  So what occurs for two souls to recognize each other and become extraordinary, unlike any other?  What happens to make it that each is unique for the other? For me, I saw in your writings the man you’ve proven yourself to be:  strong of heart and yes, of body, protective, generous, supportive, caring and most of all, vulnerable.  But you’re not TRYING to be these things, you ARE those things.  And perhaps, looking back, it’s your vulnerability that drew me in.   You weren’t trying to hide it, nor were you trying to display it.  It’s a part of you that I could see in your words, in your letters to me, in your emails, and eventually I heard it in your voice that first time we spoke.  I heard your heart, rejoicing in loving me.  I heard your mind running ahead with thoughts and ideas, coming through the wire. 

I fall in love with you every day.  When I get up early in the morning before everyone else and plug in the kettle for tea, realizing that you have filled it up the night before, just for me.  When you apologize for something you did that you sense has irritated me (I know, I’m working on relaxing).  When you face your day with a smile and send us off with a cheerful heart, watching us go while you stay home, waiting waiting waiting for all the red tape to be cut through so that you can find work and feel you are contributing in a way that you’re accustomed…. Be reassured, my dear husband, that I don’t pay no mind to that, I know that it will come in good time.  But I bet there are many days when  you don’t feel like being cheerful…. you never let it show. 

I fall in love with you when I see and hear you with the kids, creating bonds with them, laughing and being goofy, and I can tell that you are relishing those moments with them, that being close to them brings you closer  to me. 

I fall in love with you when I see you write, I fall in love with you when I feel I’m a part of that passion for you.  

I fall in love with you in those difficult times when we have disagreements, when even the passing of the night doesn’t bring understanding…..only when we glance furtively at each other over breakfast, and with great relief, our eyes ask for and give forgiveness.   Even when we hurt each other with incisive and ill-spoken words, consciously and unconsciously, I fall in love with you because I know that forgiveness is on its way.   Forgiveness and an open, embracing spirit is not something you learn alone.   You are my teacher.  With you, as it was in the beginning of our courtship, as it is now in our first married year, there is room for making mistakes and being quick to forgive.  I am always learning with you. 

I fall in love with you falling in love with me.   I’ve never been someone’s passion.   May I always be the woman you need, the one you can’t get enough of.   May I always be the best friend you can’t wait to see and share those little daily things that may be mundane to others but that mean so much to us.  May I always be the gal you want to eat popcorn with at the movies, the one you can’t wait to curl up in bed with at night to read to and talk with.   May I always be your Hippie Chick, and may Led Zeppelin always play in the background of your thoughts.  May I always make you want to make me laugh, because a woman can be serious for only so long.  May I always remember to let you take care of me, teaching me that there is great joy in being cared for.

This is for you, my Love, my Hero, my Knight in shining armour, my Leading Man….happy first anniversary, Honey.

True Companion

(Click on the the link, it will take you to YouTube, for a special tribute to my Love).

I love you, Mr. C.

Chantal xoxoxoxo

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

The Bridger

I like this guy.  I’ve been keeping it on the down-low, but I really like this guy.   I haven’t read any of his books, and I don’t really plan on it, but I’ve followed his ascent to the White House with a distant fascination.    Yesterday, the news covered revellers in Toronto during the inauguration ceremony being held in Washington, with the reporter commenting something to the effect that Canadians wished for someone like Obama to run for the top job in Canada.    That about sums it up for me. 

Regretfully, I only caught parts of the inauguration speech on the news last night after work, but what I heard in those seconds-long sound bites brought tears to my eyes.  I even wept a little this morning as I read the transcript of his speech.        

I say I was fascinated from a distance with the Barack Obama campaign.  We’ve watched the American election closely in our household, my husband being American, and both of us being interested in politics.  There was a shift in opinion at some point, however, which caused other opinions to be kept more or less to oneself, for fear of offending or putting the other on the defensive.    Best to listen attentively and try to gain understanding from where the other is coming from, and to run potentially controversial arguments in your own head.   As in parenting, so it goes in a marriage…..you have to choose your battles.   Hence the fascination from a distance…..

 I was elated that Barack Obama won, because not only did he defeat a “My-way-or-the-highway” regime, he did it by stirring passions and giving hope to people of a country rapidly losing respect for itself and losing the respect of the rest of the world.   By renewing people’s confidence in elected leaders, he gave people confidence in themselves that they can accomplish great and important things.   Not that it matters what I thought, I’m a Canadian, living in Canada.  But not everyone in our household was feeling it for Obama.    Upon Obama’s election victory, the reluctant concession to his winning was tempered with giving cautious congratulations, with the hope that Obama could live up to the hype.  

Much has been said all over creation about Barack Obama’s lack of experience.  Here’s what I think:  Lack of experience does not indicate lack of wisdom or confidence, and certainly not lack of ability.   Nor does having experience indicate wisdom and confidence, or ability to do the job at hand.   A good leader knows you can’t do it all by yourself and chooses people who will offer their own experience, wisdom, and support to help move the country forward. 

In our own elections here in Canada,  there’s a lot of strategic voting that goes on.  I admit that I have voted for a certain party, not so much because I believe in what they say or purport to represent, but because I don’t like what the ruling party has done or could do if it gets voted in.  This doesn’t make me feel very good, because I’m electing someone who represents the lesser of two (or four, in Canada) evils.    But if I was an American and had the duty and privilege of voting in this recent election, I would have voted Barack Obama hands down.  Not only would  I have had an opportunity to join my voice with millions of others to send the ne0-cons packing, but I would finally have the personal satisfaction of voting  for a person who demonstrates integrity and vision.     

We all know he’s got monumental challenges ahead of him.  It’s redundant to say this and it serves no purpose to state the obvious.  I’m sure he’s quite aware of what he’s facing.  But have you noticed something?  President Obama is up for it.  Not only is he up for it,  but with his confidence and charisma, he inspires others to do the same, to rise up to the challenges we face in this world.  He’s a bridger, bringing people together, polarizing citizens and making use of people’s desire for a better world.  He capitalizes on hope, not fear.    Can you say that about any  leader of any country? 

Mr. President, you have captured the imagination of millions in your country and around the world.   As I saw footage of the crowds waiting for you in Washington, I thought to myself:  Imagine all the people that are there, waiting to hear you speak.  Imagine what that experience will be like for them.  Imagine all the good that will come from those people, when they go back to their homes, how they will be inspired and how they will take that inspiration and turn it into millions of acts of change and hope.   Things that most people will never hear about, things that might take years to realize, but things which will have positive, profound effects on society.   I cannot think of ever feeling this way  about politics in my own country, of being motivated and inspired,  and knowing that good things will come.   

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…..dialogue continues, open minds save the day.  As we watched images of the crowds in Washington and news coverage of the inauguration, I wondered how my  husband felt, seeing such open displays of optimism and joy.   Myself, I was filled with pride for these people, and felt as much a part of it all, despite not being American.   

I often hear of how the United States of America has lost respect from other countries, how the media focuses on its shortcomings and on all the negativity that the US  perpertrates throughout the world,  how the good that America does is often swept aside or overshadowed by warmongerers and greed.    I think this 44th presidency is the turning point that will shift the tide of popular feeling and opinion, taking  energy from past glories to forge ahead with a new purpose.  

This 44th presidency is  the bridger.

God bless America.

Love,

Chantal

Gardasil’s Net Widens

Back in the news again, Merck & Co is now wanting to have this vaccine available to women 27 to 45 years old.   Here are the latest links:

http://www.cbc.ca/health/story/2009/01/09/gardasil-fda.html#articlecomments

 http://www.cbc.ca/news/background/cancer/gardasil.html

 http://www.merck.com/newsroom/press_releases/product/2009_0109.html

I am continually amazed at the speed at which this vaccine has passed legislation in ANY country.   Then again, consider this:  Merck & Co.  has to fill its coffers somehow after the Vioxx debacle, so what better way than to develop and market (emphasis on market) a vaccine as one that MAY prevent cervical cancer, lobby governments around the world to make it mandatory for school age-girls, create fear and guilt campaigns, charge $360 a pop, AND I’ m not done.  In the United States, any girl or woman between the ages of 9 and 26 is obligated to have this vaccine before she can obtain her Green Card.   If she is not vaccinated against a form of cancer, her application will be denied.   The cancer itself is not a communicable disease, unlike AIDS or tuberculosis or Hepatitis-B.  Yet you’re required by law to be vaccinated against possibly developing cervical cancer.   But the 4 strains that can cause this type of cancer ARE transmitted sexually….but THAT part is kept on the low-down.  Why is that?  I’ll save my opinions on that for another post because it’s a very hot potato, and you know me, I burn water, so what I have to say on that part of the issue needs to be thought out a little more.

So now, Merck & Co  has one target group, the 9-to-26-year-olds.  Cha-ching!    They’ve managed to include potential immigrant populations (I only know of the US that has adopted this policy in their immigration rules, I haven’t verified any other country).  Cha-ching-ching!!    Now they are on the cusp of adding the next target group, the 27-to-45-year-olds.   Cha-ching-ching-ching!!!!!

And what better group than this to market an “anti-cancer” vaccine to (even if that’s not what it is):  women, most of them working, lots with children, at a time in their lives where they are concerned with their health and well-being and  that of their families and friends, in an age in history where the cancer bogeyman lurks in all that we eat and drink, all that we touch and breathe in. 

I’ve created a page in the sidebar called Gardasil, and will keep adding as time goes on.  What I say about this topic is my opinion.  I don’t pretend to know more than the next person, nor do I dicate anyone to get their child vaccinated or not.  I don’t stand in judgement of anyone who does, or of anyone who doesn’t.    If I say anything, it’s this:  Keep informed, look at the big picture, take care of yourself and those you’re responsible for, get a regular Pap test if you’re a woman, and listen to your intuition.

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo