Hesitation

Revisiting.
I had some drafts just sitting. Not published.
I quickly read and clicked publish.  Unfinished or not. there they are.

Why didn't I publish them when the ideas were good enough to jot down in the first place?
There they sat, for a couple of years in limbo until I had the time or fortitude to revisit.

They're not deep, just observations. So why did I hesitate?

Why do I hesitate?

My absence from this blog in a way was another hesitation. At a time when I probably should have been pouring my heart and soul out as a sort of therapy -I hesitated.

Journal-ling, diary writing whatever you want to call it is therapeutic. In times like this why did I hesitate?

That seems to be my Modus Operandi- my way of doing things. I've always been pragmatic and I like to think things through. I also know I'm guilty of putting my needs last. I'm learning to work on that.

It's been a year for the books.  And again I did things my own way- thoughtfully, carefully. every detail considered and weighed. Plans put into place and lists made. Until recently I wasn't able to click Publish.   

The break down of a marriage isn't something I have a lot of experience with.  Either is helping my kids navigate the new world of us co- parenting while living separately.

So you can imagine my hesitation.

It's been a year since I chose to leave my marriage. That being said and after a lot of reflection, I had in reality left a long time before.

Being in a different physical location put a lot of things into perspective.  It brought to light a hundred little details that I had chosen to overlook while sharing a household. These details are constant reminders that I have made a good choice for me.

Although it took me a very long time to make that decision.
Maybe too long. With time I have become bitter.
But I am careful not to show it.
I think this slight bitterness is anger at myself for not making the choice sooner.
Curse my sensible nature.

I think as women we always try to please, it's the way most of us are brought up. The peace keepers, the 'mothers' the nurses and managers- the ones that are the GLUE. Our role in life. I came to the point where I couldn't continue to just do what was expected and continue on. I am sure there are millions of women in that same situation who continue on because it's what is expected of them by our world. Can't be a quitter- fearful of judgement.  But in reality -  few are judging, and those that do, shouldn't. 
So why hesitate? 

Now that a full year has gone by and the reality of the dissolution is almost final. The ugly matters of the house and finances need to be dealt with.

When I walk into that house now, it doesn't feel like my home. It's not the same four walls that seemed to hold so much promise as we welcomed our little people into the world.  Maybe I romanticized what life was going to be like and as I left disappointed I had myself partially to blame. My best efforts weren't enough, and I grew more and more bitter about my situation so I chose to leave. I cut my losses and am moving on.

That little house will soon be someone else's and I am sure as I begin to pack up 16 years of living this week I won't have any regrets.  There's no time for that,  it's time to look ahead at a new start.
I plan to be busy re defining my role in life- as a parent first and always but with the ability and  freedom to make decisions based on my and my children's needs. 

A friend asked me if I was afraid of being alone, I answered by saying you can be in a relationship and still be alone.
Being alone isn't something I am fearful of. I am only alone if I choose to be.   Besides, I'm good company and a little 'alone time' is probably a good thing.

The year ahead will be full of new experiences and hopefully some adventures and I am looking forward to them all - shared with my kids.   No Hesitation.
 

Time for a change

I take the bus into work every morning with a beautiful woman. I have lots of time on the bus to notice this kind of stuff.  She's a classic beauty- straight nose, porcelain skin, pink lips, slender.
Back in 1985 the year her hairstyle was on trend she was probably the apple of many a boy's eye.

Which got me to thinking about why people are so reluctant to change?

Once upon a time....

Once Upon a Time...In a basement far far away...I sit and listen to Hurricane Girlchild and her bff play.

The role play is amazing and the girls lily pad from playing house to planning a wedding reception to dress up faster than I can blink.

Every sentence begins with the word pretend.
Pretend you're a baby, pretend you're a princess. Pretend this is Halloween and you are a teapot. I'll be a mermaid.

It's fantastic.

each item they pick up and hold suddenly becomes part of the play, pretend this donut is a picnic lunch, I'm also going to pack some french fries...

My friends and I don't get to indulge in this kind of play. Ours is more like stolen hours every few months if we're lucky, clutching a wine glass that thankfully remains full due to a diligent hostess. We can pretend but only for those few short hours that we don't have cars that need the brakes fixed, piles of dirty laundry or demands of work and family.

During our play dates we can laugh and talk shop, discuss that latest deal scored at Winners and lament about partners. Build each other up and re connect. Talk about successes however small, laugh at our many failures and commiserate.  

Next time I'm out with the Girls I'm going to insist that I'm a mermaid.
Pretend that Sting is pulling up right now.

Getting back to 'normal'

Sunday morning, and like millions of parents I stand over my stove top flipping pancakes. I woke up this morning with a bit of melancholy. If you are a Canadian and aged 35-55 you know why. If you are a visitor here I will explain. 

An iconic Canadian band named the Tragically Hip bid us farewell last night. Their lead singer is dying and cancer sucks and their farewell show was televised so we could all say 'see you on the other side'. Many people were glued to their TV during the show and we became part of something sad and amazing and moving and raw.  Please Google them and look up their music on you tube. I can guarantee they will not disappoint-especially if you are a poetic type. 

So this morning I think about Gord Downie and his family's day ahead. Now I do not know Mr. Downie and his family personally, but like many people my age we feel like we grew up together. His poetry is ours. Snapshots of Canada. Landscapes, history, love and of course hockey. 

This is where the melancholy seeps in. I am making pancakes for my family. I imagine Gord's wife let him sleep in today- waking him with a cup of tea and some pancakes she made with their kids. I envision them remaining in Pjyamas and taking the day to be still and rest because they know now they will need to get on with the task ahead. 

That task is dying. 

I can see him and his wife exchanging looks and in their minds asking Why us? why again? This isn't the first time Cancer has struck this family, Laura is a breast cancer survivor-does she feel cheated now that this disease is going to take her partner and father of their children?  

I guess what I'm trying to sum up here is last night we took part in something that represents what could be any one of us. Gord Downie is us-partner, father, son, collaborator. 

It's hard to imagine after seeing him on stage so many times and even last night as he awkwardly danced with his mic stand -offered primal screams and his affected face and hand gestures while donning feathered hats and those amazing -sparkling-glorious suits that this man was saying see you later. This man of my generation will soon be gone leaving a family and poems and music behind. 

'Now for Plan A'

he's said good bye to all of us, now he can focus on his family.        www.cancer.ca

 

  

Letting go of a dream

There used to be a day when the annual Ikea catalog would arrive on my doorstep and I would get excited.
Couldn't wait to open the pages- like a kid on Christmas morning excited.

That glossy little booklet held inspiration, possibility and fuel for my poorly channeled design eye. It also represented my need for order and to have beauty around me.

There's nothing more dreamy in my mind than returning home to a sanctuary after spending a day in a dirty beige office tower. We're stuck with dingy carpets and dated furniture. All day we're surrounded by walls that have seen better days, and better wall treatments or paint selections. Right now I'm gazing at a wall that has been papered, textured yet beige, in an effort to not feel industrial, but just generic enough that it is neutral and coordinates with the off white trim on doors, beige-y wall dividers and commercial carpet that contains jaunty red accents.
The blessing is that we are surrounded by windows. The only saving grace to the space is the glimpses of green from tree tops we get from the 15th floor and the abundant natural light.

I suppose it could be much worse. I fight the urge to launch sharpened pencils into the beige ceiling tiles above my head and see how many I can get to stick.

This year the Ikea catalog arrived and I was not as anxious to peek inside. Just glimpsing the cover made me feel defeated. It still sits unopened on my kitchen counter waiting for me to have a spare minute to flip through.

You see, my home is being renovated.
Well, let me rephrase that, renovated gives the wrong impression, renovated implies that work is getting completed and jobs finished.
My home is in a constant state of 'renovation' and it has been since we bought it 11 years ago. The dreams I had for the place are in danger of me letting go. I'm tired, too tired to fight for my ideas and designs. I'm kind of like my poor little house. The cracks are showing.

Currently my home is in a state that might give the impression that it's a drug den or perhaps we're squatters. Our intentions were good when we purchased it, we knew it was a 'fixer upper' our neighbourhood is full of 'handy man specials'.

But after 11 years I tire of the cracks, bumpy ceilings, half removed wood paneling and the latest eye sore an enormous hole in my wall that I view constantly from my seat at our kitchen table - a hole that was the idea of Spouse while I was out running errands one day. "we're opening it up" he stated, and the task left incomplete.

When I took a break from work two years ago and was able to spend the time on and in my little house that it deserved, I fell back in love with it. It truly is a jem and a comfortable home. I was able to organise the tiny closets, properly clean the mid century hardwood floors, keep the windows clear so the sun was able to stream in and warm floors. Fresh paint and curtains- a little lipstick for the old gal.

My kids never complain, their rooms are warm and clean and decorated to their tastes. In the end isn't that all that really matters? It should be, but I'm craving my own 'space'.

Now that I'm back to work full time, I again see the love my little house needs and deserves. The list of tasks is overwhelming to bring the old gal back to where she should be. I need this more than I realized. I need to bring her to back to where I can be proud and feel like it is a place I want to live and 'be'.
Like one of those rooms they set up in an Ikea catalog.

So as summer winds down and we are slowly forced back to living inside my task begins.  How do I prioritize room by room the work that needs to be done, and pay for it I might add. How do I prioritize the time required to slap some lipstick on this pig and keep up with daily chores and schedules.  How do I make this building a space that I can finally feel really happy about, live in share with those I love and 'be'. I suppose the answer is room by room.
Like in the Ikea catalog.






 








 

Where am I rushing to?

The walk to the corner for my morning bus Downtown takes me roughly 5 minutes. I put my head down, hunch my shoulders and walk as fast a my little legs will carry me. There are a handful of us every morning walking the same way though our neighbourhood we nod in acknowledgement of each other and continue to hustle our way down the street.

We scuttle to the corner when our bus arrives, shifting our weight from one foot to the other while we wait in line to jam ourselves onto the crowded bus.

Our eyes roll when a fellow passenger isn't 'ready' and holds up the line while they fish for fare in endless bags and bottomless pockets, we impatiently stand waiting our turn to be granted entry, bus fare in hand.

We internally criticize when someone chooses to leave their belongings beside them in an empty seat-valuable real estate during rush hour, yet no one ever confronts the selfish, oversized backpack wielding person, who values their bag's place in this world over the comfort and safety of another person.

We stand together, shoulder to shoulder our boots scraping the floor as we are herded back. The sound of sand and ice beneath our feet is constant. We gaze out windows over other people's heads at the city as it whips by.

The bus slowly empties stop after stop as we enter Downtown, our boots scraping the way to the exits as we weave between other passengers who seem reluctant to aid in our escape. Only a few people bothering to utter 'pardon me' or "excuse me please".  We again patiently queue up for the door shifting our weight from foot to foot, dodging backpacks and purses slung over shoulders as we file out onto the street.

Then we hit the sidewalks, heads down, shoulders hunched and scurry to our towers.  We rush to enter crowded elevators, rarely making eye contact with other workers all of us shifting our weight from foot to foot as we ascend to offices and hurriedly take off our winter clothes to - sit.

Sit at a desk.

We are separated by beige half walls, we 'prairie dog' over them to see who may be sitting a bank or two over in their 'pen'.

We pound off information mostly a sentence at a time, responding to emails, sharing facts and making requests. We take courses that teach us to shorten our responses and eliminate unnecessary words.

If you're fortunate your phone will ring and there will be another person's voice. But even those interactions are brief. Just the facts-stuff to do...

Then after a full day spewing one liners, fulfilling other people's requests and tapping away at a keyboard we rush back to those same elevators. Heads down we scurry back to bus stops or parking garages, line up to board the bus or train and enter rush hour traffic.

All the while we shift our weight from foot to foot, hands held out for a paycheck every two weeks.

The walk from the corner bus stop to home takes me roughly 3.5 minutes. I put my head down, hunch my shoulders and walk as fast a my little legs will carry me. There are a handful of us every evening walking the same way though our neighbourhood. We nod in acknowledgement of each other and sometimes muster a smile as we hustle our way down the street.
We rush because we are going to where we belong. Home.  

10 Things I have Learned

Well.

I have been back to work full time outside the home for exactly two months now and I have learned a few things about myself in the working world.

I have learned-

That it takes roughly one week for a home with kids to revert back to a shithole once there is no one to do daily housekeeping.

I have ZERO tolerance for yoga pants in the workplace, UNLESS you're a fitness instructor.
Business Casual my ass.  Don't get me started on the half a skirt that makes a weekly appearance. I'm pretty sure you can see cooch.

People fart on the crowded bus and it's disgusting. (I know who you are buddy, don't think I don't. we're ALL onto you and you are foul. You may want to get in to see a Dr.)

I have OCD when it comes to unmade beds

I detest walking in crowds and silently resent getting caught behind slow walkers who are physically capable of keeping pace. (Usually males walking in groups-frustration level just above "Manspreading" google it, it's a real thing and two frustration levels below walking "hand holders".)

Photocopiers and I have a love hate relationship. mostly hate.

The coffee shop is 15 floors away. Too far for my liking.

Taking public transit is good for the environment and also good for developing my surfing skills.

Lots of people smoke Weed and then immediately take transit. (see farting guy)
it must help with the motion sickness, maybe I should give it a go.

No one in my family is worse for wear and all settled right back into the routine of up early, home late, rushing here, rushing there- although, dinner leaves a lot to desired most nights but reintroduction of vegetables should be virtually painless.  Now if the Barbies and dirty socks would stop procreating all over the house and the beds would "automake" I'd be "having it all".

On a positive note, I am falling back in love with my City and it's downtown. The Man who hands me my newspaper every morning makes me smile and wishes me a good day-even under his scarf his eyes tell me he's smiling. The fellow 15 floors down where I get my coffee is kind and likes to chat, makes a mean egg sandwich and an excellent cup of hot coffee.