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.







 

Hi Ho Hi Ho...it's off to work I go

Here I sit. At a computer, like I've done for days on end for many years. And I'm feeling a bit defeated. I have to go back to work.

I've just applied for a position within a terrific organisation and it hit me, like a tonne of bricks. Not that I'm disappointed in the job that I have applied for, in fact I would probably really enjoy it.

Disappointed because I'm going to have to give up on pursuing something that I was really excited about and something that I know, deep down I would be great at-being an Educational Assistant or you may know them as TA's.   I've been working at the Kid's school for the past year, helping out at lunch and I came to realise that working with kids was what I always should have been doing. I love it.

Working at the school brought me back to many years ago, where I was studying for my Education Degree. Then I reflected on all my other "kid oriented" work. Nanny, swim instructor, camp councillor, coach and of course mom. This was work that was rewarding and made me happy. It's funny how life's paths can bring you back to where you began in the first place. Zigging instead of zagging, going left at the fork in the road instead of right. All roads lead you back.

I haven't had a passion for anything like this before. I am embarrassed to admit that in my entire career as an adult, I have had no passion for my work outside my home. none. zip. zero.

Don't get me wrong. I have a good work ethic, and I pride myself in a job well done. I strongly identify myself with my work and it's results. But I have come to realise that I need something to be passionate about. I need to get excited. I need to know that I am serving a purpose.
Giving back.

But sadly I have lost the gift of time and cannot afford the waiting game any longer.

My situation, like many is that we have to have two working parents. This is the reality. This is what needs to be done. So I will do it. I am fortunate to have had the luxury of  time to focus on parenting and I always knew in my heart this day was coming.
It's the times, and I want my kids to have every opportunity. I owe, I owe, so off to work I go...

Am I sad to be applying for jobs that I have traditionally had in the past. Not really. Because it's familiar and I know I'm good at that type of work. Is it the worst thing to have to go back into the work force and see people every day that can feed themselves and talk about other things besides what happened on the playground. Definitely not the worst thing I can think of.

Was my SAHM experiment a failure? In some ways. Not because I failed, but forces beyond my control have forced my hand.    

I joke that my next husband will be wealthy.
Now I had better go put a bra on and get some shit done.
Because you know I mean business when I put on underwear.

  

Welcome to a New Year...

Well, well.  Welcome to 2014. A new year is here already. Cliche to say how fast the past 12 months have flown by, but they really have.

It is also cliche to say as the new year came in I have been reflecting on the past 12 months, but as most of  us do- I have taken a look back.
It was around this time last year that I made my decision to take a break from work. It seems like a lifetime ago.
A lazy summer spent with the kids, focusing on the house, cooking more, sleeping better, trying my hand at writing... these are all things I accomplished this past year.  Doesn't seem like much, but to a burnt out mum who was not taking care of herself, huge gains.

So as my year at home comes to a close, the reality of my situation is very evident and is one that I knew all along. I am going to have to go back to work.
Unless I win the lottery, or Sting comes to his senses and realises that I was the woman for him all along.

So instead of resolving to DO a whole bunch of things that I know I'll probably never do, I'm resolving NOT TO DO a bunch of things this year. Not doing stuff seems a whole lot more achievable.

I am NOT going back to a job just because I have to, just for the paycheque. I have come to realise that my entire career has been spent working to make other people successful- and I worked hard.
I have nothing to show for it except years of sleepness nights, upset stomachs and occasional pats on the back for a job well done. I'm proud that my resume is accomplished and my list of achievements is long, but I've worked in the pink ghetto for years, making little and giving much. Office buildings in every city are full of women just like me and in the immortal words of Donna Summer working hard for the money, all of them sacrificing family and time.  In my case these were jobs taken to contribute to my household, a necessary evil. But I'm done. Time for work that rewards ME and maybe even helps other people at the same time.

As I read this over I sound very bitter, and maybe I am a little. More so angry at myself for not seeing it sooner. Disappointed in myself for not seeing the light earlier, dragging myself in everyday for a paycheque and a little piece of mind. Responsibilities ruled.
I have never once heard a male friend ask for advise on how to balance a career and home life.

I am NOT going to procrastinate. I am an admitted procrastinator, but I wasn't always this way. This is a bad habit I have allowed and it needs to stop. I procrastinate about all kinds of things, don't get me wrong shit gets done, but I am seeing it becoming habitual and it ends now. Eat my dust.

I am NOT going to apologise for how much coffee I drink or booze I consume. These are my small pleasures. Coffee with the girls and drinks with the neighbourhood gang bring me joy and lots of laughter. Pry my super-sized Tim's mug from my cold dead hand, and while you're at it pour me a rum & coke, twist of lime if you please.

I will NOT feel guilty for the size and shape of my body. I know I need to exercise more. I know I need to eat better. I will NOT be conned into sucking shakes and  feeling like I need to be a size 8. It will come in time-all part of the NOT procrastinating bit.

I just read this list over and it appears in fact that I have resolved to make a few changes. Damn it.

I hope these ones will stick.

Cootie Bugs

They're creepy and they're crawly, they're tiny and they're small-y, they're sneaky and elusive-the
LICE-Y FAMILY.
dunununu snap snap...

Yep. You read it right. Lice. the timing couldn't have been better as we geared up for Halloween. What better than some real creepy crawlies to add to the spooky spirit!

Hurricane Girlchild presented with lice about two weeks ago. I immediately began muttering a four letter swear word that begins with F and ends with K.  Repeatedly.
You see, I was a Lice Virgin.

I am so oblivious to the little critters that I had to get a second opinion from my girlfriend, then a neighbour, then the almighty interweb. I had never in my life seen the little beggars or been in contact with them, let alone know how to even begin to deal with them.

After I stopped scratching, (the power of suggestion is amazing. You're probably scratching right now...)
my OCD kicked in, and before the poor kid could blink I had her head wrapped in a kerchief, beds stripped, a frantic phone call to spouse to stop at the pharmacy and laundry running in the hottest setting I could get.

A quick text to my girlfriend that runs the daycare centre where Hurricane Girlchild's classmates attend to advise of the cooties elicited a phone call in return that was mostly laughter and comments like "it's about time, you've had a kid in school and daycare for 10 years-you've dodged a bullet this long" etc etc. I guess when you work with kids, it's so common that you don't get in a flap. She was nice enough to congratulate me on losing my virginity, which was a pat on the back. I felt like I joined some sort of club.

I emailed the school to advise of the problem. Jokingly referring to the situation like winning the lottery, and Monday morning the children all had a letter outlining the treatment and prevention. Good job school!

When Spouse arrived home that day, medicated shampoo in hand he must have thought I had fallen off my rocker. The house was in chaos and I was a woman possessed. Out of breath, sweating and scratching imaginary bugs like a meth addict, I'm sure I was quite a sight. But my efforts were worth it, all beds were laundered and re-made by bedtime, Hurricane Girlchild bathed and treated and I'm sure I didn't scratch much in my sleep.

I raised the bar on nit picking, and now fully understand the meaning behind that term. Thankfully catching the nits before they became a problem was my only sanity that week. I am certain my head would have exploded if we had a full blown infestation in the house. My girlfriend who is a hair stylist said I was lucky to catch it early as she carefully combed through my own mess of hair to make sure I hadn't picked up the little bastards.

I discussed the situation with one girlfriend and described the lengths I went to to eradicate the cootie bugs and she laughed at me. Saying "don't you think you went a little bit overboard?" I asked her if she'd let her kid sleep over-her response. "hell no". So no, I think I went just overboard enough.

So after two weeks, still no sign of the little parasites. One treatment and one hell of a lot of laundry and the little bloodsuckers were gone as fast as they arrived, at least until next time.