Gordon Ramsay Gets me Back on Track

I’m standing in this massive kitchen within this enormous log home chopping herbs like my life depends on it. Blue goop is falling from slurpee machines above and I’ve got to find a way to catch it before it gets into the mushroom soup I’ve got brewing in a pot. A blond, rough-faced chef in whites is yelling at me. I don’t know what he’s saying but it always amounts to the same – you’re not doing enough, you’re not doing well enough.

I awake suddenly. I guess I’ve been watching so much Gordon Ramsay lately that he’s seeped into my dreams. First I got hooked on Master Chef, then found some Kitchen Nightmares to devour, and this week, Hell's Kitchen drew me in. He's been around for years and millions of people are drawn to him, but I can't help but wonder - why me? why now? I'm pretty selective about consuming mass media, after all, normally sticking my nose up at reality television, and definitely not a regular on FOX. 

I do love his story - how he's battled poverty, abuse, and adversity and worked like hell to reach great success. I love that he's using his fame to help restaurants turn themselves around and home cooks reach their dreams. But still, I've been sheepish and baffled about my sudden obsession with this irate chef with perfectionist expectations.

But seeing him appear in my dreams last night gave me a clue. 

I think it's because my own inner taskmaster has taken a holiday.

This is the taskmaster that pushed me upwards, pressures me on, and expects more and more and more. He's the one who got me through the brutal year of new motherhood, finishing a master's degree, and working full-time. He's relentlessly driven me to write, to submit and to publish, dangling my ego's ambitions far ahead of what I allow myself to imagine. He's continually scrutinizing my career aspirations and carving out paths to shift me into a line of work in line with my desires. He craftily pulls out the cards of guilt, anxiety, and judgement to keep my parenting in check.

Don't get me wrong - I told him to go. We achieved great success this year and I told him I wanted us to take the summer off. He scowled at me with his piercing blue eyes, grunted and shook his head. "You don't want to lose momentum," he told me, inferring that stopping might mean I'd reached the pinnacle of my dreams and it was all downhill from here. "I need a break," I implored him. He shrugged, turned away, and went. And now I'm not exactly sure when he's going to be back. 

And a big part of me sighs in relief that I can finally relax, read a book, contemplate my navel. I can turn some much-needed attention to my husband, my son, my parents. I can unpack boxes that have been in our house more than a year, pull weeds from my garden, and consider how I might get the courage to paint our fence. I can pull my son out of school and go to the beach and just sit there soaking in rays while he takes endless trips to the water's edge to fill up his watering can.

This is what people do, right?

And yet, after five minutes of this, I get restless. 

• Shouldn't I be writing a book now? I've finally gotten published in books - a dream come true, so isn't it the perfect time to start working on my own manuscript now? 
• What will I do when this contract ends at work? I've got 10 years at this university - am I going to give it up for part-time work?
• Is it time to have another baby? Yes, after years of being adament against expanding our family, am I opening up to the idea?
• Where am I spiritually? Do I need to find a church or articulate my beliefs in a way I can express them to my son?
• What about money? Are we going to have to readjust our budget for the long-term?

This is what it's like to be in Liesl's head.

And damnit if I don't need that inner voice back to get me refocussed, to negotiate the "what now's?", to get me back on track. Can I not just take an effing break?

But visionless, I am lost. 

And without the next dream to pursue, I find my life holds less meaning. And as I delve into laziness in the form of reality television and summer novels, I start eating again, and justify my lack of effort by the fact I should deserve some reward after all the work I've put in. I let myself off the hook, and tell myself that for a few weeks I don't need to strive for excellence or publications or prosperity. 

And so I fill this gap with... Gordon Ramsay? And while that sounds completely bizarre, I realize that he's become exactly what I needed. Reading his autobiography, I am reminded of what it takes to make success - hard, hard work, constant striving for perfection, holding expectations high for those around you, and the genuine belief that you actually are going to be the best.

I think of my father and his relentless pursuit of his dreams. I have seen what it takes to literally become rich and famous. And I know I have that same drive inside me if I wish to follow suit. But in all honestly, it used to tire me watching him take on so much, and I have therefore crafted my life such that it asks less of me. But the problem is, I see now, that the drive doesn't go away, the dreams don't stop because I do. 

While my taskmaster sleeps, I get a vision of Gordon Ramsay in my dreams saying, "You're not doing enough. You're not doing well enough." 

And he's right. And like it or not, its time to get this dreamer back on track. Come on home, taskmaster, there are big things to be done.

Parenting while Slightly Inebriated

Maybe I shouldn't have drunk that bottle of Mott's Caesar in the fridge when it was my turn to put Lucas into bed. I don't normally drink unless we're with friends because I am such a cheap drunk, but that tangy clamato mixer leftover from camping beckoned me after my long day at work. But once the alcohol lifted all my inhibitions, I wondered for a moment if I was being a "responsible" enough parent.

Then again, sometimes you have to throw bedtime routines out the window and have a tickle match with your kid.

We're lying on the family room floor and I don't know who's laughing harder. I squeeze his side and he dissolves into giggles, rolling away from me with a toothy "stop Mommy" then wiggling back for more. Then he attacks my belly button and I burst into laughter, tears streaming down my face. I find that spot where his neck and shoulder meet and he shrugs me away, then runs his little fingers under my knees in the spot my big brother always used to torment me. He smartly grabs my hands and I'm surprised at his 4-year-old strength. I pull my arms away and wrap them around him, pull him onto me, as we both fall back onto the floor to catch our breath.

I inhale this moment. Alcohol-induced maybe, but we've both accessed pure joy. 

Later we're in his bed with his current favourite book, "Amazing Cows: Udder Absurdity for Children" by Sandra Boynton, and I'm reading and re-reading the part where 80 cows are named "Tino" because it kills him each and every time. Everything about him is open - his beautiful eyes, his mouth, his spirit - laughing with such gutteral joy.

I want to record this sound and play it over and over on my iPod until my mind clears. A meditation of laughter.

Eventually, the lights go off and we're cuddling in his bed. The supposed routine is that I sing to him and then we're quiet for one minute before I kiss him goodnight and we yell a dozen "I love you's" at each other as I back out of the room. But tonight is different.

"Tell me what flavour slurpee you had today," I ask him. It's a trick because I know his daycare had 7-11 slurpees today but he's refused to tell us about it all evening.

"Yellow," he says.

"Ha! I knew it! So, was it yellow banana flavour or yellow lemon flavour?"

"No, it was moo-moo flavour," he says.

"Beef flavour?" I laugh.

"Yeah! Beef flavour slurpees!" he yells.

We are both killing ourselves again. We spend a good ten minutes discussing in increasing ridiculousness the idea of beef flavoured slurpees. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. Our cheeks are wet with our tears of laughter.

I want to bottle the tears so I can taste them again the next time I forget how funny life is.

Somehow I manage to exit the room. When I come down the staris, I look sheepishly at Hubby. "Maybe I shouldn't be so tipsy when I put him to bed," I say, embarassed now.

He just smiles broadly. "I loved hearing you both laugh." The look on his face is love for us.

I want to take a picture and store it with my other artifacts of bliss.

"Life is good," I say. It's my mantra. Its become our family's code phrase to tell the universe we appreciate this moment. I add, "Life is funny."