Mama's Log

Too Busy to Blog or Have I Made Peace with Motherhood?

2011-12-13T19:20:00.000-08:00

I can't look my blog in the eye these days. I don't need to either - I know she's got her arms crossed, shaking her head and tut-tut-ing me because I hear the rhythm of it in my head. It's been precisely a month since I last posted, and she is not pleased. I haven't been this delayed since 2008 when I was juggling my return to work after maternity leave, my masters, and the agonizing transition to daycare (for me and my babe). And while I might have excuses that could rationalize my silence, I'm not going to let myself make them.

I'm simply not one of "those" bloggers who starts a blog and lets it fizzle. When I start something, I take it seriously. My blog's only getting bigger and better has been my intention. But I'd be lying if I say I wasn't worried. Because something's missing.

For three years, I felt this rabid compulsion to write. As I wrote in a blog post "I Write Because I have To" last year:

"I write because I have to,
There is no choice about it,
Just a pull from within me
Urging me, calling me, pestering me...
They don't understand that it eats at me
if I don't comply
It consumes me until I can
no longer ignore it"

I can only liken it to an addiction, a need I had to fulfill. I scoffed at people who said they had writer's block, not even considering how it could be possible. Even though I'd been a writer with writer's block before, I conceitedly thought I'd overcome it.

More than just writing though was this need to express motherhood. I needed to bear witness to my experience, to dissect its newness in written word, to cry over the keyboard as I admitted my feelings. I needed to release my words into the ether in the dire hopes it would reach someone, anyone, who could tell me - you're not alone.

But now it's gone. I feel no drive to rant over motherhood anymore, to need to confess my bad mommy moments or to observe my son's developing grasp on reality. I'm not saying I won't ever do it again, but at this moment, the well is dry and I'm not thirsty enough to replenish it.

Does that mean I've got it now? Have I solved the dilemma that motherhood presented me? Have I accepted that the endless push and pull is just my reality forever? Am I finally able to let go of the anger, shock, and disillusionment that propelled me to start blogging in the first place? Am I really okay with letting moments of wonder go by unrecorded?

It seems that way. That perhaps, dare I say it, I've made peace with motherhood. That maybe, just maybe, I've figured out how to be both Liesl and Mama without feeling like I'm compromising one or the other all of the time. Not that I've lowered my expectations but I've let go of some of the need to control it all and do it all and be it all.

And if that's why I'm struggling with writing, because I've reached some peace, then that's okay, right? And instead of worry about it, I should actually celebrate it.

Because sooner or later, and likely sooner rather than later, life will call me again. And I'll feel that pull to create again, that need to sort through the latest dilemma or mark the newest experience. And then I'll crave for this space of quiet, where the urge does not pull me from my sleep to my laptop, and wonder why I complained about it in the first place?

Missing Pieces

2011-11-13T15:40:00.001-08:00

I’m sitting in Coffee Cultures in Kitchener, Ontario, savouringmy first bite of this Caramel Carrot Cheesecake. Oh, I should take a picture ofthis. I should text Hubby about this. I should update my status on Facebookwith this. But really, who cares?

And the thought occurs to me that no one in the world knowswhere I am right now. And I could step outside as I’m crossing the road, gethit by a car and die here. And no one would go looking for me as I’m here alonein Ontario. No one is expecting me home tonight. No one knows where I went whenI rented a car this afternoon to tool around the area.

And it’s not that it’s important to check in wherever I go,but that it’s rare for me not to. When you’re a wife and a mother and a full-timeemployee, you tend to let people know where you are. This past week on a“business trip”, when that hasn’t been necessary, it’s felt freeing. But thenafter a couple of days of freedom, it starts to feel just a little lessmeaningful.

It’s not that I can’t be alone. I love being alone. Peoplerarely believe me when I say I’m an introvert. True, I need people and energyaround me in my life, but I get drained easily after socializing. As a mother,where demands for attention are endless, I crave solitude. And once found, I pullmy laptop to me, write and write until I’m renewed, or if extremely indulgent,I’ll curl up with a pot of tea and a book. When I have hours to kill (anotherrarity) I’ll go out to a café and relish a treat, browse a used bookstore, ormeander through a market.

I’ve done all these things now. Devoured two novels and achick flick after busy and very full days of work. But instead of feelingspoiled, I feel a little empty. Cause there’s no one to share this with.There’s no one to discuss and debrief the days’ events with. No one to laugh ata tv show with. No one to reach across the table with a forkful of cake and seewhat they think. No one to cook a meal for or give a bath to or tuck into bed.

Last year I got the chance to spend a week in PEI – my firstreal time away from my husband and son. I left a stressed-out mess and returnedrenewed. I hoped that would happen again this time, but the need for renewalwas not so strong. This trip, I’ve gained an appreciation. Of course Iappreciate my dear boys, but to appreciate the role they play in my life andthe role I play in theirs. To appreciate the interconnectedness we share thatis an entity in and of itself.

I used to say that I write my journals in order to provethat I exist. For years I wrote and wrote without a soul reading a word. Then Ibegan blogging and getting published and opened up the world of sharing mythoughts and my words with others and I can never go back. Because arelationship forms with readers that goes beyond the words.

And when you are in relationships as intense as marriage andparenthood, and used to sharing your life, you really can’t go back. I glimpse theidea of what it must be like to lose a partner or a child, and I shudder. It’snot only loss of the other, but of that part of you that was connected to them.You must have to rebuild your life, your identity, your idea of wholeness.

Despite feeling extremely whole in myself these days, I clearlyfeel the calling of my two beloveds - the call for mommy, the call for wife,the call for me to be more than me. And it is not about me satisfying them withmy presence. It’s about me satisfying my own need to be needed.

Last year after my trip away, I wrotethese words (that are now published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: O Canada!), andthey still ring true:

“I had to travel across the country tofind myself, only to discover that I needed to return home to be whole again.”

Out of My Comfort Zone

2011-11-12T04:59:00.001-08:00

Okay, here I am in the departure lounge of the airport – onmy own. It occurs to me that this is the first trip I’ve really ever takencompletely on my own. Sure, I’ve flown by myself and been to conferences, but Ialways meet up with someone or share a room with a colleague. The most I’vetravelled on my own is the couple of days I sometimes add after a work trip forsightseeing and self-renewal. (See Flying Solo). But they’re always cushionedby the familiarity of people and places I’ve had time to get comfortable withbefore going solo.

But now it’s just me for a week in Waterloo to visitstudents working at Research in Motion (who make the Blackberry) and one of myuniversity’s largest co-op employers.

I barely could check in by myself. Begged Hubby to drag myluggage and our son into the airport and completely allowed the Westjet guy todo my entire “self-check”. It’s not that I’m not capable, but I seem to havedeveloped this learned helplessness since my partner is such a solid, smart,supporter. That, and I have a tiny bit of princess in me. (Though said partnermight dispute the “tiny” part.)

And that’s why I need to do stuff like this. It’s why I putmy hand up when they asked who wanted to do this term’s “site visit” toOntario. I was surprised when no one else had their hand up but me, and nowthat I’ve organized the 54 meetings and one pub social that need to take placein the span of 4 days, I have a slight clue as to why. But still, while I haveto leave my family to represent my university, I’m also aware of what a greatopportunity this is to challenge myself.

I so want to be a traveller. On paper, I’ve travelled theworld – my family lived in Mexico when I was 4, my parents took me through westernEurope twice, and my dad lived in Taiwan for two years so I got to visit there.I’ve enjoyed $5 steak dinners in Venezuela and had a fancy dinner at the top of theEiffel tower. I love travelling and dream of hitting Greece and the Philippinesin the not too distant future.

But the fact is, I like my creature comforts and I don’t do thewhole adapting to new situations so well. Embarking on any kind of travel meanschanneling my type A-ness into spreadsheets with organized itineraries based oncopious amounts of research. The whole immersing into local cultures soundsgood on the surface but causes me a great deal of anxiety. So, instead I optfor all-inclusive resorts in Mexico where they ferry you to the hotel in agiant air conditioned bus so you can whiz by the third world reality of it all.Or cruise ships which create a reality that is so indulgent it’s not funny.It’s not real travelling, but I’m not complaining.

And travelling on my own to the very safe residentialneighbourhood in Waterloo is not real travelling either. But it gives me achance to flex my muscles, to take some baby steps along the road towardsflying further afield one day.

Co-op site visits give me the chance to exercise my abilityto adapt to new situations. They are the most exciting and most terrifying partof my job. Exciting because I get to meet a student immersed in an importantgrowth experience for them – personally and professionally and hear all aboutwhat they are learning. Exciting because I get to walk into an organization –be it a small business, non-profit, federal government, or large corporate,like I will tomorrow – and get a sense of what they do, what industries theyplay in, and what needs they meet. Exciting to meet the employers and find outabout their backgrounds and how they are mentoring their student.

Terrifying because I never know exactly what I’m walkinginto. Terrifying because I have no idea whether said student and employer arehaving a happy marriage. Terrifying because I have about 20 minutes with themeach to absorb everything going on, assess the situation, and offer guidance,all while filling in forms and explaining program requirements. And that’s ofcourse after navigating myself through traffic and parking to get to thebuilding, and packing several of these visits into each day.

But over all, it’s more exhilarating that not. I try andremind myself that I’m not there to fix anything. I imagine I’m a facilitatorfor them to hear the words they need to hear to make the best out of their workopportunity. After a day of site visits, I’m often exhausted, but always moreassured that I’m in the right job. I get to bear witness to students experiencingamazing opportunities, while rising to my own challenges. I always wonder wholearns more from whom during our interactions.

Now, I hear Westjet calling out my flight number. I betterfigure out what gate that’s coming from. My husband usually deals with thatkind of thing.

I Think I Finally Like Hallowe'en

2011-11-06T19:05:00.000-08:00

November 1st - 8am.

Lucas is yelling at me to turn up the volume on the TV. Hubby is lying on the couch after an evening with Captain Morgan. And I'm channelling all my limited energy to fight the red wine haze in order to put together a much needed cup of strong black tea.

In other words, we had a really good Hallowe'en.

I've never really been into Hallowe'en. As a kid, it always felt more like an obligation. While other kids put together intricate costumes, I donned an off-the-rack plastic Smurfette mask, and was no less happy about it. As the only kid in the family, it would be my dad driving me house to house as I ran up the long driveways in the pitch black dark and rain to fetch my treats, or alternatively, it was my brother (eight years older), begrudgingly taking me while dressed in army fatigues garnishing a shot gun which he used to scare off any other kids. And as a teen and young adult, I was just happy not to participate but pickup the 1/2 price Reece cups on November 1st.

But things change when you become a parent and the social obligation to participate in Hallowe'en is non-negotiable. So this year, we fully invested.

There was pumpking patching, and the picking out of gourds from the very field then daintily carrying them to the car (suburban folk that we are and not so keen on dirtying any hands). And then the carving of the jack `o lantern, where Hubby and boy scooped out guts while Mommy googled how to roast pumpkin seeds to meet our boy's demand (even though he pronounced not as good as the ones from daycare). Then there were cookies to make - bats and pumpkins and ghosts - and a cookie station to man at Lucas' friends amazing Hallowe'en party. And dragging Grandma along for the cookie ride to make it fun rather than causing my usual level of stress.

When Hallowe'en morning arrived, I was giddy as a kid on Christmas, thrilled to don my pirate costume and head to work. Hubby caught the fever and scared us half to death walking into the kitchen in full Star Wars clone trooper uniform. And Lucas - a cow of course.

A few hours later, the cow was running hand in hand with his BFF, the pink princess from house to house while Hubby adopted the princess' brother - another clone trooper. We couldn't stop the kids from tearing across the complex and up the stairs, so much excitement in the air. Then came the thrill of examining their stashes dumped out in three piles on the black shag carpet, while Moms poked through the candy for safety and taste-testing purposes.

Once candy-high, the kids submerged downstairs and the grown up party began. Princess & clone trooper's mom outdid herself again with Hallowe'en themed appies. Laughter and liquids flowed as neighbours arrived, and stories are shared, and innuendos are giggled over.

And we stayed too late. And we drank too much. And it was a school night after all. But for a few hours, when we were supposed to be on a diet, we let go. For a few hours, we put aside our work-stress, ditched the seriousness, and let loose.

Because we were with friends who are as close as family, and who don't judge us for our inconsistencies, or laugh when my thigh high pirate leggings fall down, or feel weird when Hubby starts doling out shoulder massages. They create this magical place for us, where we can, for an evening, be a pirate and a clone trooper, and leave the rest of the world and its worries behind.

I think I finally like Hallowe'en.

22 Things I've Never Done, 22 Things I am Surprised I've Done

2011-10-23T23:49:00.000-07:00

Someone once told me that if you're having trouble writing prose, then start with a list. I love lists - the order and progression of them, the feeling of productivity when writing them or checking them off. Tonight, I'm inspired by my friend, Paula Kiger and her recent Perspicacity blog post about 22 things she's never done. So here goes, and you can guess which ones I still may achieve, which ones are pipe dreams, and which ones are just not happening...

22 Things I've Never Done (in no specific order)

1. Dyed my hair blue (I always chicken out.)

2. Given birth naturally. (I'm still working through this one. See my post: Don't Ask me for my Birth Story)

3. Tried zip-trekking. (I am so attracted to this and wonder once I get myself harnessed up and hanging off one of these if it is still attractive.)

4. Gone to Paris or London with my Hubby (though I've been there and dream of taking him.)

5. Gone to Tokyo or New York at all (though my Hubby's been there and dreams of taking me.)

6. Visited any of the sets of Stargate (damnit, it's too late, and I'm sure I could've found some strings to pull.)

7. Learned to ride a dirt bike and do tricks ala motorcross.

8. Won a race. (Perhaps I've always set my sights so low I never considered the possibility.)

9. Received a publishing contract for a book I've written. (Feels more and more possible that this could happen in my lifetime now.)

10. Ridden a horse.

11. Driven a Porsche.

12. Broken a limb.

13. Made pie crust, bread, or angel food cake from scratch. (These could be dangerous skills to learn.)

14. Been able to find some of those kick-ass knee-high leather boots that are in style that will actually fit over my Germanic calves.

15. Learned another language. (13 years of French does not count since I still can't speak or read it.)

16. Won a trip anywhere (though I plan to.)

17. Been a stay at home mom. (Stole this #17 from Paula! though its not exactly true since my mat leave was kind of stay at home mom-ish.)

18. Dressed up for the Sing-along-Sound-of-Music.

19. Written a self-titled musical.

20. Worn contact lenses.

21. Considered any other lover but my Hubby. (And never will.)

22. Had regrets. (Except the not visiting the Stargate set.)

And now I'm on a roll, I'm creating my own list.

22 Things I'm Surprised I've Done

1. Made a human being.
2. Been to a Star Trek convention (okay, three of them...)
3. Lived in Mexico.
4. Gotten published in 5 books (so far!)
5. Ridden on an ATV.
6. Met my teenage hero, Brian Orser, many times.
7. Visited a psychic and had my fortune come true years later.
8. Set fire to my hand.
9. Smoked (though this is unrelated to #9).
10. Wrote two novels. (They are terrible, but still I did it.)
11. Was Math Club President.
12. Had four careers in 12 years.
13. The Sun Run
14. Hosted a book launch.
15. Travelled to Venezuela, Taiwan, Luxembourg, and Florida, USA within a couple of years.
16. Gotten ridiculously driving lost in Delta (where all the streets are numbered).
17. Meditated. (It's surprising if you knew how hard it is to turn my mind off!)
18. Dropped out - of pregnancy yoga class (too many mirrors), writing a thesis (too little time), and the Turtle Running club (too slow - me, that is, not the club).
19. Knitted. (And liked it.)
20. Been in a wonderful relationship for almost 1/2 my life.
21. Breastfed my son - nourished him for six months with my milk alone.
22. Believed I could do these things.

Grateful for the Challenge of Parenting as appearing in The Baby Dilemma

2011-10-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

It's Thanksgiving weekend here and I'm feeling awfully grateful for everything and everyone in my life. I wanted to share this piece of "thanksgiving" which I contributed for a new e-book just released entitled The Baby Dilemma by Ann Meredith.

Grateful for the Challenge of Parenting

I can no longer imagine a life where I'm not a mother to my 4-year-old son Lucas. But there was a time, a long time, when I couldn't imagine making room for children. I put off motherhood for many years focussing instead on my career and marriage. My husband and I waited 12 years to be “ready” to have our first child. But even so, I was blindsided by the shock of becoming a mother. And yet today, I can appreciate this opportunity I've been given to rise to the challenge of parenting.

From the moment my body started taking over during pregnancy, I was stripped of whatever illusions I held of being in control of my life. Having a child has pulled me time and time again out of my comfort zones, forcing me to act without a plan. I remember first weeks with a newborn trying to chart his routine, to schedule feedings and sleep, and eventually laughing at the ridiculousness of it all and allowing his rhythm to emerge. In doing so, I began to listen to my gut, to trust my instincts, to allow life to unfold and trust that I would have what I needed to cope. And I did.

Parenting has taught me what I can bear and I found out that it's much more than I actually expected of myself. I've worked a lot harder and slept a lot less but accomplished more than ever since becoming a mom because I've learned to make every minute count. It's demanded that I step up, that I take on the ultimate responsibility of protecting life, knowing that I face the potential of failure on a daily basis. It's It's humbled my burgeoning ego and forced me to shift my perspectives to allow for a world much bigger and more important than my own.

And it's connected me to that bigger world too. If I die today, I have left my legacy through my son. When I look into his face, I see myself reflected, for better or worse. I realize that he will carry my genes, my lips, and whatever I have taught him (good or bad), with him throughout his life. Becoming a parent has connected me to other parents, facing their own mountains and demons as they raise their children. It's connected me to my own parents, my husband's parents, my brother - seeing them now as parents too. I appreciate the quote by Elizabeth Stone: “Making the decision to have a child -it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” Now I see them everywhere, these parents like me, their hearts outside them.

Once you’re a parent, the way you live your life can never ever be the same. It's being distracted all the time by that pull of your child, conscious or not. It's life where laziness and carelessness are no longer options. You feel held to a higher standard every moment, by society, family, other parents, and mostly, by yourself. In a life where every action and word is mimicked and adopted by your child, you are inspired to be a role model every second. Ambitions for career, money or whatever was important before are replaced by the desire to be a better mother, a better person.

I am a better person because I've been given the gift of Lucas, the privilege of calling myself his mother. I never knew love like this existed, this love that is an invisible cord between us, powerful and ever present. He honours me with his love - so pure, his devotion - so centered on me, and his trust - so complete. And I am humbled to be his parent, wondering sometimes who is really guiding whom.

The Baby Dilemma by Ann Meredith is available in Kindle format on amazon.com

First Family Vacation

2011-09-26T15:33:00.000-07:00

Lucas is sitting between my legs in the plastic bucket seat on this dark green peddle boat. I'm barely breathing because our combined life jackets take up all the space between us. He's stretching his Lightning McQueen sandals as far as his toes will go so he can touch the peddles.

"I'm making us go backwards!" he's yelling.

Really its Hubby who's peddling and I'm ever so grateful since this was my spontaneous idea that I didn't think he'd go for or that we'd go ahead with because we aren't, as a family, all that spontaneous.

But now here we are in the middle of a lake on a gorgeous August day in the beautiful town of Coeur D'Alene, Idaho.

I could now check off "spontaneous summer jaunt in Idaho" from my bucket list, but it's not on the list as I never in hell imagined travelling to Idaho, or frankly even knew where it was.

But here we are on day 4 of our 10-day road trip (where we spontaneously didn't even bother to make any hotel bookings) meandering through the States on our way up to the Kootenays.

And if I had any goals for this vacation, we are making them reality in this moment. I fumble with my iPhone attempting to capture our adventure rather than drop it into the lake.

Because what's crazy is that this is the first vacation that we've taken as a family in the four and a half years since Lucas was born.

Not that I'm complaining about the cruise that my parents took us on or about both the times Hubby's parents watched Lucas so we could go to Vegas. We know we're so lucky to have the family support we have. But there's been this feeling lately like we were missing something.

It seemed like every other family we knew had this thing about them that was uniquely them. They went on weekly outings and had secret handshakes and shared this sense of belonging to a family unit. Did we have that? What was our family's identity? Did we DO family stuff together besides group trips to Costco? What did it mean to be a Jurock-Staley - heck we didn't even share one last name.

Had we spent so much time trading Lucas between Hubby and myself while we juggled work and school and family and our individual pursuits, that we weren't a unit? Lucas has a strong bond with each of us, and certainly Hubby and I have a 16-year-old strong bond. But what about our trinity?

And so we embarked on this road trip. And as we headed out of town, I asked the questions. Did we really want to think about expanding our family? And we talked around the topic, and I think the reason was that I couldn't shake the feeling that we had to get THIS right first.

And as the days progressed and we laughed and yelled and sang our way through Seattle and Spokane and Idaho and Kimberley, I wondered what I had been worried about.

Hubby, in his golf shirts (as opposed to his normal attire of superhero tees) embodied the role of Dad, fussing with the GPS and grumping about the price of gas, while also being the one to double check the locks always walking ahead to check things out. I assumed the maternal role, making sure everyone was fed and watered, got enough sleep, nutrition, and baths.

And Lucas gave us the reason to find fun wherever we went. Even in the middle of Idaho as I suffocated behind his life jacket.

I Hope You Dance

2011-09-12T16:54:00.000-07:00

Lucas and I are sitting on a bench watching two street performers at Granville Island. It's a hot, hot September Saturday and we've ended up here on a whim following Lucas' urge to see the boats. We are watching a funky man and woman sing their version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". He's plunking strings on his base and she's singing, he's got a pink top hat and she's got a black dress with pink polka dots. When the song ends, I hand Lucas a loonie, and he pulls me with him to throw it into their guitar case.

"Thank you, thank you," they sing and then start into their next song, "I Want to Be Like You" from the Jungle Book.

"Wanna dance?" I ask Lucas. He nods and starts swaying side to side with a big grin on his face.

I take one of his hands since my other is holding this giant baguette that Lucas picked from the French bakery when I told him he could have a treat. We're the only one dancing in the space between the crowd and the performers, so we're getting some attention. An elderly couple behind are smiling warmly as Lucas does some deep knee bends that are modelled after the dancing robot he has at home. I spin Lucas under my arm over and over while he giggles.

When the song ends, we clap loudly and are surprised when the base player announces, "And let's hear it for the baquette dancers!" I can't even look up while the small audience claps for us, but Lucas smiles to everyone.

And as we run into the market so we can buy our favourite sausages to bring home for the BBQ, I find myself biting my lip to hold back tears. And on the drive home, as he dozes to sleep in his car seat, I find my mind wondering if he'll remember this afternoon. Maybe not the details of walking on the docks or playing in the Kids Market, but would he remember the "just do it"-ness of our spontaneous hour on the island?

I remember my father's guiding words as I grew up. "You might regret not doing it later." He knew I would regret not swimming because I was self-conscious about how I looked in a bathing suit. He knew I'd regret not dancing even if I didn't have a partner. He knew I'd regret not going for a new job just because I was worried I wouldn't get it. So, I jumped in the pool and I asked the boys to dance and I put myself out there for jobs I wasn't qualified.

And there were times I was laughed at. And times I failed. And many, many times I was so very uncool.

But then I remember my mother's quiet but ever present support. Taking me to that rollerblading race that was completely out of my league, and being proud that I just finished. Keeping her laughs to herself as I interviewed my stuffed animals for a radio show, dressed up like my favourite rock singer, and choreographed dance routines in the hallways. So, I kept doing my own thing because I was always free to do it.

And later in my teens and early twenties, I found myself tucking that Liesl away, trying to play the part of good student, good girlfriend, good worker. I called it growing up.

And now as mother, I am officially the grown up. But I get to be a kid again when I am with my son. I get to dance in the middle of a square. I get to run along the dock chasing birds. I get to eat too much ice cream. And maybe that sounds irresponsible, but in my eyes, I'm teaching him the same valuable lessons I learned from my parents.

That life is in the doing. It's in the trying, the tasting, the going, the being. It's not in the watching and waiting.

And as I grow older, I find that I have to remind myself of this. As I settle down in familiar patterns and feel cautious against change, I have to remember not to become complacent. As I worry over money or jobs, I have to keep faith in who I am and that I've always been able to land on my feet. As I wonder how I can handle more, I have to just try.

And I have to keep dancing on a whim because the music moves me.

One day when Lucas is older, we'll be out and an awesome tune will come on, and I will try and pull him up to dance. But this time, he'll shake his head and dart his eyes to the ground. There will probably be a two-syllable, moaning "Mo-om" to describe his embarassment that I would even suggest this, followed by him shrugging his hand away. And I won't force him. But I hope I will still dance anyway.

To that Lucas, I say:

"I hope you never lose your sense of wonder

You get your fill to eat

But always keep that hunger

May you never take one single breath for granted

God forbid love ever leave you empty handed

I hope you still feel small

When you stand by the ocean

Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens

Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance."

- Lee Ann Womack

Surviving September (as published on Women's Post)

2011-09-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

"In August, I told myself, this year will be different. This year I won’t commit to so many things. This year my theme song won’t be Green Day’s “Wake me up when September ends.” This year I will plan ahead. But here we are in the first week of classes and I’ve done no such thing..."

Read the full piece published on Women's Post online on September 9, 2011.

Questioning - A Guest Blog on (M)OTHER VOICES

2011-08-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

I was honoured to be contacted by Jamye Shelleby of (M)OTHER VOICES and asked to be a Guest Blogger for their site this week on the topic of "Education".

I decided to write about the incessant questions I get from Lucas on everything from traffic lights to the afterlife, and my musings on who is really learning from whom.

(M)OTHER VOICES is unique in that each week, different mother writers respond with blogs on a similar theme. To read mine and other "education" themed pieces, check out (M)OTHER VOICES.

Running Out of My Comfort Zone

2011-08-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

I'm jogging along the street that goes parallel to my house, almost finished and wondering - have I done it? I've been running for several minutes non-stop, which is not my norm. I've been trying to build up my stamina by walk-running. Run 3 minutes, walk 2 minute, run 4, walk 1 - you get the idea. It's how I managed to run 10 km and complete the Vancouver Sun Run. But that was ten years ago, after three months of training. This summer, my goal was to be able to run 20 minutes straight by practicing once a week and slowly building to it. In other words, I was not going to kill myself trying to get there.

You see, exercise has never been something I've been good at. I have a long list of embarrassments when it comes to exercise. There was the Turtle Running club that I joined after doing the Sun Run because I'm so slow, and then found out I couldn't even keep up with them. There was the rollerblading race I signed up for at age 14 which happened in the torrential rain and they had to keep the race track open just for me to finish. There were the many fitness classes I took when I worked at the YWCA only to find myself tripping over my step in step class and drowning in deep water aquafit. And so many yoga classes I've taken whenever I remember I love yoga but forget I can't bend or transition like anyone else in said classes. And every time I quit.

So I lower the bar for myself. Lower and lower until I decide exercise maybe isn't that important. My life is pretty full as is. And as I look around at my life, I see that I use this excuse elsewhere. As I get more established in my career, family, and finances, I create ultimate control over my life to make it as comfortable as possible. That's the dream, isn't it? The marriage and 1.5 children, the fulfilling careers that pay for the house and two cars and summer vacations. And I've done that now. Hubby & I - we've accomplished it - our life of comfort.

But here's the problem with that. It gets too comfortable. So much so that I don't want to make changes that take me out of my comfort zone. And I preach to my students that they need to be open to move away for a job or be flexible to do something they didn't think they would do. But in my own life, when our friends suggest we go camping for a weekend, anxiety rises within me. That means I have to buy stuff, pack stuff, sleep on the ground, take Lucas out of his routine, live without my bathroom for two days. Or when my parents up and sell their house after 15 years and have three weeks to pack, my mind is spinning with the impossibility of getting it all done and its not even my problem. Or when someone suggests they are going to come and drop by, I feel insulted because it means rearranging plans and furniture.

When did I become the old person who can't stomach change or spontaneity?

And how does this effect how I parent Lucas? I carefully explain everything that's going to happen, get buy in from him on each next step, and shelter him from too much information. I protect his routine as if it were a fragile component of his body. I teach him about the calendar so he always knows what to expect when. He doesn't roll with things or handle transition well and for some reason I wonder why.

And so this summer, I find myself shifting. I find myself seeking out situations where I feel less than competent. I find myself taking advantage of opportunities to get out of that comfort zone. We did go camping with out good friends and had a blast and want to go again. We packed in a 10-day road trip with no hotel reservations, baffling our nearest and dearest. I'm in a new job with the sole intention to learn each day. And while it means I need to suck up my pride and be in a place of humility and openness much more than I would normally choose, the results are worth it.

And so today when I went out running after a few weeks of not, a few weeks of vacation and way too many baked goods and ice cream cones. And I decided - I'm going to just see if I can do it. Forget this inching up to 20 minutes of running. Let's see if I can just do it.

And as I ran, my mind was racing and I didn't even notice the first several minutes. I was imagining a new website for myself and blissfully unaware of everything around me. Then it got harder. There was a break between songs, a van I had to run around, and suddenly I could feel my calf muscles, hear my heavy breathing, see I how far I was from home. I would normally stop here, switch to a walk, having reached the limit of my comfort zone.

But today was different. I remembered in that moment what happens on the other side of this agony. I remembered my days of training 10 years ago, when in the middle of my hour run, suddenly something else would take over. The muscle aches would subside and this extra engine would turn on inside that would propel my forward. I waited for it to happen, pounding the pavement rhythmically. And then suddenly, there it was. Something inside me revved up and I was running faster and feeling nothing. Here it was - the high that makes runners run.

And as I turned the corner onto my street, I wondered - have I done it? I pulled my old ipod off its clip to check the time. And there it was - proof I'd run 21 minutes straight.

Proof that I can do more than I think I can when I allow myself to push through the comfort zone. Proof that we have what we need inside us to get through. Proof that there is still so much more I can do.

How to Get Published & Why You Need to Be as featured on Women's Post

2011-08-10T21:32:00.000-07:00

I've been privileged to have a regular column on Women's Post online, a Canadian magazine for professional women, for more than a year. I write light pieces on various aspects of career development from interview fashion to references, from finding your dream job to getting out of your dreaded job.

My article this month shares some ideas on how & why to get published. Since my dream was always to be a writer, getting published always felt like quite a daunting task. But as I got the hang of submitting articles (and got hooked on seeing them in print), I found that its also had benefits to my non-writing career as well, and I wanted to share some ways to get started.

Read the full post: http://www.womenspost.ca/articles/career/how-get-published-and-why-you-need-be

Gordon Ramsay Gets me Back on Track

2011-07-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-11T20:26:00.000-07:00

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."

Mommy First! published on Oh Baby!

2011-06-30T18:37:00.000-07:00

One of my earlier pieces just got published on the Oh Baby! Magazine's website and is due out in the print version in the Fall (which we should be able to pick up at Sears).

It's always interesting to revisit earlier stages of parenting and realize how far you've come. At the stage I wrote this piece, I was struggling with a lot of guilt, finding my parenting identity, and starting to get a grip on the futility of trying to be the mom that society seemed to dictate. It feels freeing to know I've made peace with those issues and continue to evolve as a mother.

Bad Hair Day

2011-06-22T11:01:00.000-07:00

I’m walking through the mall with Lucas’s hand in mind as he cries quietly.

“I just want a treat. I don’t want to get my hair cut.”

“That’s not how it works, honey. You have to go get your hair cut and then you get a treat.”

I wish I hadn’t initiated this bribe. I wish I hadn’t dragged him into the kids hairdresser and tried to convince him of the merits of the Lightning McQueen barber chair. I wish I hadn’t walked him into the Sheffield & Sons and shown him all the candy options he could choose from if he went and sat in the Lightning McQueen barber chair. I wish I didn’t have to follow through now and drag a depressed child through the mall without having achieved the hair cut goal.

I wish getting his hair cut didn’t matter to me. But I suppose it does.

When I dropped my son off at daycare this morning, I realized I’d forgotten to brush his hair. The teachers laughed and told me how they pat his hair down after nap because it’s all sticking up. I figured they were subtly telling me he needs a haircut. My mom called to tell me that her hairdresser – who Lucas will usually go to - is still not back from vacation. I’m pretty sure she was telling me to find somewhere to get him a haircut. My mother-in-law stroked his forehead, saying, “his hair is turning brown as it gets long.” I may be reading into this, but I think she was also telling me, in her kind-hearted way, that he needs a haircut.

The thing is – I just wish this didn’t matter. When Lucas was born, my husband didn’t cut his hair and it grew and grew into curls that he secretly loved and everyone quietly disapproved of. And when you look at pictures of him back then you see this crazed look in his eyes as he is delirious with happiness holding his infant son. I didn’t notice that his hair was growing longer than ever because we were in the midst of creating our little family unit. And that was way more fascinating to me than the length of his bloody hair.

But then everyone around us starting hinting. Finally, someone joked that Lucas wouldn’t know which one was his mommy and which was his daddy. And so my husband quietly went and got himself sheared with a #3 razor on the top and a #2 on the sides and back, and said adieu to his curly locks as they fell to the floor.

I know it’s just hair, but when you’re forced to do anything to please others, it’s not really about hair at all. I could have just dragged him in there, strapped him into the Lightning McQueen barber chair and got it done. He would’ve been upset, but then I would’ve gotten him his treat, and then it would be over. But I chose to give him the choice. And now, we all have to live with it – no hair cut, no treats, lots of dramatic tears.

Because the thing is, I was dragged to the hair dresser as a kid so I could look just right. And I was put in private school so I could learn to act right. And I was registered in tennis lessons so I could meet the right kind of boys. And none of it ever made me feel right. And when I look back at pictures of myself at ten, dressed in polo shirts and white slacks and penny loafers, all I see is the kid who forgot to brush her hair.

Remembering that, I decide to take Lucas out of the mall, hoping a change in scenery will help us move on from this episode. He doesn’t want to leave though. He’s still sobbing, torn by the choice I’ve given him.

I pull him into my arms, as I did when he was a baby. He struggles a bit, but settles when I tell him “It’s okay. I know you’re scared. You don’t have to do this now.”

His tears turn into heaving breaths as he realizes I understand why he won’t go. “But will I still get a treat?” he asks, eyes wide with hope.

“No, honey. But we’ll come back another day when you’re ready.”

He tucks his head onto my shoulder and I wipe his tears from his face with my thumb. He’s still dejected about the absence of treats and I’m still annoyed that he won’t have his hair cut before the wedding tomorrow and Father’s day. But something has shifted here. And the hair cut doesn’t matter any more.

I tell him again, “everything’s okay. One day, when you don’t feel as scared, we’ll try again.”

I was raised to believe appearance matters but I had a hard time buying into that notion because it never felt right. So perhaps in my rebellion, I’ve let my son’s hair grow too lengthy and I’ve let him have his choice.

At the end of the day, I don’t want him to think that his appearance is related to how I feel about him, or how he should feel about himself. I don’t want him to think my love is measured in any relation to any of that.

It matters to me that he’s clean and fed and hydrated and relatively happy. But does it really matter if his hair if he shows up in wedding pictures with a big fluff ball on the back of his head?

I pull him close to me. “Mommy loves you just the way you are,” I tell him.

“Mama,” he responds and jumps off my lap. He is ready to move on now and maybe I am too.

Wishless

2011-06-06T22:35:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday tomorrow. I'll be 35 - that "hope you've got your shit together by" age. I used to look at 35-year-olds and wonder if I'd ever feel that mature, sure of myself, or on the right track as they seemed. And the thing is, I must sheepishly admit, that suddenly and unexpectedly, I realize that I do.

Last week when I called Mazda to arrange financing to buy out my lease on our Mazda 5 (which is NOT a mini-van but a "cross-over vehicle"), the agent took down all Hubby & my pertinent info. Professions. Income. Assets.

"Wow, you have it all together," he said.

I laughed, "I know it's a bit boring, isn't it? Maybe I'll have to have a mid-life crisis and shake things up."

He laughed nervously, unsure if he'd offended me. "Well, then you can come in and pick out a yellow Miata."

"Sure," I responded, and thought of how Lucas says "sure" as a response to everything lately. When I asked him what "sure" meant, he said, "it means yes, and no, and I don't really know."

And that's exactly it. For one of the first times in my life, I have no idea what's next. I have no clearer sense of whether I'll be buying a miata, travelling through Europe, or blogging about our 2nd child. And stranger still, I'm not even sure which of these options I'd prefer.

Because I'm still stunned. I'm stunned by the fact that the universe has delivered my dreams to me. My husband with the "lovely soul" as my first boss described him. My son - so strong and solidly himself who has inspired my growth more than anything in my life. My employer - SFU - which continues to offer me wonderful new opportunities to learn from mentors and students alike. My writing career - taking off like a bird, finally, after years and years of my caging it for fear of flying. So many good people in my life - girlfriends and family and colleagues and writers and children - that inspire me and challenge me and in the end, just love me as me.

And I'm embarassed to put this into words for fear of sounding like I'm gloating. It's not my intent to boast. It's my intent to share this, to whisper to those people who want to hear... "Come here, come closer, I have a secret to tell you. You know what? I think it's actually possible to get what you want, because it keeps happening for me."

And then I will tell them what I believe. That it really is all about believing in your dreams. And quite likely they will roll their eyes then. The way I rolled my eyes at my father who raised me with motivational quotes from the greats. "If you can imagine it, you can achieve it; if you can dream it, you can become it." – William Arthur Ward. "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined." - Henry David Thoreau. "Follow your bliss" - Joseph Campbell.

And I didn't appreciate it then. But now I think maybe my father's incessant drilling of quotes that sound like graduation addresses, and hours and hours of motivational cassettes played while I was trapped in the car, and yes, watching him rise to his own dreams - maybe, just maybe, they did sink into my teenage skull. They allowed me to allow my own dreams, to live a part of my life up in the clouds imagining what could be, and to feel like that's a legitimate use of my brain and my time. And when I think of the many layers of "privilege" I have grown up with, (because, don't mistake me, I am aware its easier to dream when you're in a place of privilege), I think maybe this layer of requisite dreaming in my family has had the most impact.

Several years ago, Hubby and I drew pictures of our dreams, each on our own. And when we compared, we found we had drawn the same thing - a house, a kid, and us partying with friends and family in our home. And whenever we remember we are living in that picture now, it thrills us.

So, two years ago, on a road trip with my girl, Sarah, I suggested we draw pictures of our dreams one night in our hotel. And I drew this scene of me at a book reading. I'm standing in front of everyone, holding up a book that has my name on it, and in the audience are all women who are connecting with each other because of something I'm saying that resonates. And two weeks ago, I found myself standing in front of an audience at the Rhizome Cafe, at a book launch I'd organized, surrounded by my Write Club mamas, and our family and friends, listening to me read a piece from Torn. And suddenly it hit me that I was standing in the picture I'd drawn. Overcome with emotion, I shared this with the audience, as goosebumps rose up my arms. And when the readings were over, and I watched moms leaning across the tables sharing their stories with one another, I had to bite my lip to hold back tears. It was happening, just as I had envisioned, and just like my stick-figured drawing had illustrated.

And to be honest, it's taken me almost two weeks to write about it and acknowledge it happened because I'm still in shock. People tell me "you're amazing" but I don't hear it. Because I don't know that that's what's it's really about. I will own that I'm driven, that I dream big, that I will give up sleep so I can work hard on what I want. But there's something bigger going on when I can draw a picture, and two years later, embody it.

Call it luck. Call it God. Call it the universe, as I do. It doesn't matter what you call it. But as cheesy as it sounds, I believe it - dreams can come true.

I don't know what picture I'm going to draw next. Right now my page is blank, my path ahead is unclear. That's scary to me, as someone who always dreams about what's next, and the fact that I also don't want to "lose momentum" on this fast-moving river I seem to be on.

But the thing is, I'm a little tired. And as my friend, Chris, asked me the other day, "don't you ever just go on cruise control?" and maybe that's what needs to happen right now. I get to enjoy the ride. And undoubtedly, a few moments into the ride, I'll see something else that inspires me to new desires. And the next chase will begin. Because I never really rest for very long.

So, tomorrow when I have to make a wish as I blow out candles on my birthday cake, I really don't know what I'll say. I'm wishless right now... satisfied... satiated. And it feels like bliss. So maybe I'll just say... thank you. Dear universe, I am so very grateful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Getting Regrounded

2011-05-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

"When we walk, the two halves of our brains converse." - Julia Cameron

I am walking, one foot in front of another, tea in hand, along the path lining the ocean in Victoria's inner harbour. I welcome the feel of almost forgotten sunshine against my face, unworried about sunscreen or skin cancer, and inhale the smell of the sea. A breeze blows my unkempt curls behind me, and I make no attempt to tame them. I feel compelled by the float planes that inhabit the water and imagine entering the sea and joining them, floating there solidly before taking flight.

But I have been flying these past few weeks, flitting from one spot to the next, landing only briefly here and there to meet someone's need, then up again to the next destination, and the next and the next. My sights have been set here - on this moment - when the schedule finally relents enough for me to set down. And it's funny that in this moment, all I want to do is keep going. I have to force my wings down and put some gates up around me, whether I like it or not. It is time to refuel. It is time to set a new course.

And so I am walking, recalling some words I read from Julia Cameron that we need to ground ourselves regularly, and that there is no better way to do this than to literally feel the ground under our feet. And as I walk, I have to push myself to stay on the path, not get distracted by tourist possibilities, by my lovely colleagues' invitations, by the burgeoning to-do list that writes itself in my head. There is guilt there too at the surface - at being away from my son and husband at this conference, at not joining all the social possibilities offered, at taking this time for me.

But I am aware that with each responsibility I have borne these past few weeks, a piece of me has been pulled and dissolved. I am aware that leaving a job I loved has torn at me, and being excited about a new job I will also love has tested my loyalties. I am aware that this conference and this presentation I made with my colleague was about alot more than pushing myself professionally - it was a signifier of an end, and a way to mark what I've contributed, and then to let it go. I am aware that my writing success is on the rise this same month, and the very little time and energy I to give it attention may not be enough. I am aware that I have given up too much sleep that my body is craving illness just so it can rest.

As I put one foot in front of the other, feeling the solid concrete beneath me, I am aware that I am only a shadow of myself. It is as if I have become invisible from the weariness of holding everything together. But taking these few days, indulging in having my own hotel room, stealing away time with my dear friend, has made me see myself again. And now with each step, I become slightly more apparent. My mind that has been on overdrive slows enough that it can process. My shoulders that have held all my tension relax. My spirit which has been silenced by the neverending have-to-do's now squirms to the surface.

I re-emerge, still tired, still slightly overwhelmed, but visible now. I sip my tea and and hum with deep gratitude to this path I am on. There is this path along the ocean that has helped restore me back to me. And now I see, there is another path I am on, lined with all that I have asked the universe for, and I have the privelege of walking along it now as well.

"We should write because writing brings clarity and passion to the act of living. Writing is sensual, experiential, grounding. We should write because writing is good for the soul. We should write because writing yields us a body of work, a felt path through the world we live in." - Julia Cameron

Torn between Kids and Careers as posted on Women's Post

2011-05-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

Women's Post, a national online Canadian women's magazine, published my piece about being "Torn between Kids and Careers" which includes a short except from TORN: True Stories about Kids, Careers & the Conflict of Modern Motherhood. Tonight at 6:30pm, I go on CKNW radio (AM 980 in Vancouver) for an interview with Simi Sara around the same topic.

TORN is receiving a great deal of media coverage in the first week of its release thanks to the amazing work of the editor, Samantha Parent Walravens and various contributors doing what they can. It's very exciting to see the buzz happening because its resulting in more moms engaging in the conversation around the conflict of modern motherhood and sharing their own stories.

As Samantha writes about the stories in her book, "Their voices take part in an emerging mothers' movement that is calling for better options for integrating work and family; greater respect for the social and economic value of mothers' work, paid or unpaid, and public policies that respond to the needs of working mothers and dual-earner couples. Their stories give us hope that, not too long from now, the notion of women feeling "torn" between family and career will be a memory of the past."

It's fulfilling to know that, while I am up til midnight every night working on ways to promote this book locally, it's time well spent. The more moms talking about this issue, the more change that is possible.

Check out more info on TORN at Samantha Parent Walravens website or find out info about the Vancouver book launch.

What is means to me to be part of this new anthology - TORN: True Stories of Kids, Careers & the Conflict of Modern Motherhood

2011-05-04T22:03:00.000-07:00

My four-year-old son, Lucas, is putting coins into his cow bank (it's a cow bank, of course, not a piggy bank). He's taking them out and putting them back in again and taking them out (you get the idea). Suddenly, he dumps all of the coins out and slides them across the table towards me.

“Mommy, here is some money and then you don’t have to go to work,” he says, excited about his great idea.

On the mornings when daycare drop-offs are difficult, I have told him that I need to work so I can get money to pay for our food and his toys. He thinks he has found a way around this.

If only it were that simple.

"Thanks, honey," I tell him. "But this is your money for you to buy stuff."

"Like candy?"

"Sure," I say, successfully diverting the flow of conversation and untying the knot in my throat. It appears whenever guilt surfaces over my choices. The big choices like, choosing to work and choosing daycare, and the smaller moral dilemmas like whether to call in sick when its really my son whose sick, or whether to go to Write Club when I haven't seen him all day.

So, when I got the email from editor, Samantha Parent Walravens, that gave us the title of the anthology we had contributed to, I felt this huge sense of relief. "TORN" completely describes that knot in my throat that I feel almost every day over some decision I am making. And "True Stories of Kids, Careers & the Conflict of Modern Motherhood" makes me feel like I'm not alone in feeling this way. To be part of the 47 women who share their stories in this exciting collection is such an honour.

Now that the book has come out, it is generating a buzz that gives moms permission and a space to talk about their own struggles in trying to "have it all". As Deborah Netburn's says in her review in the LA Times, "For those of us who live in a constant state of anxiety about how we've compromised our careers for our kids or the other way around, books about the the work/life balance and how other women have dealt with it remain perennially interesting."

As I wrote before, in "Why I Put Aside the Ethical Dilemma of Writing about my Son", I want to part of a movement around ending the pretense and surface-level depictions that motherhood is natural, simple, or sunshine and lollipops. "I have to bear witness to this journey, this challenge, this life-changing experience. I have to share my story and inspire others to share theirs. I have to push back, to stir the pot, the invoke some conflict, and step out WAY out of my comfort zone to do so. Because I can't not. For me, as a writer, it would be a moral dilemma to stay silent."

Being a part of this book, this cross-section of true tales from real mothers, is thrilling to me because it's a way to be part of this new movement and to contribute to redefining what motherhood is. Indeed, TORN has been described as “a heartfelt look at how a generation of mothers is trying to forge its own identity while honoring the legacy of 60s and 70s feminism. Sometimes freedom can be its own trap, and this book illustrates that principle beautifully” by Neal Pollack, a Vanity Fair columnist and author of Alternadad and Stretch.

As a writer, I take from my life and craft essays to make sense of it all. Then I put my stuff out into the ether and see what happens, in the hopes it will reach those who wish to read it. When I submitted my piece, "Cupcake Crazy", I had no idea it would morph into a chapter within this important work. And as nervous and sheepish as I am whenever I "come out" as a writer in my public life, I am doing what I can to promote the book.

So, I will be hosting (eek) and reading (yikes) at a Book Launch that I'm organizing (that part, no problem) in Vancouver at the Rhizome Cafe on May 26. I am bolstered by the fact that my Write Club mamas are going to read their work alongside me (or perhaps we will be propping each other up) as long as I buy them preparatory beverages. And my hope is that the event just gets moms to take some time out, to talk about what's going on for them, and hopefully, to get some relief from those knots in their throats.

And I will be watching, with the same eager anticipation that my son has about candy and cows, to see how this book takes off.

For additional information on TORN, please visit www.samanthawalravens.com, check it out on amazon.ca or amazon.com

TORN: True Stories of Kids, Careers & the Conflict of Modern Motherhood published by Coffeetown Press, May 2011, ISBN: 978-1-60381-097-5.

Easter Musings

2011-04-24T08:55:00.000-07:00

It's 7am Easter morning and we're already done with the Easter egg hunt, woken up by a giddy preschooler and his blue bunny basket. Hubby and I have put aside our sugar-free diet and indulged in a breakfast of chocolate eggs and sour jelly bellies with Lucas. After the boys have unwrapped and assembled the fairly useless Kinder Surprise toy, I call Lucas to come and sit with me on our giant chair and a half.

"So, do you know what Easter is all about?" I ask.

"Easter eggs!" he responds confidently, chocolate smeared across his chin.

"Yes, that's one part of it. Easter is about new life - like our tulips growing outside and babies being born."

"Tulips make mommy happy!" he exclaims and it's true. We have 30 tulips freshly picked from the tulip farm on Good Friday, and they make me very happy.

"It's also about Jesus," I tell him.

His face turns solemn. "Jesus died on Easter?" He has putting together the details from last Sunday's service that his grandparents took him to. We're not church-goers so his grasp on Jesus is slim, but I am slowly introducing Christianity.

"Actually Jesus came back to life on Easter."

He looks relieved. I'm pretty sure he half expects to see Jesus at Easter dinner tonight. Then I get the requisite preschooler question, "how?"

"I'm not sure how it all works, honey."

Then the next obvious question, "why?"

"He died and came back to teach us about how much love we have, and that we will always have."

I know there's a lot more to this story, but I am satisfied with that answer, as that's what it's about for me - love. And when I asked my mommy friends on Facebook how they explain Easter, it seems like I am not alone.

My dear friend Amy, mom of five, told me to, "pass onto him that love surrounds us all at Easter. For us it stems from the arms of Jesus, and the chocolate and treats are just icing. Hope your Easter is blessed and full of happy times... and chocolate."

Rochelle, mom of "the girlfriend" concurred. "It's about love and sacrifice and hope. But mostly about love. For my family, it is definitely about Jesus, and yes, chocolate. No reason why you have to choose one or the other."

That made me laugh, and indeed, as soon as I was done fulfilling my assume parental duty of explaining easter, Lucas immediately turned his attention back to his basket of chocolate eggs.

I resonated most strongly with my friend Krista, who I worked with years ago:

"For us, it is a celebration of new life - the earth is returning from a winter's sleep and we are celebrating life and all it has to offer... we talk about God still, but from a perspective of a presence of love that connects us all. So, for my kids, Easter is giving thanks for new life, going on easter egg hunts and being with family for a great big dinner!"

Indeed, when I think of Easter, I remember many turkeys and hams with my parents and brother, Marc, and my Tita Vi and Grandma, who has now passed on. I remember Easter egg hunts with Marc, and realize now that, at eight years older than me, he was just playing along for my amusement. I remember spring skiing with my Papa at Whistler, and eating maple-syrup-covered-snow at the top of the mountain one Easter morning.

And now as I sit with Lucas cuddled under one arm, inhaling gummy bunnies, and as Hubby composes a new tune on his piano, I feel overwhelmed with the feeling of Easter - the feeling of family, of love, and of sugar highs to come.

LieslMama goes PartyMama

2011-04-18T14:00:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it - renting the 6 foot wooden cow milking station might have been overkill. Ordering supplies online like the cow hide decorated balloons, farm animal goodie bags, and pin-the-bird-on-the-cow's-head game didn't seem unreasonable. And the cow-head shaped ham, cheese and jello jigglers - well, they were just plain fun.

I'll admit it - I may have turned into a bit of a "Party Mama" to the extent that I obsessed over this party over the past month. On one of my sick days last year, I discovered the "Party Mamas" reality TV show. It features ridiculously rich mothers planning epic parties (birthdays, Bar Mitzvahs, etc.) of wedding-like proportions. I sat agog at the money being thrown about for a kid's party, and do remember yelling at the tv moms to "get a life!" The memory was not lost on me this past month as I perused dollar stores collecting every cow-shaped item I could find (cow sprinkles, cow cutting board, cow piggy banks, to name a few). When I found myself at midnight the night before the party googling "cow moo-ing sound effect", I knew I may have drunk a little too much of that Party Mama cocktail.

But I'll admit - it was worth it. When Lucas walked in the door Friday after school, after I'd taken a vacation day to clean and decorate the house, it was all worth it. "This is SO cool, Mommy!" he said. Cool! Mommy! In the same sentence. (I put this is writing as I fully expect it to never occur again.) His stuffed cows adorned every shelf. His giant inflated cow balloon that I'd given him for his actual birthday floated up into our vaulted ceiling. And the six foot wooden cow, that Hubby's darling Uncle transported for us from the party story, took over our garage. He ran from cow to cow, counting the cows and singing "Happy birthday to me!" in the adorable (but not annoying) way that only a 4-year-old can get away with.

We were ready. Or were we?

At 11:00am on Saturday, eight children promptly arrived. Grandma and Grandpa were there to help, and Rob and Rochelle, the girlfriend's parents, were there for backup. I had no doubt that Hubby, a former swim teacher and Mad Science entertainer, could handle eight kids for two hours, especially since we'd meticulously planned four cow-themed party games and had a scripted event schedule to go by. But when Hubby let out a big sigh after wrangling the hyper kids for the third time, and we'd already run through two games, and the clock only said 11:20, we realized what we were in for.

Two hours had never felt so long.

My dear friend Amy, mother of five, had been only mildly encouraging when I said we wanted to plan a big kids party at our house. "Yeah, I guess you should try it once," she said. Our neighbour, mother of three, suggested keeping the number low. I maybe should have noted that both moms talked about the many places they had held parties instead of their house. As the kids ran like wild animals, and the games flew by much quicker than planned, I thought that renting a gym might be a good idea for next year.

But in all seriousness, the kids were actually wonderful and all had fun in their own ways, even if it wasn't on the schedule. The two little ones chased our cats. Lucas and Jamie crawled on top of each other. And oldest ones bonded over mischief that we never quite figured out. Hubby the Play Leader was remarkable at keeping the kids, aged 2-7, entertained, teaching them to make balloon animals when the games ran out. And when lunch came, all eight kids sat quietly eating and us grownups stared at each other in shock at the silence. Everyone was duly appreciative of the amazing Cake-Boss-worthy barn cake that Lucas' grandma had crafted, and enjoyed turning their tongues and teeth pink from the red icing. And when we still had 15 minutes to go and nothing left on the schedule, we popped open Lucas' gifts and let everyone have a go.

All in all, a pretty great party. We downed some beer and wine, lay about on the couches in the living room, and patted ourselves on the back.

If only that was it. I had, in my infinite wisdom, actually planned two parties for the same day - a kids party for lunch and a family party in the evening. I've been a professional event planner after all. I knew we could pull it off - as Hubby I make an awesome team when implementing my "event scripts." But there was one thing I forgot to put in the schedule - a nap for us. Something to note for next year.

As for next year, I'm thinking... race car theme...?

The Girlfriend

2011-04-11T08:17:00.000-07:00

"I think our kids like each other," I said to the dark-haired mom of Jamie, as we both picked up our 18-month-olds from daycare.

"Oh yeah?" she asked with a slight accent that I couldn't place.

"Apparently they were kissing each other today!" I told her tentatively, as you never knew whether a parent would find this as amusing as I did. She could have been one of those hyper hygenic parents and worried about Lucas getting her daughter sick.

Instead she said, "Yes, she can be a little slutty." We both cracked up and I knew I'd found a kindred spirit.

What I didn't know is how one day of innocent smooches between toddlers would turn into an inseparable relationship between our kids and a close friendship amongst us parents.While Rochelle (the aforementioned mom) and I often dub them as "girlfriend and boyfriend", we're actually aware that the friendship they have is quite unique for preschoolers.

"There are no other kids that Jamie will listen to but Lucas," she tells me one day as we're at the playground, watching Lucas demand his turn down the slide.

Jamie is a wild and wonderful little girl, with curly brown locks, adorable brown eyes and a smile that just makes you want to eat her up. She's a bundle of energy, running to me across the daycare when I come to pick up Lucas. "Mommy!" she says to me as she leaps into my arms with Lucas behind her because he's using "walking feet" as dictated by the teacher. The teachers have tried to curb this but since none of us parents cooperate, they've given up.

For his part, Lucas tells everyone he has two mommies. "You are one mommy and Rochelle is my other mommy." I don't think Rochelle minds.

Back in the playground, I tell her, "Lucas doesn't even talk about other kids except Jamie."

Indeed, the prospect of seeing Jamie at daycare is the only thing that gets them out the door in the morning. When their family recently went on vacation for five weeks, we all worried what would become of him.

"He plays with the other kids," his teacher assured me. "This is probably good for him."

But when Valentine's Day came around, their only thoughts for each other. We awoke to a video on facebook with Jamie saying, "Hi Lucas, I love you and I love playing with you. Happy Valentines day!" Lucas created a video response, saying, "I love you and I miss you but I sure you come back soon. I have a cookie for you and I will leave it at home for you."

The exchange melted my heart, but there's a part of my that worries about this too. Not only did we follow Jamie and her family from our old daycare to this current one, we also followed them to their new neighbourhood. And as one BBQ led to another, and one family outing led to another, we've actually come to fall in love with each other's families as well. So as we end up doing more and more together, I sometimes get concerned (as only a parent of an only child would) about Lucas not having more friends. I further exacerbate this worry by imagining them as teenagers, and picturing him desperately pining for Jamie while she breaks his heart in one way or another.

I recall my high school best friend's mother worrying about us. "You're too close," she would say, encouraging Amy to have other interests besides me. It hurt and angered me then, but now as a parent, I have a glimpse of understanding, as I realize her concern was for her daughter's future happiness, as mine is for my son. And then I realize that my concerns are unnecessary too.

The reality is that Jamie and Lucas make each other so happy, and there's no one who can stand in their way. In fact, Rochelle and I would gladly bethrothe them to each other, besides the fact that we are thrilled at the idea of being in-laws together. This week, as both Jamie and Lucas turn four, we find it hard to believe that such little ones have formed such a deep bond.

"It's truly something special," Rochelle said as I attempted to pull Lucas away from Jamie's birthday party last night. "There's quite a maturity you wouldn't expect from four-year-olds."

I agreed, turning on my car so we could start driving away.

Rubbing her red eyes, Jamie reached through our car window, trying to stay close to Lucas for a little longer, while Lucas negotiated for a sleepover with Rochelle. We tried to convince them they would be seeing each other soon at daycare the next day, but it wasn't soon enough. It's never enough for these two. When you are truly in love, it never is.

Tsunamis, Monsters and Kidneys: How Much Information is Too Much?

2011-04-02T16:39:00.000-07:00

"Why is that guy mad?" Lucas asks as we watch CTV’s coverage of Michael Ignatieff calling for a vote of non-confidence.

I try and explain. "Because we give lots of money to the government and he's not happy with how the government is spending it." I want to tell him this is a historic moment for Canada. I want to explain how we live in a democracy. I want him to know what that means in principle and also how that rolls out in reality. I want him to care about being a citizen, to care about being a Canadian.

But Lucas has other questions. These days he has so many questions, so many how’s and why’s as his little mind makes connections I didn’t think developmentally possible yet. "Is the government the same as those red guys who came to get money from us?"

“No, that's the Red Cross.” I tell him. “We gave money to help them help the people in Japan who had that big wave wreck their houses." I remember how he ran to get his piggy bank, pulling out coins for the two young guys whose badges said “we do not accept cash”. They did accept my American Express and I was happy to hand it over.

That’s when we had the conversation. Two weeks after the horrible events, I asked Lucas if he’d heard anything about tsunamis, earthquakes or nuclear reactors. He hadn’t so I quickly changed the subject. “Can you tell me about that stuff?” he asked then and so I did tell him - a bit. I didn’t tell him that people were hurt. I didn’t tell him that people were missing. I didn’t tell him the scale of the disaster. We don’t watch the news in our house, so he hasn’t seen any of it.

Instead I told him, “You’re safe. We’re safe. We don’t need to worry about waves here.” I know this isn’t true. But for once, I decided to hold back.

My philosophy is to answer anything he has questions about. I’m open with the facts and probably too open about my opinions on the facts. People who know me really well know I don’t take things at face value, I’m critical of and censor mass media, and definitely don’t tow the line. When Lucas asks me about the Disney logo that shows up before his favourite movie, Wall-E, I tell him that Disney is a giant company that makes lots of money from kids’ like him. He will be a well-informed little kid.

But as he nears four-years-old, I’m also figuring out that it’s just as important to also hold back information. Because he is starting to worry. He’s starting to get scared of things. He’s starting to poke holes in the stories we’ve told him.

“If there are no such things as monsters then how come they are all in jail?” he asks. He has put together the two lies we have told him to get him to go to sleep without worrying. We’ve also lied to him about the sensors in our house that are part of the previous owner's alarm system – we tell him that they keep out monsters. Yesterday he interrogated me about they get rid of monsters. I fumbled over my words and begged him to change the subject.

He is too smart to lie to and too young to tell the whole truth to. In a little mind where monsters are real and tsunamis are unimaginable, it’s no wonder he has so many questions. And it’s not surprising that the more he knows, the more scared he becomes.

I’ve grown up believing that knowledge is power. But some of this information is so overwhelming that it makes him feel powerless instead. I want to empower him, and help him know his power to choose thoughts, to choose emotion, to choose hope over fear. Yet these concepts are so abstract that I ended up saying stupid useless lies like, “don’t worry, the cats will scare away the monsters.” To which he just responds, “How?”

Lately, we’ve been trying to direct his questions to new topics. We are also very tired of explaining to him how automatic toilets and massage chairs work. So, we introduced him to a human body book. His face went white as we explained the bones inside our body, pointing at bones in his arm and at the bones in the picture. “You mean we have a skeleton inside us!?” he cried. (When you put it that way, it does seem a little disturbing!) But slowly, he has asked for the book again and again and developed an interest in lungs and kidneys.

Last night as we’re lying in bed together, I decide to tell him more about kidneys. “I saw this show about someone getting a kidney transplant. One of his kidneys wasn’t working so another guy shared one of his.”

The barrage of questions that came after this made me kick myself for introducing such a subject at bedtime. And once we had gone through the logistics of the transplant, we got into the fear of course.

“I’m never gonna have a broken kidney,” he stated.

“No, you’re not. You have a healthy body. And if your kidney has problems, you could go see a doctor and get medicine.”

“If my kidney breaks, I can go to the doctor and get medicine,” he processed. “If my heart breaks, I can go to the doctor and get medicine.”

I decided not to respond to that. My own heart was breaking. In that moment, I wanted to explain my belief system to him, wanted to share the power of my faith, but I also knew that would be even more overwhelming and equally unhelpful.

So instead I said, “Honey, if your kidney was really broken, I would take mine out and give it to you.”

He looked at me with his big grey eyes. “I don’t want you to give me your kidney.”

“It’s okay, honey, I have another one." I pulled him close to me. "All that matters to me is you. You are safe. Everything is okay. Mommy’s here.”

He snuggled into me and began to ask me for the 100^th time about the sensors in the living room.

I sighed. I didn’t want “Mommy’s here” to be the answer. Because it isn’t. I can’t protect him from everything. And he doesn’t need to fear all that he fears. But for now, it is enough for him that "Mommy's here", even if it's not the whole truth, so it’s going to have to be enough for me too.

Published. The Beginning...

2011-03-11T14:03:00.000-08:00

I’ve envisioned this scene since I was ten years old: I walk into a bookstore and there on one of the shelves is my book, tucked in between two other J authors. I finger the spines of the books on either side, then pull out my book, pretending to be some anonymous customer extremely intrigued by this amazing work, then tuck it back. On second thought, I pull it out again and place it face out on the shelf, helping it to intrigue some real customers.

Now that I am published in my first real book, Chicken Soup for the Soul: New Moms, which was released on March 8^th, I keep walking into Chapters hoping to have my moment. But the book’s not there yet and my moment dissipates with my disappointed. The computer says that it’s there, but it’s not. I wander through the parenting aisles, memoir, self-help, fingering the book spines, wondering if I’ll find it in the wrong section. And wondering too where my book will sit when it’s published.

People often say to me, why don’t you write a book? It makes me want to cry. There is no dream closer to my heart than to write and publish my own book. People also say, I’ve always thought I might write a book one day. That makes me want to scream. Have any non-writers considered how difficult it is to write a book, and then to get it published. I have written books – two or three completed novels – which are crap. And that’s okay, it’s all writing practice. And now, I start new books every year trying to find a marketable motherhood topic that is not yet done or overdone, while I’m also evolving as a mother and writer.

While the dream and desire has been there since I was ten years old, I feel like it's getting closer and closer. During the busiest four years of my life, while I’ve been rearing a child, buying a house, finishing my masters, changing careers, and working full-time, I am writing and publishing more than I ever have in my life. I blog, I journal, I do writing starts. I submit, I write on spec, I write a monthly column. I meet with my writing group every 2nd Tuesday, and I sit in Starbucks and write for hours every other Tuesday.

Others might call it obsession.

But what is a dream if not obsession?

Obsession to be published drives me – to write more, to write better. It also drives me crazy. I want to silence the marketing voice in my head and just write what I want. I want to take a leave of absence and just focus on my book. I want to carve out more time, more space, more moments, where creativity can flow, where research can happen, where networks can be made.

Perhaps it’s because it’s hard that it’s thrilling. Perhaps because I don’t have the time, I write like a maniac when I do. Perhaps if I suddenly won the lottery and could sit at home and write for 10 hours a day, I would stare at a blank screen with no inspiration. Perhaps if I was awarded some publishing contract, I would produce crap.

I estimate that I’ve already blogged approximately 185,000 words on the topic of making sense of motherhood. That is more than double the typical book length. Writing my book feels SO close and yet publishing it seems eons away. But it’s not enough to write it, my obsession is also to publish.

You would think I would be doing more celebrating over the fact that I’ve actually gotten published in two books coming out this Spring. But for some reason it still doesn’t feel real. The dream has been a dream for so long, that this taste of it – getting published in an anthology – is still surreal.

Maybe that’s why I can’t find Chicken Soup in Chapters. Maybe that’s why I can’t hear what people say when they flip through my copy of the book. Maybe I have had such a wall up about how difficult it is to get published that I can’t even see what’s happening.

Today, after my third attempt at visiting the bookstore, I finally turned to one of the black-vested Chapter’s employees. He tracked it down - it was still in the back, and proudly retrieved it for me. As he handed it to me, I faked a smile. I didn’t want to buy it – I have 30 copies at home. I just wanted to see it there.

So I wandered over to the parenting section, infant subsection, where the computer says its supposed to be. And I put it there, on the shelf, between baby care books, face out. It was all I could do not to take a picture. And a part of me was annoyed that I had to manufacture my “moment”. But another part of me was inspired – it was that easy to see my writing appear on the shelf. I just had to make it happen.

Introducing Star Wars

2011-02-27T16:50:00.000-08:00

Lucas and his daddy are sitting on our living room couch staring up at the giant projection of a star destroyer crossing our dining room. We've got Star Wars Episode 4: A New Hope (the first one released in 1977) projected onto our dining room wall, in prep for the Star Wars themed party we're holding for my Hubby. He is grinning from ear to ear, savouring the parenting moment that has finally come - introducing Star Wars to our son.

Now, don't me wrong, Lucas does know the basics of Star Wars. His name, after all, was partially influenced by the great creator of this epic dynasty. He knows R2D2 and Luke Skywalker are good guys, can recognize the Star Wars logo, and he does a pretty mean Darth Vader impression.

But I worry that the guns and ships and dark side will scare him half to death. He has had so little exposure to any violence that I think it'll overwhelm him. He already obsesses with identifying "good guys" and "bad guys" and interrogates us about why they are bad. In a movie where the dark side holds most of the power, how will he process that?

But when I'm honest with myself, I know I'm only putting off the inevitable. I know that one day he'll get swept into the Star Wars magic. In the same way he obsesses over cows and massage chairs, he'll get obsessed with the force. And I know Star Wars is an incredible story that draws from myths deeply imbedded in our culture which has stood the test of time. And it will be incredible that he'll have this interest to share with his father (and hopefully his father will share some of his toys too)!

But it's the weapons that I'm not a big fan of. I pick up Hubby's clone trooper gun that we've put out for the party, shoot it aimlessly and hear it fire (because that's what you do when you see a toy guy). He grabs it from me. "How did you do that? Where did that sound come from? What does this do?" He knows it's a gun, he knows about "shooting", but I honestly don't think he's put it all together, and we haven't helped him. But the toy enthalls him. As will the lightsabers. And the ships. And soon enough, he'll figure out that guns fire (and that Han shot first of course) and that lightsabers can kill, and that bad guys can really be bad guys.

And I know that it's my own fear of violence that makes me shelter him from shows like Star Wars. It's not about Star Wars at all. I just prefer to keep him innocent for as long as possible, because I know most boyhood entertainment centres around some kind of battle or weaponry. But as I previously wrote in "Shielding my Son from Violence", I also know I can't keep in him a bubble forever.

So, since we're having this Star Wars party, we figure it's time Lucas gets his first glimpse at the movie that makes his Daddy so happy. He is riveted to the beginning, asking questions about the ship, about R2D2. But as Darth Vader enters the scene, flanked by his stormtroopers, and the menacing music begins, he squirms off the couch. "I don't want to watch this show anymore."

I breathe a sigh of relief. He knows what he can handle. And it hits me that I don't have to be the shield, I don't have to know when the right time is to introduce him to "big boy" shows. He'll know when he's ready and Daddy will be ready to watch it with him then too. In the meantime, I guess we're stuck with watching Clifford the Big Red Dog day and night.

--

For any Star Wars fans out there, there is a very amusing YouTube video about dads talking to thie kids about Star Wars.

Sunday mornings

2011-02-13T09:23:00.000-08:00

Sunday mornings are no alarm days, though it doesn't really make a difference. Hubby and I stay tucked in bed a mere minute or two after our alarm would normally go off when a little boy hoists himself up onto our king-size and burrows under the covers between us. His warm breath against my cheek stirs me.

"Is it the weekend?" he says.

Hubby awakes with a grunt, presumably from a little foot kicking his unprotected mid-section.

"Mommy and Daddy are still sleeping," I whisper in a vein attempt to buy a few more minutes.

Lucas sits up, yanking the covers off our shoulders. "My moo-moo is sleeping too!" he exclaims as he places him on my pillow and tucks in his much loved stuffed cow.

"Please whisper!" Hubby barks in a gruff whisper, as he pulls a pillow over his head.

But after a few minutes we relent, give up our battle for more shut-eye, and both wrap our arms around him.

"It's a Lucas sandwich," Hubby says as we smother him on either side.

Lucas squeals. "Yeah, I'm the peanut butter and you guys are da bread," he explains.

Sunday mornings are about staying in our PJ's `til noon, making big pots of coffee and tea, and letting the tv stay on Treehouse for more than the usual 1/2 hour limit. I putter around and surf on my laptop while Hubby whips up pancakes or omelets. Lucas and I build forts in the tv room and play camping and picnic, while Hubby plays tunes on his piano. It's joyful, connected bliss.

And then suddenly midday looms and I snap out of Sunday morning. Lucas is going to nap in an hour or so and we've done NOTHING. There are piles of laundry and with Hubby going bowling tonight, I'm going to have to do it all. A quick look at the calendar proves we have a busy week ahead. I need to meal plan and grocery shop, defrost meat and cut up vegetables, throw stuff in the slow cookers.

I stand behind Hubby on the piano waiting for a pause in his playing. "Uh, I don't know how long you're gonna play, but you know, we have Stuff to do."

He halts mid-song, his creative soul crushed, and bolts up. "What can I do?"

"I don't know!" I say, exasperated. "Why do I have to figure out everything and delegate to you?"

He bites his lip - is not going to take me on. "I'll go shower then," he says.

I turn to my next subject. "Lucas, it's time to clean up and get you dressed."

"Mommy, I'm just gonna play for five more minutes," he says.

"No, you're not! When Mommy says its time to clean up, you clean up. We have Stuff to do!" I realize I am talking louder than necessary but can't seem to stop.

Lucas drops his toy. "I want Mommy," he says, a frown spreading across his face.

"I'm right here," I say. "Here I'll help you."

As I fold up our "tent" blankets, and he puts lego back in bins, he says it again, "I want Mommy."

"I'm right here!" I scream. "C'mon, hurry up, we need to get dressed."

He starts to cry. "I want Mommy!"

I want to scream again but suddenly, I realize what he's saying. He wants Sunday-morning-Mommy, not anal-ogre-Mommy. I stop and slide onto the floor, pulling Lucas onto my lap. He wipes his eyes and lays his head onto my chest. I grab the blanket I had just neatly folded and wrap it around us.

"You know what? I want Sunday-morning-Mommy too."

Reconsidering Religion

2011-01-30T15:43:00.000-08:00

"Mommy, is it dark in the Happy Place?" Lucas asks as we're going to bed.
"Uh, no, it's bright, or whatever you want it to be," I tell him.
"When you're up in the Happy Place, can you come back down?" he asks.
"I think you may be able to come back down, but I'm not sure," I say, shaking my head at this metaphor I've created that I cannot explain to his satisfaction.
"I think there's a ladder, so when you want to come down, you just go down it," he decides.
"Yeah, you're probably right. Now it really is time for us to read your book," I distract him.

I made up the Happy Place when my Grandma died last year. He saw her on her death bed, her body tiny, her eyes vacant, and it scared him. I told him he didn't need to be scared, that she was going to let go of her body and her spirit would go up to the Happy Place. I didn't call it Heaven, because the heaven I learned about as a child was always juxtaposed against Hell, and that no longer resonates with what I believe in. So, I explained my own interpretation of the afterlife.

But as my curious son continues to ask questions, I've started to realize it may be easier said than done to explain my own pieced-together sense of "What-is". I grew up Catholic, attending Church and Catholic School for 13 years. But I rejected the Church in my early 20's when I was in university doing as university students do - a hell of a lot of questioning. And finding no evidence that supported my need to continue practicing an uncompromising religion, I let it all go.

When Lucas was born, I was adament he wouldn't be baptized and we wouldn't practice Catholicism. I didn't want my son exposed to the idea that there was a devil to fear the way I had when I was little. I remember when I was seven years old, going to bed with my hands held together in prayer position, hoping that if I died in my sleep, God would still take me into heaven because I had been praying. I knew full well that it had been a month since my last confession and I hadn't fessed up about those stickers I stole from the stationary store. I didn't actually steal them, but there were two packets stuck together and I only paid for one, and when I found out, I didn't go back and give them back. And no one knew. But God knew and the devil knew. And the fear overwhelmed me.

I closed the door on that God in university. But in doing so, I also shut out a core part of myself, my spirituality. It took several years to find it again, and to realize that religion does not equal spirituality. Over the past few years, I've studied and practiced in my own way, while constructing a belief system that works for me. And though it's not something that fits in the box of any specific religion, or something I talk about widely, my spirituality is all-encompassing in my life.

And now that I'm almost four years into this parenting thing, it occurs to me that I may be denying my son the opportunity to explore his own spirituality. By rejecting religion for myself, I've kept it out of reach for him too. And by being so abstract in my beliefs, I'm having a hard time sharing this important aspect of life with him.

So, lately, I've been thinking that I might just take Lucas to church. Hubby is shocked, having heard me rail against organized religion loudly for years. But I finally "get" what makes church work for so many - it's a place where values are spelled out, where stories and rituals reinforce those values, where community comes together. It could be a place where spiritual exploration begins.

I admit I'm not sure if I can put aside my baggage enough to be able to introduce my son to church. But I also don't think I have it in me to be both mom and minister. So, don't be so shocked if you find us there one Sunday morning. But church or no church, I know I don't want to ignore his spiritual questioning anymore.

(Note: I'm well aware that religion is a touchy subject and I debated whether to post this at all for fear of offending anyone. But as I promise to be true to witnessing the dilemmas I face as I make sense of motherhood, I felt it would be wrong to leave this important aspect out. But please know I do respect everyone's right to believe and practice what they will and intend no offense, and I also hope others can respect my beliefs.)

A Letter to Unpublished-Liesl from Published-Liesl

2011-01-11T21:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Unpublished-Liesl,

Well, my dear, it’s finally happening. I know you’ve been nervous that this day was coming, because the day when I’m published, is the day you will be no more. I’ve pushed you a lot these past couple of years - getting published in small run papers and zines, developing my blog, getting picked up by online magazines. But you just patronized every success. “That’s not real publishing,” you mocked. “18 subscribers does not count as a blog following,” you scoffed. And the ultimate, “you’ll never be a real writer unless you’re published in a real book by a real publisher and sold in a real bookstore.”

You’ve stung me with these comments, repeated viciously in the back of my mind while I’ve been drafting my dream novel. “Who would publish this book? It’s crap!” Slamming my laptop shut, I’ve thrown out great projects all because of you. And then when a new idea emerged, and I raced to the keyboard to let it flow from me, it wasn’t long before you piped up, “I just checked Amazon and the book you’re writing already exists, and it’s better than what you’re writing.”

I used to trust you to be my inner critic, to help me from becoming an egotistical artist, to keep me real. But instead you’ve grown into the know-it-all judge, creating roadblocks at my every turn, so I’m left with nothing but agonizing self-doubt. So much so that when I got the news that I’m getting published, I could barely read the e-mails. I was too shy to tell people because you cautioned, “don’t go celebrating too soon. It might all fall through. You don’t want people to think you’re cocky.” So, I’ve only whispered it to my best friends and close family, quietly, so you wouldn’t hear.

But now I’m going to scream it! I’m getting published. In two books. This Spring. By real publishers.

Chicken Soup for the Soul: New Moms will be coming out in March 2011.

My piece, "Six Days In" illustrates the exhaustion, shock and conflicting feelings that came with new motherhood for me. I wrote it as my essay in Cori Howard's Momoir Project class last year. To be honest, I had hoped it would be my contribution to my own anthology that I was working on at the time. But having put aside that dream, I couldn't be happier with how this turned out. Chicken Soup for the Soul is a huge publisher having sold 112 MILLION books worldwide, and I'm beyond excited that my piece will get read widely. It has always been my intention that sharing my stories of motherhood would help other moms.

Torn: True Stories of Kids, Career & the Conflict of Modern Motherhood edited by Samantha Parent Walravens and published by Coffeetown Press is coming out in May 2011.

My piece "Cupcake Crazy" is about how I went a little nuts making Lucas cupcakes for his 2nd birthday. But it's really about the struggle I was having leaving my son in daycare while I returned to work. When I wrote this piece, I knew it was my best work to date, but I had no idea it would become part of such an amazing collection of high level women sharing their own conflicts.

So, my dear, Unpublished-Liesl, you are, actually, now no more. I'm a published writer - a real writer, published by a real publisher, in two real books to be available in real bookstores. I'm sure you will find a way to rear your ugly head next time I endeavour to chase my dreams of publishing success. But guess what? You no longer have power over me. And I'm not going to hide from success anymore.

Sincerely,

Published-Liesl

Whose Story is it? The Ethics of Blogging about our Kids

2011-01-10T14:50:00.000-08:00

I am always thrilled and terrified when my more opinionated pieces get picked up and published and readers start commenting.

Whose Story is it? The Ethics of Blogging about our Kids is a piece I worked on after blogging about this topic, which conveys a few of the issues that mom-bloggers struggle with and have to make decisions about. It was the first piece I've done in my mother-writing that brought in several different authors, so much so that I felt I was back writing papers for my masters!

Encourage you to continue the conversation through the comments or through twitter/facebook/your blog!

Resolving not to Lose it!

2011-01-04T14:51:00.000-08:00

My friend, Rob's, Facebook status says, "I’m not making any resolutions this year because I’m still working on the ones from 2003." That made me laugh because it's pretty true for me too. If I flip open to my January 2003 journal, I'm sure it would read the same as what I'd be writing in January 2011.
#1. Eat less. #2. Exercise more. #3. Get stressed by work less. #4. Work on writing more.

Even the years I took resolutions seriously, taking hours to reflect on the year past and setting strategic objectives for my personal development for the coming year, they pretty much came down to the same thing. Besides the writing bit, which I think I've nailed, I've had ups and downs with the first three goals. I don't know if that makes me a failure or if these are just the on-going challenges in my life that I seem to feel are worth noting each dawn of the new year.

So this year, I'm thinking about my resolutions differently. Rather than focussing on the same old stuff, I want to use the momentum of January to look seriously at an area I not only want to, but need to improve in my life - my patience.

Because I can't get out of my mind some scenes from this past year.
- Lucas sitting on the floor of the laundry room with me hovering and urging him in loud tones to get his boots on because we are running late. "Mommy, you aren't managing very well," he says matter-of-factly. This makes me steaming mad until I realize he's right.

- Lucas watching my computer as it's downloading an expensive program. I see him from across the room and scream, "DON'T TOUCH MOMMY'S COMPUTER!" terrified he's going to interrupt the download. He looks me in the eye with a quizzical look, "I wasn't touching it. Why are you screaming?"
- Lucas crying for me as he refuses to go to sleep. "I don't have time to listen to you," I tell him. "I have other stuff to do." Between tears, he asks, "are you losing your patience? Are you gonna freak out now?" Words I've obviously said to him before.

And the other scenes I don't like to think about where Lucas doesn't call me on my ridiculous impatience, my too-quick-to-anger temperament, but instead, I see his eyes cloud over with fear. And maybe a healthy dose of fear is not a terrible parenting tool, but it shouldn't be about putting on shoes and brushing teeth. And it shouldn't be the norm.

Because now I watch him playing and so quickly coming to frustration. I hear my own words coming out of his mouth as he struggles to manage. "We're not playing this game anymore!" he yells at his lego which has just fallen apart. Then it's thrown across the room and I'm yelling at him for doing that, knowing full well I haven't shown him other coping mechanisms because I haven't quite figured them out myself.

I have and always will be by nature impatient. My Gemini horoscope says "You like busy. (You don't do boring.) You're the most versatile, quick-thinking sign in the zodiac." That means I struggle to slow down, am easily distracted, flit from one thing to another, absolutely avoid anything that takes longer than 20 minutes of concentration, and am always on the ready for the next shiny thing to take my attention. I absorb and move forward, energy swirling fast around me, madly checking things off my to do list. But the consequence of that is that I don't slow down for others, and when I feel like I'm being slowed down, well, I lose it.

This year I don't want to lose it, or at least, I don't want to lose it as much. Because it's just so damn self-centered. When I "freak out" on Lucas, or make immediate demands on my Hubby (who has, by the way, a hell of a lot of patience), or throw my cat out of the way, or..., well, it's just not kind. In some ways, it shows that I think I'm better than others, that my need for speed should be the priority, that the world has to revolve around my demands. So, it's time, this year, that I suck it up for others, at least once in a while. Because I don't want my family to feel like they live in a hierarchy where I've elected myself the Queen.

The only problem is that I'm not exactly sure how to gain patience, but I'm pretty sure it's a skill I have to practice. And as I figure it out, I know it's one I can share with my son too, and it will help both of us. So, as we're standing in a ridiculously long line-up at the grocery store last night because the debit machines have broken, I decide not to lose it. I pick up a triangle hunk of cheese from our cart and put it on my head and ask Lucas if he likes my hat. He grabs it and says, "it's not a hat, it's a cell phone" and puts it on his ear. We laugh, we breathe, the line moves eventually, and the world didn't end because my grocery trip took longer than planned.

And as I practice this patience-thing for others, maybe I'll also find some for myself. Maybe my being patient will help me get less stressed from work and that will ease my emotional eating. Maybe I'll feel like I can fit exercise into my life when I don't feel like I'm running all the time. Maybe I'll give myself a break that I haven't published a book yet and just enjoy the writing journey I'm on.

Or maybe "becoming patient" will just become #5 on my annual resolution list - something I continue to battle and strive for throughout my life.

Our Christmas Movie

2010-12-24T09:51:00.000-08:00

Hubby is standing atop his shiny new ladder holding his breath as he meticulously places each of the 100 clips that will hold each of the 100 blue Christmas lights. He's scared of heights I know but he doesn't trust me to space them evenly over the gutters. He's right. I'm giddily chasing Lucas around the front yard yelling, "blue lights, blue lights, blue lights". Plus, there's just some things a man's gotta do with his new house.

Indeed, this is a momentous event for us. First time to string up Christmas lights over our first garage of our first house.

The same goes with our Christmas tree. I'm awake at 5:30a.m. planning how we'll decoate, wondering how the handful of trinkets we had for our old tabletop tree will transfer to our first big Christmas tree in our first living room in our first house. By 9am, the tree is up, Hubby carefully placing the red strings of beads (again he has little faith in my attention to symmetry), Lucas eagerly climbing on the window ledge to place a snowflake. I'm leaning over the back of the tree, placing the less desirable ornaments. I mean, do I really need to see Darth Vader's head swinging on the branches?

Hubby pulls out a star from the decoration box. I'd bought it on sale at Pier 1 a couple years ago at a Boxing Day sale but had forgotten about it because we never had a big enough tree. He hands it to me to do the honours.

"No, let's do it together." Again, another momentous event. I climb up on the ledge, holding a part of the star, while Hubby's hand covers the rest of it. We take deep breaths and then place it atop the tree. I jump off the ledge and into Hubby's arms for a hug as we savour the moment.

Lucas pipes in, "Now, you just have to make it prettier so it looks better."

We laugh at being chastized by our three-year-old, as Hubby straightens the star.

"Why is there a star on the tree?" Lucas asks.

"Well, on the first Christmas, there was a bright star in the sky above where baby Jesus was born," I tell him.

"Who's Jesus?" he asks as he lies underneath the tree.

I realize, in my own distancing from the Church, I've probably left out some key details from Lucas' awareness.

So, I sit back and tell him the Nativity story. Lucas curls closer to me and Hubby climbs onto his piano stool. As the tune of "Away in a Manger" fills the air, I fill in the details about Mary and Joseph, the stable, the wise men, and the special baby.

And suddenly I have this feeling like I am actually in a movie. A cheesy, Hallmark, Christmas movie with a cliche storyline and a predictable soundtrack. And it's this awesome feeling of good old, mushy, functional-family bliss.

When Christmas comes, it will likely bring chaos. Based on previous years, I predict we'll have spent too much money, we'll have eaten too many carbs, and we'll have had enough company. We'll wonder why we offered to take on Christmas dinner or travel to see family when we are exhausted and fighting colds. Emotions will get stretched and we'll get fired up over little things. I'll feel the guilty pull of the Church, the tempting lure of shortbread and schnitzel, and the subconscious expectations of what I should be doing as a good mother. I'll want it done and I'll want it to go back to normal.

But right now, all I want is to hold onto this fuzzy feeling. I want to throw this feeling like a blanket over the rest of December. And I want THIS to be what Lucas associates with Christmas. Moments like us trimming the tree and trimming the house, and playing freeze dance while Daddy plays Christmas carols on the piano. For Lucas, I want Christmas to mean what it does for me - togetherness and eager anticipation and a little bit of indulgence. I hope for his sake, we can skip the drama and live out our own made-for-tv family movie.

The Dinner Table featured on The Momoir Project

2010-12-20T18:34:00.000-08:00

One year ago, we were living in my parent's house (thank you Mom and Papa) awaiting our dream home to materialize on the real estate market. Any of you who know my parents know that they have a BEAUTIFUL home, and it was tricky keeping a 2-year-old from messing it up. During one of The Momoir Project's writing classes, we got the writing prompt, "The Dinner Table" and this piece spilled out of me. What started out as a rant ended up as a piece of appreciation!

It's featured on The Momoir Project blog this week.

And if you feel so inspired, I encourage you to write up your dinner table adventures or disasters, and submit it in the comments section. The Momoir Project is going to choose one entry to most as the third in a series of Dinner Table stories.

“Mommy, Where do Hamburgers Come From?”

2010-12-05T15:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve been preparing for this conversation for months. My three-year-old son, Lucas, is obsessed with cows. His best friend, MooMoo, is a stuffed cow that has turned grey and ratty from too much love. MooMoo also serves as his imaginary friend and alter ego when not physically around. His bed is covered with cow print duvet and lined with stuffed black and white cows of every shape and size, affectionately named Mommy MooMoo, Daddy MooMoo, Big MooMoo, Little MooMoo… (you get the picture). Even since he’s started going to daycare with four and five year olds, I’ve been terrified that one day, one of his friends would share the truth about what beef is.

So, I’ve been discussing where food comes whenever the opportunity arises. A few months ago in T&T, an Asian supermarket, we watched as the fishmonger wrapped two live lobsters.

“Where are those lobsters going?” he asked. “Why are they wiggling?”

I broke it to him, “They’re going home with that lady. She’s going to cook them and eat them for dinner.” The horrified look on his face made me add, “Don’t worry, she won’t eat the lobsters `til they’re dead.”

He dragged me over to the bakery section where he pointed at a cake decorated like a cow. “Mommy, can you buy this cow cake so nobody will eat it?” How could I break it to him?

At dinner one evening, we were eating chicken as he absentmindedly played with his plastic farm animals. I watched as he slowly picked up a small plastic chicken, and compared it with the cube of chicken breast on his fork. “Mommy…?”

All I had to say was, “yes.”

At Thanksgiving, as Hubby rinsed the turkey, Lucas asked us, “is that the same kind of turkey that flies and says gobble?”

“Yep,” Hubby said. Again, I added, “after a turkey dies, then we can eat it.” I realize I am skipping the details around the butchering process, the mass production of livestock, and the fact that what he identifies as a farm is a farce, but one step at a time.

A couple of weeks ago, I said to my Hubby, “we’re going to have to have “the talk” soon.”

“The birds and the bees talk?” he asked, unsurprised by my interest in orchestrating this conversation for our preschooler.

“No, not the `where do babies come from?’ talk, but the `where do hamburgers come from?’ one.”

In fact, it’s because of my knowledge about sexual health education, that I think now is the time. I remember a local “sexpert” explaining that age 4-6 is the ideal time to explain sexual reproduction to kids because they are all over the facts of the matter, but don’t yet find it gross or funny. I started scripting how I would broach the subject with Lucas.

As it turned out, it wasn’t me who ended up having “the talk”. As I walked in the door late from work last week, Hubby eagerly and sheepishly announced, “Lucas knows that beef comes from cows now.”

He knew I was disappointed. Not only did I miss the conversation I’ve been prepping for months, but I missed capturing Lucas’ reaction and the juicy bits of dialogue that could have been documented forever in this essay.

All I know is that after school, they drove by the field where a herd of cows grazes. (On a side note: this land is actually the “pig farm” owned by the Picktons, who keep this herd so it maintains its designation as agricultural land.) Hubby and Lucas often pull over and watch the enormous cows and small calves as they eat grass and plants. Somehow the conversation turned to the difference between dairy cows and other cows, and Hubby decided to break the news.

Surprisingly, Lucas was unphased and actually curious about what other animals we eat. Inspired, Hubby headed to the grocery store where they took an educational trip down the meat section. (Hubby is a teacher, after all.) He picked up a packet of bacon. “Do you know where bacon comes from? Pigs.” He picked up a packet of drumsticks. “Do you know what this is?” Lucas knew it was chicken. And finally, he picked up a steak. “Do you know what this steak is from? Cows.” I appreciate that he skipped the veal.

They settled on ground beef then headed home where Hubby made a big production of them cooking meat balls and pasta.

I was dumbfounded as Hubby told me all this. This huge secret I was terrified to break to Lucas was just matter-of-factly accepted. It reminds me of every other milestone I agonized over that ended up being non-issues. While on maternity leave, I planned how I would wean Lucas at a year but keep the morning feed so I could still nurse him before work. Instead, HE weaned ME at nine months. I was anxious about how he would manage without his soother, and after the “Suzy Fairy” took it away, he never asked for it again. We booked days off from work to potty train him, studied a potty training manual, and of course, Lucas “got it” in about 6 hours.

I try and protect Lucas, make things easier, make sure he’s ready. I pride myself on taking a developmental approach with him – not expecting him to take on more than he can actually handle. But I always, always, underestimate him. I overanalyze, pre-worry, and attempt to fix things before they’re broken. I hover like the helicopter parents we make fun of at university.

I have to remember that he’s here to learn and to experience. And he’s going to hear bad news and have to deal with it. He’s going to get confused and upset about things and have to manage that. He’s going to get hurt and I won’t be there to kiss him better. And trying to raise him in a bubble probably doesn’t help that much. But since I tend to live my life in a bubble, it’s easier said than done.

So, I shouldn’t have been surprised the next time I took Lucas grocery shopping, but it had been a week since “the talk”. There we were in the meat aisle when Lucas picked up a package of ground beef and through it into the cart. “Mommy, let’s make some cow for dinner!”

It turned out I was the only one traumatized by this.

Fairy Tales by Mommy

2010-11-28T16:03:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a boy named Luke who had a cow named Moop. Luke and Moop travelled the world in various transforming vehicles like garbage-truck-submarines and concrete-mixer-helicopters, making great escapes from evil situations like naptime and timeouts.

There are the fairy tales I write in my head as I drive to work, reading them for bedtime, with my son Lucas. As bedtime approaches, and Daddys looks to start the teethbrushing routine, Lucas cries, "No, I want Mommy to put me to bed!" followed by dramatic lying on the floor and pretend tears.

"It's Daddy's turn," Hubby says firmly, knowing I'm exhausted from work, but often I relent anyways and pick up the PJ battle. As tired as I am, I have to admit, I enjoy crawling under Lucas' big duvet, cuddling him close, and sharing storytime.

Most days we read one of his books: one of his Clifford the damn dog books, for the hundredth time; or something from his Curious George collection, featuring the lackadaisical guardian, the man with the yellow hat who both annoys and inspires me; or Click Clack Moo, the subversive barnyard tale that promotes animals unionizing. But lately, he's been asking, "Mommy can you tell me the Moop story?" And my storytelling ego rises inside, delighted to have an audinece.

"Well you know what happened to Luke today?" I start.
"He goes in time out?" Lucas responds, eagerly.
"Yes, but just as his teacher brought him to the time out bench, Moop arrived."
Lucas squeals. "No one can see him."
"That's right. And it's good because he was driving a big truck. Do you know what it was?"
"A cable repair truck!" Lucas offers.
"Exactly!" I exclaim. "How did you know?"

This is how our story goes now, my leading, him filling in the blanks. And when Lucas veers to potty talk that is incomprehensible because he's laughing at himself so loudly, I usually make up some kind of ridiculous conflict that requires the vehicle to transform in order to escape or save the day. Back in reality, Luke has daydreamed through his whole time out and "lives happily ever after."

When I come down the stairs after putting Lucas to bed, Hubby says, "What were you guys killing yourselves laughing about?"

I tell him and he shakes his head, amused by our imaginations. It's not that he doesn't have one, but he's much more a realist.

I've read that before the age of five, the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred. Admittedly, I milk this with Lucas, letting him lead me into his head and playing there with him. We play camping under every blanket, he has lengthy conversations (dare I say, relationships) with each of my toes, we role play situations he's scared of and turn every monster into a waiter bringing us snacks. Day-to-day, his imagination probably drives those around him crazy, as he sells ice cream behind every makeshift counter many many times a day, and everything, and I mean everything, he does is followed by commentary from his imaginary friend/alter-ego, MooMoo.

But this precious gift that kids come with - imagination - is the greatest gift I can nurture in him. My imagination has been my saviour throughout my life. There were my own imaginary friends, Samuel, Marty, and Brian, who helped through the transition to seven different school in my elementary years. That lack of stability meant that I needed to create my own stable worlds where I control the characters, setting and plot, and I have continued to do so to this day. My imagination has served as a form of therapy for me, as I've roleplayed situations to come, and come to terms with situations that have passed.

Most people let go of their imaginations as they grow up - it's hard not to. But I believe it's a skill that most people stop practicing, and then have to turn to Hollywood or video games to fill the gap. If I can, I will nurture Lucas' ability to fantasize his dreams, because that's where dreams start; to escape reality when he needs to without alcohol or drugs; to create stories that battle any fears and right any wrongs. This world is complicated enough to deal with as is - my son might as well have an imaginary superhero cow on his side.

Addressing The Ethical Dilemma of Writing about my Son

2010-11-19T08:25:00.000-08:00

After posting my last blog, I felt a little knot in my stomach. I had passionately argued that it was critical for me to be writing about motherhood as it was my necessary contribution to the movement that is happening to redefine motherhood. More importantly, it had become my way to understand my own evolving identity as a mother and relationship with my son. I was also, as the title indicated, putting aside the ethical dilemma of writing about my son. Sharing that so publicly was what invoked that sick feeling in my gut. It was putting myself out on a limb, saying something I knew I might later regret, but doing it anyways.

But the result was more fruitful than most blogs I’ve written. Two mama-writers went on write their own blog pieces in response, a fact that I’m both honoured and humbled by. Paula Kiger, aka MomforLife, crafted How Much Longer Will I Be Blogging About My Children, where she explains that her number one reason for blogging is to keep her writing muscle strong (she is also a runner, so the metaphor is more than relevant). She writes that "to leave my children out of THAT equation would be the most unnatural thing in the world." Scattered Mom cautions that the stories we tell aren't ours alone in When Kids Stories Become Their Own. She shares that "when we have children, and are writers, writing about the changes we face and our evolving role as their mothers is perfectly acceptable, but as our children also grow and evolve, our task becomes more arduous."

I was struck by Scattered Mom's warning, and immediately wanted to take down my blog post. But as I'm learning from working with faculty at university, a bit of tension is not a bad thing. It sparks dialogue and that is the only thing that moves ideas forward. In my last yoga class, the teacher emphasized that "there is comfort in discomfort", an idea that I hadn't considered as I live my life seeking comfort and avoiding discomfort. But this piece, and the feedback that is supportive yet dissonant, reminded me of this important notion.

One of the discomforts I avoid is this ethical dilemma. Although I wrote about "putting it aside", I’m very aware of the moral ambiguity around my decision to share my story of motherhood, much of which is also my son's story, my husband's story, my family's story. Recently, when a piece I submitted two years ago got accepted to be published in a book, I reread the essay with terror in my heart hoping I hadn't overshared or offended anyone now that the readership was going to grow from my normal handful to masses. This is the dilemma of a memoir writer. And it's not just moms. My writer-friend QueerMommy, who teaches screenplay-writing at the graduate level, explains that all writers face this grey area when delving into their own lives or past for material.

But being a mother of young children, I have to own the fact that I'm accountable for what I choose to share. As Caitlyn from http://ImaginingBetter.com commented, it's about being responsible parents. To take that one step further, it's about being as concerned with our child's safety as we are about their online identity. Scatteredmom says poignantly: "The writer in me may see situations that I long to share, but as his mother, I know that in doing so I would rob him of pieces of his childhood that are ours alone or even cause him humiliation and pain as he struggles, like we all do, to become the man he eventually will be. We mother/writers become, in essence, stewards of their childhood."

This resonates deeply with me. In my work with university students, I sometimes have the privelege of mentoring a young guy on their journey from annoying geeky boy to responsible mature young man. The journey for them is awkward and painful, and through the process, I'm aware that my words to them must be carefully chosen not to offend, assume or direct. When I imagine my son as these boys, I see how again, my words must be thoughtfully considered, or I will, without a doubt, alienate him.

Don't get me wrong - it's not as if I write without an internal censor now. Certainly, I've created specific lines that I don't cross when writing about my husband, my parents, and certain friends. But when it comes to my son, the lines have been more blurred. His being here is largely what has stirred the pot enough to give rise to the internal conflicts that I'm writing about. Although I am thoughtful about what I put out there, I am sickly aware that there may be pieces that I publish that don't seem problematic which could later come to haunt my son or our relationship.

I remember going to an event last year which featured mother-authors from the books: Double Lives : Writing and Motherhood and Between Interruptions. Panelist Dorothy Woodend, whose mother is also a writer (Luanne Armstrong) explained how she and her siblings always felt like her mom was always looking at them for material. I would lying if I admitted I hadn't observed my son's actions or stretched out a conversation with him because I knew I would be writing about it.

Is that being a steward of his childhood?

I don’t know, but the ever presense of this moral issue will ensure that I take this seriously. After 25 years of struggling to define myself as a writer, it's doubtful that I will stop now that I'm actually writing for an interested audience. And if this period where there is an audience for these blogs and market for momoirs is short-lived, then so be it. I wouldn’t miss this ride, but after exploring this issue, I do know I will have to own for my words, so I better watch my mouth. And as my son grows, I will have to figure out how to honour him and my role as his steward. Will I give him veto power over my work? Will he write stories with me? Will I start developing firmer lines about what I share? I don't know yet, but I do know that as he grows up, we will need to negotiate his role in my writing life, whether I like it or not.

Why I Put Aside the Ethical Dilemma of Writing about my Son

2010-11-13T09:57:00.000-08:00

One day my son will realize I'm a writer and I'm writing about him. And he'll have an opinion about it. I even crafted a futuristic scenario in a previous blog, Future Therapy Session for Lucas, where I imagined a sullen young adult version of Lucas seething with anger at me for blogging about him. Of course, it's a fear I have that what I'm doing could somehow hurt him by its publicness. But after reading an article, My 10 New Ground Rules for Writing in Public about the Kids, I found myself disputing the idea that I need to give him a nickname and veto power over my writing as the author suggests.

Because I'm fairly convinced that if I didn't write, they'd have called social services on me by now. It's what I do to calm my extreme reactions, to separate the pressures from society from my reality, to make sense of the muddle that motherhood makes of everything. It's my yoga, my treadmill, my therapist - it's how I process and how I cope and how I stay sane. And it may be that in doing so publicly, I push against the comfort zones of my family and friends and, when he is aware, of my son's.

"I never write about my husband in anything but a positive light," I tell my writing group. They wait, thinking there is a punchline. But that's it. Hubby makes it pretty easy to write positively about him - he is so far from the stereotypical "stupid dad" or "slacker husband" and we have fifteen years of foundation beneath us that helps me feel strong in our relationship. But if I am truthful, this decision limits what I write about, but it's a conscious choice I've made to maintain our relationship. It helps that he is completely positive about what I write, and assumes no control over my writing. He would never have veto power over what I publish, but we have an unspoken rule about what's written.

The same has not yet been established between my son and I. In fact, as I'm writing this, he climbs on the edge of the couch and asks me, "Mommy, what are you doing?"

"I'm writing," I tell him. "About you." I pause, considering the topic I'm addressing. "What do you think about that?"

"It's good," he says then runs upstairs.

I wish I could count that as his approval, but I know he's not at a age to comprehend what I'm really doing. I don't feel like I'm writing anything that will hurt him, but I'm aware that that's not for me to say. It's funny because I'm completely uncomfortable with conflict. I avoid it specifically in all areas of my life. And yet, this is one area, I feel compelled to stir the pot. I've always been a writer, but ever since becoming a mother, I can't help but go public with my struggles, observations, and guilt.

After reading Erica Jong's piece in the Wall Street Journal on Mother Madness, I think I know why.
She writes, "as long as women remain the gender most responsible for children, we are the ones who have the most to lose by accepting the "noble savage" view of parenting, with its ideals of attachment and naturalness. We need to be released from guilt about our children, not further bound by it. We need someone to say: Do the best you can. There are no rules." It's not attachment parenting I have a problem with - it's the societal pressure to adhere to attachment parenting or being a supermom or [insert idealistic motherhood notion here].

I feel like, if I could start a movement, it would be around ending the pretense that motherhood is natural, simple, or happy-happy. I want the world to realize that the idealism of motherhood, the extreme parenting philosophies, and the perfection displayed in parenting magazines and ads, are just insults to all of us who are doing our best to raise our kids. Worse, they cripple us by invoking guilt and stress and exhaustion as we parents try to do it all and realize we can't.

I don't have to start this movement - it is happening already - as evidenced by the popularity of mommy blogging and articles like this making it into the Wall Street journal and momoir anthologies coming out into the mainstream. So, I put aside the ethnical dilemma of writing about my son. Because it's my way to be part of this movement. Because I can't live a lie and pretend that motherhood is what its not. I have to bear witness to this journey, this challenge, this life-changing experience. I have to share my story and inspire others to share theirs. I have to push back, to stir the pot, the invoke some conflict, and step out WAY out of my comfort zone to do so. Because I can't not. For me, as a writer, it would be a moral dilemma to stay silent.

In the end, you can look at me in either of the two ways I can look at myself. On the one hand, I'm a narcissistic woman blogging publicly about her kid as a way to make sense of our relationship. On the other hand, I'm a writer documenting a social phenomenon. Either way, I am attempting to redefine motherhood, both for myself and the world around me.

Developing Family Rituals

2010-11-05T21:26:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking alot about creating rituals for my family, without realizing it was already happening. I wrote this piece for Hybrid Mom exploring the idea of Developing Family Rituals.

Lost - published on The Momoir Project

2010-10-28T21:35:00.000-07:00

One of my new pieces, "Lost" is published on The Momoir Project blog. It's about one of those moments in a mom's life that feels like hours!

The Momoir Project offers incredible writing classes both in person and online that offer moms the opportunity to write, capture memories, and connect with other mothers in a profound way. I've taken writing classes before, but this was like nothing I'd experienced. As mothers, we all supported each other through the honest revelations we shared in our writing.

See another blog entry "The Mother Writing Circle" where I tried to capture my experience of the course.

How to be a "Happy Mom"? Your Thoughts Requested...

2010-10-22T09:54:00.000-07:00

Hybrid Mom, an online publication I write for, asked me to contribute to their latest article, 21 Habits of Happy Moms. I threw in #18 & 19, as well as a couple others that were captured by others. The piece also got to be the #1 story on Yahoo Shine yesterday, and seems to be getting linked to from many sites.

The excitement around this piece reinforces what I believe - the importance for moms to find themselves and what makes them tick and/or keeps them sane. Since moms take care of so much in this society, I believe that when moms are happy, it trickles down to create a happy families and happy communities. I am someone who values my happiness pretty highly. Some may call it selfishness, but I am certain that I do a better job home-making, mothering, wifing, writing, and working, when I feel satisfied and in control in my life.

So, I've been playing with my latest book idea around this theme. (You may have noticed I'm always working on a book idea!?) But I'm curious - Why do some moms seem to make it all work with a smile on their face? How do moms find fulfillment? Are their common strategies or personalities amongst moms who are truly "happy"? Are there moms who consider that they "have-it-all"? How much of being a "happy mom" is tied into the idealized notion that being a "good mom" means you love every moment of parenting (or at least appear to)? Is it possible for all moms to find happiness, and where does privilege play into it? What does it even mean to be a "happy mom"?

Here's where I'd love your thoughts. Does this stuff interest you too? Would you read a book like this? Is it worth me spending the next several years of my life dedicated to the pursuit of these answers? ;)

And what do you do to maintain your happiness? What have you learned from motherhood/other moms/your kids about happiness? What do you think it takes to be a Happy Mom?

Would love any thoughts you have to share in comments or via email at lieslmama (at) gmail (dot) com.

In continued appreciation of your support... Lieslmama

Deeply Grateful for Parenthood

2010-10-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

"C'mon Mommy!" Lucas urged me down the stairs first thing yesterday, holding my hand all the way to a spot on the living room couch. "Daddy, can you on turn the fireplace?"

The fireplaces had just been hooked up for the first time since we moved in. Hubby flipped the switch then Lucas direct him to sit beside me.

He disappeared then ran back, dragging a blanket over, then positioning himself in between us. "Now it's time to cuddle," he stated.

We laughed and held onto each other, amazed at this moment our three-year-old orchestrated.

"Now, just sit there," he ordered as he got up and pulled his little guitar out of its stand. He strummed it confidently and began belting out, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..."

We both held our breath until he finished the song, to keep from bursting into laughter or tears at the sweetness of the scene.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the opportunity I've been given to be a parent. I've documented my transition to motherhood on this blog, more often focussing on my frustrations and grappling with guilt than appreciating what parenting has offered me. But when I truly reflect on the past four years, I see how much parenthood has shaped me.

Having a child has stripped whatever illusions I used to hold about being in control of my life and pulled me time and time again out of my comfort zones. It's made me look at the parts of me I'd rather avoid, like my severe impatience, and own the darker side of me. It's made me face failure on a daily basis, and set me up for challenges I have no choice but to face. It's taught me what I can bear and it's alot more than I actually expect of myself. It's humbled my burgeoning ego and forced me to shift my perspectives to allow for a world much bigger and more important than my own.

And it's connected to that bigger world too. If I die today, I have left my legacy through my son. When I look into his face, I see myself reflected, for better or worse. I realize that he will carry my genes, my lips, whatever I have taught him, and likely my severe impatience too with him throughout his life. Becoming a parent has connected me to other parents, facing their own mountains and demons as they raise their children. It's connected me to my own parents, my husband's parents, my brother - seeing them now as parents like us. I think of the quote by Elizabeth Stone: “Making the decision to have a child - It's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” Now I see them everywhere, these parents like me, their hearts beside them.

The way you live your life can never ever be the same. It's being distracted all the time, by that pull of your child, conscious or not. It's life where laziness and carelessness are no longer options. You feel held to a higher standard every moment, by society, family, other parents, and mostly, by yourself. In a life where every action and word is mimicked and adopted by your child, you are a role model every second. Ambitions for career, money or whatever was important before are replaced by the desire to be a better mother, a better person.

I am a better person because I've been given the gift of Lucas, the privilege of calling myself his mother. I never knew love like this existed, this love that is an invisible cord between us, powerful and ever present. I am acutely aware that the time I have to express this intense love for him is short and will soon be a distant memory. Our exchanges will eventually turn into quick hugs met with short grunts for him, into text messages from across town, into occasional dinners shared.

So, for now, when he orders us into position for the purpose of "cuddling", both Hubby and I come running. He honours us with his love - so pure, his devotion - so centred on us, and his trust - so complete. And we do the best we can to honour his gift.

"When I was up in the happy place..." Lucas tells us this story that I have told him. "I looked around and saw a Mommy and Daddy, and said `no, not them', and I saw another Mommy and Daddy, and I said, `nope, not you', and then I saw you and Daddy, and I picked you!"

I told him this story because a part of me believes it. A part of me believes he chose us, that he is much wiser than both of us, and came here to teach us what's important, to expect more from us than we did before, and to guide us in our parenting of him. And whether or not it's true, it's what's happening. And I am deeply grateful.

Putting it all on Paper: Making Sense of Motherhood Through Writing

2010-10-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

Very excited about my feature article on Hybrid Mom:

Putting it all on Paper: Making Sense of Motherhood Through Writing

I had started trying to write a book on this topic, and who knows maybe I will one day, but for now, I can only carve out pockets or time and attention to craft these size pieces. And that's fine with me!

If you're new to my blog, thanks for checking my writing out and please feel free to subscribe or follow me here. - Liesl

A Mommy & Son Sunday

2010-09-26T07:27:00.000-07:00

It's Lucas' bedtime and I've got my earphones in to drown out the "I want Mommy" coming from upstairs... Oh wait, I already wrote about that - multiple times - my pieces infused with guilt and anxiety as I try and convince myself I'm not a terrible mom ruining my child's sense of self-worth by losing my patience every now and then.

Tonight, I'll shift gears and write about some of the moments from last Sunday when I felt like a pretty cool mom, to shed light on why having a son is so awesome, to offer to my dear friend who's excited and terrified to have a child some thoughts about why it's worth it.

Baking

"Mommy, can we make banana bread?" Lucas asks, holding the spotted bananas from the fruit bowl. At three, he already knows when bananas are ripe for baking.

I pull out his blue apron with strings so long I have to wrap them around him twice. Then, it's my turn to don my Harrod's apron from London complete with pictures of double decker busses. He studies and counts the busses as I study the recipe book. Then it's off to gather ingredients. As I pile all the dry stuff in my arms, he pulls out the Costco-sized bag of chocolate chips (even if there are no chocolate chips in the recipe). Then there are two of everything, bowls and measuring cups and spatulas. And as he's crawling into our cupboard to pull out the mixer, I break the news that this recipe doesn't need a mixer. I hand him the whisk and tell him he can be the mixer.

He jumps right into that role, making sound effects and spinning his whisk furiously into the bowl as I measure out the flour, baking soda and powder. He pours vanilla, mashes bananas, and I even let him crack the egg (not a good plan). When all is assembled, he helps me slide the batter into the baking dish, a skill I have not managed to acquire for myself. Then we peer through the window of the oven, watching as our cake rises.

While we're waiting, I turn on the Food Network and Lucas happily plays with his trucks. But when Giada brings out her beautiful Kitchen Aid mixer, Lucas is captivated. He climbs up on the couch with me, snuggling in as if we were watching a movie. "Maybe one day we should get one of those mixers!" he exclaims. "That would be great!" I laugh.

I pull the cake out of the oven and flip it over onto the drying racks, while Lucas jumps up and down a few safe feet away. When it's cooled, I cut us two pieces that we examine proudly. I love that at three-and-a-half-years, he is developing the skills to bake and can validly contribute to the creation of something so wonderful as banana cake. I love that he's interested in doing this and secretly hope he'll carry this skill and joy with him as he grows up. We bash our pieces together with a "cheers" and devour them whole.

Digging

We're digging for worms in the patch of garden I've recently liberated. Actually, I paid my gardener to rip out all the lovely flowers that the previous owner had tended for years which I'd managed to torture this one summer. We were left with a hydrangea bush and a whole bunch of dirt. I had this idea we would plant tulips and trekked to Home Depot with Lucas to pick up some bulbs and gardening gloves. But we never get to the tulips.

As I rake the dirt with my shiny gardening fork and begin pulling out roots, I suddenly let out a girly scream. It is a just a squiggling little worm, but it gives me a shock as creepy crawly things tend to do. I point it out to Lucas, who squints to make out the movement in the dirt, then is awed, never having seen a wiggling worm up so close. After that, it is all about finding worms. He flings dirt all over the garden and the grass looking for more, and though I try to lecture him to "keep the dirt in the garden", I know it's a lost cause, and instead, join him in his search. We find baby slugs and tiny red worms with spikes, and long bluish slimy ones. Each creature is met with a squeal from Lucas and excited announcements, "Look at this one, look at this worm, Mommy! You don't like worms, Mommy? Don't worry, this is a nice worm, Mommy," followed by him dutifully covering it back up with dirt.

As I squat in the grass beside him, I am plagued by the voice in my head telling me I should be doing something more productive. I look at the bag of tulip bulbs I was supposed to be planting. They can wait. I'm being productive - I'm creating joy here.

Biking

"Maybe you should get your bike and bike with me, Mommy," Lucas suggests as he has ever since we unpacked our dusty bikes at our new house.

I haven't ridden for at least five years. At that point, Hubby and I had taken our bikes into Caps where we paid to have them serviced, then took them for a spin all afternoon. Out butts were so sore we never took them out again! But for some reason, the big greyish eyes of my little boy cannot be ignored.

I pull out a rag and scrub the caked-on dust off my red bike frame. Lucas hauls over the pump that is almost as large as him and it takes all his strength to push the pumper down to release air into my tires. I rummage through boxes to find my helmet, and it cracks him up to see me put it on. And then I'm on my bike and it's like I've never been off. My body remembers the many summers I lived on my BMX, the thrill of mountain biking off-road in my early twenties, the freedom of flying down the road. Lucas pedels his trike beside me furiously as we head to the cul-de-sac, and as I circle him so I don't get too far ahead, I see he is laughing hysterically. He loves that we are both biking and so do I.

After a few minutes, he gets the nerve to try out his "big-boy" bike (2-wheeler with training wheels) that he fell off a couple of weeks ago and has dismissed ever since. And it's starting to rain, and the mom in me thinks we should probably go in as I just had a cold and don't want him to get one, but the momentum is there, so I grab our rain jackets instead. And thank goodness I take the risk. As he gets onto his two-wheeler and starts pedalling more confidently, the pride in his face almost makes me burst.

So, it's pouring now and we're both flying around our street on our bikes. I start singing, "What a wonderful world" and hooting with joy. He joins me squealing and hollering. I'm transported twenty-five years back, skiing down Whistler mountain with my Dad and brother, whooping with every turn. We race, we circle each other, we sail down the street, and take spins around the cul-de-sac, until we're absolutely exhausted and exhilarated. When we collapse and pull off our soaked and sweaty clothes, then chug back huge cups of juice, still laughing.

Nothing could be better than this moment.

When Lucas wants to look back, if he ever does, and read about his childhood through my eyes, I don't want him to just see a mother who always felt like she wasn't doing enough, being enough. I want him to know how I did my best to create moments like these with him, and how much I appreciate him for sharing them with me.

Considering Privilege

2010-09-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

The rain is pouring down in the way that it does in the Fall, surprising me again with its ferocity. Despite the fact I’ve lived in BC most of my 34 years, I always seem to allow the heat of summer to erase my memory of the previous six months of rain. Now here it starts again and I remember.

The downpour has significance today because I am completely certain none of it is coming into our home via the gap in the roof that was causing a leak. After pouring significant funds into the repair, our tall and friendly giant of a contractor assures us it’s sealed. He guarantees his work, though the pride and detail with which he speaks of his work is enough guarantee for me.

Hubby and I put a lot of stock into the feeling we get from the people we hire. We hire by recommendations from people we know and by the way they interact with us, not by lowest price. Like the lovely man who came to do our floors in our old apartment and let Lucas trot behind him as he measured our space. Like our gardener who barely speaks English but when he speaks, it’s with confidence that inspires our trust. Most people we know are ripping apart their own homes and putting in their own hardwood, cupboards, gardens, etc. But we prefer to pay people because we lack both ability and confidence in the area of home repair, and because we want to know things are done right.

But I’m aware we’re in a privileged position to be able to hire out work. By privilege, I’m not trying to say we’re rich or be arrogant about it, and anyone who knows me, knows that is true. Privilege is a term I learned in university. It has to do with the idea that people in certain social groups receive advantages that others do not, usually due to the way that society has evolved historically. Privilege is often not seen by the privileged because it’s just their normal. I didn’t see my privilege growing up, but having studied the idea during both of my social science degrees (notably taught by left-wing professors), I have come to terms with it. Being raised in a well-off family, appearing Caucasian, and being educated and employed are some of the privileges I have that make things a lot easier for me than others.

Being aware of my privilege helps me not feel elitist about it, but I do sometimes think about what messages Lucas absorbs. I cringed the day that Lucas opened the door to our housecleaners and greeted them with, “can you go clean my toilet now?” He’s unaware of how the privileges of his birth – being male, white, and middle class – will make his paths clear faster than for others. He’s got the rare delight of growing up in an intact family with two sets of grandparents who’ve been married for over 35 years. He’s indulged as our only child (so far) and will enjoy an upbringing where he doesn’t really have to want for anything.

This is the dream, isn’t it? To grow a family where money isn’t a paralyzing concern and where stability is taken for granted. Certainly, when my father immigrated to Canada, escaping the German army draft, having grown up in post-world-war-two poverty, this was his dream. And from that place of not-having, he dreamt of having it all, and has pretty much gotten there. For me, that’s meant a life of not worrying over anything truly important, and the privilege of crafting my own middle-class career and household. And for my son, the world is his oyster.

There’s a part of me though that doesn’t want it to be too easy for him. Although he’ll probably never know hunger or poverty, I still want him to know what it is to want. Because it’s from that place of wanting, that we grow our desires and dreams, that we reach beyond ourselves and become more than who we are. My father tells the story of being in Australia working in a circus cleaning up elephant poop and dreaming of a corner office. My story is about trying to make my words mean something more, for my message to reach beyond me, and yes, maybe to find fame as a writer. What will my son’s story be?

I hope his privileges aid him on journey and make his load a little lighter. I hope too that he adopts the values of humility, generosity, and thoughtfulness that we try and convey. I hope he learns compassion for others and the ability to look at the world through other people’s eyes. I hope, above all, that he is appreciative.

At night, we sing the “Thank you” song that I crafted when he was little. “Thank you for the fun we had, thank you for the friends who play, thank you for the food we have, thank you for this day.” We go on for several verses as he fills in the blanks with the names of his family and friends “thank you for Grandma, thank you for Oma”, his toys “thank you for Moomoo, thank you for my trucks”, and whatever he saw that day “thank you for the park, thank you for the pallets at Costco.” Tonight I’ll sing, "thank you for our contractor, thank you for fixing our roof, thank you for having the skills that I don’t, and thank you for being able to hire you."

I Want Mommy!

2010-09-12T09:04:00.000-07:00

I’m scooping the poop from the kitty litter, my iPod blaring tunes from Glee into my ears. The earbuds are to drown out my son’s repetitive “I want Mommy!” wailing coming from upstairs. The scooping is my penance for not going to him, a way to allay my guilt by doing everyone’s least favourite chore, something to focus on rather than my last interaction with him.

“Go to bed!” I yelled, exasperated. “You can keep screaming “I want Mommy” all night! I’m not coming back.” I was sure of it in the moment, but ten mere steps away, I realized I’d dug myself a big hole that was going to be painful for everyone to get out of. I’d sworn I wasn’t going to let my temper get in the way.

After our lovely bedtime routine of book, debrief, song and laying together, he refused to stay in bed, and continued to come out of his room screaming. I calmly walked him back to bed, explained it was sleepytime, and blew him a kiss from the door. Per Supernanny’s advice, I did this over and over. When Hubby sat down in the hallway, I told him brusquely, “I don’t need your help.” He said it was just for moral support. “This isn’t hard,” I said. “Annoying, time-consuming, and not what I want to be doing with my precious free time, yes.” He sighed, “that’s what’s hard about it,” and left me to it. The door opened and I cheerily walked Lucas back to bed.

I wasn’t going to lose it.

But as the minutes passed by and my patience level thinned, he managed to poke cracks in my cheery armour – a skill most three-year-olds perfect. He had to go pee. He needed a tissue. He needed a hug. “Do not engage!” my inner voice told me, but I just wanted this ordeal over. As he got me to cave at these requests, he saw his opening and went for the big kill – getting me to sleep with him. Standing by his room, he screamed at the top of his lungs, “I want Mommy” over and over and over. “Don’t take it personal!” my inner voice urged. “Stay strong.”

I sat with clenched teeth and fists at the top of the stairs, trying to ignore him, ready to put him back to bed if he came out. But each time he yelled for me, it grinded at my heart. I knew it would be so easy to just crawl into bed and cuddle with him, give him what he wanted and allow him to sleep easy. But I knew too it meant this would be my fate every night.

And the thing is, I’m just too damn selfish. So, somewhere between imagining myself having to sleep with him every night and the fact I hadn’t yet eaten dinner at 9:30, I did lose it. I ripped open the door to his bedroom where he was standing and screaming, and I roared to him to get back to bed and that I wasn’t coming back. I probably scared him, but he still didn’t buy it, kept up his screaming long after I thumped loudly down the stairs.

I plugged my earphones in and scanned Facebook for distraction. There on my Wall was the news I was waiting for. It was confirmation that the woman I’m replacing at work has taken another leave to take care of her children, and I get to stay on in her job. In any other moment, I would have been thrilled to see this. But in this moment, it seemed like a reminder of my own selfishness. Not only am I busy 40-hours a week working and advancing my career while my son is at daycare, but I’m also replacing a woman who is doing what a part of me still believes moms are supposed to do.

It comes from my own mom, who intentionally chose to be a stay-at-home mom for me. She was there to pick me up from school, she knew my friends and my favourites, and she never ever yelled at me. I know times have changed but I do believe a lot of the success and security I feel in my life is because of her sacrifice. And yet, I’m not doing it for my own son. And when he yells, “I want Mommy” incessantly, it’s like he’s reinforcing my greatest fear – that he doesn’t feel like he gets enough of me, that he’s not secure in my love for him, that I’m not there for him.

Or maybe it's the fact that when I do lose it on him, I know I've lost a bit of myself. And the thing is, he knows it too. So, when he yells, "I want Mommy" over and over, it sometimes feels like he is saying, "I want to see my real Mommy" because the me that is yelling at him can't be her. He knows I'm more than that, and he holds me to it.

The song on my iPod ends and I realize it’s silent. I presume Hubby has gone upstairs and worked his magic to quiet Lucas. I exhale the breath I was holding so I wouldn’t inhale stinky kitty litter dust. I thought I would feel relieved when Lucas stopped, but I still hear his cry ringing in my head over and over. I thought I could finally enjoy my precious hour of free time when Lucas stopped, but the thought of my losing it on him when he just wanted me weighs on me. I turn my iPod up louder, realizing it wasn’t Lucas I was trying to distract myself from, it was myself.

Confessions of a Working Mom: I Don't Really Miss My Kid

2010-09-05T23:06:00.000-07:00

I wrote the following piece for Hybrid Mom and am thrilled at the comments that it inspired from women struggling with their own choices. Just as soon as I'd identified that my key goal in writing is for my words to reach and resonate with others, here I see it is actually happening. Thanks for all of your continued support!

Hybrid Mom: Confessions of a Working Mom

P.S. You can now sign up to receive updates via e-mail when I post updates (see sidebar) or share posts via social media (see bottom of posts). Thanks again for spreading the word.

The Best P.S. a Writer Could Get

2010-08-25T23:27:00.000-07:00

I was e-mailing back and forth with a former student today on a work-related subject. On one of her responses to me, she wrote: "P.S. Some days, your blog just completes my life. You take your craft so so so seriously, it's an inspiration to keep pursuing my own personal creative endeavors :)”

It was all I could do not to burst into tears. It wasn't just the words she wrote, but the timing as well. Just last night, I'd found out I hadn't made it to the finals of a contest I was sure I had a decent chance of winning. It was a contest for unpublished authors working on non-fiction manuscripts and the prize was advice from the experts to take you from proposal to publishing. It was my ticket to my dream come true. I didn't make the cut.

With close to three hundred entries, it was a stark reminder of the reality of publishing, where getting noticed as a writer is as likely as getting discovered as an actor. It happens, obviously - just look at a bookstore. But the path there is full of twists and turns with no guarantees that you'll reach the final destination - that elusive spot on a bookstore shelf. I've dreamed of it since I was ten, always certain that the day would come. But as I begin to take steps to make my dream reality, sometimes it feels that much further away - like I am chasing a rainbow.

But maybe I'm actally enjoying the chase in and of itself. Maybe it's not about the book on the shelf, which I know in my head is more about marketing than literature. Because every time I write a blog entry, submit an essay for consideration, or see myself published online, I feel this giddy thrill.

So, maybe, my solace amidst my writer-rejection, will be the idea that my dream is more about becoming a real writer than about publishing a book. In the acts of committing seriously to my blog, reaching a broader audience, and developing book ideas, I am developing my craft, my profile, and my following. And after too many years of being terrified to share my work, I've finally let the river flow and have jumped in to see where it goes. Sometimes I wish I could control where it leads, but right now, I'm not sure if that matters.

What does matter is when someone like my student tells me I've inspired them. It matters when I get a comment on my blog that something I've said helped them understand themselves better. It matters when someone at work stops me in the hallway to tell me they've read my work and it resonated with them. It matters that I'm reaching people as a writer. And when it comes right down to it, all I really want is to keep writing and reaching people who want to read what I have to share.

Flying Solo

2010-08-20T22:58:00.000-07:00

As posted on The Momoir Project

Separated

2010-08-18T22:22:00.000-07:00

We're in the mega-bookstore and I'm looking for a birthday present for our neighbour's kid while Lucas is playing with the Thomas the Train table. I can see him over the display of new board books in his turquoise blue t-shirt. On the lowest shelf in front of me, I see a Star Wars book that might be a good choice and crouch down to reach it. I'm flipping through it as I stand up and do an auto-glance at the train table. But I don't see a blue shirt. I drop the book, walk the ten paces over to the table and Lucas is not there.

"Lucas!" I call as I walk down each of the kid section aisles. "Lucas!" I yell loudly, too loudly for a bookstore, but I don't care.

I can't stop the thoughts that have entered my mind. It would only take a second for someone to lure my boy away. I picture some dirty, bearded man with a lollipop in his pocket and a singsongy voice. Shaking my head, I ask the other mom in the section to help me and I grab a staff person and ask her to page my son over the loud speaker. I run to the Starbucks, to the bathroom, check the main aisle, running and yelling, "Lucas!"

My heart is racing so fast it hurts - I can't believe he is nowhere to be found. I start running to the front desk - I will ask them - make them - lock down the store, like they would for a lost child at a swimming pool. Then I see him rounding the corner, holding the hand of another staff person. I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, and run to him.

As I pull him into a tight squeeze and thank the woman profusely, she just laughs. "We were trying to find you but he didn't know your name. He just said your name was `Mommy'."

"What's Mommy's name?" I prompt him.

"Resall Durock," he says, proud to remember.

Well, I guess that would not have helped.

I finally let go of him and we settle at the train table again. I plunk myself on a chair inches from the table, barely willing to blink for fear of losing sight of him again. The other mother who was there before is watching me closely and part of me is dying to scream, "I'm really not a terrible mother. This has never happened before!" But that part really doesn't matter.

I speak to him delicately, "I was so scared when I couldn't find you." It is the understatement of the year. Terrified, agonized, filled with remorse is more like it but I don't want to freak him out.

He looks up from rolling Percy, the green train, back and forth. "I was so scared too when I couldn't find you." He seems relieved to have shared that and then spits out the rest of the story. He couldn't find me, so he walked around looking for me, then asked some lady for help who brought him to the staff person who eventually brought him to me. I praise him for doing the right thing and suggest he could have called my name when he was looking for him.

"So, if it happened again, and you couldn't find Mommy, what should you do?"

"I could use my words and say, 'Mommy! Mommy' really loud," he says.

I repeat this question and answer/roll play over and over until I feel better.

Then I explain what I should have done. "Mommy should have shown you where I was standing when I walked away from you. I could have used my words to tell you I was going to be looking for books over here." I demonstrate this over and over until he feels better.

When he is bored of this, he whines, "Mommy? My tummy hurts. Can you carry me?"

I know what he means - I feel nauseaus too. I crouch down and pull him close to me. "Is your heart
beating really really fast too?"

"Yeah," he says, then, "maybe we should get a treat."

It occurs to me that perhaps I've role modelled emotional eating to him too often, but now's not the time to analyse this. We order mini donuts and split an herbal ice tea at the Starbucks inside the bookstore.

I'm not sure if I should broach the subject of why I was really scared, but I also don't want to miss out on this teachable moment. "Lucas, what would happen if you were standing at the train table and you didn't know where Mommy was, and some man that you didn't know came and asked you to go with them. Would you go?"

"Yes," he says, shoving the chocolate donut into his mouth.

That's what I thought. "What if you didn't know him at all? What would you do?"

"Um... ask him his name?" he says.

I realize he has absolutely no experience with people who mean harm. I've intentionally shielded him from television and movies that show "bad guys" and now it's near impossible for me to explain how someone could intend to do something bad. I decide not to, but explain again how he should call for Mommy really loud.

I try and run through this conversation again, but he is done.

Instead, I pet his head and tell him, "you know, when you were a baby, Mommy used to take you to Starbucks all the time. You would be laying on my chest in our carrier. But now you're such a big boy."

He takes a long drink, then climbs off his chair and proceeds to crawl up into my lap.

"I'm your little baby bunny," he announces, taking position in my arms.

I pull him close, rocking him like a baby, wishing I could secure him to me the way I did for months on end when he was a baby. He snuggles into me, probably wishing the same thing.

Just call me MamaGeek - Lieslmama goes to a Star Trek Convention

2010-08-14T16:16:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I are sitting in the coffee shop in the lobby of the Las Vegas Hilton watching a parade of costumed people walk by. There are men and women dressed in black Starfleet uniforms, a couple of fully-made up Klingons complete with bat'leth's (weapons), a mom and daugher in matching grey Seven of Nine catsuits, and a guy dressed like Lore (Data's brother) pushing a stroller with three kids - all dressed up as well, to name a few. They've all just taken part in setting a new world record for the most costumed Star Trek fans in one place. Hubby and I are NOT in costume (sorry to disappoint). In fact, we could join in the giggling and gawking coming from other hotel guests. But if you look closer at us, you'll see a Star Trek communicator badge pinned to my DKNY purse and a yellow command insignia peeking out from a t-shirt behind my Hubby's plaid shirt. Though we tend to be more comfortable from our spot on the sidelines, we would never deny that we are die hard trekkers.

And yes, that's trekkers, a name adopted by fans and approved by Leonard Nimoy (Spock), vs. trekkies, a label that invokes images of the most socially awkward, pointy earred nerds, who could spend three hours arguing over their interpretations of a plot point for a show that's 45 years old. It's not that those guys aren't here at the Con (short for Convention), it's just that they don't represent the wide range of fans that make up this, one of the largest Star Trek Cons ever. Maybe that's because Star Trek and many things Sci Fi have somehow squeaked their way to the mainstream in recent years. And maybe that's why I've come "out of the closet" so to speak about my trek fanatacism. And since it seems to amuse many of my friends that I have this side of me, I decided to write this piece and share what it's all about.

My earliest memory of enjoying Star Trek is cuddling on the couch with my Papa watching reruns of the Original Series (i.e. Captain Kirk and Spock). Later, I recall sitting in the theatre balcony with my brother and his best friend for the opening of Star Trek IV. I didn't get on the bandwagon again until about ten years ago with Star Trek Voyager - a show that boasted a strong female Captain - and I've been hooked ever since. It helps that sci fi has become the one obsession that Hubby and I share (well, besides our son).

So, what do you do at a Star Trek Con? (or Star Trek Khan, as fans would say in reference to the 2nd ST movie). Well, first you start out in the Vendor's room. At the Vegas Con, this is an enormous ballroom set up in trade show style, with stores, collectors, artists, and some of the smaller actors, selling everything trek and sci fi imaginable. We are drooling as we pass by tables displaying autographed 8x10's of our favourite heroes like Richard Dean Anderson (from Stargate SG-1) or Carrie Fisher (Princess Leia from Star Wars), t-shirts emblazoned with imagined military emblems or geek phrases from tv shows, like "Bazinga" (from the Big Bang Theory) or "I aim to misbehave" (from Firefly). There are authentic costumes, hand made jewellry, badges, and even weapons up for grabs. We spec out a piece of artwork from my favourite show, Stargate, signed by the original cast with the pricetag of $895, and we stand there discussing where it could go in our new house. Wisely, we decide we won't buy anything until the end of the weekend.

The thing you're really supposed to be buying when you're here is access to the actors themselves via autographs and photos that range from $25-$229. We've done a photo before with Michael Shanks from Stargate, but found the 3-second interaction with him almost embarassing. But to each their own. The autograph collecting is tempting but it's an expensive can of worms to open and we decide at this point to pass. Plus, we don't want to miss any of the sessions happening in the main theatre.

This is the main event, the chance to hear from the celebrities of one of the many Star Trek franchises and even engage in some Q & A with them. And though I'm no longer a celebrity-stalker (my days of hero worshipping stars died after a 10-year obsession with a certain male figure skater), these sessions are worth the price of admission. (As a side note, we paid $119 for four days of access to the sessions and vendor room - certainly the cheapest show in Vegas! You could pay upwards of $600 for a package that includes a reserved seat at the front, elite parties with fans and drop-in stars, and special autographs. We did not.)

Back to the main event. From Brent Spiner (Data) making fun of Sir Patrick Stewart's (Jean-Luc Picard's) bald head, to Jeri Ryan (Seven of Nine) being asked what's it was like to take off her costume, to the Voyager panel of actors describing the practical jokes that ensued on set, it is pure hilarity. Some of the actors, like the guys who played the Doctor and Neelix on Voyager, have such a banter between them, they could honestly host their own comedy shows! Equally amusing though slightly annoying are the fans who don't quite grasp the difference between the actors and the characters they play, but the stars take it all with a grain of salt. And at the end of the day, you realize they are all just actors who got a chance to star on a huge show. Besides the fact they shamelessly self-promote their newest projects, they are mostly grateful at the impact their work has had and humbled by the continued fan support after all these years.

I am surprised to be profoundly moved by an actor that I had taken no notice of when watching Deep Space Nine - Avery Brooks (Captain Sisko). He took the time to make a meaningful connection with each fan who asked a question, dragging them on stage and having them sit in the actor's chair, physically removing himself off whatever pedestal they have him on. He says to each of them, "the power and glory of this moment is yours and I am extremely grateful to be here." I have tears rolling down my face, having witnessed the power transfer between this great idol and this common fan.

Beyond the glitz of celebrity and the pricetags of fanfare, this is what Star Trek is really about. It's about breaking down barriers, seeing equality as normalcy, and believing that we are stronger together. When Star Trek was first released in the 60's, it was during a tumultuous time in U.S. history. It was the first to present messages and images that revolutionalized television - a racially diverse crew that role-modelled tolerance and showcased a positive view of the future. This set the trend for science fiction as a genre that explored the human condition much more than that it explored space travel.

For me, amidst the sea of pointless reality television and excessively violent mass media, I find Star Trek to be one of the few remaining bright lights. The shows' themes espouse the good of humanity; our desire to reach out, explore what's beyond ourselves, and help others; and the idea that together, we can create an exciting future. That's the world I believe in. Most of the time, I pull a bubble over myself and ignore the chaos of this world and the way it's portrayed on tv. And when this means I can't engage in water cooler conversation at work, I begin to wonder if I'm the only one who thinks our entertainment industry has gone mad.

Going to the Con reminds me that there are people out there like me, willing to lie on the fringe outside the masses, but knowing we're part of something bigger. I look around the packed room who've come to see Leonard Nimoy (Spock) and William Shatner (Captain Kirk), maybe 2500 people. And I see many men - young and old, spanning three generations, I see women in costume, with friends and family, and I see more than one quadrapalegic person. And there is me and Hubby, sharing precious quality time together - as geeks.

The audience buzz dies down as a woman comes to the stage. She is introducing a video montage that her friend made. Her friend, a teenage girl, is terminally ill and has been in a coma. It's been Star Trek Voyager that's helped her through some of her roughest days - watching the crew desperately battle to come home and drawing from the strength displayed by the captain. As her video plays, to a song called "Hope", I notice even the muscly man in front of my is drying his eyes. This is just one of many examples of the way Star Trek makes an impact and inspires us to look forward.

So, maybe it seems silly, this Star Trek obsession of mine, especially for a 34-year-old women who's a mother and a professional working at a university. But I'm not hiding it anymore. It's part of who I am, it's the entertainment that keeps me sane, and though it sounds corny, it truly gives me hope for the future.

Shielding my son from Violence

2010-08-05T05:59:00.000-07:00

New piece posted on the Momoir Project

Such a Good Daddy

2010-07-25T21:04:00.000-07:00

I’m washing blueberries for breakfast, while Lucas jumps up and down beside me awaiting them. It’s our first breakfast together in a week since I’ve been away at a conference and I’m telling him about the airplane I took.

After quizzing me whether the plane had a propeller or jet engine, he says excitedly, “I have an idea! Maybe one day Daddy should go away on an airplane, and it’d just be you and me forever!”

At that moment, of course, Daddy walks into the kitchen. One look at him and I know Lucas’ words have driven a stake through his heart. After selflessly caring for Lucas solo for the past week, he is rejected immediately once I return. He turns and heads back into the living room, feigning the need to grab the newspaper from outside.

I bend down and whisper to Lucas. “It’s not nice to say that Daddy should go away, sweetie.”

“Why?” he says in the annoyingly inquisitive way he asks why to everything.

“Because Daddy’s such a good Daddy and,” I raise my voice, “the loveliest husband in the whole world.” I plop the blueberries to the table, hoping he’ll rejoin us.

--

The phone rings and it’s my aunt.

“Did you know there are other fathers out there like your husband?” she says incredulously.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“Men who change diapers and drop off kids at daycare and make dinner.”

I sigh, unsure if she is judging me or truly shocked. “Yes, things changed when women went back to work.”

“Well, I didn’t realize things had changed for the better. I thought it was just that he was such a good father.”

“Well, he is that too.” I sigh again.

The thing is, he is all that. He is one of those rare men who doesn’t have an enormous ego and actually revels in taking care of those he loves. He is the opposite of the stereotypical dumb, incompetent Dad that the media likes to portray. Other mothers look at me wide-eyed when I shrug and tell them my husband gives Lucas baths, takes him to the dentist, and can look after him for a week without me.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. The thing is that sometimes it’s hard to live in his shadow. Like a child desperately seeking her parent’s approval, I long to hear the words, “you are such a good mother”. But no amount of good mothering holds a candle to the uncharacteristic good Daddy that he is.

And yet, he could care less about what others think. He doesn’t act the good Daddy part for attention or recognition. All the reward he needs comes from his son’s smiles and hugs.

But after my week’s absence, it’s me Lucas clings to like an eager puppy, constantly checking on my every move. Anytime I’m out of sight, he calls, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…” until I reappear. When we get him ready for daycare, he begs to come to work with me. Only I can put him to bed, brush his teeth, and bathe him. And of course, I am happy to be there for him. I have missed him desperately, but I see it is killing his Daddy.

One night, after I finally get Lucas to bed, I find Daddy sitting at his piano keyboard, composing a sad melody. I come up behind him, squeeze his shoulders, and he confesses, “just once, I want to be the one he calls for instead of you.”

After about two weeks, things finally settle down. I’m glad because Lucas has had a myriad of incidents (including potty accidents and his first nightmare), all of which I blame on my absence. And I’m feeling a little drained by Lucas’ need of me and Daddy’s hurt feelings resulting from it.

One morning, in the middle of brushing Lucas’ teeth, he says to me, with foamy mouth, “I’m sad.”

I pull out the toothbrush. “Why are you sad, sweetheart?”

“I miss Daddy.”

I laugh and pull him to a hug, aware that I’ll likely have a wet pasty face imprinted on my shirt. “Daddy’s just sleeping, honey! You can go wake him up if you want.” I’m pretty sure he’s not just talking about missing Daddy this moment, but for the past two weeks that he’s been ignoring him.

He runs out of the bathroom, squealing for Daddy, and I’m sure my husband will wake with a smile on his face.

I sigh. I guess my days of being the chosen one are over now.

I Write Because I Have to

2010-07-20T21:14:00.000-07:00

Our Write Club's writing prompt this week was Why I Write in response to Meredith's Heller poem of the same name (available on her website: http://www.meredithheller.com/poetry.php about halfway down the page). Here's mine:

I write because I have to
There is no choice about it
Just a pull from within me
Urging me, calling me, pestering me

A thought that won't let go
An echo of an experience
A scene that must be shared
Dying to jump out of me and onto the page

Ignore it and I get sick,
grumpy, distracted or blah
I walk into walls, spill me tea,
lose my patience for no reason

A colleage says to me,
"That's a nice hobby to have"
A well-meaning friend says,
"You're lucky it's so easy for you."

They don't understand that it eats at me
if I don't comply
It consumes me until I can
no longer ignore it

And then I take pen to paper
or keyboard to screen
and it all comes pouring from me
Words slobbering out uncontrollably
A scene connecting to a thought
An idea transitioning to a memory

Then the logical side of my brain
Pipes up with its squeaky voice
"That's not a full sentence,"
and "Do you really want to put that in writing?"
And I must writer faster and faster
just to shut that voice up.

Because I'm here not
In the place I'm meant to be
In the zone of creativity
Of freedom, of joy, of bliss
Oh allowing the me that is me, a voice
And letting that voice rise, fall, sing and swear

And then suddenly it's gone
My pen stops or my fingers stop clicking
I find myself wondering what I'll make for dinner
Or feeling compelled to login into facebook

And then I breath, sit back and read
And I find that mostly it's crap

But I laugh instead of cry
Because at least it's honest crap

And intertwined with the mess
Some nuggest do shine through
And those I hold onto and think
That's why I'm a writer.

Artless

2010-07-14T00:04:00.000-07:00

I've dragged our pictures out of their boxes and am attempting to match them to the walls of our new house. But our vaulted ceilings and perfectly painted walls don't seem to invite the small framed photos and cheap prints that used to adorn our apartment walls. This house calls for real "art". And given the amount of time it takes Hubby and I to agree on each piece of furniture, and the fact that real art costs real money, I'm not anticipating our house being a gallery any time soon.

And it bums me out. Other people, it seems, have this decorating gene that I was not born with. They take dried flowers and recyled metals and make funky seasonal ornaments; they walk into a fancy store and pick out accessories that don't match but somehow work together in this colour palette that is both appealing and modern; and they know how to buy art. Hubby and I, we like brown and blue and thus most of our furniture, blankets, and walls fall in that colour scheme. And we are far too functional to go beyond. But now that we have this nice house, I desperately want to finish it with some styling decor and nice artwork.

But the other day, I was sitting in my giant brown (of course) chair-and-a-half (that may not be fashionable but that I love), and I had a revelation. I had been typing madly in my laptop, working on my new (secret) book, the words flowing through me from some unseen force onto the page. When I had exhausted my stream of consciousness, Hubby and Lucas joined me in the living room. Hubby started playing kids songs on his keyboard with Lucas on his kid-sized guitar strumming along with no actual relation to the music. Hubby soon switched to playing his latest composition that had me near tears. And as he played, I felt the music fill the room all the way up to our vaulted ceilings.

Suddenly, I was catapulted back to a moment last summer. I was in my in-laws kitchen doing dishes after some dinner we'd invited ourselves to, and Hubby was playing on his piano in the basement. We were there after another weekend of unsuccessful house-hunting and getting more and more frustrated by our lack of success. But as I listened to Hubby fooling around on the piano keys, I felt the music fill up the house, and I knew suddenly that one day we would find a house, and we would have music in it.

So, now when I find myself staring at our blank walls wondering what whether we will ever do justice to them, I remember that we are already filling our home with art. I've written more pieces in this house than ever in my life, Lucas brings his creative energy to everything he does, and Hubby's music spreads throughout the house, making it our home.

What's Wrong with Having a MooMoo?

2010-07-09T22:24:00.000-07:00

"Lucas, it's time to get in your PJ's," I yell from upstairs.
"MooMoo says five more minutes," he yells back.
"Tell MooMoo it's time now!"

How to describe MooMoo? In actuality, he's a stuffed animal, a cow received at my baby shower that I introduced to my infant son because it was black and white (the colours that babies can see). It was love at first sight and the two have rarely been parted. Three years later, MooMoo is greying and falling to pieces, but he has evolved into more than a physical comfort toy. He has become Lucas' alter-ego.

"Guess what, Lucas?" I say, excitedly. "You're going to the water park today!"
"MooMoo doesn't like the water park," he says matter-of-factly, and we both know MooMoo is not going to the water park, but there's no use arguing.
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn't want to get wet."
"Well, I bet MooMoo could just run around the water park instead of getting wet if he wanted," I suggest.
"Yeah, that's a good idea!" he says, willing to head off on his field trip now.

We have to stop ourselves from rolling our eyes or cracking up at MooMoo's opinions on everything. When sharing this with another mom, she asked me seriously, "What are you going to do about this?" My answer, "uh, nothing?" I mean, what's wrong with having a MooMoo? It never even occured to us to nip it in the bud, nor do I even believe it would be possible. MooMoo is as real to Lucas as we are.

I get it because I always had imaginary friends. There was Sam when I was five, Marty when I was nine, and Brian when I was twelve. Sam and I drove my older brother crazy because we spoke our own language, which mimicked our neighbour's Eastern European tongue, but my parents never fussed about him. And yes, thirty years later, I still think of him as a separate entity. Looking back, each of those friends came at times of transition: starting Kindergarten, moving to a new city and school in Grade 5, and then living with my aunt while my parents worked abroad in Grade 7. My imaginary friends were my stability in an otherwise uncertain time, when I was alone and everything was beyond my control.

My imaginary friends didn't talk back to my parents the way MooMoo sometimes does. But at age three, Lucas grapples with much more than I had to at that age. Just facing daycare each day, he has to respond to various authority figures, negotiate social situations and develop independence much earlier than many children. With busy parents, he doesn't always know who's going to be caring for him at which time, where dinner's going to be, or what he's allowed to do. I think we do a good job of creating a stable home for him, following his routine despite our busy lives, and making him the centre of our family when we are together. But for a kid who does not love transition or change, an imaginary cow-friend goes along way.

I picture MooMoo as this middle-age bachelor who is adventurous, independent, and irreverant, due to the images Lucas gives us of MooMoo's life: "MooMoo is driving a red pickup truck. Today he went to the store and buy'd some Budweiser and put it in the trunk with his spare tire." Or: "MooMoo lives in a house with two dogs and some cats and no Mommy or Daddy."

Lucas entertains his classmates, teachers and the family with the latest on MooMoo. From their point of view, it's harmless and funny. But from what I know as a writer, it's more than that. Whenever I write a character, there's a part of that character that is me. So, as Lucas creates MooMoo, I think he puts pieces of himself into this character. I think MooMoo's adventurous spirit is something that Lucas wants to have, but may be afraid of. MooMoo's comedic irreverence is everything my son wants to say but knows he'll get in trouble for. And the fact that MooMoo asserts the independence constantly is a little boy's way of staying true to himself.

So, every night as I put Lucas to bed in our lenthy drawn our routine that he has crafted and trained me in, I never forget to kiss and hug MooMoo goodnight. As I do, I whisper him a thank you for being there for Lucas in a way no one else can.

Nightmares

2010-07-07T07:03:00.000-07:00

12:48 a.m. I bolt up in bed, shaking, my heart racing. I exhale, relieved to be awake, and flop down onto my pillow. I was having this nightmare where a group of men were taking things from me, and after deciding to retaliate, I was now fearing for my life. I get out of bed, trying to physically shake myself from the feelings of terror, and drink a cup of water. When my heart has finally slowed, I manage to sleep again.

2:04 a.m. I bolt up in bed. My ears have picked up a cry and before I am conscious, my body has gotten itself out of bed. I race to my son's bedroom door and hear his call.
"I need to go pee!" he yells.
But when I go to him, he is thrashing in his bed, drenched in sweat and shaking.
"Lucas, do you need to go pee or are you scared?" I say, petting his wet head.
"I'm scared!" he says, with a fear in his voice I've never heard.
"Lucas, you're okay, you're in your bed, open your eyes."
He opens them and reaches for me, and I see relief pour over him. I wrap my arms around him.
"Were you having a bad dream?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, breathing hard. "I... wanted... you, I... wanted... you," he says between sharp inhales.
"I'm right here," I say, enveloping his soaking body in mine.

I don't know if he's talking about his want of me during his nightmare or when waking from it, but it unsettles me. Two weeks ago, I was away for a week at a conference, and since then something has subtly shifted between us. Besides his expected clinginess when I returned, he now begs to come to work with me every day, and constantly questions when he will see me. Hubby gets the shaft, told constantly that he can go now, despite the fact he cared so graciously for Lucas while I was away.

As I'm lying in Lucas' bed, his head on my shoulder, and taking deep breaths with him, a familiar thought occurs to me. Maybe I should be working less. The thought haunted me when I first went back to work after maternity leave two years ago to a demanding job. But since grappling with the guilt, I'd made peace with the fact that Lucas is not unlike a majority of children in our society that attend daycare full time while their parents work, and is well cared for at all times.

But this is where my mind goes when things don't feel right, to the idea that I could fix things if I was just home. Maybe it comes from the fact my mother stayed home with me or maybe its drawn from the guilt that I know I'm a better parent when I balance work and home. Maybe it's instinctual, this mama bear impulse to protect your child and not let anything hurt him. But it pulls at me, though I logically don't believe I would be any better at doing this if I was home more.

But Lucas has never had nightmares before. And what's crazy is that I rarely do either, except that ever since I've been back, I've had a three of four. Something is off, and I think it might have to do with us.

He is calmer now, still nestled in my arms, and we are making a list. We're coming up with lots of nice things that he could dream about. "Ice cream, spare tires, trucks," I start. He adds, "cows, pigs, a rooster." Eventually he turns away and starts to settle back into sleep. I lie beside him, eyes wide open, and find I'm still shaking.

Flying Solo

2010-06-26T06:54:00.001-07:00

“I licked my Mommy!” the boy in the seat behind me is yelling excitedly to the flight attendant.

“That’s nice,” she says as she squeezes down the narrow airplane aisle to mediate between passengers. The father across from me is asking someone to move so he can sit with his daughter, and the person is refusing. I avoid eye contact with the father, pull my novel up in front of me.

Two rows in front of me, a baby is screaming that repetitive cry that pierces the ear with its high pitch.

I am a fellow parent. I know the agony of taking children on planes. But I can’t deny the voice in my head screaming, “will you please shut that baby up?”

I am alone, on a business/personal trip to the other side of the country, and, admittedly, savouring the solitude. Though I wear a wedding ring that states my marital status, no one can tell I’m a mom, and I’m not telling.

In front of me, there’s this monitor with an array of movies and music options. Buttons, buttons, buttons. And all mine to press. I don’t have to share my console, don’t have to watch kid shows, don’t have to keep one earphone off in case I’m needed. I’m not needed.

A layover in Toronto. I meander shops and sit at a wine bar to eat as I watch moms hauling babes in arms and strollers over their shoulders and listen to overtired kids tantrum and whine, then I just close my eyes. No need to bear witness, offer sympathetic smiles, or share French fries.

A parenting article I read recently haunts me, “If you don’t want to spend time with your kids, then why did you have them?” I love being with him but do I have to feel like Bad Mom of the Year that I also enjoy being without him? When I get to the point where I’ve burned my candle at both ends for so long that I seem to have lost track of what makes me glow, I’m no good to anyone.

An entire week stretches out before me like a fantasy. A couple of days to explore Charlottetown and write ALL ALONE, a three-day work conference certain to inspire me, and then two more days to discover the island with a dear friend. I can taste the indulgence of it all as I attempt to shelve my guilt.

7 days later

“I’m three-and-a-half!” the blonde pig-tailed girl in the seat behinds me says as I lean over to chat with her and pet her baby sister’s bald head.

Their mom looks up with an proactive apology. “She won’t be so cute when she’s crying, but I promise, once she falls asleep, it’ll be quiet.”

“Don’t worry about it! I’m a mom. I have a three-year-old too!” I laugh. This time, I wish I had a badge: I AM MAMA! “Let me know if you need any help,” I offer.

As I watch the film on the monitor in front of me, I take one earbud out and listen to the coos and whimpers of the baby behind, the bits of conversation between the mom to her daughters. It’s all I can do not to leap behind me and cuddle both of them to me. My body aches for my own little one.

The last seven days were even longer than I imagined. Guilt ate me, but I decided to devour each moment, so that my boys’ week without Mommy would be worth it.

It was an adjustment to be so self-centred, but that was the only option. I savoured my pre-baby pastime - meandering with no agenda or need to get anywhere at any time. In jewelry shops and used bookstores, I browsed for as long as I wanted. At night, I stayed up ridiculously late because I could sleep in (ha!). For lunch, I ate ice cream and found a park overlooking the ocean where I sat in the grass and read my novel for hours. Every now and then I would look around me, as if I was going to get busted or in case I was forgetting something, and I wasn’t.

Every night I called Hubby and Lucas. And Hubby would tell me they were doing great. And Lucas would say, “can you come home right away?” and I would say, “no, Sweetheart, I’m coming home on Friday” and he would say, “okay, bye.” I swallowed that hard, but didn’t waste time there, refocusing on maximizing every moment.

The conference was the best I’d ever attended, and when it ended, I was full of inspiration, career direction, and new friends/colleagues. And the forty-eight hours of blazing around PEI in a rental car with my dear friend was such an adventure of freedom and joy that I can’t even begin to describe here. Suffice it to say that now I am refreshed and renewed, my soul full, my spirit found again.

Sitting on the plane home now, I scroll through photos of my boys on my laptop, wanting nothing else. I set back my watch to home time, so I can calculate how many more hours until we land. I envision running through the arrival gate and picking up my little blond Lucas and swinging him around and kissing him until he squirms out of grasp, and then falling into Hubby’s strong embrace and kissing his soft cheeks and rough chin and sweet lips. It’s more likely they’ll just do a drive thru pickup and I’ll throw my suitcase in the trunk and jump in and give quick pecks. But it doesn’t matter. Mommy’s back now.

Papa's Girl

2010-06-20T10:03:00.000-07:00

[I'm fatherless today, across the country from my own father, my father-in-law, my brother, and the father of my son, for a work conference. So, it feels a little strange that today being Father's Day, I'm not at some fancy brunch at my Dad's club, or watching my in-laws dance at the MidSummer festival, or at least, giving my Hubby his card and watching my son give him his "secret" present. ("Can I give him that rock I painted now, Mommy?" he asked me on the phone last night.) Still, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about them all, and I can't write about it!]

Papa's Girl

My Papa is the one who spent countless hours teaching me to swim while we lived in Mexico when I was four. Not only that, but he videotaped many of those countless hours. Still when I exclaimed, "I taught myself to swim!" he simply rolled his eyes. Despite the fact he worked alot as an executive, he always made time to teach me things, to capture them on film so we experience it again, and to share whatever wisdoms he was discovering for himself.

As a typical teen, I continued to think he taught me nothing, that he was too absent to know me. In my early twenties, I would try and silence his voice in my head, urging me to think positive, to own my thoughts, to not allow another to dictate what I felt, to be the master of my destiny, and to follow my bliss. I would cringe when people would ask me, "Are you Ozzie Jurock's daughter?" due to his local fame as a real estate expert. I was intentionally not following in his footsteps, believing strongly in my need to prove my own success, and in the meantime, also resisting any attempts he made at establishing an adult relationship.

I clearly remember a moment that he may not. "I want to tell you the secrets of the universe," he said one night when we were vacationing on his boat. I knew he'd had a few, hey, he was on vacation, but I didn't want to hear it. I had enough of his wisdom. When I was fifteen, we journeyed through Switzerland and France, and I was subjected to listen to tape after tape of Mike Vance, his latest inspiration. Later, on drives to Whistler, it was cd's and cd's of Anthony Robbins. But when he sat down in the fold out love seat we had on dock with him, I no choice but to listen. That evening he told me about clarifying your intentions, expressing your desires with great emotion, and the power of the universe to hear them and deliver. I didn't hear a word of it.

Part of it was the fact that I was totally miserable. I was supporting Hubby through a degree he didn't love and felt stuck in a job with an abusive boss. We were just married, mired in debt, and couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. One day, I finally had it. I left work early and sat outside in tears as I wrote down everything I wanted that I wasn't experiencing. You could say I set some intentions.

It only took six months for my life to turn around.

Some time after that, my family was at this fancy extravaganza party at my Dad's club. I felt on top of the world, I was skinnier than I'd be in a long time, and more importantly, I was so so happy. (Yes, I'd also had a few!) But late in the evening, I found myself in my Papa's arms on the dance floor. We danced fast as we love to, which saves Hubby from having to when he's not up to it. And then, when the music slowed, he pulled me close, and told me, "I'm so proud of you." I was shocked - these were words I hoped to hear from him for many years but never would have admitted. He talked about being proud of my education, my career, my marriage, but mostly how happy I seemed. In that moment, I felt like I proved myself, and was finally able to let go of the need to do so.

I also let go of trying to be different from my Papa. Anyone who looked at us knew that was a losing battle, but I had been determined that I was nothing like him. We both struggle with the same issues - prioritizing career and family and negotiating our love of eating with our weight. We both share the same desire to inspire others to their future best, which he manages to do while teaching real estate investment and I attempt to do while coordinating career practicums for students. And when he gave up the executive game, what did my Dad become? You guessed it... a writer! So, there's really no point in pretending I'm not following his footsteps. I can't help it.

And now, with my own child, I see a mirror of myself, and my father. A boy who loves to dance and sing and express himself, who learns everything on his own, and is impatient for success. I wonder - how will I teach him all I know? When will I have that moment where I can tell him the secrets of the universe? But deep inside, I know without a doubt, that when he's a teenager, he will reject me, and when he's a young adult, he'll think I know nothing. But hopefully, hopefully, as he begins to know himself and to create his own happiness, he will look up and see me - really see me - and recognize himself in me after all.

I know this because, when I looked up at my Papa on the dance floor six years ago, I saw him finally for the man he was, and couldn't believe it when I recognized myself in him too.

No vacation from writing!

2010-06-15T20:25:00.000-07:00

Part of me feels this sense of careless freedom, but part of me feels like I am missing a limb - I haven't done any "creative writing" for the past two weeks. I've also been off work just as long, but it doesn't call to me in the same way. The thing is when you're a writer, you're never really on vacation. The times when I stop writing, whether from fear, distraction, or avoidance, I stop feeling like myself.

I've been a writer since I was 10 years old and started simultaneously crafting my first piece of fiction and a self-help book on positive thinking. My parents responded with a mix of pride (isn't our daughter so cute?) and terror (she knows she can't make a living being a writer, right?). And perhaps their tentativeness helped to drive me, or perhaps my childhood of being moved from house to house and school to school made me develop something that I could always take with me, or maybe I was just born to be a writer. All I know is that while most of the people I know were busy experimenting with drugs or fantasizing about sex during their teens, I was busy writing novels on my dad's clunky PC.

But I forget sometimes that the majority of the world is not like me. They don't need to put pen to paper to make sense of stuff. They don't walk around seeing the world in scenes or themes. They don't memorize conversations and record details for future use. And they don't fizzle up when they stop writing for two weeks.

I've met other artists who get what I mean. A colleague of mine recorded a CD and asked me how do we balance work and art when you get inspiration at 1 in the morning, and need to get up for work at 6am? I responded - you just write the song. Because I've figured out that, for better or worse, art feeds you more than sleep will. And putting your art aside will eat your soul.

But I meet a lot of people who really want to get me and simply cannot. They say, "oh, I used to write as a hobby too." They don't get that this isn't a hobby - it's a way of life. Others say, "wow, you could write a book and make lots of money." Yes, I could and do hope to, but that's not the point, and that makes little sense. The really nice ones says, "Why don't you quit your job and write instead?" And though I used to think this was my dream, I've recently realized, if I had to write to survive, it simply wouldn't be the same.

Why do I write? Because I can't help it. I can't stop it. Once before, I wrote:

I write to record.
I write to understand.
I write to deal with.
I write to exist.
I write to share.
I write to become.
I write because I can't help it.
I write to fulfill my destiny.

I hope that my destiny is to continue writing and and eventually publish books that people relate to. And if you think that's "cute" then you have no idea how seriously I take my writing dream. I used to take it so damn seriously that I paralyzed myself from ever trying. It was so important to me to justify my craft that I either hid it or expected instant success. I have come to see that being a writer is just who I am, and the act of getting published is a whole different game. So, I write my journal, my blog, my articles, and I dream that eventually I will have written my book, and it will be published and dare I say it, even successful. The thing is by the time that happens, I won't really have even noticed because it's not the point.

So, I write this piece to spell out my writing dream for public consumption, to make it exist in writing. And I write this piece to remind myself how good it feels to write and how unnatural it is for me to take a vacation from my craft. I close with my favourite writing quote from Stephen King's book, On Writing.

"I'm not asking you to come reverently or unquestioningly; I'm not asking you to be politically correct or cast aside your sense of humor (please God you have one). This isn't a popularity contest, it's not the moral Olympics, and it's not Church. But it's writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can't or won't, it's time for you to close the book and do something else. Wash the car, maybe." ~ Stephen King

Trying to Understand the Creepy Stuff my Three-Year-Old Says

2010-06-01T20:39:00.000-07:00

We're sitting in the doctor's office the first time my three-year-old shocks me with his creepy thought-process.

"Mommy, you shoulda brought some scissors."

"Why?"

"Because I'm gonna cut up the doctor."

I try and remain expressionless, unwilling to react to this odd conversation, "Um, why would you do that?"

"Because I don't like him."

I consider going down that path, but figure I will fail at convincing my son to like the man in the white coat that sticks needles in him. "Um, some doctors do cut open people... to help them. Is that what you mean?"

He doesn't, I think, but this is interesting to him, so he is distracted. I tell him about special doctors who go to school for lots and lots of years and use special tools to make tiny tiny cuts in people so they can fix their bodies.

--

I hoped that was the end of it, but lying in bed last week as we talked about out days, it came up again. He was telling me about this kid in school who calls him "Lukwisa" (instead of Lucas).

"What do you say to him?" I ask.

"I tell him to stop it but he does not listen to my words," he tells me, and by this, I know the teachers have been helping him.

"So, how do you feel about that?"

"I want to cut him up, into pieces," he says.

"Um, that's not really something we do here," I say, as if talking to an alien. "Even if someone is not nice, we don't hurt them."

"I want to hurt him," he says, and I have trouble responding, because, I admit, I kind of want to teach the kid a lesson myself.

--

But I don't want my son to want to hurt others. For this reason, I've carefully sheltered him from any television violence so much so that he doesn't know what a gun or sword is. We call them "tools" which he equates to Bob the Builder and assumes are for fixing things. Last weekend, at a carnival, I wouldn't even get him a sword balloon animal. Despite the fact he's practically named after George Lucas, he's never seen Star Wars, because I think we can wait a little longer before lightsabers and clone fighters and ships with guns become part of his repertoire. And yet, I can't help but wonder if agression is actually part of little boy's makeup.

As we were playing outside the other day, we watched a bird land on our roof.

"Mommy, can I step on that bird?"

"No!" I yell, "Why would you want to do that?"

"So, I can smush it."

"That is... that is... just wrong, Lucas. We don't hurt animals."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because we just don't. It's mean. It's horrible." I try and convey in my tone how offended I am by his suggestion, but in his eyes I see a twinkle. He's slightly enjoying getting a reaction out of me. I change the subject, unwilling to fuel the flame of rebellion in him.

--

Is my son going to be one of those boys, a bully who delights in others' discomfort? I remember a friend who became a mother around the same time as me who said, quite matter-of-factly, that she had no illusions about who her son would become. He could be a doctor or a mass murderer. The idea had never crossed my mind, but of course, murderers have mothers too, murderers were three-year-olds once.

Part of me doesn't want to publish this. Part of me thinks these are thoughts I should keep to myself. But as my handful of readers do tell me from time to time, they appreciate when I say the stuff that is in their heads. The reason I write, for the most part, is to help me understand, so I write this, in the hopes that doing so will help me not to fear the stuff he says.

--

The fact is that creepy stuff like cutting up people, and violent stuff like hurting animals are ideas that I have completely shunned myself from. What few people know about me is that I intentionally censor images for myself to the point where I refuse to watch the news and most popular television and movies. I cried my eyes out after Batman, because I couldn't handle the cruelty of the Joker and moreso, I could not accept how desensitized the mass population had become to ideas of violence.

So, it shouldn't surprise me that the images Lucas is coming up with are shocking to me. I can't understand where they are coming from if he has not seen these things and lacks the imagination to come up with them. I can assume some kid in school is spreading these ideas, and he is trying them out at home with us. I am aware that my reaction to these ideas are important, and will have an impact on his interest in these ideas. And suddenly, I am aware that shielding him from all violence will probably make it all that much more exciting for him.

But I can't help it - I can't stand seeing little kids running around with guns, so much so that I didn't let Lucas go to a friend's birthday party because they were going to play laser tag. When my then five-year-old nephew used to play Command & Conquer, a war strategy came, I couldn't believe it. But boys have been playing war for as long as history can tell us. So, maybe I'm the one with a problem.

Lighten up, people tell me. But lighten up to me means becoming desensitized to the reality of what we're talking about. Playing war, to me, belittles the reality of wars truly going on right now, the lives lost, the children dying around the world because of it. Maybe I'm taking it all too literally, but I can't take it when violence is a source of entertainment. I go to people's houses and they have CSI playing in the background where some woman (always a woman) is murdered, and it's background noise. It's like the news - where this reality of violence is summarized and regurgitated for our consumption. A little ticker tape at the bottom of the screen tells me 14 people died in a plane crash today, woman's body found in a ditch today. This is stuff I don't need to know. And then, when knowing it, I can't just erase it from my mind. It dishonours those 14 people, that dead woman, to just let it be information, like the weather report.

I know, I KNOW, most people don't feel this way. Most people can separate the information from emotion. But I can't and honestly I don't wish to. So, instead, I very carefully censor my world, so much so that I didn't even know about the earthquake in Haiti three days after it happened.

But now I have a bigger problem - and that is my son's interest in violence. While it may be innocent now and easy to distract, it will soon be an ever present reality for us. Will I let him watch the comic book cartoons his Dad watches? Will he get to play video games like his friends? Will I deny him gun toys? How long can I put off, truly, the main source of entertainment for most boys? And if I do shield him, won't he just find other sources of it, and won't it be that much cooler if it's forbidden?

I don't have any answers tonight. But I've unearthed a whole bunch of feelings I didn't realize were connected to "the creepy stuff" that Lucas has been saying. It reminds me not to project my issues onto him, not to read so much into what he says, and to try and keep the communication lines open. As long as he's asking me about stuff, we can talk about it. But if I shut him out, and start to censor his words to protect myself, I will lose the opportunity to try and have an influence on him.

Fighting to Be He

2010-05-25T20:54:00.001-07:00

His eyes are greener than the blue of his birth
Green, his favourite colour; blue, mine.
And as I look in those swirling seas,
I see he is less my baby than his own kind.

Everyone looks to see themselves reflected

In his actions, his body, his speech.

But as I watch him run in his backwards pants,

I know he is detemined to be only He.

These days, I seem to yell about everything

He yells, "No, thank you!" red-faced and mad.

And as he asserts his power to be

I lose the control I thought that I had.

Our fights are loud, long and messy

All about his right to choose.

And anytime I win a battle

I soon regret the force I had to use.

"Mama," he says in this pleading voice

Pulling me from my anger to He.

And as I hold him in my arms

I wonder who the teacher is supposed to be.

The years will pass and he will go

And I'll watch him shrug away from me

Then I will bless the days he fought

to be the strong He he's meant to be.

Me - a Name I Call Myself

2010-05-22T15:17:00.000-07:00

When I was ten, I almost changed my name to Robyn (my middle name). I was starting a new school for the seventh time in as many years (we moved alot) and I had no more patience for enduring the constant reiteration of my name to teachers and classmates. But when my Grade 5 teacher called on me to introduce myself, I couldn't do it.

"Ly-sil?" she asked.

"No, er, Lee-sul," I explained quietly.

Later, playing baseball during Gym class, I was up to bat when the backcatcher started up.

"Your name is Lysol?" he laughed.

"No, Lee-sul or Lee-zul!" I yelled.

"Lee-zul the weasel!" he chanted, sing-songy.

I dropped the bat, turned and punched him across the face. No one told on me. And no one had a problem with my name after that.

It's not my style to be agressive, or really to seek conflict in any sense of the word, or even to speak up at first contact. My preference is to lay low, observe, take it all in, and when I understand the rules of the game, then I'll jump in. And when I'm feeling comfortable, I'll even take it over, control freak that I am. But not right off the start. And if it wasn't for my name, I could have happily remained a wallflower.

But the reality is, I'm usually spelling it out and re-pronouncing it more than once with everyone I meet. I try and joke and justify it to make them less uncomfortable.
"It's German - like diesel," I'll say, laughing.
"Have you seen the Sound of Music?" I'll query. And sometimes, like when they ask me for my name at Starbucks, I'll just say, "Lisa" and save everyone the trouble.

Fast-forward twenty-three years and find me on twitter, proudly "lieslmama", on gmail, boldly "lieslrocks" and on google, egotisically, six pages of Liesl Jurock, all me!
Today, I love the fact that my name is different, unique and takes some explanation - just like me. I love its roots in a musical and the way it links to my heritage. I love that I'm the only Liesl Jurock in the world, and in fact, get quite put out when I find other Liesl's in my space.

But mostly, if I can set aside my ego, I now appreciate the way my name has challenged me - to take up space. It's space I have been trained as a girl not to occupy and a voice that I'd prefer, as an introvert, not to have to use. Today, as I strive in my writing career, I wonder how much my unique name has had to do with me finding my voice, and finding the guts to share it. And I wonder, would Robyn have turned out to be a writer?

Trapped in a Supernanny Episode

2010-05-21T20:48:00.001-07:00

Written in March, this piece is now published on: The Momoir Project as well as Hybrid Mom

Hubby

2010-05-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

Hubby is leaning on the kitchen counter, red-faced with anger. "If they want to make me the scapegoat, I don't care. I just want to get us focussing on what's important again," he says.

"But you haven't done anything wrong!" I am livid that his colleagues have accused him of circumventing a procedure, when there wasn't one anyways.

He buries his head in his hands, sniffing back tears that are close to the surface, "I don't know why this is getting me so upset."

I come around the counter, put my arms around him as he wipes his eyes. "It's everything. You've been sick. Your grandfather died last week. You have been working like crazy. It's all just too much. Of course you're upset!"

When Hubby heads upstairs, I pull together a pathetic dinner of grapes, nuts, yogurt and carrots for Lucas, then take him to the neighbour's, eager to give Hubby some space. I want to do something for him, but I know there's little I can do, except make it easy for him to release some responsibility.

Because that's who he is - responsible and reliable, calm and consistent. He keeps it together so much of the time that it's always a shock when his armour finally cracks. And in these moments, I see how it's his demeanour that keeps our family's equilibrium at bay. Between my moody extremes and our son's eager impatience, he is the solid rock that keeps our waves from becoming a storm.

"What do you need from me?" I begged him to tell me last year in Vegas, accusing him of doing more for me than I do for him.

"I need to be needed," he told me, his eyes slippery after too many $1 beers.

I didn't get it. For me, being needed means being pulled, clinged at, sucked dry. It makes me want to run, kick, scream. Don't get me wrong, I'll be there for you, for work, for others, but on my schedule. But Hubby, he'll drop everything.

After we'd been going out for three years, my Dad told me, "If you don't marry him, Liesl, I will." My family had never met a man like him, so selfless and willing to put his ego aside, so caring of me, who he called his Princess.

From the moment I spotted him, I knew he was the one. Despite how cliche it sounds, I'd actually spent Christmas holidays outlining for the universe exactly the man I wanted to attract. When he walked into our English class, Barenaked Ladies ballcap on, it was like a spotlight shone on him, and I knew I had to get to know him. Though I didn't believe in past lives or soulmates then, I do now. The two of us are so connected that I'm certain it's been more than 15 years.

When I got my tarot cards read last year, I should not have been surprised that my Hubby surfaced so prominently. When the psychic turned over the third card, it depicted a King figure that actually resembled my Hubby when he sports a beard.

"Do you have a lover?" she asked.
"That's him," I said, bursting into tears.
"Well, if things aren't okay with you, they will be," she said, thinking this is why I was crying.
"No, everything is perfect."
"He serves as your rock, your strength," she said.
I nodded. "I know."
"He is here to help you on your path to healing."

I could not stop the tears of joy I felt when she said this. I don't know how they do these readings, but the fact that his love for me reverberates in my aura, that his position in my life is so apparant, just gave me such a sense of relief.

The only time our relationship was ever threatened is when I second-guessed whether I wanted to have children. We were living together at university, and after an exhausting weekend with my nephews, I joked that I'd be content to just be an auntie rather than a mother. He stopped me, giving me an ultimatum - if I didn't want to have a child with him, then we may need to rethink our relationship. It was a shock, since I was so used to getting my way, but a good one. We talked for hours seriously addressing my fears about parenting, planning for our future, imagining our little girl (yes, girl).

I imagined Hubby would be just like the father I invented when I first wrote short stories in my teens. Strong and unwavering in his integrity, fully engaged in his kid's life, inherently selfless. He was a main character in the family dynamic, not absent like many depictions of father. Hubby has lived up to this image. From the first moments of Lucas' life, he's been the protector, putting Lucas first, and unwilling to miss a thing.

In fact, the only time Hubby gets annoying is when he is just so damn good. He truly embodies equal parenting, even taking the lead on potty training last month, and then just shrugs his shoulders when Lucas calls for Mommy-mommy-mommy. When our dishwasher broke, he washed the dishes daily because he knew it would overwhelm me to see them pile up. His daily work involves having the patience of a saint as he teaches basic math to adults with learning disabilities and severe math anxiety. So, when my girlfriends or colleagues bitch about their partners, I have to remain quiet. I have little to add, and don't want to point out what they all know - what I have is damn special. They will even say, "well, I know your husband is different, but most guys..." and they are right. Hubby is not like most guys, and does not have the ego or male insecurity to need to be.

So, when I see Hubby hurting, I know it's real. He so rarely lets anything get to him, that I know this is important. And when I think of things now from his point of view, I realize now it's not really about this incident that has happened at work at all. When his colleagues question his reliability and integrity, that's what throws him over the edge. If Hubby is nothing else, it's solid and good. And anyone who doesn't see that doesn't deserve to know him. And though I want to scream at his colleagues, I know it's not my fight. And, as his willingness to be the scapegoat conveys, he is not willing to make this into a fight. He is above that. He just wants to move on and focus on what's important, as he always does.

In these moments, I wish I were more like him, and could care for him as he does for us. Instead, I hug him tight, give him a neck massage, (too short of course because I get distracted,) and plan for him to see a movie so he gets a break he wouldn't otherwise take. And when I can carve out some time, I write this piece, because it's something I can do for him.

"I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do. My gift is my song, and this one's for you." - Elton John

Selfless, strong, spirited, survivor - my mother

2010-05-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the "Six-word momoirs" about why mothers matter, and in honour of Mother's Day, I reflect on my mother...

Sometimes, it’s hard to believe I’m my mother’s daughter. She is beautiful – a petite and stylish Asian, who takes care of her looks and carries herself with a natural grace. I am this plus-size Caucasian (not sure where the Asian genes went), who chooses comfort over fashion, and am hyper and clumsy. And though I’m never going to share my mother’s style or shape, I’ve started to realize just how much my mother has shaped me.

My mother was my age (thirty-three) when she had me, eight years after my brother. Ten years earlier, she had packed two suitcases, left the Philippines and immigrated to a country across the world where she’d never been. After falling in love with my German immigrant father, she put aside her dreams of higher education to start a family with him. They scraped together a life, my father working in restaurants until making his way into real estate, my mother teaching at elementary school. By the time they had me, though, they were financially stable and my mother chose to stay home with me.

“It wasn’t popular then to stay at home,” she told me one day as we were walking in Rocky Point park, my 6-month old son strapped in a sling on me, “but I wanted you to be home with you.”

“I don’t know if I could do it,” I said. “Stay home, give up my career.”

She smiled, “It’s different now. But at the time, I just wanted to be there for you. I wanted you to grow up to be a strong woman.”

“Well?” I asked.

She laughed. “Well, you did.”

This was the first time she told me this in words, and I cherish it. While we are among each other’s closest friends, our talk is usually more surface-level than this.

But motherhood has shifted things.

On my sixth day of motherhood, with my hormones inducing more than my fair share of sadness, she found my sobbing in bed. I’d been crying intensely for more than an hour, grieving over my labour that ended in a C-section, and Hubby called her for me. I would not normally want to see her in this state, but I didn’t argue with him.

She started to cry when she saw me bawling, reached into her purse and pulled out tissues for both of us.

I could barely talk but managed to hiccup, “I-thought-I-could-do-it-but-I-can’t.”

She held me as only a mother can. “I know how hard it was. You’ve been so strong.”

And I knew she really did know, having been through two C-sections, as revealed by the anchor of scars on her stomach. In that moment, I got a glimpse of the woman that she is beyond her relationship to me.

A year ago, I drove madly to the hospital on the other side of town to visit my mother, following her hip replacement surgery. Her body was tiny in the hospital bed, she was immobile, and she felt too nauseous for the juice I brought her. She was weak, and it startled me.

I’d seen her weak ten years before, when her rheumatoid arthritis first hit. Her stiff hands struggled to turn the taps, her walking slowed, and her joints reacted to the cold. Hubby and I were living with them then, and tried to help in any way we could. But she would barely accept help, determined not to let the illness defeat her.

“No one is going to help me through this but me,” she said to me. She found a support group, went through every medicine possible, and prayed hard for strength.

Healing from her hip replacement surgery, where she had to relearn to walk, she maintained the same self-motivation. Her patience to take the recovery one day at a time, not push her body too far, yet challenge herself to keep progressing, was incredible.

These days, as she walks perfectly down the street, oozing with beauty, style, and grace, you would never know the battles that her body has fought and won.

This morning, on Mother’s Day, I call to greet my Mom. She is with my Dad at their vacation house, missing our usual Mother’s Day brunch but seems happy. She tells me they’ve been talking about how both my brother and I turned out to be very strong people.

“I mean, you’re strong-minded, you have strong opinions, you’re not willing to back down, or be put down,” she says, with pride in her voice.

“Yeah, for better or worse,” I joke.

She laughs, and we carry on talking about how we will spend out Mother’s Days. But I kick myself for not saying, “Where do you think we got it from?”

My mother has overcome such obstacles, in her quiet, patient, determined way, and also has devoted so much of her life to caring for our family. Whatever strength she sees in me is just a shadow of the strength I’ve seen in her.

Although I didn’t adopt my mother's quiet grace, and I’ve long-since given up trying to look like her, I am determined to emulate her strength of spirit as I move forward in life.

Number Two?

2010-05-01T15:56:00.001-07:00

I’m in a lineup at our campus coffee shop when I see Nicole*, who I used to work with years ago. We hug and share pleasantries, but it’s no more than two minutes before I get the question.

“So, when are you having number two?” she asks, expectant eyes on me.

I laugh. “Oh, you know, we’ll get around to it,” I say vaguely, hoping to move the conversation past this requisite query.

Ever since Lucas has turned three, people I know and barely know seem compelled to bring this up. Most people see this intensely personal topic as perfectly acceptable fodder for line-up chit-chat. I wonder if there’s some biological imperative that forces people to point out that I’ve stopped procreating. Because other than that, I find their line of questioning intrusive and presumptuous.

As we wait for our latte and London Fog, she continues, “I hate to say it, but only children usually turn out pretty self-centred.”

If my back wasn’t up before, it is now. “Actually, I’m married to an only child, and he’s the most selfless person I know.”

“Well, you can’t wait too long. You want them to be able to play together, to relate to each other.”

I think, even if I got pregnant today, they will be four years apart and likely won’t be playing or relating to each other. But seeing as this conversation is not ending, I try and actually explain myself. “Honestly, we are so busy as it is. We’re both working full-time, and I’m writing part-time. We just moved and aren’t settled yet. And Lucas is a strong-willed little guy that takes a lot of energy. So, at this point, I can’t imagine adding anything to the mix.”

The barista calls my drink, and I pick it up, relieved to have a reason to leave. As she grabs her latte, she physically pulls me aside. “I need to tell you what my doctor told me when my son was little. He said, you can’t be selfish about this. Think about when you get older. Your son will need support from someone. You have to think about the future.”

I clench my teeth, smile a goodbye and make a beeline to my office, but I’m fuming. And I don’t know if it’s because she said I’m being selfish or because she hit the cord inside me that believes it.

We always planned to have one or two. And now here we are, in the place between, the unborn child already envisioned in our imagined future. I know deep inside, we both want him or her, but I know without a doubt, I am not interested in adding to our lives now. I'm in the middle of a career change, launching myself as a freelance writer, and enjoying our family of three. It's taken me three years to recover my identity and regain my sanity, and I’m not ready to let it all go again.

So, I buy myself some time, have “the talk” with Hubby, and secure another two year’s worth of birth control. Knowing full well my eggs are aging, my fertility declining, and I will be deemed “high-risk” when I do get pregnant, I still decide I’m going to be selfish.

*name changed

Strength (another slice of our birth story)

2010-04-26T22:34:00.000-07:00

I’m crying for the first time in this 24-hour process. My midwife asks everyone to leave to give me and Hubby some space. There are tears in his eyes too as he looks at me attentively, awaiting any sign from me of how he can help. We are facing the reality of a c-section, mourning our lost dream of a home birth, and completely exhausted from a day of contractions, interventions, and “failure to progress.” I did not cry through the pain of induced contractions; I did not cry through the fear of the epidural; but I cry now, in disappointment.

After a moment, I wipe my tears and grip Hubby’s hands firmly.

“Okay, there’s no more time for crying,” I say, summoning all the strength I have.
He sniffs back his tears, nods.

“We are going to get separated and I need you to do three things for me.” Suddenly, my mind is crystal clear.

He nods, willing to do anything, eager to help me, terrified what I will ask of him.

“First, I need you to help me focus during the C-section.” I sigh deeply, “I am really scared. I need to stare in your eyes and just focus on you and me together.”

“Okay,” his eyes meet mine just as I will need him to.

“Secondly, after the baby comes, I will be out of it.” I don’t know how I know this, but I do. “You will want to be there for me, but you have to go be with our baby. Don’t worry about me. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“I don’t know how I’ll leave you, but, yes, of course.”

“And I want you to wait until I’m conscious again before you call everyone. One of my friends said everyone came to see the baby while she recovered and forgot all about her. I don’t want to be forgotten in all this!” I know this is a selfish request but after the past day and night, I know I deserve it.

He nods, taking this all in. The door opens then and I am wheeled off to have our baby removed from my belly.

--

When I truly regain consciousness after the surgery, the first image I have is of Hubby. He is sitting across the room, holding the baby on his legs. He has stayed true to his word, not let our child out of his sight, bathed him, swaddled him, and now whispers to him. He has borne this alone, not called his parents or mine, allowing me the privilege to know my son before everyone else.

I will never know what it took for him to do this for me. He stood by my side helpless during the labour, pressing his firm hands into my back as I contracted, assisting me in the bathroom, and staring into my eyes so I could focus on him during the terrifying c-section. I will never know what those first hours with Lucas were like, but that he kept our child safe in his arms.

--

When I think back on our child’s birth, I am often disappointed that it did not go as we hoped, that we were so unprepared for what unfolded, that the c-section divided us. But today, I remember the incredible strength and knowing that came to me in the moments before the surgery, a strength I’d never felt before, and a knowing that came from some place bigger than all this. And today, I recognize what strength Hubby had, in honouring me, and in protecting our son from his first moment.

This piece was inspired by TwoBusy (a father)’s beautifully written birth story:

http://www.dadcentric.com/2010/04/1201.html

http://www.dadcentric.com/2010/04/1201-part-2.html

Lucas, on my Grandma's passing...

2010-04-16T15:43:00.000-07:00

The call came around 10:15 on Thursday. I had just finished mopping up Lucas’ red bum for the upteenth time. We had tried to go out and check the mail but he immediately had a diarrhea episode and we had to come back in. This was the reason I was home from work, to nurse an otherwise healthy boy with a sore toosh.

The phone rang just as Lucas was making a beeline to the door to go out again. My aunt told us the news, and I followed Lucas outside, in auto-pilot. I don't remember getting to the mailbox, but on the way back, I said to Lucas, “you know my grandma, she’s gone now.” I had taken him to visit her the week she was passing away, and though it had startled him to see her lying in bed, and the whole idea had taken alot of explaining, I'm still glad that I did.

For at that moment, he said to me, "it’s okay, Mommy. She goes to the happy place now.” These were the words I had given him a few days earlier to explain what was happening, that she was letting go of her body because it was very old, and her spirit was going to the happy place. At that moment, it was such a relief to have that reminder.

“Thank you Lucas” I said.

Just then, the garbage truck was coming around the corner, which we had watched earlier, but we stopped and watched it again. Lucas was calling it a robot as it automatically picked up each bin and dumped it into its hopper, but then I pointed out the man driving it. Lucas stuck his little hand out of his jacket and started waving at him. The garbage truck driver was so thrilled to see him – he leaned forward and waved like crazy as he turned the corner. I started waving too just to equalize the enthusiasm from our end. Again, my son was reminding methat life goes on and that we can create moments of shared joy.

A few days later at the funeral, the priest's sermon touched me deeply. He talked about how there will be times when we hear a song or smell a flower and suddenly remember her, and that it really is her spirit coming through to us. He urged us to look for her in the light, not in the darkness. And as we created a procession out of the church, the coffin at the front, the family following, I ran and got little Lucas, all decked up in his suit pants and vest. I held his hand as we walked down the aisle of the Church, and I watched as faces of my Grandma's friends and family who were looking down, suddenly looked up and smiled at the sight of him.

The name Lucas means light. And he truly was the light that day, providing all of us with a reminder to look towards the light, not the darkness, to remember all that my grandmother was. And it reminded me of the time Lucas was conceived - within days of Kevin's grandmother's death - and how that knowledge provided comfort to all of us mourning her then. Even before his birth, he served as a hopeful symbol of life and love and joy.

We waste energy and emotion every day negotiating the insignificant details of daily life. But there are moments when I remember and appreciate the magnitude of the fact that I gave that boy life. And more signficant than that, he has taught me what it means to truly live.

Thank you my son, my light, my Lucas.

Big Boy

2010-04-12T22:05:00.000-07:00

My son is standing at the base of a machine gun pit, Hubby filling the gun with ammo, son giddyly firing away. I thought I could keep the reality of guns away from him for a few more years, but alas he is growing up. Lucas is three today.

Okay, they're in the "High Ballocity" glorified ball pit at the epic play centre near us and are shooting plastic ball-ets onto foam and mesh. But it's the same idea. A month ago, he would have refused to go up this high, to be near unpredictable shooting machines, or to participate in it. But on day one of his fourth year, we've emphasized his becoming a "big boy" so much that he's owning it.

This morning as I helped him get dressed in his new green hoodie emblazoned with a yellow "3", he asked, "Mommy, what letters "big boy" starts with?"

"Buh, buh, buh..." I sounded out.

"B!" he squealed, pleased with himself.

I raised my eyes upward, said a quiet thank you to his teachers. Spelling already!

At first, the words "big boy" were more of an affront to him.

"Big boys go peepee on the potty!" Mommy would say in frustration.

"Be a big boy and eat your dinner," Daddy would say with veiled impatience.

And despite all we know as educators who would never want to shame our child, we'd still sometimes say, "don't cry like a baby, use your big boy words!"

So, when he started getting fascinated about being a baby again, I should have made the connection.

"I want to go back in your belly!" he told me, inspired by the belly cast I hung in my closet, a paper machier mold of my body with him inside at 38 weeks.

"You're too big, silly," I told him.

As he demanded I show him pictures of his first days in the hospital and told him the story of his birth (edited of course), the psychologist in me wondered for a moment if he wasn't actually crying out for security in a life that had just been turned upside down by a move or school and home.

"I'm little," he would say to me as I urged him out of bed in the morning.

"You're not little anymore, Sweetie, you're big. Which pants do you want to wear?" I would say, holding up two options of track pants, the only acceptable choices these days.

"I'm little. I go to my old school."

"No, you're a big boy, Sweetheart. You have to go to your new school." I would say gently.

"I wear my PJ pants!" he would scream, fight ensuing over "inside pants" vs. "outside pants" that really had nothing to do with pants at all.

But today, on his birthday, there was no fight over pants. There were no tears as I dropped him off. Instead, he ran inside to hug his teachers and made a beeline for the lego, and I was forced to take my shoes off, walk into the classroom, tap him on the shoulder, and ask for a kiss goodbye.

And later, as I buckled him into the car to take him to the playcentre for his birthday, he told me. "Mommy, when I grow up, I gonna be SO big."

"Yes, you are, Sweetie."

"I gonna be SO tall, I not even see you!" he giggled.

"Where am I gonna be?" I asked.

"You gonna be SO little."

I laughed. "I'm gonna be that little! Don't step on me."

He laughed then, that glorious gleeful laugh from his gut. "Don't worry, it's okay, Mommy. I not step on you. I pick you up."

I bit my lip, shook my head. One day this three-year-old boy who once resided inside me will truly tower over me, and it will be me needing his care.

My 100th Blog Post

2010-04-07T21:27:00.000-07:00

I feel slightly paralyzed with the daunting task of coming up with something "worthy" for my 100th blog post. It's the same when I get a brand new journal, crack the spine, and stare at the blank lined pages - nothing comes to mind. So, when all else fails, I start at the beginning.

My first blog, "Preconceptions", was secret - documenting my pregnancy and viewable to only five readers, my best friends. This blog, was intentionally made public, but not without some trepidation. What would my family think? Would I be able to write freely? Would sharing my writing publicly limit me? Would I regret things written for all to see? Who would read this anyway?

But as it has turned out, I've drawn readers that I never would have expected:
- Moms I've met along the way that I wouldn't have kept in touch with but pop in to my blog from time to time and tell me that what I write resonates with them.
- Colleagues who don't have kids but love to get a glimpse into my life - perhaps as form of birth control?
- Family members who love reading about me and my son, even if it's TMI sometimes
- Women I've never met, but who've found me through the electronic ether, who, in turn, share their stories with me

That's been the best and most unexpected part in blogging - that it has connected me with other moms, other women. It's opened a whole new world for me of mommy blogs and literary sites dedicated to great writing about motherhood, and best of all, the Momoir Project, where I've met amazing women with strong voices and incredible stories of courage to share.

Through my blog, and the lovely feedback I've received from people I never would have expected to connect with, I've gained the confidence to submit my work more broadly. And, through more acceptances than rejections, I've finally dared to believe in my dream. I've dreamt of writing and publishing books since I was ten years old and started my first non-fiction epic: "Positive Thinking for Kids." Now this dream seems much closer to reality, as I am living the writer's life, crafting essays and articles, getting published, and finding people interested in what I'm working on. As of today, I have my first paying writing gig and potential interest from a book publisher! My writing life, that I always thought would have to wait - until I wasn't working full-time, or I didn't have kids to worry about, or I was better at writing - well, it's happening right here, right now, on top of everything.

Recently, I joined a new social network site - something like Facebook for Mommy-bloggers, which asked me for my blogging philosophy. Surprised by the question, I wrote: "I aim for raw honesty and good writing." One of my friends told me my blog is the opposite of "sancti-mommy", which I take as high praise; another mom says "this brings it home for me", which touches me deeply; and someone else told me "keep writing, the answers are here", which is really, what it's all about for me.

When it comes down to it, this blog may be leading me to the writing success I've always dreamed of, but the core purpose of it remains the same. I write to make sense of all of this - the struggle to become a mother without losing myself, the attempt to find balance between good mom and guilty mom, and the mystery and simplicity of child-raising. And I publish in order to connect with other mothers who might be looking for someone to offer some sense-making of this ride we call motherhood.

I hope I will write my 200th blog post, my 500th, my 1000th. I hope I will continue to publish my articles, my essays, and eventually my book, my books. But whatever I do, I hope I remember what the point of it all is - raw honesty and good writing.

When the Boy's away...

2010-04-03T12:29:00.001-07:00

I'm sitting on the floor of the family room with Lucas and his Grandma after a dinner of pot roast, with Hubby and Grandpa perched on the couch. We are entertained by Lucas' stories and he revels at being the centre of attention. But I am exhausted. After a couple of days of dealing with Lucas' digestive issues, on top of my Grandmother passing away, I'm surprised I'm still functioning. So, when Grandma asks him, "Lucas, would you like to come over to our house tonight?" I find myself holding my breath in hopes he doesn't yell an immediate "NO!" the way he usually does.

To my surprise, there is a speedy, "yeah!" then a race to grab his PJ's and throw them into his backpack. We continue chit-chatting and prepping his stuff, but are interrupted when Lucas bellows, "Can we go now?!" He practically drags Grandma to the door, manages to get his own shoes on (which he won't do if we ask), and then pulls Grandpa out by his hand.

I have to fumble to get shoes on and run out into the rain, "Can I get a kiss goodbye?" I yell to him.

"Oh, yeah," he says, and pecks me quickly on the cheek, then runs to Hubby for a brief half-second hug as well before he's off to Grandpa & Grandma's car.

We have this code in our family - "C.L." It stands for "Chopped Liver" - exactly how we feel right now as we wave out the window to him as he madly waves a Canada flag through their car window. And then he is gone.

I start to turn off lights - like there are too many lights on in the house for just the two of us. After fussing with the switches, I realize our favourite show, Stargate Universe, is awaiting on our PVR to watch. We tuck into spots on our couch, consume the show whole, then pour ourselves Bailey's and Kahlua, sneak out all the hidden chocolate, and watch the entire show again. It is the ultimate geek indulgence.

In the morning, we share indulgences of another kind. Sleeping in late, oh such a bliss we now appreciate, and then staying in bed.... Hubby makes his specialty, bacon and eggs, as I cut fruit and bread, and we devour it all with giant mugs steaming with coffee (for him) and tea (for me). Instead of morning papers, I've got my Macbook open and Hubby's scanning his iPod, and we share bits of news of friends and events that we uncover. We cuddle together on the couch, blare music from our tv, talk about our jobs and what's coming up in the next month.

"Can you believe our life was like this before?" I say.

Hubby shakes his head, as we both try and remember all this free time we took for granted.

Later, we will disappear into our computers, me writing, him playing, then emerge guiltily to get out of our PJ's and make ourselves useful. Later still, we will start to experience this tugging feeling, this emptiness we want filled. Though we've so enjoyed our time on our own, our missing of him will start to hurt.

We'll excitely drive to Grandma's house where he will start acting up the moment we set foot in the door (though he will have been lovely with them). We are "the parents", after all, and there to break up the fun. After bribing him to leave (I'm planning to use the Easter Bunny's impending visit as a lure), he'll reluctantly join us. Once we're home, we're likely to have some kind of fight over bedtime, complete with stomping, tears, and screams of, "Mommy, if you say that again, I gonna put you in time out!"

But finally, he will sleep, and we will stand at his door watching him drool on his pillow, his stuffed cow tucked under his arm, and we will feel complete again.

Do you know Mommy has a Grandma?

2010-03-25T06:53:00.000-07:00

I pick Lucas up early today from daycare, every inch of me wanting to hold him and, truth be told, be held by him. His cheeks are flush as he runs to me, having torn around the gym the past hour, and his hug is quick as he dashes ahead of me. But his pure, positive energy is what I need right now, it fuels me and today, grounds me, in the true meaning of life.

"Mommy's a little bit sad," I tell him as we're in the car, biting back tears.

"Why you sad?" he said, between bites of his granola bar.

"Do you know Mommy has a Grandma?" He doesn't. I don't talk about her very much. She has been suffering from Alzheimers for longer than I've been with his father.

"Where is she?" he asks.

"She's in a home," I say, "like a hospital. She is sick and she needs nurses to take care of her." I have brought him to the home, as a newborn, at six months, a year and a half, and maybe that was the last time. He wouldn't remember.

"Are you crying?" he asks me.

"Yeah."

"You want me to wipe your face with my shirt?"

That makes me laugh a little. "I'm just sad because my Grandma is... going." I don't have the energy to talk to explain death to a three-year-old, nor do I think he will understand.

"Where is she going?" he mumbles through a full mouth.

"Away."

He must hear the hurt in my voice then, because he says, "It's okay, Mommy. Daddy will be there and he makes you happy!"

I laugh again. "You are so right, love!" I can't believe he is so perceptive.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, love."

"I'm a little bit happy," he says. And I wonder if he feels guilty for it.

"That's okay. You make me happy too."

We pull into the driveway of our house and there my darling Hubby meets us. He scoops Lucas out of the carseat and into one arm, grabs our bags in the other. I follow him into the house and then into his arms for a long hug.

He wants to know if there is more news, but it is the same. My strong grandmother, who has had Alzheimer's for years, and outlived everyone in her care home, is now coming to her body's end. My family members all react differently as we process this happening, but in the end we share the same relief that she will be able to let go of this life that has very little quality left, and profound sadness she will be gone from this world.

None of us believe that it really ends here. She is a devout Catholic as are her daughters, my mom and aunt. If her heaven must be earned, she has earned it. She was widowed with two girls under the two years old, near the end of the 2nd world war in the Phillipines. She worked hard all her life, as a Pharmicist and a mother, and when she came to Canada, at Salvation Army helping others.

My memories of her are full of the ways she helped me or my brother. In my first memory, I am sitting at a bus stop with her kicking my feet in these new Sesame Street keds and she is taking me somewhere, filling in for my mom. My best memory of her is the night she painstakingly taught me long division after I spent two frustrating hours of trying and ended up melting down on her kitchen table. Mostly I picture her at family gatherings, laughing, speaking a mix of Filipino and English, full of pride at whatever the latest was from her two grandchildren.

I wish our kids had known Grandma the way we did. Unfortunately, by the time they came, she was already slipping from us, wandering the streets and worrying about mail she received. We felt a mix of shock and exasperation at what was happening to her and have struggled ever since with conflicting feelings.

And now we struggle again - celebrating, on one hand, that she will soon be free from pain and confusion soon, and mourning, that we will be without her.

Later that night, Lucas is asking me about the time he was in my tummy. There are pregnancies around us and he has become very curious. I pull out my computer and show him pictures and videos of my big belly, of his birth, of our first few days together. And then I show him a picture of Grandma.

It was when he was six months visiting my Grandma at the home. It was her 90th birthday and we went with my mom to visit. In the shot, we are all smiling wide. She has been responsive to my son's giggles and touch, and it's made my mom and I truly joyful. Here in this picture are four generations that she began. Today, it makes me think about how we each carry a piece of her. When I think of my mom and I, I think we have received her strength, her desire to help others, and her intelligence. And I know, for my son, regardless of whether he really "knew" her, he will carry these traits too and carry them forward for all of us.

Meeting the Neighbours... Not

2010-03-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

I am holding a screaming Lucas in one arm, his blue and red trike in my other arm and making a beeline for home. I would kill for one of Harry Potter's invisibility cloaks at this point, but unfortunately, the piercing cries are drawing the entire street's attention. This is not the way to meet your neighbours.

"I want to go to the mailbox!" he is wailing between sobs.

"We're going home!" I say curtly into his ear.

He is so heavy I have to set him down. He lays down flat onto the street as I beg him to get onto his bike. He does not. I pick him up again, and hoist his bike on my shoulder, walking faster.

We should have never gone down the street to try and make nice with the dad and his kids who are always playing hockey in their driveway, but it seemed like a good idea to try and meet our neighbours. After coercing Lucas to come with me, and walking painstakingly slow as he peddled his trike (a new development), we made it to their driveway.

"Hi!" I said.

The dad looked up from his hockey stick, nodded and smiled, then turned back to the game with his boys.

At that point, maybe I should have said, "we're new" or "this is Lucas" or something, but instead I stood there unsure of how to continue as Lucas got riveted to the older boys playing hockey.

Just then a minivan drove into the driveway beside us, revealing a mom and a little boy, probably a year younger than Lucas. Yay, a mom, I hoped for more luck with her.

"Hi!" I said, attempting to look like harmless-neighbour-with-child-of-similar-age.

She said hi but then went to chase her toddler and disappeared. That's when it started gettting awkward.

"I want to go in their house," Lucas said loudly.

"We can't," I whispered.

"Why not?" he yells.

"Let's go home, Lucas."

"No!" he is adament. "I want to play with them," he yells.

How do I explain to him the unspoken rules of our society - that because we don't know these people, we cannot join them? How do I tell him we have not been welcomed?

I try every trick in the book to urge him along, but when he drives his bike into me and yells, "go away", my patience ends. Thus, our current situation holding screaming child in arms and tricycle over my shoulder.

Hubby opens the front door as we get to the driveway.

"You heard us, huh?" I said.

He laughs. "Hard not to."

I close the front door behind me, and as Hubby deals with Lucas' temper tantrum, I find that tears have formed in my eyes as well.

"I wish I could hit rewind. We never would have tried to meet those people. I've made a horrible first impression and now all the neighbours will think I'm a bad mom," I whine.

Now Hubby has his arms around both of us.

"You're not a bad mom. Any parents that don't get it aren't parents we need to be friends with anyways!"

I tuck into his shoulder and let myself laugh finally. Lucas is still screaming about wanting to go back outside, but I think I can distract him with cheezies. Oh wait, maybe that would make me a bad mom?

The Suzy Fairy

2010-03-14T16:33:00.000-07:00

“Mommy, I want my suzy!” Lucas whines as he flops down onto his pillow, reaching for his soother.

“Sorry, honey, but remember where your suzies went?”

“Yeah, the Suzy Fairy took them,” he says, dejectedly.

“But remember? Didn’t the Suzy Fairy leave you a special present?”

“I hit the special present!” Lucas yells. “I push it over, and the Suzy Fairy cries.”

Hmm, that part wasn’t in the instructions.

I learned about the Soother Fairy/Paci Fairy/Binky Fairy the same place I learned about infant sleep techniques and immunization debates – online mommy discussion forums. I’ve kept the details in my back pocket thinking I might need them one day, not knowing when we would actually force him to get rid of Suzy. But after he survived a sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa’s without it, and with an impending move to a new “big boy” school, it seemed like now or never.

Honestly, I never really cared about his having a soother. We denied him for the first thirty days of his life, to avoid so-called nipple confusion, but it’s been his “best friend” ever since. It was our savior for car rides, naps and weaning, and our bane of existence for months as we jumped to replace it whenever it fell from his mouth in the middle of the night. And despite the differing parenting opinions, I would tell anyone firmly, “He already has to cope with being in daycare for 40 hours a week, so if it gives him comfort, just let him have it! It’s not like he’s going to take it to college with him!”

But my thoughts shifted the closer his third birthday approached. Maybe it was because of the growing gap between his top and bottom teeth that his dentist pointed out each visit. Maybe it was because of the disconnect between his excellent speech and the way he’d talk like a baby through the soother. Maybe it was just that his breath smelled so bad in the morning. But I resigned myself to accepting the fact that he did not need it anymore and would likely be able to live without it. Now, how to convince him of that fact?

Hubby and I started talking about the Suzy Fairy a few months ago gently, without strategy or expectation.

“One day,” I told Lucas before bedtime, “when you don’t need your suzies anymore, the Suzy Fairy will come and take them away, and leave you a present!”

Lucas looked at me suspiciously. “When, one day?” he asked.

“Oh, one day, when you’re ready,” I said, cautiously.

But today, I pushed the familiar conversation farther. “The Suzy Fairy is visiting our neighbourhood today and could pick up your suzies and leave your big present.” I emphasized the “big”.

I was shocked when he agreed and further surprised with the questions he had.

“What Suzy Fairy look like?”

“Um, she wears a pink dress and has wings,” I said, and googled a picture of the tooth fairy to show him.

“Where we put the suzies?”

“They need to go up in a tree, you know, because the Suzy Fairy flies and can’t touch the ground.” I fabricated the rules surrounding the exchange as we place each of his soothers into a plastic bag.

“What the present?” he asked, finally, as I put him down to nap sans soother.

“I don’t know, but it’ll be big and something you’ve always wanted,” I told him.

On the phone, I told Hubby. “It’s gotta be huge and have shock value. A giant truck with lights and noises that will drive us crazy.” After searching in three stores, he gave up and asked me to go find something. I returned from Zellers with a giant box – a play kitchen complete with a range that sizzles, buttons that beep, and a whole pile of Mommy-guilt.

It worked. When Lucas saw the box sitting in our backyard, he could have cared less about where his soothers went. We made a big deal of assembling the kitchen and playing with it. Then came the final test – bedtime.

He whines for his soother but I distract him with extra books and laying with him for five minutes. He falls asleep just fine. He does not wake in the night looking for it. He does not even ask about it in the morning. We hold our breath, wait one day, two days, a week, two weeks. Amazingly, the soothers are out of our lives, and he is none the worse for it. We are shocked and extremely relieved.

Thank you Suzy Fairy!

Separation Anxiety

2010-03-07T15:12:00.000-08:00

We're sitting on a bench at the exit of Sears eating the free popcorn that was handed to us on the way out. Lucas is tucked under my arm, inhaling the kernels and occasionally asking me to close my eyes so he can shove one in my mouth as a "surprise". We're watching this gorgeous mom bouncing her sweet baby girl decked out in a fuzzy pink sleeper.

"You know, you were that little once? Mommy used to put you in a carrier on my chest and you'd fall asleep while I walked around in the mall," I tell him.

He snuggles his head onto my stomach, closes his eyes, "Like this?"

"Yeah, like that," I say, then, "but sit up now, or you're going to choke on your popcorn."

I help him up, then fasten my arm securely around him again. I take a sip of my tea and try and access those dream-like memories of his infancy. They feel distant, yet are carved deeply in the fabric of my being, and I assume, his too. We spent his first 13 months attached together daily, after nine months of complete oneness. Two years of being so much a part of each other. Slowly, we've pulled away, with his toddler urge for independence and my desperate search for a renewed identity.

Still, it seems, there are times when we both hurt a little when we're apart. When things shift in our lives, we claw for the comfort of what's familiar and safe - each other. Now that we've moved house and school, he is less interested in independence, and cries instead, "help me, help me." When I put him down to sleep, he negotiates, "sleep with me, lay with me, ten minutes, five minutes, one more minute," until I usually fall asleep beside him. But the hardest part, for both of us, is leaving him at his new school.

"I no like school!" he yells, as I lift him out of his car seat in the parking lot.

"I know, it's hard to go to a new school."

"I kick the school! I push it down!" he screams.

I take his hand and we walk towards the gate. "Should we look for worms?" I ask, attempting distraction. We walk head down stopping at every stick and crack in the pavement to examine if it's a worm like the one we saw his first day at school.

But when we get to the door, he sees through my diversion and makes a run for it. He is across the courtyard and I am standing there dumb-founded. I want to let him run it off, but I also know this can't be allowed. I have to "be the parent" so I implement the "counting-to-three" method. "Mommy's going to count to three, and you need to come hold my hand, or I'm going to pick you up and bring you in." I count very slowly with a threatening voice and it works, for some reason.

Once inside the cloakroom, he throws a fit like a wild animal. No wonder - I've trapped him and he is helpless to do anything but scream and head to the door again. I pull his jacket off and runners, despite his attempts to hang onto them and feel like some kind of jailer. I hand him his slippers and he bites them to show me his anger. Tears are streaming down his red face, and I have no choice but to put up a wall or I will join him with my own tears.

I physically lift him inside to the classroom. The teachers ask the other children to go back to what they are doing and let Lucas be.

"Can you stay with me?" he cries, knowing he is defeated.

"Just for a minute, honey," I say, knowing it will be better when I am gone.

"You stay with me for one minute," he says, holding up his pointer finger, his sobs quieting.

"Hi Lucas!" the teacher says. "Will you help me open the window?"

He climbs up eagerly and undoes the latch and opens it. Then he realized he's opened to window where he'll have to wave bye to me.

"I want a kiss and hug!" he yells and starts crying again. I pull him close, give him several hugs and kisses, then pull away. "I want another one!" I give in. I will stand there all day, I think, and I don't care.

The teacher whispers to me, in all kindness. "As soon as you go, he calms down. We always go find the ladder after you leave. Don't worry." I know this is true because I stand outside and listen.

"Mommy has to go to work," I say.

"I want to go to work with you," he says. This is a first, and I think I might crumble again. I picture him in the corner of my office, drawing with my highlighters.

"I have to go," I say, firmly this time. "Say goodbye to Mommy now. Let's see if we can touch fingers through the window." I tear myself away despite his cries for another kiss and hug then race around to the outside.

The teacher has him sticking his pointer finger through one of the bars in the window. I touch it with mine and make a buzzing sound. "Okay, you have a good day! Bye!" I say cheerily then turn and walk, without looking back. I hear him crying and then I don't, and then allows me to go on.

Sitting in my car, I dial Hubby's cell phone. He's in class but I feel relief downloading onto his voicemail. I start the engine, drive to work, unsurprised by familiar thoughts entering my mind. Maybe I should find a job that has less hours. Maybe I should try and work from home. Maybe I should....

But I know, after all the agonizing I did when we first started him in daycare, that it will get better with time, and my imagining my career on hold will not fix anything. I figured out last time that I am not myself without my work, so staying at home with him is not really a better child care option. I know it's a good school, with good families, and good teachers, who have mountains more patience than me. But I know too, because of my decision to go to work and put him in full-time daycare, that he is hurting, and that makes me hurt for him.

The next day, I bribe him with chocolate eggies to go into the school without having a fit. It's a bad-mother moment, for sure. But tears are replaced by smiles and I leave feeling guilty, but not helpless. And on the weekend, I make sure we spend "quality" time together. We go to community events, go shopping together, play outside together, and eat free popcorn at Sears together. It makes this transition hurt less for me, so all I can hope is that it does the same for him.

The Sad Song

2010-03-03T21:29:00.000-08:00

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...." I am lying in bed on Sunday night, singing to my wired son who has not napped all weekend, using this age-old melody to try and calm him down.

"You make me happy when skies are grey...." His eyes are riveted on me - it's the first time his body has been still all day long, and it has been a very long day.

"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms. But when I woke up, I was mistaken. I just hung my head down and cried."

His eyes grow big and his lips quiver.

"Yes, it's kind of a sad song," I say.

He sits up in bed, surprised, I think, at the sad ending. "Sad, like this?" he asks, as he rubs his eyes and forms his lips into a pout.

I laugh quietly, "yes, that's good pretending you are sad."

Suddenly, tears erupt from his eyes and stream down his face. "Can you wipe my face?" he says as his shoulders start to heave with sobs.

Shocked, I bring a tissue to his eyes. "Sweetheart, you don't need to really be sad."

But it's too late. He has collapsed in a heap on me and is sobbing. I wonder how much of this has to do with his overtiredness and the excitement of the night, and how much is all his frustrations of the day being let out.

I rub his back as he bawls, thinking perhaps he'll cry himself to sleep. But just as his sobs subside, he looks up at me, "can you sing the sad song again?"

"No, Sweetheart, I don't want to make you sad again."

"I like to be sad!" he pleads.

And I don't know why, but I sing it again, not just one more time, but three more times as he begs me every time I stop. Maybe it's because he's never been entertained by anything that has a sad ending. Maybe this song strikes some chord in him from a past life. Or maybe, I realize with a start, this song resonates with the separation anxiety he's been feeling the past few days, as he's settled into a new house and new school.

I hug him closely. "You'll never know, dear, how much I love you...."

The next Brian Orser?

2010-02-24T14:24:00.000-08:00

Decided to try taking Lucas skating again. First time was a bust and we ended up exhausting ourselves at Koko's fun-for-kids-but-less-so-for-parents play place. This time, hoping he'd be motivated by all the Olympic coverage we've been consuming, I ventured the question again and was excited by his positive response. "Lucas and Mommy go skating together!" he squealed.

But the closer we got to our outing time, the less enthusiastic he got, such that by the time we got to the rink, I really didn't hold out much hope. I propped Lucas up on a chair so he could see the pre-teen girls and families circling the ice. He quickly climbed down, "Me no like skating."

"Maybe another time?" I suggested in a sing-songy voice to cover up my disappointment.

"Yeah, another time, when I big, when I have a license."

"Okay," I sighed, and led him over to the kids' play area where he climbed in and out of a plastic truck for the next twenty minutes.

What did I expect? That he'd burst out of the ice in eager anticipation, my boy who needs to discuss anything new for weeks before we attempt it. That I'd get to skate backwards in front of him, holding his red mittened hands as he took his first tentative steps. That he'd eventually get the hang of shuffling on the ice and then flash me a proud smile as he let go of one hand. That after a month or two, he'd be skating circles around me and I'd put him in tot lessons in the Fall. That he'd be spotted by some coach who'd tell me he could be the next Brian Orser?

Yeah, okay, maybe, the thought had crossed my mind. Me, whose adoration of World Champion Brian Orser was an obsession between the ages of 11 and 18. Seeing Brian Orser win silver (I will not say lose gold) in the 1988 Calgary Olympics was a turning point in my life. Not only did the loss of his dream impact me so deeply that I stalked his career for the next eight years, but it shifted my view of life completely. He showed me what was possible with hard work, dedication and support. He inspired me by his art and his perseverance despite his loss. And as a friend who knew me then said recently, "Brian really was the guy who took you "from crayons to perfume."

And though I've grown up (though some might question that) and not followed figure skating as I used to, his inspiration has never left me. It's because of his example in my tweens that I began to take my writing so seriously, that I honoured my art, that I always believed it was intended for something greater than me.

So, I guess I don't need my son to be the next Brian Orser. And while there's nothing cuter than a little boy with black figure skates on, I guess I can wait until he feels some interest in skating. And in the meantime, I'll just keep writing and following my own dreams.