Sometimes, when it's raining, if it's a light rain and the sun is out, you can look through the mist and see the rainbow.
Our timing is such that The Man just confirmed his next contract. He will be working in Kabul, Afghanistan. We debated whether he should accept the contract. All the information we have and the people we've talked to suggest Kabul is safe. The trouble is in Kandahar, with military personnel the target.
Still, I am just a bit nervous. Things can turn on a dime, especially where the Taliban is concerned.
But The Man has an opportunity to take part in the reconstruction of a country. He wants the experience, to be part of history. He wants to be an international consultant so that when we retire, we can experience different parts of the world with knowledge and purpose.
So I leave for India October 3, The Man leaves for Afghanistan October 4. These are heady times, as Sis says.
The Boy is delighted. He's ditched his parents at last. He says he's looking forward to managing on his own, like shop for groceries, cook, vacuum, do the laundry. He will likely have different friends stay with him.
For my peace of mind, I've arranged for him to spend the night at Bro's house every Sunday. That way, he's with family at least once a week. Sis has offered to have dinner with him once a week. Sil and friends have offered to check in on him often. He also has the option of calling on Mom, who is willing to come live with him if he wants. But he says he wants to try living on his own, as practice for university next year.
So can I see the rainbow yet? I think so. The Man gets to participate in rebuilding a country and firming up his international credentials as a communications strategist, I make my foray into international development work, explore the unknown, and lose weight in the process (I'll be so upset if I come back fatter), The Boy gets a taste of total freedom, independence, and responsibility. It's a grand adventure for all of us.
I think we will all come through fine and be better for it. We can do this because we are a secure family with strong extended family ties and a supportive network of friends.
It's raining a bit, but the sun is shining, and it's a beautiful rainbow inside this Autumn mist.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Seventeen
Seventeen years ago today, I had a date with Bro Bro for lunch. He was going to accompany me to my doctor's appointment, then we would go eat. I was nine months pregnant, due to give birth in two days.
The night before our luncheon, I got up as usual at 3 a.m. to use the washroom. I had been getting up at 3 a.m. for about 5 months by that time. On this night, I had the longest pee ever. I had no control over the stream. When it was finally done, I crawled back into bed and shook The Man awake. I said, "I think my water just broke."
He said, "Will it still be broken in the morning?"
"I guess."
"Let's deal with it then." Then he rolled over back to sleep.
Lying in bed, I tried to recall what my doctor told me about water breaking. I was pretty sure I was supposed to go to the hospital right away. But did my water break? I hadn't splattered all over the supermarket floor or soaked the bedding like I had read about women doing. I thought, maybe this baby is just extremely considerate and let me break my water during my pee. No, no, my water didn't break. Where's the mucus plug that was supposed to show two days before? I hadn't noticed being unplugged. So I went back to sleep despite muscles tightening around my back and abdomen.
At the doctor's office the next morning, I told him I was leaking. He examined a sample of my fluid and said, "This is text book amniotic fluid. I have never seen such perfect fluid." Then he called all the doctors, nurses, and medical trainees into his office so they can look into the microscope to see the perfect sample.
When done, he said to me, "Yes, your water broke and we need to check you into the hospital right away. You should have come in last night."
Bro Bro took me into the maternity ward then phoned The Man.
This is what I remember of that afternoon: I was dilating too slowly so the doctor prepared to induce labour. But before they could apply their induction procedure, I went into labour on my own. The contractions came fast and furious. The Man called for drugs twice. I received two epidural top ups. I watched the needle on the pain monitor go off the metre with each contraction.
Even drugged, my pain was piercing and excruciating. I remember thinking, if this is the olden days, I would be one of the statistics of women who died during childbirth. My doctor ordered me several times to open my eyes and push. I remember weighing which I wanted more - die right then or live to raise the baby.
Then suddenly, I felt two bumps glide through me and the pain stopped. I heard, It's a boy. They took away a thing covered in white. The doctor in residence continued pressing down on my abdomen. I said, "What happened? The pain stopped. Was that the baby? What are you doing? Is it over?"
He said, "That's the baby. They just want to make sure he's breathing properly. I am helping your placenta fall out."
Then I heard a baby cry in the room.
"What's that?" I said.
They placed on my chest this little thing with most of the white stuff wiped off. His eyes were wide open, looking around. I looked at him, trying to weigh which was more pronounced - my disbelief at his existence or my lack of feelings for him. "How come he's not wrinkly?" I asked no one in particular.
My doctor said, "He's beautifully smooth. He looks like a cesarean baby."
The resident was filling out a form. He said, "Check. Check. Birth...uneventful."
"Surely that was a huge event," I said, referring more to what I just went through than defence of the baby I didn't quite have feelings for.
"That means nothing bad happened to you or the baby during birth. Uneventful is good."
They took the baby away again to clean him up, weigh him, prick his heel, etc. When they brought the baby back to me, he was swaddled in blue flannel, with his arms tucked in. "He just got born, don't tie him up," I said to the nurse.
"That's so he can't scratch his face."
Then they wheeled us to our room. Lying on the stretcher, I looked closely at the baby beside me and thought, I could easily be a surrogate and bear a baby for someone. I have no feelings for him.
That night, I was wide away. At exactly 3 a.m. I heard a baby howl from the nursery. I don't know how I knew, but I knew that was my baby crying. Then I heard wheels being rolled down the hall and the baby's cry coming closer. I thought, that's my baby for sure and they are bringing him to me. The nurse came into my room, lifted the baby out of his bed, and put him beside me.
"I'll set you up so you can try to nurse him," she said.
The baby cried and cried on my bed. I soothed his furrowed brows with my finger and said, "Hey there baby. Hello and welcome to my world. If I run a few names by you, will you give me a sign which is yours?" It was an astonishing thing. The baby stopped crying when he heard my voice. The nurse froze for a moment to stare at us. He seemed to recognize my voice and looked around as if searching for me. I think that was the moment I felt the connection with him and called him son.
Happy 17th, son!
The night before our luncheon, I got up as usual at 3 a.m. to use the washroom. I had been getting up at 3 a.m. for about 5 months by that time. On this night, I had the longest pee ever. I had no control over the stream. When it was finally done, I crawled back into bed and shook The Man awake. I said, "I think my water just broke."
He said, "Will it still be broken in the morning?"
"I guess."
"Let's deal with it then." Then he rolled over back to sleep.
Lying in bed, I tried to recall what my doctor told me about water breaking. I was pretty sure I was supposed to go to the hospital right away. But did my water break? I hadn't splattered all over the supermarket floor or soaked the bedding like I had read about women doing. I thought, maybe this baby is just extremely considerate and let me break my water during my pee. No, no, my water didn't break. Where's the mucus plug that was supposed to show two days before? I hadn't noticed being unplugged. So I went back to sleep despite muscles tightening around my back and abdomen.
At the doctor's office the next morning, I told him I was leaking. He examined a sample of my fluid and said, "This is text book amniotic fluid. I have never seen such perfect fluid." Then he called all the doctors, nurses, and medical trainees into his office so they can look into the microscope to see the perfect sample.
When done, he said to me, "Yes, your water broke and we need to check you into the hospital right away. You should have come in last night."
Bro Bro took me into the maternity ward then phoned The Man.
This is what I remember of that afternoon: I was dilating too slowly so the doctor prepared to induce labour. But before they could apply their induction procedure, I went into labour on my own. The contractions came fast and furious. The Man called for drugs twice. I received two epidural top ups. I watched the needle on the pain monitor go off the metre with each contraction.
Even drugged, my pain was piercing and excruciating. I remember thinking, if this is the olden days, I would be one of the statistics of women who died during childbirth. My doctor ordered me several times to open my eyes and push. I remember weighing which I wanted more - die right then or live to raise the baby.
Then suddenly, I felt two bumps glide through me and the pain stopped. I heard, It's a boy. They took away a thing covered in white. The doctor in residence continued pressing down on my abdomen. I said, "What happened? The pain stopped. Was that the baby? What are you doing? Is it over?"
He said, "That's the baby. They just want to make sure he's breathing properly. I am helping your placenta fall out."
Then I heard a baby cry in the room.
"What's that?" I said.
They placed on my chest this little thing with most of the white stuff wiped off. His eyes were wide open, looking around. I looked at him, trying to weigh which was more pronounced - my disbelief at his existence or my lack of feelings for him. "How come he's not wrinkly?" I asked no one in particular.
My doctor said, "He's beautifully smooth. He looks like a cesarean baby."
The resident was filling out a form. He said, "Check. Check. Birth...uneventful."
"Surely that was a huge event," I said, referring more to what I just went through than defence of the baby I didn't quite have feelings for.
"That means nothing bad happened to you or the baby during birth. Uneventful is good."
They took the baby away again to clean him up, weigh him, prick his heel, etc. When they brought the baby back to me, he was swaddled in blue flannel, with his arms tucked in. "He just got born, don't tie him up," I said to the nurse.
"That's so he can't scratch his face."
Then they wheeled us to our room. Lying on the stretcher, I looked closely at the baby beside me and thought, I could easily be a surrogate and bear a baby for someone. I have no feelings for him.
That night, I was wide away. At exactly 3 a.m. I heard a baby howl from the nursery. I don't know how I knew, but I knew that was my baby crying. Then I heard wheels being rolled down the hall and the baby's cry coming closer. I thought, that's my baby for sure and they are bringing him to me. The nurse came into my room, lifted the baby out of his bed, and put him beside me.
"I'll set you up so you can try to nurse him," she said.
The baby cried and cried on my bed. I soothed his furrowed brows with my finger and said, "Hey there baby. Hello and welcome to my world. If I run a few names by you, will you give me a sign which is yours?" It was an astonishing thing. The baby stopped crying when he heard my voice. The nurse froze for a moment to stare at us. He seemed to recognize my voice and looked around as if searching for me. I think that was the moment I felt the connection with him and called him son.
Happy 17th, son!
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Packing
I am packing for India. Yes, I have to pack now, so I know what size backpack to use and whether I need to buy a new one. There is little time to prepare. I am hosting my book club on September 28, leaving for a Fall canoe trip September 29, coming back October 1, gathering last minute things October 2, then getting on the plane to India October 3.
But as I pack, I wondered if Fryslan is still in Canada and how his trip went. Lo and behold, he has left a message. Thank you. Yes, next time, a cottage in Georgian Bay where scenes from Group of Seven paintings come alive, like these trees, taken at a friend's cottage this summer.
As I pack, I am also thinking, How will I benefit from this trip to India? And seriously, the answer is not profound. Top of mind is, I really hope I lose a lot of weight. I think the cost of enrolling in a fat farm for a month is much more than what I am paying for this trip. So I have simply found a more interesting and bang-for-the-buck way of forced weight loss.
How decadent this Western-speak is, so telling of the excess in our culture. Yet, I won't be guilted into giving away all my possessions on the march or to telemarketers looking for donations. Tricked into doing so maybe, but not knowingly and willingly hand over all in atonement for our society's sins. That is not my cross to bear.
As I pack, I think, will The Man and The Boy be alright in my absence? The Man is on the verge of confirming his next contract. What if it falls through? What if it's a go? What of it? Do I think I am so essential to their well-being or do I just want to matter?
And finally, as I pack, I wonder what The Exchange is doing. Should I tell him where I am going and ask him to join me? Will his mom let him? Ha ha, that is too funny. Or should I casually stop by France to see him on the way home? Oh that's funny too. And such naughty naughty thoughts. I'm no Steford Wife, that's for sure. More like a Desperate Housewife. Ok, I'll stop.
How my mind flits.
But as I pack, I wondered if Fryslan is still in Canada and how his trip went. Lo and behold, he has left a message. Thank you. Yes, next time, a cottage in Georgian Bay where scenes from Group of Seven paintings come alive, like these trees, taken at a friend's cottage this summer.
As I pack, I am also thinking, How will I benefit from this trip to India? And seriously, the answer is not profound. Top of mind is, I really hope I lose a lot of weight. I think the cost of enrolling in a fat farm for a month is much more than what I am paying for this trip. So I have simply found a more interesting and bang-for-the-buck way of forced weight loss.
How decadent this Western-speak is, so telling of the excess in our culture. Yet, I won't be guilted into giving away all my possessions on the march or to telemarketers looking for donations. Tricked into doing so maybe, but not knowingly and willingly hand over all in atonement for our society's sins. That is not my cross to bear.
As I pack, I think, will The Man and The Boy be alright in my absence? The Man is on the verge of confirming his next contract. What if it falls through? What if it's a go? What of it? Do I think I am so essential to their well-being or do I just want to matter?
And finally, as I pack, I wonder what The Exchange is doing. Should I tell him where I am going and ask him to join me? Will his mom let him? Ha ha, that is too funny. Or should I casually stop by France to see him on the way home? Oh that's funny too. And such naughty naughty thoughts. I'm no Steford Wife, that's for sure. More like a Desperate Housewife. Ok, I'll stop.
How my mind flits.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Looking For Heaven In Hell
My ear perked up this afternoon when I heard a commentator on the radio say...
Which made me think of the book I'm reading, Sarah Dunant's The Birth of Venus - Love and Death in Florence. A conversation between two characters went something like this...
I think it's true that we accept paintings of heaven readily whereas we stare at and study paintings of hell, sometimes mesmerized by the images of suffering and torment.
Later, I said to The Man, My going to India is a whimsical thing. I have no reason to go except I have never been and the opportunity is there. He said, Your going is not so much a flight of fancy as a leap of faith. It requires courage to go. You don't know what you will get out of it till you go.
It's true that I will have done something I've never done before and I may discover something I didn't know I needed to discover.
But India? Culture of female oppression in the heat and dust of corruption, over-population, and poverty. It will be like stepping into hell. Yet, I am going. It's almost a natural unfolding that is hurling me to India, a place I have never desired to visit. I think I am going to a portal of hell to look for wonder and awe. Maybe in the land where humanity brims over, I might get a peek at the sublime, or at least be reminded of the earthly pleasures I have.
If you put a woman in a fish costume and throw her in the water, you can choose to believe she's a woman in a fish costume or you can believe she's a mermaid. Most of us want something beyond us, something mysterious in our lives. So we always choose to believe she's a mermaid even though we know she's a woman in a fish costume. We would rather be full of wonder and awe.
Which made me think of the book I'm reading, Sarah Dunant's The Birth of Venus - Love and Death in Florence. A conversation between two characters went something like this...
...hell always holds more fascination than heaven...it is because we have all felt pain whereas it is harder for us to understand the sublime...The pain of hell reminds us of earthly pleasure.
I think it's true that we accept paintings of heaven readily whereas we stare at and study paintings of hell, sometimes mesmerized by the images of suffering and torment.
Later, I said to The Man, My going to India is a whimsical thing. I have no reason to go except I have never been and the opportunity is there. He said, Your going is not so much a flight of fancy as a leap of faith. It requires courage to go. You don't know what you will get out of it till you go.
It's true that I will have done something I've never done before and I may discover something I didn't know I needed to discover.
But India? Culture of female oppression in the heat and dust of corruption, over-population, and poverty. It will be like stepping into hell. Yet, I am going. It's almost a natural unfolding that is hurling me to India, a place I have never desired to visit. I think I am going to a portal of hell to look for wonder and awe. Maybe in the land where humanity brims over, I might get a peek at the sublime, or at least be reminded of the earthly pleasures I have.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Absurdity On Absurdity
Those damn bureaucrats. Their love of rules have supplanted common sense and judicious human interaction.
I applied for my Indian visa yesterday. The Indian Consulate's website is an overlay of texts. That is, their web master screwed up with the text display so several sets of information are displayed in the same space. I viewed the page on a Mac, then on a PC. Same thing. What instructions I could extract was confusing. One of the instructions was to send the application form in by mail or courier.
I went to deliver my application. At reception, a fat man was on the phone. A real courier got off the elevator and joined the wait. The man on the phone ignored us. His phone manners and tone suggested haughty arrogance. Ignorance and arrogance, a lethal combination that will bring a bad end. A woman then came into the reception cubicle. I pushed my envelope through the slot.
"Are you a courier?" she asked.
"I am delivering it."
"I can't accept this. You have to mail it in or courier it in."
"I am my own courier."
"I need to sign for it and have a tracking number."
"But I am delivering this so I know you have received it. I won't need to track it."
"I still need a tracking number to record it in my book."
"You need a number? Here, I can make one up for you right now and you can sign here to acknowledge receipt."
"Madam, we won't accept this from you," she shouted angrily and marched away to the far end of the cubicle to get away from me.
The courier submitted his package and the man on the phone signed for it. I started to cause a scene when a group of consulate staff came out. Perfect, I thought, I could create a really big scene. Then better judgement kicked in. They could tag me and deny me visa. Or they could grant me visa and make sure I meet up with an accident in India. And I would feel more exasperated if she still doesn't accept my delivery, after having done all that emoting and expended all that energy creating a scene. So I got into the elevator with the courier to go back down.
I asked the courier to deliver my envelope for me. He was sympathetic and offered to give me a blank way bill so The Man could pretend to be a courier to deliver my envelope. I wouldn't be able to go back and act like a courier because the woman at reception had already seen me. We had a good laugh over the ludicrousness of the consulate policy. After talking with him about how to fake being a courier, I decided I couldn't put him in a compromising position by using his way bill. So I offered to hire his service the proper way.
He placed a call to his company. After sorting out with the dispatcher I really did want my envelope picked up and dropped off at the same address, that the driver was already with me, that I really would pay for this one-hour service, she charged me $24 for the courier run. All this so the stupid woman at reception can stick to her policy and cover her ass. With bureaucracy like that, no wonder the poor have no property rights in India.
Now I am really mad at the Consulate-General of India in Toronto. It's not good to get me mad because I am not pure of heart. I don't like people and situations that bring out the worst in me and remind me just how petty and base I can be. (That's why I loved The Exchange; he brought out the best in me.) I wish ill on those who piss me off. Fie, fie and death to you, woman at reception. I am now even thinking of becoming a racist. This is not pretty.
I applied for my Indian visa yesterday. The Indian Consulate's website is an overlay of texts. That is, their web master screwed up with the text display so several sets of information are displayed in the same space. I viewed the page on a Mac, then on a PC. Same thing. What instructions I could extract was confusing. One of the instructions was to send the application form in by mail or courier.
I went to deliver my application. At reception, a fat man was on the phone. A real courier got off the elevator and joined the wait. The man on the phone ignored us. His phone manners and tone suggested haughty arrogance. Ignorance and arrogance, a lethal combination that will bring a bad end. A woman then came into the reception cubicle. I pushed my envelope through the slot.
"Are you a courier?" she asked.
"I am delivering it."
"I can't accept this. You have to mail it in or courier it in."
"I am my own courier."
"I need to sign for it and have a tracking number."
"But I am delivering this so I know you have received it. I won't need to track it."
"I still need a tracking number to record it in my book."
"You need a number? Here, I can make one up for you right now and you can sign here to acknowledge receipt."
"Madam, we won't accept this from you," she shouted angrily and marched away to the far end of the cubicle to get away from me.
The courier submitted his package and the man on the phone signed for it. I started to cause a scene when a group of consulate staff came out. Perfect, I thought, I could create a really big scene. Then better judgement kicked in. They could tag me and deny me visa. Or they could grant me visa and make sure I meet up with an accident in India. And I would feel more exasperated if she still doesn't accept my delivery, after having done all that emoting and expended all that energy creating a scene. So I got into the elevator with the courier to go back down.
I asked the courier to deliver my envelope for me. He was sympathetic and offered to give me a blank way bill so The Man could pretend to be a courier to deliver my envelope. I wouldn't be able to go back and act like a courier because the woman at reception had already seen me. We had a good laugh over the ludicrousness of the consulate policy. After talking with him about how to fake being a courier, I decided I couldn't put him in a compromising position by using his way bill. So I offered to hire his service the proper way.
He placed a call to his company. After sorting out with the dispatcher I really did want my envelope picked up and dropped off at the same address, that the driver was already with me, that I really would pay for this one-hour service, she charged me $24 for the courier run. All this so the stupid woman at reception can stick to her policy and cover her ass. With bureaucracy like that, no wonder the poor have no property rights in India.
Now I am really mad at the Consulate-General of India in Toronto. It's not good to get me mad because I am not pure of heart. I don't like people and situations that bring out the worst in me and remind me just how petty and base I can be. (That's why I loved The Exchange; he brought out the best in me.) I wish ill on those who piss me off. Fie, fie and death to you, woman at reception. I am now even thinking of becoming a racist. This is not pretty.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Angels Trumpet
We have angel trumpets in the back yard. They are large, white, bell-shaped flowers that bloom for one day then wilt. The flowers are apparently poisonous. Cats and raccoons stay clear away and so should kids.
I like to attribute the appearances of a yellow finch and a chickadee, my all-time favourite birds, to the angel trumpets. I like to think the trumpets have called them into our garden. I like to think angels are guarding our house and watching over us.
I want to think this because I've just confirmed my flight to India. I leave October 3 and am booked to return October 31, with an option to extend my stay. My ticket is good for one year. Hmm, a year in India...
I'm told that on the road to Delhi, foreign guests will have handwashing access to water only. That's how I will brush my teeth, bathe, wash my hair, and wash my clothes. Washrooms may mean behind a rock. I will really have to keep up with those kegel exercises to reduce the need for washroom breaks. Good thing I am back in pilates this month. I can carry a small knapsack on the march. Will I fit in travel documents, books, clothing, extra shoes, toiletry, medication, skin care products, make up, and perfume? The temperature is expected to be between 28C and 30C during the 30 days of the march. No daily showers, eh?
I hope the road to Delhi will not be one of those places where angels fear to tread. In fact, I hope one of those angels with the trumpets leave the garden and follow me to India.
I like to attribute the appearances of a yellow finch and a chickadee, my all-time favourite birds, to the angel trumpets. I like to think the trumpets have called them into our garden. I like to think angels are guarding our house and watching over us.
I want to think this because I've just confirmed my flight to India. I leave October 3 and am booked to return October 31, with an option to extend my stay. My ticket is good for one year. Hmm, a year in India...
I'm told that on the road to Delhi, foreign guests will have handwashing access to water only. That's how I will brush my teeth, bathe, wash my hair, and wash my clothes. Washrooms may mean behind a rock. I will really have to keep up with those kegel exercises to reduce the need for washroom breaks. Good thing I am back in pilates this month. I can carry a small knapsack on the march. Will I fit in travel documents, books, clothing, extra shoes, toiletry, medication, skin care products, make up, and perfume? The temperature is expected to be between 28C and 30C during the 30 days of the march. No daily showers, eh?
I hope the road to Delhi will not be one of those places where angels fear to tread. In fact, I hope one of those angels with the trumpets leave the garden and follow me to India.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Politics Of My Own
The provincial election has started. In every election, I get recruited to help the NDP candidate in our ward. They must have my phone number in their book somewhere. You help out in one campaign and they pass your phone number to other NDP candidates for every election. I don't really mind. Though I have not always voted NDP, their stands and views are most closely aligned with mine.
In municipal elections, the candidate's party does not formally enter the race so it matters more how I feel about the candidate. In provincial and federal elections however, I do try to weigh the candidate and party politics.
When called to help out in this provincial election, I said yes even though I don't know the candidate and have never heard of him. I was a lazy ass that day. And I don't care for the incumbent, whose only "work" I have seen are chocolate bars slipped into the mail slot of households that put up Christmas lights. He has the poorest attendance record of all MPPs in legislature. Newspaper articles surface once in a while attaching him to a seedy house in Cuba where men and young boys come and go. He claims to have been in Cuba to learn Portuguese, one of the primary languages in our ward. Portuguese in Cuba? Apparently, that's where his teachers lives. I want him replaced.
I canvassed with the NDP candidate and attended his campaign launch party. He seems an affable and articulate man. I came home to do a bit more research on him. It was then that I discovered information on the other candidates in our ward for this election. One of them is the leader of the Green Party.
I vote Green often. The Man was director of communication for them a few years ago. I want to see the Green Party be a viable alternative in Canada because I believe a green, sustainable economy is better for our mental and physical health. So now I have given time to a party that I may not be voting for.
Or should I vote NDP because I have given them time and I like the candidate?
Come to think of it, does it not always come down to Green or NDP for me? Except that time I voted Liberal because I didn't want Harper in, and that other time I voted Liberal because I admired the woman candidate.
I am a political slut.
In municipal elections, the candidate's party does not formally enter the race so it matters more how I feel about the candidate. In provincial and federal elections however, I do try to weigh the candidate and party politics.
When called to help out in this provincial election, I said yes even though I don't know the candidate and have never heard of him. I was a lazy ass that day. And I don't care for the incumbent, whose only "work" I have seen are chocolate bars slipped into the mail slot of households that put up Christmas lights. He has the poorest attendance record of all MPPs in legislature. Newspaper articles surface once in a while attaching him to a seedy house in Cuba where men and young boys come and go. He claims to have been in Cuba to learn Portuguese, one of the primary languages in our ward. Portuguese in Cuba? Apparently, that's where his teachers lives. I want him replaced.
I canvassed with the NDP candidate and attended his campaign launch party. He seems an affable and articulate man. I came home to do a bit more research on him. It was then that I discovered information on the other candidates in our ward for this election. One of them is the leader of the Green Party.
I vote Green often. The Man was director of communication for them a few years ago. I want to see the Green Party be a viable alternative in Canada because I believe a green, sustainable economy is better for our mental and physical health. So now I have given time to a party that I may not be voting for.
Or should I vote NDP because I have given them time and I like the candidate?
Come to think of it, does it not always come down to Green or NDP for me? Except that time I voted Liberal because I didn't want Harper in, and that other time I voted Liberal because I admired the woman candidate.
I am a political slut.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Sod Off, Boy
The Boy is going through a very unlikeable phase of teenhood. It's the taking for granted so much and showing appreciation for so little. He's rude and belligerent to me, negative in outlook, and contrary in nature. This is on top of all the whining and complaining he already does. He is no pleasure to be around.
I've stopped talking to him. No more bantering, joking around, inquiring about his day, anticipating his needs. When I want to tell him something, I take a deep breath and talk in a slow, controlled voice. I ignore his protests, snide comments and attempts to provoke me into a fit. I call him on his disrespectful behaviour then walk away. Don't engage, I remind myself. I don't care that I am being a mean mom.
A friend once told me that she went through a period of about three years where she didn't like her son at all. She started liking him again as he entered second year university, when he matured into a thoughtful, considerate young man.
I don't see evidence of that kind of man emerging in The Boy yet. He's just an irritating, selfish, narrow-minded whinger. Three years, eh?
I've stopped talking to him. No more bantering, joking around, inquiring about his day, anticipating his needs. When I want to tell him something, I take a deep breath and talk in a slow, controlled voice. I ignore his protests, snide comments and attempts to provoke me into a fit. I call him on his disrespectful behaviour then walk away. Don't engage, I remind myself. I don't care that I am being a mean mom.
A friend once told me that she went through a period of about three years where she didn't like her son at all. She started liking him again as he entered second year university, when he matured into a thoughtful, considerate young man.
I don't see evidence of that kind of man emerging in The Boy yet. He's just an irritating, selfish, narrow-minded whinger. Three years, eh?
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Shelter From The Storm
Summer touched down and took off so quickly. I sit here looking out my back window and it's 12C out. Which made me think of the amazing weekend I had at a cottage recently with my friends. As timing would have it, that was the weekend The Man attended a Zen-Buddhist retreat, and The Boy attended the Virgin music festival on the island. See what independent lives we lead?
One of the finest moments of this weekend with friends was the four us sitting on the deck smoking and drinking. A fifth friend was inside the cottage reading. It started to rain. But that did not deter us from doing the smoking and drinking that needed to be done. We simply pushed our chairs against the wall of the cottage where the roof jutted out by about two feet.
Under this shallow shelter, we continued to smoke, drink and talk. It was a wonderful feeling of being protected even as we were exposed; the feeling of protection was strong because we were together.
We stuck it out this way for a while before retreating back into the cottage either out of hunger, or we finally succumbed to the gathering storm, or both. There is nothing like watching a storm with friends from the safety of a dry cottage, where plenty of good food await.
One of the finest moments of this weekend with friends was the four us sitting on the deck smoking and drinking. A fifth friend was inside the cottage reading. It started to rain. But that did not deter us from doing the smoking and drinking that needed to be done. We simply pushed our chairs against the wall of the cottage where the roof jutted out by about two feet.
Under this shallow shelter, we continued to smoke, drink and talk. It was a wonderful feeling of being protected even as we were exposed; the feeling of protection was strong because we were together.
We stuck it out this way for a while before retreating back into the cottage either out of hunger, or we finally succumbed to the gathering storm, or both. There is nothing like watching a storm with friends from the safety of a dry cottage, where plenty of good food await.
Friday, September 14, 2007
One Step From The March
It's not that I have nothing to write about. It's more that I am cocooning, trying to get myself together. I also have India on my mind.
It happened like this. A new friend and her husband have for years worked on land reform in India. They've been organizing a march of the landless that will take place this October. As founders and key organizers of this march, they've mobilized between 25,000 and 100,000 of India's poorest. The march takes place over 30 days, walking about 16 km a day. She returned to India this week for the pre-march set up.
But before she left, she asked me to join her, for either the whole or part of the march. Chief Phil Fontaine is going. Because they are so well organized, my food and shelter will be taken care of, as I will be a foreign guest. I just need to take care of my flight.
The Man tells me to go. He calls this low-picking fruit. That is, the fruit is easy to get, everything is set up for me. The experience can be tremendous and maybe life altering. I am tired of thinking about doing something but never doing it because of cost, mothering, and wifely concerns.
Already, I am calling on videography resources to advise me on how make a documentary of the march. Maybe sell the film to Vision TV or W after the march to recover the cost of the trip. Even if the film doesn't get produced, I still want to take part in the march. Think of all the weight I will lose.
I have applied for my passport and had photos taken for a visa. I can recruit help to take care of my home responsibilities. It's only for one month at most.
So I fumble with raising the funds for the trip. I am one phone call away from booking the flight.
Friday, September 07, 2007
So Wired
To prepare for The Exchange's arrival, The Man took apart his office and turned it into a bedroom.
That meant the computer, printer and router were relocated to the basement. It also meant all the connection cables he's put around the house for me to plug in with my laptop for internet access became defunct. For over a month now, we've only had online access via one computer.
The last time we saw Bro, The Boy lamented about the sad state of our 7-year-old Apple computers. This week, things happened quickly. Bro told us of a great deal for a brand new iMac. The Man decided he needed his own PC laptop for business.
Today, everything came together. Bro facilitated the purchase of a new iMac. The Man bought a new PC laptop. The Boy somehow set up the new iMac with wireless internet connection and he's online within 15 minutes of bringing the computer into the house. The Man fiddled with his new laptop and within an hour, he's also online with a wireless connection. That left me plugged in with the old computer.
I tell you, we spent the rest of the evening like a family of E.T.'s, each in front of our own computer, trying to reach out to the world beyond our house, looking for the way home.
We are so wired it's silly.
That meant the computer, printer and router were relocated to the basement. It also meant all the connection cables he's put around the house for me to plug in with my laptop for internet access became defunct. For over a month now, we've only had online access via one computer.
The last time we saw Bro, The Boy lamented about the sad state of our 7-year-old Apple computers. This week, things happened quickly. Bro told us of a great deal for a brand new iMac. The Man decided he needed his own PC laptop for business.
Today, everything came together. Bro facilitated the purchase of a new iMac. The Man bought a new PC laptop. The Boy somehow set up the new iMac with wireless internet connection and he's online within 15 minutes of bringing the computer into the house. The Man fiddled with his new laptop and within an hour, he's also online with a wireless connection. That left me plugged in with the old computer.
I tell you, we spent the rest of the evening like a family of E.T.'s, each in front of our own computer, trying to reach out to the world beyond our house, looking for the way home.
We are so wired it's silly.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Can You Believe It?
Last summer, The Boy did the narration for a children's series called Roll Play. It's been airing since last September. We watched a few episodes but without cable, we have not seen most of the series.
Today, we received word from the producers that the show's been nominated for a Gemini for best preschool show! Can you believe it? We may get to attend the awards.
Here's a sample. Click the View Trailer options. He's the voice at the beginning telling kids to jump, not the singer.
Today, we received word from the producers that the show's been nominated for a Gemini for best preschool show! Can you believe it? We may get to attend the awards.
Here's a sample. Click the View Trailer options. He's the voice at the beginning telling kids to jump, not the singer.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Hello September!
So just like that, summer draws to an end.
It's been a glorious summer. I know, I know, it's my crush you say. But it's not just the crush. In fact, it's not The Exchange at all. It's what the crush was instrumental to. It helped me tap into that good place that makes me feel optimistic and that possibilities for happiness are endless. It is always how we look at things.
So here we sit at the cusp of Summer and Fall this weekend and The Boy, The Man and I are about to go off in three different directions, all of which will enrich our lives, keep us tight as a family, and give us tremendous freedom and independence.
The Boy has been ramping up for school. This year, he will be exploring university options. He will need to settle down and get his grades up.
The Man is pursuing some leads for his next assignment. This is always so full of promise and excitement, yet so wrought with frustration and anxiety.
Me, I am resolved to resume my art work, stay in shape, and obtain paid work, at least part time. Today, I am imagining my own secret hideaway: a farm with a stone house, a field of wild flowers on a hill, a river at the bottom of the hill. My studio is here and I come here to draw, paint, and write.
So let's see what unfolds.
It's been a glorious summer. I know, I know, it's my crush you say. But it's not just the crush. In fact, it's not The Exchange at all. It's what the crush was instrumental to. It helped me tap into that good place that makes me feel optimistic and that possibilities for happiness are endless. It is always how we look at things.
So here we sit at the cusp of Summer and Fall this weekend and The Boy, The Man and I are about to go off in three different directions, all of which will enrich our lives, keep us tight as a family, and give us tremendous freedom and independence.
The Boy has been ramping up for school. This year, he will be exploring university options. He will need to settle down and get his grades up.
The Man is pursuing some leads for his next assignment. This is always so full of promise and excitement, yet so wrought with frustration and anxiety.
Me, I am resolved to resume my art work, stay in shape, and obtain paid work, at least part time. Today, I am imagining my own secret hideaway: a farm with a stone house, a field of wild flowers on a hill, a river at the bottom of the hill. My studio is here and I come here to draw, paint, and write.
So let's see what unfolds.
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