I married Clark Griswold.   No joke.  Not the ‘actual’ Chevy Chase, but the embodiment of all things Holiday.  We respectfully pay tribute to Remembrance Day, and then it is a full-on countdown to December 24th.  Nothing is too kitsch.  There is not enough red, green and plaid to satisfy him.  While I am not quite a Melania-White-House-Minimalist, I don’t tend to go towards all things gaudy.  But he sure does.

It used to drive me nuts.  It used to make me crazy, as we lived in an apartment with a total of six (6!) Rubbermaid bins devoted to the holidays in our storage space.  And in an apartment, that was a lot of real estate.

We got married, had kids, moved to the suburbs, (cue Tracy Chapman) and the Holidays got bigger.  We were that house – the one with the audio-cued lights and the dancing Santa.

Throughout all of it, he always insisted that he decorate a tree in the backyard for me.  Just for me.  It still sits outside of our kitchen window.  To be honest, it used to offend me a little.  (Okay, a lot).  I rebelled at its’ conformist sensibilities and chafed at the subtext of establishment anti-feminist shackles, being a view from the kitchen, while washing bottles, and later, dishes.  Too cliche for me.

The kids grew out of diapers, bottles, cribs and toddler beds, and he still put it up.  Every year.  Every year I would be given a gift of light and beauty in my backyard, for just me.  A private gift for me and for me alone in our space; a tribute to me from him.  A quiet, beautiful moment.

The tree is up again this year, and throughout all of our layers of exhaustion, he has still put it up for me to enjoy.  My tree.  In the face of an avalanche of Clark-Griswoldy-Lampoony-Christmas-Kitsch, he has created a space of beauty and light amidst the daily grind.  For me.

And that speaks volumes.

Thank  you, babe.  It has always been, and continues to be beautiful.

This is love.

 

I am (literally) 33,000′ somewhere over the prairies right now, chasing the sunset back to my boys. This Country is beautiful, and best viewed from the air…

Leaving my Grandmother today was such a mixed bag of emotions: happy-sad-angry-reflective-full of love. Tears still sting just underneath the surface.

It was wonderful to see her. My Grandmother. To see my Mom again. To spend time. Anyone who interprets differently cannot grasp the nuances. My Grandmother was fierce. She was frail. She was tired. She chided my mother for not correctly using a table napkin (NOT a tissue) to cradle a dirty coffee spoon. She abhorred my lumpy green morning smoothie as possibly questionable, definitely inappropriate sustenance at best. She would not leave the restaurant until she had completed the final swish in her coffee cup, regardless of her fatigue. She was amazing.

She is also weary, and the reality is starting to bleed in. She stays at a care home reserved for those who have served our Country, and you couldn’t find a more warm, caring group. But reality bleeds. The two flagpoles at the entrance sit at half-mast, in tribute to those veterans who have recently passed on from the care home. They are always at half mast. As she said, “We are all just waiting to die”. Black, but you can’t argue the accuracy.

Having the three of us in the same airport code was a feat itself, one I am grateful for but also saddened by. It meant reconnecting with my Mom, and even though we talk every day, meant relearning the intimacy of a hug and her insistance that I was still, and always would be her baby. Of course I would be, but it gets a bit awkward when it’s an annual visit, and for a short period of time.

Being my Mom, she understood this inherently, and interpreted my trepidation not as selfish navel-gazing, but as an opportunity for us both to work harder on seeing each other more. To accept that I needed her more. That I was sad that I didn’t always get what I needed. That is what being a Mom is all about: the big and the little, and understanding everything in between, from dirty coffee spoons to navigating estrangement.

I am so proud to have come from these women; women unafraid to make their opinions known or their strength felt. Women who seized and continue to seize adventure, strength, intelligence and opportunity.

My Grandmother is in her seventh stage. (Shakespeare really did nail it) She is at times resigned and bitter to the reality. I can’t say that I wouldn’t be the same. I cannot imagine the patience she must greet each day, knowing her mind is still good, even as her body fails her. She is amazing.

And so we say goodbye, and I am blessed with kissing the sunset all the way out West. Sunsets are magical from the air: they hint of limitless beauty and possibility.

I will miss them both until the next time, and I will cherish our silly, awkward stolen photos I have of us.

Until the next time.

On a plane, (well two, actually) headed to YOW for a gathering of the women of my family. We’re a pretty independent bunch: each of us strewn across the country, literally coast to coast. We don’t see each other often: we don’t need to. We’re not built like that, choosing instead to forge our own paths in our own spaces. We do talk often.

I relish the independence, and find the biggest struggle comes in the readjustment period when we first get together. It’s not so much with the matriarch, as she is in a home now, and very definitely embracing her seventh stage. It’s more with my own mother: having been so independent and lived apart for so long I don’t adjust well to being mothered. And that’s a hell of an understatement.

Instead, I take on the role of nurturer, mother, caregiver. It’s me that gets things done, efficiently and quickly.

Perhaps this trip will be different? Perhaps we will find the roles slowly reversing between my mother and I, as we both age. As we are all three of us fiercely protective of our independence and self direction, I highly doubt anyone is going to take any direction from anybody. Then again, I haven’t seen them in over two years, so anything could happen.

Is it fair to say I am not yet sure if I am excited? That I am more trepidacious than confident? That, battling bone-crushing fatigue and busy schedules, I am very definitely not at my best?

In the meantime, I am forced into relaxation and down time: time to sip cups of tea, and return to writing here. Ironically I have to really work at relaxing. Perhaps when I begin to relax, I will begin to find the butterflies again.

Our world has encountered a seismic shift this Fall:  two schools, one commute, one completely new experience and a family adjustment to better meal planning, (as if it was possible) even more organization, new school orientation, uniforms, new classes, expanded expectations and new faces.

So far so good.  We are rounding out the end of the month with a handle on what we need to get through some very big first weeks.   It’s  a more disciplined, healthier existence, and I welcome it.  Something had to give.

Our new commute has brought with it some unexpected blessings:  I now have one-on-one face time with each of them in the mornings for a dedicated twenty minutes each.  This means focused discussion, near-total attention, and an opportunity to solve the problems of the world together as a team.

It’s amazing.

We are able to span a full spectrum of topics, and it is magical to have that focus with each of them on a daily basis.  There is no arguing, no bickering, no lecturing, (well, maybe from me sometimes) and no sibling rivalry.  There is only discussion, love and support.

I cherish these quiet moments together.

 

Life is a game of inches.

It is a game of timelines, goals, tasks and small moments that culminate in the inches that leap forward to the weeks, months and years that blend to the milestones that mark our achievements.

And what a moment we had tonight.

Little ‘A’  finally moved into his new bedroom – a bedroom that I had bled, sweat and composite/particleboard-IKEA’ed the shit out of for the last two weeks – tonight.

He stood there in the door frame, with his shoulders thrown back, his neck upright and his chin just at *that* angle, surveying his new kingdom, proud as anything…..

It was HIS.

His space, his choice, his colours:  his own place.

A small thing, a tiny thing. An opportunity to facilitate a voice, a space, a moment.

An opportunity for a young person to find their expression and make it their own.

A game of inches.

Tonight I will count a parenting win.

When was the last time you were alone for a period of time?  I mean totally alone, with no spouse, no dependents, (okay, so the dog is still here!) no agenda?

I can’t honestly remember.

Due to a perfect storm of family and summer camp, I have the house to myself this weekend, and the silence is a vacuum; a deafening silence that I am currently filling with the best of the Tragically Hip (thank you, Gord!) a glass of wine, and the tap of my fingers on a keyboard I have ignored on a personal writing level for a long time. (Note:  last blog post was over a month ago…)  I am simply not in a phase of my life to enjoy the luxury of a full 48 hours to myself.

Upon reflection, I think it will be work.  I am an overachiever, a nurturer, one who gives more of herself than those around her.  I must work to be selfish.  I must work to relax.  Ironic, no?

My Sister had some excellent suggestions:  some of which involved open doors, clothes-free activities, Burrowing Owl, and some of the West Coast’s finest green.  Realistically, I will likely fall asleep early and wake to all those niggling little projects that never get done due to LIFE.  Realistically, I will likely practice self-care in some meditative walks with the dogs, more writing, (as I find it a real outlet) and elevated vegetarian cookery.  I live in a house full of carnivores, so the prospects of persecution-free tofu are very appealing!

Dear Reader, what would YOU do for the next 48?

 

 

 

I was asked yesterday what I had done for myself lately:  a good question, and one that took far too long to answer.  What had I done for myself that was just for me, didn’t involve or subsequently benefit someone else?

I thought.  Long and hard.

I think the last thing that I did for myself was discover the joys of a searingly-spicy noodle bowl by myself, on a Sunday, with no deadlines, kids or spouse.  I sat and savoured a beautiful Szechuan-chili laden deep brown broth with crushed peanuts and garlic sauce.  It was incredible.

I was truly hard-pressed to come up with a regular “Me First” list of things I had done.

I do do little things: like no matter how late we are running to get to school I will always pause before driving away, and put on a quick smear of lipstick.  This gives me a brief second of taking care of myself, and allows me to pull my appearance together.

I know.  Not much, right?

So I move forward, trying.  I will try and do more for myself, and take care of myself unilaterally, and without an agenda or others in mind.  In some ways this is the antithesis to the maternal role:  I have been so busy looking after everyone else, that I almost feel guilty taking time for myself.  This is wrong, and was rightly pointed out to me – if I am not okay, how is everyone else going to be okay.  It’s the “oxygen-mask-drops-in-the-airplane-and-you-don-your-mask-before-anyone-else’s-habit that I need to get into.

So, dear reader, don your oxygen mask and take care of you.

Sitting at dinner last night, (and as is always the case) we were discussing the next meal: what would we do for dinner tonight?

And so it went. They asked for an Indian Feast. And so we delivered. Butter chicken, Grilled curry prawns, Potato and pea curry, spinach and chick pea curry with extra fancy basmati, and gf naan. Oh yeah, and scratch-made mango lassi.

Everything but the naan (total failure) was delicious, I made enough for ten people, as usual, and we are all basking in a post-cardamom and coriander glow.

The BEST part is that it was essentially a total cheat: a couple of gf-friendly jars of sauce, a bunch of pans and a long, slow simmer.

Sometimes it’s okay to take the short way around.

You accused me last night of |(why?) waiting to come forward, for waiting fourteen years for detailing sexual improprieties, rape,  decades of systemic patriarchal abuse within every single working system I have ever been a part of.   You accused me of not being forthright, of not telling my best friend their deepest, darkest secrets in a course of fourteen years.

And why not?

Because it was hard.

Because you bought into the system that allowed the inappropriate behavior towards girls and women.  Because certain behaviors were okay in some spheres and not in others.  Because I have only just begun to fully understand and digest what it is that I went through in my twenties, and what I should have done, versus what I did do.  Because, given the option of a choice, I would have done it differently.

Because, to a certain degree, I wear it for everyone.  Which isn’t fair, but is reality.

Because, in my forties, I am loud and unapologetic.

Because, now you coin the #methree movement:  the antithesis to the #metoo movement, as a counterpoint for men who have (seemingly) not added to the problem but are being persecuted just the same.

Because you fail to see you are part of the problem by your actions.

 

And that I will speak when I am ready, how I am ready….the same as you.

 

 

 

 

It’s Thursday.  We are closing out the school year.  Report cards need to be in by tomorrow, so really, (really) the kids are in a holding pattern until the end of June.  Everyone is tired.  Spent.  Burnt out.  Walking Dead.

Take your metaphorical pick.

Tonight.  Tonight, I am thinking of feeding the family a vaguely Greek inspired dish:  lemon chicken, baked rice, veg, and some tzatziki.  It’s supposed to be easy.  Throw rice in rice cooker, brown chicken, finish in oven, steam broccoli and carrots.  Mix yoghurt and cucumber and lemon and garlic in a bowl.  Season.

Insert me.

I know my darling other half looooves pita/naan/warm flatbread with tzatziki.  I know my kids love and dearly miss warm fluffy rounds of dough dipped with yoghurt and garlic and fresh herbs.  So I decide to try.

I decide to make flatbread from scratch on a Thursday night in June.

W.T.F.W.I.T.

So I started here:

(I added sesame seeds to the dough for texture and a little flavour, not knowing how this on-the-fly flatbread would turn out)

Then I got to here:

Then I heated up my cast iron skillet and went here:

And I arrived.

The beauty of a cast-iron skillet is that it truly can brown things, and replicate a hot oven:  I love it.  I also love the fact that gluten-free dough benefits from overworking (with the xantham gum) rather than detracting from any fluffiness.  This is a heavy-handed baker’s dream!!!

The bottom line is that nature is a mother-fucker of invention, (note “subtle” title reference), and that living gluten free, we don’t have the luxury of nipping out to the bakery for a bag of fresh, fluffy pita or naan or bread, or, well, you get what I am saying.

The bottom line is that I will and continue to do anything and everything for my family.  It’s a cliche that I show them love through their stomachs, but as ours are still recovering, I’ll take it.

Oh, and it tasted pretty fucking good, too.