awkward letters

I found this letter recently in a used book I bought online:

Lydia--
Your pearls and dress are in my room/Dad's study. I no longer wish to receive your spitefulness and hatefulness (your comment about my weight loss is an example of your hatred and disrespect for me). I do not know why you hate me so much--but that is your problem. However, I do not wish to have my looking forward to my family diminished because I know I have to deal with your malice. You haven't been much of a sister to me anyway--except when it suits you--so it will be no great loss for me to no longer associate with you.
I do not intend to interfere with whatever relationship you have with the rest of the family, and expect you to do likewise.
Any efforts at reconciliation would have to come from you--when and if you ever deal with your problem of the mean and abusive way in which you have treated people in general, and myself in particular.
Sincerely, Cath... (?)

And I wondered about this mysterious note for quite a while:

-how old is this person?
-did her old room become Dad's study?
-how much did Cathy weigh? How did she lose weight?
-what on earth did Lydia actually say?
-were they real pearls or fake?

I also made several assumptions:

-it's from an adult because it is written in grown-up cursive: letters slanted and skinny, not fat and happy like we write when we're young.
-and, young people don't use words like malice and diminish, unless they're trying to get into an Ivy League school.
-it's from a woman because she borrowed pearls and is sensitive about her weight
-it's a rough draft, many words are crossed out and reworked, and it was printed on two index cards--did she ever send a final draft?

The primary reason I spent so much time mind-fucking this doozy is because I could have written it myself... to someone in my family.

And I let it bother me. Too often.

And we likely all have people like this in our lives. People we allow to steal our energy while we waste it on thinking and re-thinking how what was done in the past was interpreted so differently than we ever intended... how a slight misstep or a casual remark was taken as offensive... how a missed occasion or a lack of calling was perceived with malicious intent.

Yet. To confront this person and attempt healing is a vulnerable step--one that requires risking much discomfort and awkwardness. Confrontation is like getting a bikini wax--I know I'll be happier that I did it, but I dread the appointment. Much easier to take Cath...'s path: Just cut 'em off and give them all the responsibility.

"I do not know why you hate so much--but that is your problem." Well, Cath... I'm afraid I may have to disagree with you there. I suspect that hating someone is more difficult on the hater than the hated. My time spent hating, resenting, and stewing over my nemesis causes me more pain than it causes her. The time I've wasted in anger toward her are more revealing of me than of her. My anger points to some work I need to do in my own soul, maybe some truths I need to deal with about my harsh personality, maybe some sharp corners I need to sand. The anger reveals my own disappointment that not everyone loves me and thinks I'm wonderful. Why the hell not? My anger reveals my search for an identity in the approval of humans. My anger reveals that I want this person to be different than who she is. As if I have the magic potion and have figured it all out. My anger reveals arrogance. And it also reveals that I have a difficult time picturing her as a "child of God... dearly beloved." And treating her as such.

So, instead, I should say, I don't know why you hate me so much, but it is MY problem that I haven't done more to help heal the wounds and distance between us. It is MY problem that I wallow in anger over the seeming injustice of your seemingly unfair appraisal of me. It is definitely MY problem that I have lowered you in my estimation merely because you don't like me as much as I believe that you should.

So, I'm going to try and let my anger go. Just drop it like a spider in the toilet. Flush it away. In reality, it may be a bit more like weaning... the web is attached, so it may take some effort.

Cath... I hope you're able to do the same.

insecure 'renting

Insecure Writer's Group: I'm a day late in my contribution. Hey, I just moved to a different country! Can I get a break? (I plan to milk that one for at least another few months). I've missed the group, though; it's like therapy to me. I suppose that is precisely what support groups are designed for. Well, group: If you're reading this, welcome. I hope to be back more permanently as I'm now "retired" from teaching and would like to give this writing thing a serious shot.

I confess: I feel insecure lately about this whole parenting thing.

Picture: My two boys on their first day of school + the hub's butt.

Sometimes I feel smug about it. I do. Like when I take my boys somewhere and people tell me how nice and polite and cute they are. It does happen. Well, it happened once anyway. Perhaps I have a habit of making an unconscious choice to interpret people's glances in my direction while out in public with my children as saying that as well. I do feel like I survived the horrible trenches of sleepless nights and crying tantrums. I know that because I now look at people with babies and I'm not jealous.

But.

Now I've entered a new stage: The Socializing Stage.

It started like this: On our way to the second day of school we approached the playground together. I was busy checking out the other children: assessing potential bullies, listening for appropriate language,  and recognizing all of my own clothes from the 80s. Then suddenly, Myles (the Grade-Three-er) side glanced me and quietly said, "Okay. Bye." And he started walking away. Just like that.
And yes, I did it. I did. And I even hated myself while I did it.
I called after him, "Can I have a kiss?"
He turned around like I asked him if he wanted to eat squirrel vomit for dinner. And he lifted his disgusted face to my pouty mouth so I could kiss him.
There was no embrace. He walked away and began scouting the grassy battle grounds for potential victims of his friendship. As if I didn't exist at all.

In a matter of seconds you can go from meeting your child's every need and whimsy to being nominal, expendable, and at best, somewhat useful. As in, dinner, please?

And you're just supposed to take it?

Socializing has also required me to become hostess to new friends. Their friends. Not mine. I don't have any yet. The most challenging part of this hostessing gig: I can't yell at other people's children to put their shoes where they belong, or not to touch my newly painted walls with their grimy hands, or to stop being bratty. And I can't walk around without a bra, pee with the door open, or pour my drinks at 3 p.m. It cramps my style.

I had an epiphany: There's a certain joy a child has when his or her friends are present. It comes from a tacit understanding that Mom's yell button is mute while humans who don't share her last name are present.

I remember it. Those days when I knew my teachers had likely called home and my best defense (or at least my best stall) was to have someone show up. Better yet: Ask a 'rent for permission right in front of a friend and their defenses got even softer.

And then there's the dreaded "I don't have any friends" chapter to this saga. My five-year old is not as gregarious as his older brother. He still hugs and smooches me in public, willingly. But now his jealousy over his older brother's friends has turned into a full-fledged, vindictive slaughter. His indignation that his summertime playmate and soul companion chooses to abandon him and even shut his bedroom door in his face delivers enough fuel to light up Colorado. And I'm stuck reeling with ideas for how to entertain a disheartened, rejected five-year old. I thought I had two children to avoid having to actually play with them.

Lucy and me.

In the closing scene of the movie, Prince Caspian (from the Chronicles of Narnia series), Lucy (the youngest of the enlightened children) has to walk through a giant, split-in-half tree to get back to "normal" life. The magical tree delivers people to a different world, and in her case, back to her childhood. This is Lucy's reward after helping to save a million people and animal-people in a few hours of justified violence in Narnia. In this particular scene, the young Lucy walks through the tree with a confident air: she smiles, she juts out her chin a bit, she struts. But. When she turns around to look back at what she loved and left behind, her smile turns to the shade of disappointment and regret. She turns around with an expectant face only to see only the reality of a crude bus station in England. And the horror of what she has lost seems to punch her in the throat.

This is the best way I can describe my recent experience of moving. I'm here. Through the tree. I'm finally settling in and hanging pictures and getting to know the grocery liquor store clerks. And I take a deep breath and turn around to assure everyone that I'm fine. We're fine. We're all here together, right? And I turn around and... Oh shit. No, we're not. It's just me and my husband and these two little humans (one of whom has been a citizen now of THREE different countries, at the age of SIX) and the rest of you are gone. Out of sight.

And set to the music of Narnia, it is quite a tear-jerker. A first-world whiny problem, no doubt. But. Sometimes, a first-world problem (even with the layer of guilt on top) still punches you. And hurts.

Grade 1 and Grade 3

A Vocabulary List for New Canadians:

1. holiday: (noun) vacation. Ex: "We're going on holiday."
2. runners: (noun, plural) athletic shoes. Ex: "The boys bought new runners for school."
3. expiry: (adjective) expiration. Ex: "What is the expiry date on your credit card."
4. Catholic Board: (noun, proper) A school board that runs the Catholic schools which are FREE just like the public schools. The Catholic schools use the same curriculum as the public schools, but they also integrate faith in God and service into all that they do.  Ex: "My sons will be attending a Catholic school this fall which is run by the Catholic Board."
5. Grade One and Grade Three: (nouns) The reversal of 1st grade and 3rd grade, respectively. Ex: My sons will be entering Grade One and Grade Three next week after our abominably long summer.

Thank God. I pray each morning that I will not kill them before then.

Dear The Soon-To-Be Teachers of My Sons :

You're likely working off the excess weight you may have acquired during the summer: creating name tags, putting up tacky boarders, fighting with the copy machines, kissing up to the Principal, comparing tans and pictures with your colleagues, hugging the ones you missed, and hiding from the ones you didn't.

Maybe you're even looking at all those empty seats in your classroom and enjoying the quiet and fresh air that still exists before the steamy invasion of stinky and small humans. I know. I was a teacher for the past 14 years, and I know what it's like to teach other people's children. I know how mind-numbingly difficult it can be. I know that you'll sometimes be sad and crabby in the mornings and sometimes at your wit's end resisting the urges to slap someone and cry. I know that you likely do not appreciate every person you work with and that you have to jump through so many policies and procedures that you sometimes lose sight of why you became a teacher. I know that your smiles will often be forced.

Well this year, you will be spending the year with the two most important young people in my life. These two little humans are the investment of my life. For the past eight and a half years they have consumed almost all of my mental, emotional and physical resources. And though they are a huge pain in the ass some much of the time, they are the receptacle of my investment and I am proud of them.

So I ask you this:

If my children are disrespectful in any way, to anyone, please discipline them.
If they are lazy, please notice and encourage them.
If they are messy, please show them a nicer way.
If they are sad, please hug them.
If they are arrogant, please humble them.
If they are snarky, please don't tolerate.
If they are brilliant, please praise them.
If they excel, please show them how to help others.

...and lastly, (the exact same thing I ask of them each morning): Be kind, be patient, and be polite. And remember, even though these students you are about to meet and spend the year with are not your children, they are someone's. And they are loved without conditions by many.

In return, I promise to pray for you also, each and every day: That you will spend more time wondering with them than memorizing facts, that you will find the uniqueness of each of them instead of finding faults, that you will open up new worlds and possibilities to them and they will want to return to the space you create. That you will teach them about God and Faith and Service with your actions more than your words. That you will bring out the best in them and help them feel safe enough to take important risks.

Thank you for being a teacher. Thank you for sharing in my investment. I trust you even before I know you.

After all, these two boys of mine, and all of their classmates, are the future. And even though at this moment they aspire to be professional hockey players and animal hunters, we all know that they will more than likely become teachers or farmers or dentists or lawyers or roofers. But let's all pray that whatever future they choose that they will above all be kind, be patient, and be polite. In Jesus' name.

slime

Being a mom of two young boys requires some fairly extreme sacrifices. I often wished for girls and dreamed of nail-painting and hair-braiding and baking and doing dishes together. Fuck. What is that? As if a domestic atom remains hidden deep within me, longing to be the stay-at-home-goddess that I so despise. But. Guessing from my many women friends that actually parent girls, I'd say that my fantasies about raising girls are about as far off as, well, any other fantasy.

Boys, however, require....slime. Slime, a substance that abhors me. It is as hard for me to look at slime as it is for many to look at a hypodermic needles or at a drill that is about to enter the mouth. I was one of those women who gasped after being asked if I'd like a mirror during delivery. "Hell no," I not-so-meekly replied, "I do not want to see that human until it is wiped up, cleaned up, and preferably bathed." Slime is repulsive to me. Absolutely. I can't even eat eggs if they have a bit of uncooked yolk. Agghhh. I am dry-heaving after merely typing the words.

So. My recent parental sacrifice: I took my boys fishing. I was assured by my loving and vindictive husband that I had no cause to worry because Myles (the eldest son) would "take care of it all." Little did I realize that being within a few inches of said "taking care of it all" I would have to witness (watch AND listen) to the ick of the wiggly and helpless worms being cut (really cut! by a knife!) in HALF before being impaled onto a hook. I could hear their screams of terror. But it only got worse for them. They were then slowly lowered into the depths of the lake to be nibbled on by even slimier and uglier creatures: Fish who would come on board our boat, not amused, with gouged out eyes and bloody mouths (and swung mere millimeters from my eyes) only to wait for an 8-year old human to rip and tear the hook out of eye or cheek with about as much gentleness as a hungry alligator looking at a sweet little bunny.

I admit it: There was a little pride involved while watching my eldest decompose and mutilate these poor fish as he separated them from their hooks. I would say 10% pride, 90% disgust. But that 10% was amazed at his capacity for slime. Something clearly not passed down from me.
It was the hardest stomach challenge since childbirth.

I say: I wish we had girls. And then I say: I don't want to do that again.

mandates

You know you live in Canada when.... you look down the street in the afternoon to try and spot your children (to make sure they weren't kidnapped, though sometimes you wish they were) and you see at least three driveway road hockey games occurring simultaneously...

I was busy unpacking boxes that were packed up months ago... old photo albums that I wish were destroyed. My own children didn't recognize me in some of them, the fat years. Those years when I must have lost a mirror and hadn't yet learned that when you eat a lot and don't exercise, the pounds add up like Count Dracula on crack.

But. Here's the thing. Unpacking some of these old mementos causes me pause. I have a gut reaction that says, these don't belong here, what are they doing here? Wait. What am I doing here? If these relics from 1980 followed me here, that must mean I'm staying. My trail has followed me. This isn't just an extended vacation where my dishes followed me... my everything followed me. My parents even followed me for a few days.

About an hour after they left, my mother texted me: "I love your new home and city. Be happy there." It was a command. And I wouldn't call my mom the bossy type. She's more the whatever type. So when she says (or texts) like that, it's a threat. A don't-you-dare-not-do-it threat. And I can't even type what happens when you don't follow one of her few of these. Let's just say it involves extreme pain.

So I'm here in Canada. I'm really here. To stay. And it's weird.

Being new

My mother-in-law recently had a health scare, and we needed to explain to The Children (in a moment of don't know how to b.s. this one, better just tell the truth) what happens when things get "old," like our dog, our cars, and a lot of the stuff in the fridge... Death is part of life, death happens to us all, dealing with death is hard and sad, but you get through it, it gets better, etc.

So my 5-year old is thinking about this, clearly getting a bit nervous, and then asks, "But you and Daddy are still new, right?"

Yes, indeed. We are spanking new.

We are new here. Here in Canada. Here in this expensive and strangely quiet and questioningly-friendly place. And being new is hard. It actually kinda sucks much of the time.

Yesterday, I cried when I couldn't find the grocery store. We were all really hungry and tired of eating takeout on the floor.

Today, I almost cried at the bank. The customer service reps here were willing to give me a mortgage, but not willing to give me a bank account. Because I have no proof of address. Even though they just gave me a mortgage to help fund my primary residence. I'm not saying Canadians are stupid. But.

And. I can't get my car registered unless I have car insurance. And I can't get car insurance unless I have a Canadian license plate. Hmmmm....

Ya. New.

But I do know where the nearest liquor stores are located.

And people are crazy nice and polite here. As in: we were invited to someone's house for lunch after a 5-minute conversation; we peaked in a trendy shop downtown and the owner was so excited to hear where we just bought a house, he asked us our address so he could stop by; some people we met at the beach a few weeks ago called today to invite us to the hang out with them tomorrow. This has all been a salve for my sad and lonely soul. And it also seems a bit conspiratorial: are these people terrorists? Kidnappers? Or worse? We have nothing to go by except our guts.

Our NEW guts.

May they lead us to the right places.