I'm sure out there tonight in cyberspace (God I hate that term), there are zillions of blogs written by no-namers like myself also titled "Halloween". Oh well. I have a few things I want to say, and they're mostly all Halloween-related, so I'm going to go ahead and use the unimaginative title I've chosen, and save my creativity for the text below:
I was never quite sure what to make of Halloween as a child. First of all, I was always stumped by what to wear. Ever the girl, I would get flustered at the idea of choosing a costume, trying to imagine one that wouldn't look ugly, stupid, or be too common in my classroom. Sadly, I usually left it too late, and having little choice in the few stores of my tiny hometown, I usually ended up being what I most hated - lame. I think my best year I was Minnie Mouse. My parents shelled out the money for a plastic, garbage-bag-thin costume that ripped immediately upon leaving room temperature. Coupled with the fact my folks made me wear my winter coat inside of the costume and it was destined never to last longer than one short evening's term. Sigh. I could have been Minnie forever.
The next costume that I can recall I was given was a hand-sewn witch's gown which my mother lovingly made for me in her ever-so-clever way. However, this beautifully sewn costume turned out to be more a curse than a blessing as for the next 5 or 6 years as it would "haunt" me every halloween. First, a witch. Maybe even a few years of being a witch. At first of course I didn't mind, but eventually a young girl longs to be a princess, a fairy, or even as I recall my mid 1980's self request to my mother, a "punk rocker", but an ugly green-faced witch? Oh dear.
Next, my long black gown transformed* (* = stayed the same), and I was suddenly no longer a witch but an exotic "sorcerer". Wow. Next up? Death. Saddled with a new hood and a plastic wheat sheath smeared with red nail polish, I was now the sexy symbol of death. And... wait for it... just when my imagination couldn't get any more wild that black god forsaken costume yet again reappeared and I was a magical wizard. A WIZARD! I remember helping Mom glue on a golden crescent moon and star to the front of the gown and I may have even made a hat with stars and a wand. Talk about cool? No. My peers were dressed up a rock stars, Barbie, Madonna, and I was a Wizard. A MALE Halloween icon, at that. No wonder I never dated ever.
So, you see, for me Halloween in the sense of dressing up and being excited about a new costume and pretending to be something that I wasn't really wasn't in the cards for me. It wasn't my thing. And, to be honest, even with an entire department stores' selection of gaudy plastic costumes for me to choose from at the time, chances are I'd have chosen to be a giant green M&M anyway. Not a whole lot better. Or a cat, but not today's sexy version, probably one with a big puffy fluffy tummy and a really long tail that I'd trip over from time to time on my way to the Cheetos bowl.
When it came to "Holidays" like Halloween, I was also a bit of a homebody. Okay, when it came/comes to most facets in my life I am a homebody, and for Halloween this stayed the case. I never wanted to go trick or treating with my friends, running door to door in all sorts of different neighbourhoods, trying to get all the candy that was humanly possible in one evening. Why would I do that? My family had a TRADITION for this night and I'd be a dead sorcerer before I broke that, my friend.
My father would accompany my brother and me around our neighbourhood. We would start at the same house, and end at the same house, and take the same route in between, year after year. Dad would trail us with our cloth reusable Co-op store bags (we made reusable bags the "it" thing to do, don't ya know?) so once our plastic pumpkins were full we could unload our goodies. Rarely would someone come along with us. For rare one evening, it was just me and my brother and my dad, doing our thing. I felt a connection with my brother, who, by the way, always managed to come up with an awesome costume just using stuff around the house - jerk. I could care less about my friends on this spooky night. I wanted my Dad, my brother, my loot, and hopefully by the time we got home, a pumpkin-shaped cake baked and iced by Super Mom while we were out, and a special Halloween edition of The Simpson's and Charley Brown.
I'll never forget the first year my brother either felt too old to go trick or treating, or did so with his friends, and I went out alone. Ever the traditionalist, I still went, dad in tow, following our old route by my lonesome. I was death. And it was death - the death of a little piece of my childhood. I remember feeling silly, and later, angry that my brother got two whole years of good Halloweens than I got, simply because I was younger and he quit on me before my time. I went home that year and cried. Yes, a child crying on Halloween, because I came to the realization that my trick or treating days were over.
I was a sensitive child. I cried over the end of Halloween for me as a kid. I cried when I turned 10, as I'd never be a single-digit-age ever again (this is true). I cried when we went from 1989 to 1990 as we'd never be in the 80's again (this is true - how silly! I should have been sick with joy those god awful years were over!!). I cried when I figured out Christmas and Santa, even though I knew for a while but didn't WANT to KNOW, but finally felt silly and admitted it to my mother. I guess for me anything related to finality or change brings on the waterworks.
As I grew older and entered university, I still was perplexed by the enthusiasm people spent on Halloween. All the fuss and bother of fake police tape, strange spider webbing, disgusting face paint and fake blood. True to my roots I was always awful with dreaming up costumes and relied heavily on my residence mates to help me in that matter. In this stage of my life I recall being caught up in a new version of halloween that sometimes resulted in fun care packages from home, crazy parties in my residence, and a small distraction from my studies.
Next up my early working days. Now I figured Halloween was simply an excuse for men to dress up like something funny, and for women to dress up in something slightly* inappropriately seductive at work (*extremely, in Quebec and french-speaking parts of New Brunswick). Never before had I taken note of so many "sexy nurses" or "sexy pirates" or "sexy cats". Good lord. Where were all the witches? Oh, right, they're now "sexy witches". Every costume I saw for sale geared towards a woman was a few inches of spandex short of naked. I mean really? Is this what Halloween really is for grown women? A chance to show off our boobs in a costume we'd be utterly embarrassed if our fathers or brothers saw us in? All the while men dress as something funny - a man riding a giant chicken. That sort of awesomeness.
And now. My Halloween now. Now of course it's all about the kids. I bake cupcakes, I ice cookies, I decorate my home, I buy pumpkins, but not for me or party guests - for them. I want them to always remember that we made an effort and had a tradition of "doing something" for Halloween. I'm trying to instil in them the notion that even a crazy holiday like Halloween can be another way for our family to be together and bond. I want my kids to look back on photos and think of memories where they were a team, dressed in some sort of theme (monkey and banana, hamburger and cupcake), going out together because they wanted to, not because they had to. Because they chose their sibling over their friends when it's not en vogue. I want to talk to Joshua when he's about to give it all up, see if I can convince him to give it a go one more year so that his little sister isn't left behind. When they're older, I'll put on old episodes of The Simpson's when we get home from trick or treating, and I'll have cake and milk all set. We'll carve pumpkins and see who can make the scariest, and I'll roast the seeds to go in their school lunches the next day. We'll have fun. We'll make memories. We'll be a team.
That inner witch in me is casting a spell on them. We'll see if it works.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Girls are Worse
As you may or may not know (and if you do not, shame on you and your penance is to reread my opening blog entry at least thrice over and memorize as many details as you're able) I have two darling children for whom I have given up career and waistline to love and raise at home full-time. My firstborn is a boy, Joshua, of whom I am insanely proud, who makes me laugh, who endears me every day, baffling me with all he knows and all he learns at a breakneck speed. My second born is a girl, Claire, who is my darling, my sweetie, my heart.
I've said it before that having a girl was the best decision I've never made. Let me explain.
When I was pregnant for the first time, I soon realized that I wanted to have a boy. No. I didn't simply "want" to have a boy, I WANTED to have a boy. Bad. I have no idea where this passion came from, perhaps some ingrain desire of my descendants to have a boy first, ensure the family name would continue, someone who would take over the family fishing/sealing/hunting business (I'm from Newfoundland, enough said?), that sort of nonsense. So for 38 long weeks I hoped and prayed and wondered and obsessed if in fact the being I was growing in my belly was going to be the boy I so desired.
And, it was. Out popped* (*=painfully, excruciatingly delivered) my first born, a healthy baby boy. We were insanely happy and proud. I was a mother. My husband was a father. We had our son. We were a family. I later would have dreams where we were mistaken and the baby we had was a girl, and I'd wake up from these dreams frantic, panicked, and would have to check to ensure my baby was indeed a boy. Nuts, eh?
Anyway, when I became pregnant with my second child, I again felt that having a boy would be nice, but that obsession of simply NEEDING to have a boy was diluted (perhaps from living with a little boy for the previous 1.5 years? Yes? No? I'll not wander down that road.) We figured if it was a boy we'd save a lot of money on clothes. If it was a girl we'd have a totally new experience on our hands. Being a busy, pregnant mother of a little boy kept me from focusing too much on the gender of my unborn baby, there were many welcome distractions in those long months. Also, some unhappy ones - when I was in my second trimester, I found out that our baby had a kidney disorder, and might require some medical intervention upon being born, to prevent further kidney damage and other related complications. We were frightened. But also, we were given a clue - most babies with this condition were male. So without actually "finding out" the sex of our unborn baby, we were basically told we were having a boy. A little scared about the baby's health, but mostly excited, we waited for the arrival of our second son.
Well, sonny boy never came because who arrived on June 7th, 2010? Baby Claire did, that's who! I was shocked and thrilled and amazed all at once. (By the way, her kidney condition is stable, no surgeries for now, and we are all very pleased with how she's doing and is otherwise perfect in all ways). We had a girl. We had a GIRL! WE HAD A GIRL!!! Life is just... so... well. Amazing.
So since the arrival of my lovely daughter, I've noticed many things. Firstly of course is how CUTE girl baby clothes are, especially having just come off of having a baby boy, you can't even begin to compare cuteness. Sure, a baby boy dressed in a green polo shirt and dark washed jeans are cute, but compare that to a frilly baby-soft pink dress with ruffly-bottomed white tights and shiny, tiny black mary janes? Come on. Add a flower-embossed headband and a tiny beaded bracelet? Cute overload.
Secondly, people are unfairly judgemental to little girls. It's true. We as a society are TERRIBLE when it comes to our daughters. For instance. I took my children to an indoor playground one winter morning as a way for my son to play with other kids his age and to have some fun and get some exercise. In fact, for the entire winter we did this twice a week. It was great. Mama could sit back with a coffee (okay, with a coffee and a donut), the baby could nap in her stroller, and Joshua could run around like a crazy person. Perfect! One day, Joshua threw a fit when I told him it was time to go. One sympathetic mother caught my eye and said "If you think this is bad wait until SHE'S 2! Girls are even worse!" referring to my angelic, sleeping daughter. I shrugged it off, too busy dealing with Joshua the Horrible to really think about what she had said, what she had accused my daughter of doing and being before even having the skill of holding up her own head. Awful! How dare she say that my daughter will act less or more awful when she is 2 and doesn't want to leave a fun place?
But it wasn't just this nut job's opinion. Other parents have told me similar tales of "how bad" it'll be when "she" is in the terrible 2's/3's/teenage years. And this cockamamy advice is usually given to me with a smile and a knowing tilt of the head, all the while smiling at Claire. I mean how AWFUL can you get? Predicting that my sweet angel girl is going to turn out to be even more terrible than my son's terrible times have been? Any why is it that no one ever says "Wow your son is awful, good thing your daughter won't be as bad!". No one has ever said that to me. Or, "Wow you think your ass is big now? Wait till you're 40!". Nope. Haven't heard that one either. At least, not to my face.
So why this preference to boys over girls? Why do we not give our daughters the benefit of the doubt that they will act like a 2 or 3 year old when their time comes? Why do we set this predetermined pattern upon them that they will "be worse" than their male counterparts?
Is it that we don't expect face-down-on-the-WalMart-floor tantrums from our daughters? Because, sister, I've been there with Joshua. Oh yes. I have. Been there. With him. And of COURSE I'll expect Claire to do the same. And, as with Joshua, I'll probably laugh, pick her up and go about my day with a raging lunatic trapped in the body of my 2 year old child. Is that so bad? To expect the same behaviour from my daughter as I did from my son?
Is it that we STILL view girls to be more subdued? More calm? More placid and unlikely to cause a scene? You can put a dress on a Tasmanian devil, but I'm pretty sure it'll still be a Tasmanian devil (yes, I just had to use spell check to write Tasmanian). And one day I'll put a dress on my sweet and innocent daughter and she'll act just the way Joshua did that fateful day in WalMart - she'll act nutty.
I don't know. Maybe because I'm a girl (surprise!) that I'm overly sensitive to girl-predjuguce. Also, I'm a second born, so I can sympathize with precedence set by an older sibling (especially an older brother) and I want to do my damnedest to help Claire feel special, appreciated, and loved and hopefully not view the world as an underdog who has to fight for attention and equality within her own family. I don't want family members or strangers or ANYONE predicting how well or poorly my daughter will do in her life before she has a chance to prove herself.
There are lots of things that piss me off, but one that grates me to my very soul is when people say the phrase "Girls are worse". They are not. Girls are wonderful. Girls are special. My girl is especially awesome, if you're asking. It's small children IN GENERAL that can be awful. I mean can't we all just agree on that and leave gender out of it? It's small children who throw fits, mess up our homes, throw a pile of JUST FOLDED laundry on the dirty floor, smudge windows, throw food, pee in their pants (on purpose???), and who mess up our hair when we're bending down to do up THEIR shoes. It's small children that lead to the purchase of toddler harnesses, who cause valuable breakables to be put up on high shelves, and who cause their mothers to stop buying BOTTLES of wine and reach for the BOX instead.
It's small children who don't have the words or ability to express what they want or are able to understand why they can't have what they want at any given time. They are prisoners in their own bodies, in their own homes, and in life in general. They are trying to navigate a world that is 100% NOT built for them, so of course from time to time they're going to snap. And when they do, they are going to make sure that it's spectacular. It's up to us to love them, not despite, but because of these outbursts, because we know that they're normal, they're part of growing up, and because they make for a great story when we're talking to OUR parents later that night.
So, mother's of daughters, let's chill out a bit. I'm not asking you to be hypocritical and start favouring our daughters over our sons. No. That's tipping the scales too far the other way (don't get me started on the Women's Lib movement). But just give our girls some slack. They have it tough from the get-go, let's not predict their futures or pretend that their behaviour is any worse than their brothers' was. Because it's not. Every child is different. They all need our love. Kiss your daughter twice tonight. And tomorrow morning, break out those ruffly-bottomed tights. They'll look SO CUTE when she's flailing around screaming on the WalMart floor.
-TDW
I've said it before that having a girl was the best decision I've never made. Let me explain.
When I was pregnant for the first time, I soon realized that I wanted to have a boy. No. I didn't simply "want" to have a boy, I WANTED to have a boy. Bad. I have no idea where this passion came from, perhaps some ingrain desire of my descendants to have a boy first, ensure the family name would continue, someone who would take over the family fishing/sealing/hunting business (I'm from Newfoundland, enough said?), that sort of nonsense. So for 38 long weeks I hoped and prayed and wondered and obsessed if in fact the being I was growing in my belly was going to be the boy I so desired.
And, it was. Out popped* (*=painfully, excruciatingly delivered) my first born, a healthy baby boy. We were insanely happy and proud. I was a mother. My husband was a father. We had our son. We were a family. I later would have dreams where we were mistaken and the baby we had was a girl, and I'd wake up from these dreams frantic, panicked, and would have to check to ensure my baby was indeed a boy. Nuts, eh?
Anyway, when I became pregnant with my second child, I again felt that having a boy would be nice, but that obsession of simply NEEDING to have a boy was diluted (perhaps from living with a little boy for the previous 1.5 years? Yes? No? I'll not wander down that road.) We figured if it was a boy we'd save a lot of money on clothes. If it was a girl we'd have a totally new experience on our hands. Being a busy, pregnant mother of a little boy kept me from focusing too much on the gender of my unborn baby, there were many welcome distractions in those long months. Also, some unhappy ones - when I was in my second trimester, I found out that our baby had a kidney disorder, and might require some medical intervention upon being born, to prevent further kidney damage and other related complications. We were frightened. But also, we were given a clue - most babies with this condition were male. So without actually "finding out" the sex of our unborn baby, we were basically told we were having a boy. A little scared about the baby's health, but mostly excited, we waited for the arrival of our second son.
Well, sonny boy never came because who arrived on June 7th, 2010? Baby Claire did, that's who! I was shocked and thrilled and amazed all at once. (By the way, her kidney condition is stable, no surgeries for now, and we are all very pleased with how she's doing and is otherwise perfect in all ways). We had a girl. We had a GIRL! WE HAD A GIRL!!! Life is just... so... well. Amazing.
So since the arrival of my lovely daughter, I've noticed many things. Firstly of course is how CUTE girl baby clothes are, especially having just come off of having a baby boy, you can't even begin to compare cuteness. Sure, a baby boy dressed in a green polo shirt and dark washed jeans are cute, but compare that to a frilly baby-soft pink dress with ruffly-bottomed white tights and shiny, tiny black mary janes? Come on. Add a flower-embossed headband and a tiny beaded bracelet? Cute overload.
Secondly, people are unfairly judgemental to little girls. It's true. We as a society are TERRIBLE when it comes to our daughters. For instance. I took my children to an indoor playground one winter morning as a way for my son to play with other kids his age and to have some fun and get some exercise. In fact, for the entire winter we did this twice a week. It was great. Mama could sit back with a coffee (okay, with a coffee and a donut), the baby could nap in her stroller, and Joshua could run around like a crazy person. Perfect! One day, Joshua threw a fit when I told him it was time to go. One sympathetic mother caught my eye and said "If you think this is bad wait until SHE'S 2! Girls are even worse!" referring to my angelic, sleeping daughter. I shrugged it off, too busy dealing with Joshua the Horrible to really think about what she had said, what she had accused my daughter of doing and being before even having the skill of holding up her own head. Awful! How dare she say that my daughter will act less or more awful when she is 2 and doesn't want to leave a fun place?
But it wasn't just this nut job's opinion. Other parents have told me similar tales of "how bad" it'll be when "she" is in the terrible 2's/3's/teenage years. And this cockamamy advice is usually given to me with a smile and a knowing tilt of the head, all the while smiling at Claire. I mean how AWFUL can you get? Predicting that my sweet angel girl is going to turn out to be even more terrible than my son's terrible times have been? Any why is it that no one ever says "Wow your son is awful, good thing your daughter won't be as bad!". No one has ever said that to me. Or, "Wow you think your ass is big now? Wait till you're 40!". Nope. Haven't heard that one either. At least, not to my face.
So why this preference to boys over girls? Why do we not give our daughters the benefit of the doubt that they will act like a 2 or 3 year old when their time comes? Why do we set this predetermined pattern upon them that they will "be worse" than their male counterparts?
Is it that we don't expect face-down-on-the-WalMart-floor tantrums from our daughters? Because, sister, I've been there with Joshua. Oh yes. I have. Been there. With him. And of COURSE I'll expect Claire to do the same. And, as with Joshua, I'll probably laugh, pick her up and go about my day with a raging lunatic trapped in the body of my 2 year old child. Is that so bad? To expect the same behaviour from my daughter as I did from my son?
Is it that we STILL view girls to be more subdued? More calm? More placid and unlikely to cause a scene? You can put a dress on a Tasmanian devil, but I'm pretty sure it'll still be a Tasmanian devil (yes, I just had to use spell check to write Tasmanian). And one day I'll put a dress on my sweet and innocent daughter and she'll act just the way Joshua did that fateful day in WalMart - she'll act nutty.
I don't know. Maybe because I'm a girl (surprise!) that I'm overly sensitive to girl-predjuguce. Also, I'm a second born, so I can sympathize with precedence set by an older sibling (especially an older brother) and I want to do my damnedest to help Claire feel special, appreciated, and loved and hopefully not view the world as an underdog who has to fight for attention and equality within her own family. I don't want family members or strangers or ANYONE predicting how well or poorly my daughter will do in her life before she has a chance to prove herself.
There are lots of things that piss me off, but one that grates me to my very soul is when people say the phrase "Girls are worse". They are not. Girls are wonderful. Girls are special. My girl is especially awesome, if you're asking. It's small children IN GENERAL that can be awful. I mean can't we all just agree on that and leave gender out of it? It's small children who throw fits, mess up our homes, throw a pile of JUST FOLDED laundry on the dirty floor, smudge windows, throw food, pee in their pants (on purpose???), and who mess up our hair when we're bending down to do up THEIR shoes. It's small children that lead to the purchase of toddler harnesses, who cause valuable breakables to be put up on high shelves, and who cause their mothers to stop buying BOTTLES of wine and reach for the BOX instead.
It's small children who don't have the words or ability to express what they want or are able to understand why they can't have what they want at any given time. They are prisoners in their own bodies, in their own homes, and in life in general. They are trying to navigate a world that is 100% NOT built for them, so of course from time to time they're going to snap. And when they do, they are going to make sure that it's spectacular. It's up to us to love them, not despite, but because of these outbursts, because we know that they're normal, they're part of growing up, and because they make for a great story when we're talking to OUR parents later that night.
So, mother's of daughters, let's chill out a bit. I'm not asking you to be hypocritical and start favouring our daughters over our sons. No. That's tipping the scales too far the other way (don't get me started on the Women's Lib movement). But just give our girls some slack. They have it tough from the get-go, let's not predict their futures or pretend that their behaviour is any worse than their brothers' was. Because it's not. Every child is different. They all need our love. Kiss your daughter twice tonight. And tomorrow morning, break out those ruffly-bottomed tights. They'll look SO CUTE when she's flailing around screaming on the WalMart floor.
-TDW
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Lucky
There is nothing that bothers me more than when someone tells me that I'm "lucky". Well, maybe a few things. Smokers for one. People who dress their babies in sleeper footie pajamas 24-7 for the first 15 months of their lives (don't these parents know how CUTE a baby looks in overalls? Or a 3 month old in jeans and a tee shirt? C'mon!). Forest Whitaker. Cilantro. But mostly, it's the word LUCKY associated with me or my life, that really gets my goat.
I suppose in general when friends or family call me lucky I have to assume they mean that they admire a certain quality in me (my eyes, don't they sparkle?) or about my life (great husband/kids). I MUST assume that they don't mean that I'm LUCKY in the true sense of the word. I'll give them that. But it's when more casual an acquaintance or more distant family member tells me that, or when it's used in an inappropriate situation, then I'm peeved.
Let me draw you a mental picture. With WORDS, no less (aren't you LUCKY?).
So let me use the Internet to give you the true definition of luck. Here we go, good old http://www.dictionary.com/ to the rescue. They give three lovely definitions:
1. the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities: With my luck I'll probably get pneumonia.
Seem familiar? Have you yourself used the word in a particular circumstance to really hammer home the way you felt about losing your favourite scrunchee? Good then we're on the same page.
So why does it bother me when I hear "Oh you're so LUCKY to be able to stay home with your kids! You're so LUCKY to have a doctor for a husband! You're so LUCKY to be able to fly your mother/mother in law in to visit!" and on and on... I've heard it all. But, you see, very little of the good things in my life are a result of luck. So to say I'm lucky implies that I rolled out of bed one morning, stumbled upon a doctor to marry and the rest went down in history. No no no. No. Um.... no.
You see, dear reader, I did not MARRY a doctor. I didn't even date one. I dated a lowly University undergrad student. When I was also an undergrad student. We both worked our bums off to achieve our university degrees (our experiences were even punctuated by failures, having to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again, but, I won't get into that. Or who it was that did the failing... seems an unimportant detail at this point, really). And even to get to the point of dating my husband was not luck. But let's not get into my romantical past. That's just fine where it is. The point is I married my best friend. Perhaps that was luck, that all the qualities I was looking for happened to be within the one wonderful man. So OK fine, that was DNA luck, but I'm the one that snagged him (or he me?), and that was determination.
So as the years passed (13 of them AFTER high school, ahem) we worked hard, supported each other financially and emotionally to get to where we are today. No one thinks of the late nights, the toil and work, the holidays spent working instead of relaxing with family. No. All they see is the end result, which, from an outsiders perspective, seems pretty good. Especially for me, the WIFE of the doctor. I didn't have to do anything at all, oh no. I just showed up, buffing my fingernails on my shirt and adjusting my pearl necklace.
We've both sacrificed over the years to get to this point. The doctor may have been the one going through medical school, but I was the one working in a job I disliked, paying tuition and bills, cooking and cleaning, encouraging and picking up and dropping off from classes. Oh I was no saint, let's erase any inkling of that right now. I pouted and whined when his days got too long for too many days in a row, or when he had to work December 22, 24, 26, and 28th one year, when we were across the country from our families and I spent Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day alone. When I lost my job I leaned on him so hard it would have broken a lesser man's spirit. But he propped me up and we carried on. Like we always do.
But I must come back to my intended point here. Luck. I'm not here to wipe your face in the evidence of our hard work and determination. No. No indeed. I know full well that a lot of other people out there have worked extremely hard to where they are today, and have come away better or lesser than we have. These are the people who I give credit to and I know that if they happen to call me "lucky" it's with understanding and appreciation. Not out of jealousy or envy.
I suppose it's the people out there who I know who have SO MUCH POTENTIAL who refuse to pair that with work to get ahead in life. It's THAT group of people who not only frustrate me (I hate seeing wasted potential in the people I love, it really drives me bananas - yep, I used the term bananas to illustrate my mental state, nice eh?) but who kinda anger me when they see our lives and call it luck. It's the lack of perspective, motivation, effort that they possess that belittles our work when it's boiled down to chance. As if, given a different day or hour, we'd be living in a trailer and returning bottles and cans to make a living instead. No one says to "Luck hard at school today!" now do they?
So do I think there is any such thing as luck? Oh, I do. I think I'm lucky to have my son and my daughter, those XY and XX chromosomes were indeed by chance! I think I'm lucky when the sun shines and it gets me into a giddy-happy mood. When I find something that I thought was lost forever ("Oh my favourite scrunchee, THERE you are!") sure, that's luck. And, when it comes to my lifestyle, I suppose my appreciation of it is lucky, too, because you know that there are people out there that no matter what kind of husband, kids or house they have, they'd never be happy. And I am. Lucky me!
I suppose in general when friends or family call me lucky I have to assume they mean that they admire a certain quality in me (my eyes, don't they sparkle?) or about my life (great husband/kids). I MUST assume that they don't mean that I'm LUCKY in the true sense of the word. I'll give them that. But it's when more casual an acquaintance or more distant family member tells me that, or when it's used in an inappropriate situation, then I'm peeved.
Let me draw you a mental picture. With WORDS, no less (aren't you LUCKY?).
So let me use the Internet to give you the true definition of luck. Here we go, good old http://www.dictionary.com/ to the rescue. They give three lovely definitions:
1. the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities: With my luck I'll probably get pneumonia.
2. good fortune; advantage or success, considered as the result of chance: He had no luck finding work.
3. a combination of circumstances, events, etc., operating by chance to bring good or ill to a person: She's had nothing but bad luck all year.
Seem familiar? Have you yourself used the word in a particular circumstance to really hammer home the way you felt about losing your favourite scrunchee? Good then we're on the same page.
So why does it bother me when I hear "Oh you're so LUCKY to be able to stay home with your kids! You're so LUCKY to have a doctor for a husband! You're so LUCKY to be able to fly your mother/mother in law in to visit!" and on and on... I've heard it all. But, you see, very little of the good things in my life are a result of luck. So to say I'm lucky implies that I rolled out of bed one morning, stumbled upon a doctor to marry and the rest went down in history. No no no. No. Um.... no.
You see, dear reader, I did not MARRY a doctor. I didn't even date one. I dated a lowly University undergrad student. When I was also an undergrad student. We both worked our bums off to achieve our university degrees (our experiences were even punctuated by failures, having to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again, but, I won't get into that. Or who it was that did the failing... seems an unimportant detail at this point, really). And even to get to the point of dating my husband was not luck. But let's not get into my romantical past. That's just fine where it is. The point is I married my best friend. Perhaps that was luck, that all the qualities I was looking for happened to be within the one wonderful man. So OK fine, that was DNA luck, but I'm the one that snagged him (or he me?), and that was determination.
So as the years passed (13 of them AFTER high school, ahem) we worked hard, supported each other financially and emotionally to get to where we are today. No one thinks of the late nights, the toil and work, the holidays spent working instead of relaxing with family. No. All they see is the end result, which, from an outsiders perspective, seems pretty good. Especially for me, the WIFE of the doctor. I didn't have to do anything at all, oh no. I just showed up, buffing my fingernails on my shirt and adjusting my pearl necklace.
We've both sacrificed over the years to get to this point. The doctor may have been the one going through medical school, but I was the one working in a job I disliked, paying tuition and bills, cooking and cleaning, encouraging and picking up and dropping off from classes. Oh I was no saint, let's erase any inkling of that right now. I pouted and whined when his days got too long for too many days in a row, or when he had to work December 22, 24, 26, and 28th one year, when we were across the country from our families and I spent Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day alone. When I lost my job I leaned on him so hard it would have broken a lesser man's spirit. But he propped me up and we carried on. Like we always do.
But I must come back to my intended point here. Luck. I'm not here to wipe your face in the evidence of our hard work and determination. No. No indeed. I know full well that a lot of other people out there have worked extremely hard to where they are today, and have come away better or lesser than we have. These are the people who I give credit to and I know that if they happen to call me "lucky" it's with understanding and appreciation. Not out of jealousy or envy.
I suppose it's the people out there who I know who have SO MUCH POTENTIAL who refuse to pair that with work to get ahead in life. It's THAT group of people who not only frustrate me (I hate seeing wasted potential in the people I love, it really drives me bananas - yep, I used the term bananas to illustrate my mental state, nice eh?) but who kinda anger me when they see our lives and call it luck. It's the lack of perspective, motivation, effort that they possess that belittles our work when it's boiled down to chance. As if, given a different day or hour, we'd be living in a trailer and returning bottles and cans to make a living instead. No one says to "Luck hard at school today!" now do they?
So do I think there is any such thing as luck? Oh, I do. I think I'm lucky to have my son and my daughter, those XY and XX chromosomes were indeed by chance! I think I'm lucky when the sun shines and it gets me into a giddy-happy mood. When I find something that I thought was lost forever ("Oh my favourite scrunchee, THERE you are!") sure, that's luck. And, when it comes to my lifestyle, I suppose my appreciation of it is lucky, too, because you know that there are people out there that no matter what kind of husband, kids or house they have, they'd never be happy. And I am. Lucky me!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Baby Rage
I will be the first to tell you I've got a temper. A lightning fast, razor sharp, gone-as-fast-as-it-came temper. Before I was a mother, I chocked it up to immaturity, perhaps something that I would grow out of. Now that I'm older (only slightly) and a mother of two, I've come to accept that perhaps my temper may be here to stay. Except, in certain circumstances, I now like to refer to it as my "Baby Rage".
Let me explain.
Baby Rage is the instant of fury that strikes me with the intensity of a bolt of lightning whenever one of my babies does something totally innocent and completely awful. There are moments in time when I look at my son or daughter after they've committed a sin of the Baby Rage variety and I think to myself "WHY are you torturing me? How do you even know about mind games at your age?"
I know I'm not alone here. I know there are other mothers and fathers out there who have felt this way but might never admit it. I also know there are first-timer pregnant mothers out there who may read this and think "Oh my sweet goodness, what kind of mother feels RAGE towards her own child? That's awful and I'll NEVER feel that way myself!" Or older Mothers, looking back on their child-rearing years through rose-colored bifocals contemplating to themselves "My children never once did one bad thing. What's to be angry about?"
I would never never never never never never harm my child. Never. But I do remember very clearly during one of my first few Baby Rage sensations I felt with my son remarking to my husband "I was so angry, I felt like gently placing him down in his crib and throwing myself through the window." Not that I'd ever do that. I'm far too afraid of heights for that. I'm more of a stomp-my-foot-and-pout kinda gal. I was just using fancy illustrative words to convey my Baby Rage to my lovely husband who had missed that wonderful episode blissfully unaware at work, and, so I assumed at the time, drinking coffee with colleagues, twirling their moustaches and chuckling over the cost of pistachios. You know, doctor stuff.
Anyway, for those of you who can't FATHOM this type of emotion, let me describe to you some common causes and scenarios of Baby Rage. Picture this:
You are trying desperately to leave your house, to which you've been bound for days. Desperate for some adult conversation (even if it is with the high school drop out working the Monday day shift at the grocery store), you try your best to look presentable without ACTUALLY having to take a shower. You creatively comb and arrange your hair into a ponytail so that it looks decent, and not the 3-days-unwashed mess it really is. Throwing on some mostly-clean clothes, you begin to dress your infant (pretty straight forward), then start in on your toddler. Training pamper, socks, tee shirt, pants, coat, hat, mitts and FINALLY boots. You are SO CLOSE to leaving. One boot is on. Yes, you're nearly there. Then, at the very last possible moment, as you're helping your toddler put on their second boot, he grabs the top of your head and pulls, so that your greasy dirty hair comes out of your carefully arranged pony tail, leaving you look like you fell off the bus and rolled into a ditch. And? Your comb is upstairs. BABY RAGE.
Need more help understanding? Oh, I've got more my friend.
You spend the entire morning at the pool with your young child. Despite the fact that you are tired and groggy yourself, you decide to invest the effort into a fun filled morning at the pool so that after lunch, you can both crash out for a nice long nap. You wrangle them into their swimwear. You wrangle them all over the pool. You help them play. You step in to avoid fights with other tots. You break your back wading around the 3-inch deep tot pool, all the while freezing your fatty thighs off. It's a grand old time. Finally, you get them home, have some lunch, then everyone settles in for a nap. Once the wee one is asleep, you decide to clean up the lunch dishes, and hey, why not, throw your swimming things into the laundry. After checking email, taking chicken out for supper, and sweeping the floor, you think gee I should really lay down now as it's been 35 minutes since nap time began. Tired to your very soul, you peel back the sheets of your comfy inviting bed. The moment your head hits the pillow, "WAHHHHH" goes the monitor, and nap time is over. And it's 3 hours before your husband will be home. BABY RAGE.
Finally,
You decide to dust off your mop and try your hand at housework again after a few days (weeks? months?) reprieve. During nap time, you get out the broom and as quietly as you can, sweep the floors, then get out the Mr. Clean and begin to mop. You move chairs, you lift rugs, heck, you even move the SOFA to really give the floors the loving scrub they deserve after so much neglect. Pouring the dirty water down the toilet and looking about your sparkling clean home, you think to yourself, "Now was that really that hard? You should do this more often, look how much better the WHOLE house looks when the floors are clean!" A little later your child wakes from their afternoon nap and before you know it you're all having supper together, and this is the first time in history your child learns how to use his finger to press down on the top of his spill-proof sippycup and pour milk ALLLLL over the used-to-be clean floors. BABY RAGE.
-TDW
Let me explain.
Baby Rage is the instant of fury that strikes me with the intensity of a bolt of lightning whenever one of my babies does something totally innocent and completely awful. There are moments in time when I look at my son or daughter after they've committed a sin of the Baby Rage variety and I think to myself "WHY are you torturing me? How do you even know about mind games at your age?"
I know I'm not alone here. I know there are other mothers and fathers out there who have felt this way but might never admit it. I also know there are first-timer pregnant mothers out there who may read this and think "Oh my sweet goodness, what kind of mother feels RAGE towards her own child? That's awful and I'll NEVER feel that way myself!" Or older Mothers, looking back on their child-rearing years through rose-colored bifocals contemplating to themselves "My children never once did one bad thing. What's to be angry about?"
I would never never never never never never harm my child. Never. But I do remember very clearly during one of my first few Baby Rage sensations I felt with my son remarking to my husband "I was so angry, I felt like gently placing him down in his crib and throwing myself through the window." Not that I'd ever do that. I'm far too afraid of heights for that. I'm more of a stomp-my-foot-and-pout kinda gal. I was just using fancy illustrative words to convey my Baby Rage to my lovely husband who had missed that wonderful episode blissfully unaware at work, and, so I assumed at the time, drinking coffee with colleagues, twirling their moustaches and chuckling over the cost of pistachios. You know, doctor stuff.
Anyway, for those of you who can't FATHOM this type of emotion, let me describe to you some common causes and scenarios of Baby Rage. Picture this:
You are trying desperately to leave your house, to which you've been bound for days. Desperate for some adult conversation (even if it is with the high school drop out working the Monday day shift at the grocery store), you try your best to look presentable without ACTUALLY having to take a shower. You creatively comb and arrange your hair into a ponytail so that it looks decent, and not the 3-days-unwashed mess it really is. Throwing on some mostly-clean clothes, you begin to dress your infant (pretty straight forward), then start in on your toddler. Training pamper, socks, tee shirt, pants, coat, hat, mitts and FINALLY boots. You are SO CLOSE to leaving. One boot is on. Yes, you're nearly there. Then, at the very last possible moment, as you're helping your toddler put on their second boot, he grabs the top of your head and pulls, so that your greasy dirty hair comes out of your carefully arranged pony tail, leaving you look like you fell off the bus and rolled into a ditch. And? Your comb is upstairs. BABY RAGE.
Need more help understanding? Oh, I've got more my friend.
You spend the entire morning at the pool with your young child. Despite the fact that you are tired and groggy yourself, you decide to invest the effort into a fun filled morning at the pool so that after lunch, you can both crash out for a nice long nap. You wrangle them into their swimwear. You wrangle them all over the pool. You help them play. You step in to avoid fights with other tots. You break your back wading around the 3-inch deep tot pool, all the while freezing your fatty thighs off. It's a grand old time. Finally, you get them home, have some lunch, then everyone settles in for a nap. Once the wee one is asleep, you decide to clean up the lunch dishes, and hey, why not, throw your swimming things into the laundry. After checking email, taking chicken out for supper, and sweeping the floor, you think gee I should really lay down now as it's been 35 minutes since nap time began. Tired to your very soul, you peel back the sheets of your comfy inviting bed. The moment your head hits the pillow, "WAHHHHH" goes the monitor, and nap time is over. And it's 3 hours before your husband will be home. BABY RAGE.
Finally,
You decide to dust off your mop and try your hand at housework again after a few days (weeks? months?) reprieve. During nap time, you get out the broom and as quietly as you can, sweep the floors, then get out the Mr. Clean and begin to mop. You move chairs, you lift rugs, heck, you even move the SOFA to really give the floors the loving scrub they deserve after so much neglect. Pouring the dirty water down the toilet and looking about your sparkling clean home, you think to yourself, "Now was that really that hard? You should do this more often, look how much better the WHOLE house looks when the floors are clean!" A little later your child wakes from their afternoon nap and before you know it you're all having supper together, and this is the first time in history your child learns how to use his finger to press down on the top of his spill-proof sippycup and pour milk ALLLLL over the used-to-be clean floors. BABY RAGE.
-TDW
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Let me introduce myself...
Since I am fairly new to the "Blogging World" on the "internet", I have some vague feeling of obligation to introduce myself to any would-be readers who may, for some reason or other, stumble upon my little electronic diary. Should no one ever happen to read what I write here, I will enjoy reading about myself time and again, because I think I'm cool. If I do happen to make a go of it, I figure this brief yet heartfelt introduction will help people feel a deep and complex connection to me, hence helping lauch my blog into a new career and moneymaking factory.
So, here we go.
My name is Susan. I was born in Newfoundland and through a course of decisions, indecision, hard work, and luck, ended up married and living in Alberta. I have two children, a boy and a girl, and I'm married to my best friend who I met in University on the very first day of Frosh Week in our co-ed Residence. He is now, you guessed it, a physician. I graduated University as an Industrial Engineer. Shortly after graduation I realized two things. #1. Hardly anyone on the face of the earth knows what an Industrial Engineer is (except for other Industrial Engineers), and #2. I don't actually enjoy doing the work of an Engineer. Unfortunate, but true, I do believe I took the wrong road in University. But, as my grandfather was famous for saying, everything happens for a reason. And, as I'm famous for saying, education is never a waste. I truly believe that my Engineering degree will serve me to help me become the person I was meant to be. I also believe I'm not that person - yet.
I chose to name my blog "The Doctor's Wife" for a few reasons. First, I had NO IDEA what to name it, and at nearly midnight with half a can of warm Bud Lite for inspiration, it was the neatest name I could conjure at the time. I may change it, but I believe it has a certain zing to it, don't you? Say it softly to yourself in the mirror whilst combing your hair or applying lipstick. You'll see.
Second, I'm a big believer in taking credit where credit is due. When I met my husband, he and I were both lowly High School graduates. Our heads were full of ambitions and our hearts full of dreams. I achieved my goal of becoming an Engineer, and also snagging my best friend as a husband. 13 long years later, my husband finished his Bachelor of Science (Honors, showoff), Medical School and Residency (during which time we married, move across country, bought a house, and I conceived and birthed his two children, but to say that I suppose that would be bragging) and he, as he himself has told me, couldn't have done it without me. So, until I can get the College of Physicians and Surgeons to add an asterix to his diplomas with an explanation that some credit be given moi, perhaps naming my blog as I did will suffice.
Lastly, I think many people have a grossly skewed image of what a doctor's wife is like. Don't get me wrong, the typical image of a doctor's wife sounds AMAZING to me - arranging dinners for "my husbands colleagues and their wives (because, you know, all doctors are male AND married), getting up in the morning and dressing in my skirt suit and pearls to direct the estate help, volunteering at a museum three days a week. That more or less sum it up? No wait! Plastic surgery galore and Channel purses, the kid that hang from chains not straps. Well, believe me, if I had that kind of life I sure as heck wouldn't waste my time blogging to the likes of you (no offense). I want to shake society's image of doctor's wives by laying out quite plainly who I am, and perhaps a new stereotype can be born. Perhaps in my lifetime people will ask, "What's it like to be married to an Engineer?" Ahh... yes...
Well I hope this gives you a taste of what my blog will look and read like. I won't pretend to be anyone other than who I am. I will do my best to punctuate properly and keep the cussing to a minimum (in case Mom reads this). I'm opinionated, strongly, in many areas. Enjoy that. I over- and improperly-use the exclamation mark and parenthesis. You'll adjust. I'll do my best not to offend but I'm not going to sensor myself. I'll write when I can, or when I MUST BLOG, but between caring for two babies, a home and a husband, I can't promise to be consistent. Except consistently entertaining.
-TDW
So, here we go.
My name is Susan. I was born in Newfoundland and through a course of decisions, indecision, hard work, and luck, ended up married and living in Alberta. I have two children, a boy and a girl, and I'm married to my best friend who I met in University on the very first day of Frosh Week in our co-ed Residence. He is now, you guessed it, a physician. I graduated University as an Industrial Engineer. Shortly after graduation I realized two things. #1. Hardly anyone on the face of the earth knows what an Industrial Engineer is (except for other Industrial Engineers), and #2. I don't actually enjoy doing the work of an Engineer. Unfortunate, but true, I do believe I took the wrong road in University. But, as my grandfather was famous for saying, everything happens for a reason. And, as I'm famous for saying, education is never a waste. I truly believe that my Engineering degree will serve me to help me become the person I was meant to be. I also believe I'm not that person - yet.
I chose to name my blog "The Doctor's Wife" for a few reasons. First, I had NO IDEA what to name it, and at nearly midnight with half a can of warm Bud Lite for inspiration, it was the neatest name I could conjure at the time. I may change it, but I believe it has a certain zing to it, don't you? Say it softly to yourself in the mirror whilst combing your hair or applying lipstick. You'll see.
Second, I'm a big believer in taking credit where credit is due. When I met my husband, he and I were both lowly High School graduates. Our heads were full of ambitions and our hearts full of dreams. I achieved my goal of becoming an Engineer, and also snagging my best friend as a husband. 13 long years later, my husband finished his Bachelor of Science (Honors, showoff), Medical School and Residency (during which time we married, move across country, bought a house, and I conceived and birthed his two children, but to say that I suppose that would be bragging) and he, as he himself has told me, couldn't have done it without me. So, until I can get the College of Physicians and Surgeons to add an asterix to his diplomas with an explanation that some credit be given moi, perhaps naming my blog as I did will suffice.
Lastly, I think many people have a grossly skewed image of what a doctor's wife is like. Don't get me wrong, the typical image of a doctor's wife sounds AMAZING to me - arranging dinners for "my husbands colleagues and their wives (because, you know, all doctors are male AND married), getting up in the morning and dressing in my skirt suit and pearls to direct the estate help, volunteering at a museum three days a week. That more or less sum it up? No wait! Plastic surgery galore and Channel purses, the kid that hang from chains not straps. Well, believe me, if I had that kind of life I sure as heck wouldn't waste my time blogging to the likes of you (no offense). I want to shake society's image of doctor's wives by laying out quite plainly who I am, and perhaps a new stereotype can be born. Perhaps in my lifetime people will ask, "What's it like to be married to an Engineer?" Ahh... yes...
Well I hope this gives you a taste of what my blog will look and read like. I won't pretend to be anyone other than who I am. I will do my best to punctuate properly and keep the cussing to a minimum (in case Mom reads this). I'm opinionated, strongly, in many areas. Enjoy that. I over- and improperly-use the exclamation mark and parenthesis. You'll adjust. I'll do my best not to offend but I'm not going to sensor myself. I'll write when I can, or when I MUST BLOG, but between caring for two babies, a home and a husband, I can't promise to be consistent. Except consistently entertaining.
-TDW
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)