The street where I live...

The street where I live...

Saturday 28 January 2012

Three Years old.

On Monday my twin girls will turn three.  I have been a mommy for three years. And this sounds like a big old cliche, but it feels impossible that it's been this long, and at the same time impossible that it's only been three years.

When the girls were born my mom said this to me about parenting: "The years are short and the days are long." Abso-freaking-lutely.

Here is my little, sappy birthday message to my babies:

O.:

O., you were my first baby.  By four minutes.  Daddy saw you first.  I was on the table, frozen from the chest down.  Daddy and I were chatting as the doctors worked away on the other side of the drape.  And then Daddy said: "Whoa."  It wasn't a yell, or a whoop.  It was "whoa."  Like, a statement, as in, whoa... our whole world just flipped and yet, we are the same, and we are together, and now you are here too. When Daddy said: "Whoa" I said; "what?"  I honestly wondered what he was reacting to. My pregnancy had been tough on me emotionally and mentally, and I think a little part of my pregnant brain had convinced me that there weren't really babies in there. When I turned to see what the whoa was all about the doctor was holding you up so we could see you.  And I felt a little shift.  When I laid eyes on you, O., I knew that my life was no longer about me and Daddy.  My life now included this baby.  You were calm when you made your entrance.  Which is hardly a word I would use to describe you now.  And you were breathtaking.  The nurses said: "She's beautiful!"  Which, of course, they say to all the parents.  But, man.  MAN.  You were.  And you still are.  The common wisdom of the day is that we should all, we parents of girls, be constantly resisting the enormous societal pressure to make females feel that how they look is the most important thing about them.  And it is so true.  And you are so much more.  You are as smart as a whip, you are complicated, and fast, and crackling with energy.  But I just can't deny that you are GORGEOUS.  You are stunning.  Daddy and I have said to each other that we love how your beauty is tempered by your tendency to be so damn goofy.  You love to dance, you love all your toys but you love Elmo the best.  You love your aunties and uncles.  There are times when your whole body vibrates because you are so filled with electric energy and love and empathy.  Sometimes I worry that Z. gets more press than you do on Facebook and such, because she tends to SAY funny things, and you just are funny, which is harder to transcribe.  You always make the toys have really involved conversations with each other, and when there are no toys around you take strands of my hair and make them talk to each other.  And your empathy and caring are so, so perfect.  You don't like anyone to feel bad and you say: "You okay?" a million times a day.  You love positive reinforcement for yourself and for others.  When you pee in the potty you say: "oh, really good job, O.!" You climb everything, and no matter how many times we YELL at you not to, you love throwing stuff down the stairs.  You love when I read you stories, and when I stop all the other nonsense like housework and go play with you in the toy room.  You love animals but hate when dogs bark.  You are a very sensitive soul, and are as kind as can be to everyone.  You are shy in public, but at home you are an uninhibited performer. You dance and dance and sing and hug.  You made me a mommy, baby O. You were my first baby, and I love you so much. So much.  So, so much.

Z.

Z., when they held O. up in the hospital I was confused and thrilled and changed.  When they held you up it was a tiny bit different.  I had been given a lot of drugs, so I was kind of spacey.  But you made a bit more sense to me because you looked like every baby ever born in my side of the family.  You looked like your cousin Ja. especially. You looked kind of annoyed to have been so rudely ripped from your warm spot inside of me, and, frankly, kinda pissed off.  I sensed a kindred spirit in you when I saw the grumpy.  When they held you up I knew I was now a mommy to two babies.  And you were my baby baby,  my youngest.  I am the youngest in my family, too.  And so is Uncle D,. and Uncle J.  We have a lot of youngests, so we all kind of get each other.  The nurses told us how perfect you are, as if we didn't know.  In the hospital (we were there for a week) you were so calm and quiet we were sure we had a laid back little zen baby.  But now that you are three I can say you are NOT laid back.  You are a very confident little kid.  You are beautiful, just like your sister, of course.  But the thing that kills me the most about you, Z. is how damn funny you are.  Not only are you one of the funniest kids I know, you are one of the funniest people I know, full stop.  You walk into every social situation like you da man!  You love movies, and you can sing like a bird.  You endow me and Daddy with characters several times a day: Oh, Hi Miss Hannigan.  Oh, hi Elmo, and we are expected to jump into your world, and we do.  You are so cute it hurts my eyes to look at you.  Your little spirit fills our whole house with infectious fun all day long.  You love the computers, especially the ipad.  You have your Daddy's love of technology, and you already know how to bring up your favourite apps.  You love musicals and sing every song with complete conviction, and on pitch. You love animals.  You 're not that into dolls, but all animals thrill you.  You have a gift with the baby ponies and all the puppies and other creatures we know.  You are so fearless with animals.  And with almost everything.  You think of yourself as the boss.  And if someone else disputes your belief in yourself as the boss, you shrug and move on.  You are not easily wounded, but if O. is crying it upsets you deeply.  You don't like it when others are upset.  You are my baby, and I love you so, so, so much.

Twins:

Somehow Daddy and I always knew we would have twin girls.  We talked about it for years before we finally got you.  I am aware every second of the day that I am doubly blessed.  People don't think sometimes, and say things like: "I'm so glad I didn't have TWO!"  And I, uncharacteristically, don't blast them with my disdain.  I got two!  TWO!  I had one shot, one chance at becoming a mommy, and I got two.  I hit the damn jackpot. I didn't just get one beautiful baby when I had you, I got an instant family.  Since you arrived I have learned what it means to take FOREVER to get out the door, but I know that having you with me outside is way better than going out alone every time.  I now know what it means to never feel rested, or finished housework. I now know what it means to find it more entertaining to watch you watch a movie than it is to watch the movie.  I know what it means to love my family so much that I see everything through the soft haze of you.  Every second of my life is somehow about you.  You two.  And, as you turn three, I want to say this above all: Thanks, O. and Z., for showing up. I love you so hard it hurts.  But in a really, really good way.

Happy Birthday, Babies. Love, Mumma.

Thursday 26 January 2012

Please Don't Read This:

I still haven't really told anyone I'm doing this - writing this blog.

The first time someone said to me: "I have a blog" it was a fellow performer in a show.  I remember thinking: "You have a what now?"  I'd never even heard the term before.  And then, this same actor would later whisper to me, conspiratorially: "I have a new blog post up, and it's really deep."  Now, here is something I know for sure: if someone describes her/himself as "deep," you're probably not exactly dealing with Gandhi. In fact, you're probably dealing with the anti-Gandhi - a self-absorbed, delusional twit (I wanted to use a different word here, that is actually one letter away from "twit", but even though no one is reading this, I still feel I should watch the potty mouth.  My three-year-olds already swear like soldiers.)  So I am mildly ashamed to be doing this.  Which is silly as I don't want to seem judge-y to all the bloggers out there.  I read some great blogs on a regular basis.  And I love that people who otherwise might keep their awesome writing talent to themselves now have a forum because of the awesomeness of the interwebs.

So, I shouldn't feel shame.  But I do, a little bit.  I have been fortunate enough to have been writing professionally and academically for quite some time, but I have always avoided the self-analyzing, self-sharing kind of writing.  I guess all writing is a part of the writer being held up for scrutiny, but I'm just not an exhibitionist in that way.

I have written a few plays that I am very proud to have seen produced.  I have written many scripts for museums.  I love writing for theatre.  Love it.  And after years of doing it, I believe I have found my own, strong voice.  And my plays and scripts tend to share a common theme - they are almost always the product of my obsession with a historic person or event.  In other words, they are never about me.

J. and I went through a very large experience a few years ago.  We suffered through "unexplained infertility" for six years.  And we are artists, which is to say, we are poor.  So we went through the pain, trauma, joy, profundity and financial strain of IVF, twice.  For a couple of years now I have been playing with the idea of turning our IVF story into a play, but when I consider writing about ME without the artistic crutch of archival research, I get a bit phobic.  I have never been a monologuist.  It isn't my natural writer's instinct to write about myself.

But then, a couple of years ago, I joined Facebook and realized how fun it can be to share a bit of my inside world with the outside world.  "Friends" began to say: "Love your updates! You should start a blog!"

So here I am, several paces behind the band-wagon, starting a blog.

So far I have learned, from my epic four posts previous, that it is not as easy as it seems.  I do write quickly, as I always have, so the writing part itself isn't too hard.  But then I read back and think to myself: "Is this interesting AT ALL?"

J. is the only person who has read any of this so far, and as always he has been unfailingly supportive.  And he is always my best constructive critic. After the first couple of posts his advice was: "It's great honey, my only note - and this isn't a criticism - is that you should always stick to your own voice and don't try to be clever for the sake of being clever." (I'm paraphrasing, but it was something like that.)  And he is right.  When I read other blogs and see that a writer is effortlessly funny I also notice that s/he is only funny when the funny is naturally there.  S/he is serious when the serious is naturally there.  So, I will try to be me, in my own voice.

And, when I feel ready, I will post a link to this blog on my Facebook page.

Not today.

But soon.

That is my firm promise to all of you who are not reading this right now.




Monday 23 January 2012

On our way home...

In 2009, when the twins were five months old, J. was offered a job at the Site (large scale heritage site in remote location).  As we were living in one of the most expensive cities in Canada, we readily accepted.  We have a long history with the Site, and with the little town nearby that is also a heritage location in its own right, and would be our new home base. We were thrilled and relieved. We wanted to live somewhere more affordable, and we wanted to check out of life in a city, at least for a while.

The unfortunate part about this job offer was, J. needed to start almost immediately.  Yikes! We had infant twins and now we had to pack up and move quickly. And, as we know the Town well, we were absolutely aware that there would be nowhere for us to live.  The Town has been in the midst of a housing crisis for some time.  J. and I called a friend, A., who lives in the Town and was about to move from a one bedroom apartment to a two bedroom apartment (note: there is only one apartment complex in the Town, so there is never any need to call the complex anything other than the Apartments.) A. is a very close friend, and agreed to put J. up for as long as it took for him to find a place for us to live.  J. and I decided that I would stay behind in the city with the twins for a month to get packed up and to give him time to settle into his new job and look for housing.

So now J. had to face the first separation from his new little family and I had to face my first stint of single parenthood. We knew it was only for a month, but still, the pain of parting under the circumstances was almost unbearable. We have been actors and writers for most of our adult lives, blissfully ignorant of many real grown-up concerns.  We were only just finding out what parents have known for centuries: when it comes to your kids, sometimes you do what you have to do, no matter how much it feels like a cold knife is slicing your soul to pieces. And I understand fully that, no matter how hard it was for us to say goodbye to Daddy for a month, it was nothing compared to what J. felt as he left the babies for the first time since they entered our lives and made every second of our existence full of more love and meaning then we even knew was possible.

The month happened.  I had lots of help from my parents and my sister.  And I had many opportunities to figure out how to twin parent on my own (for example, I worked out that one twin in a jolly jumper in the bathroom door and the other in a bouncy chair next to the tub meant I could take a bath!) After many long distance calls and much instant messaging we were happily through it and on the eve of J.'s return to move our stuff into storage and take us all "home."

J. took an overnight bus, so he would be arriving back in the city fairy early in the morning. I got the babes and myself off to sleep (this was still in the hard stretch of waking up every couple of hours to feed them, so sleep was a precious commodity for all of us).  But, in the small hours of the night I woke with a start.  I assumed a twin was stirring for a feed, but when I checked they were both sleeping soundly. For some reason I was wide awake, so I got up and went to the computer to check Facebook.

As I perused the updates on my news feed I started to notice a pattern of cryptic messages from the theatre community.  The page was peppered with references to "sad news" and "a tragedy." I clicked on chat and saw that a theatre friend was online.

Me: Hey, wtf is going on? What is everyone talking about?

Him: K. and Jo.'s daughter died in a cabin fire at S. Lake last night.

Me: Jesus, no.

Jesus, no.

K. and Jo. are very prominent members of the theatre community in BC, and also in Canada. J. and I worked with them on a project a few years ago, but we also, oddly, had childhood contact with both. K. is from my home town and I knew her through sports, and Jo. and J. are from the same home town and knew each other a bit through high school drama. K. and Jo. had one child.  A fourteen year old daughter. When we worked with K. and Jo. their daughter was around a lot, she was about 8 years old then, and was romping about the sets, on the sidelines at rehearsals, a real theatre kid.

Over the next few days the details of the tragedy were gradually reported. The family had been vacationing at their inherited holiday property.  K. and Jo.'s daughter and her two cousins were sleeping in a cabin near the main house when a freak flash fire consumed the smaller building.  The fire was far too intense for anyone to rescue the children, and was even too intense to be fought.  Instead it was allowed to burn out.  K. and Jo. had to bear the unbearable, the unthinkable, the downright unspeakable.  They had to watch helplessly as the cabin, with their daughter and niece and nephew inside, burned to nothing.

I didn't know all the details that night on the eve of J.'s return.  Didn't need to.  What I knew was that a loving family had just been ripped to pieces. I suppressed the urge to vomit, turned off the computer, walked into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and watched the babies sleep.  I did not go back to sleep myself that night.  I didn't want to. I only wanted to watch the babies and wait for J.

When the morning came I looked out the window and waited for sight of J. When he came into view I watched as he walked up the front path after an overnight bus trip and a ferry ride and then another bus. I could see that he was exhausted but relieved that the journey was done and he was about to make our family whole again.  When he came through the door I was in the living room and the babies were on a blanket on the floor. J. and I rushed to each other. We embraced and gazed at the babies, now six months old, as they slowly, gorgeously recognized that their Daddy was home.  After a few minutes I told J. about what had happened to K. and Jo.  We sat quietly and watched the girls play as the full extent of the news filled us up.  We were so happy to be back together, but our happiness was tinged by the awful knowledge that not too far away people we knew were living a completely different day, a completely different world.

I think about K. and Jo. all the time.  They come to mind in those moments when I feel overwhelmed by parenthood.  I think about them in those moments when I am watching the girls play and feel overcome by their wonder and beauty. K. and Jo. are in the news a lot, because of their successful careers, and I hear about them through friends. So I know that they have somehow turned their grief into beautiful art.  They have continued to make theatre that astounds and moves its audience. They have taken the greatest fear of every parent and transformed it into their life's work.  Their baby lives in the beauty they create.

So, as J. and I packed up our apartment and moved it into storage and faced our new life, it was in that place of intense gratitude and our minds wide open to the knowledge that life can change in an instant, and that no matter what all this change and upheaval might bring, we will always, like K. and Jo. find a way to turn it into something beautiful.


Sunday 22 January 2012

Two

I need to go out today.  I need to walk around town and hand out invitations for the girls' third birthday party. I really need to get this done.  But here's what's happening in my house right now that is keeping me from doing what I need to do:

The girls are butt naked, in the bedroom,  and fully involved in a game they're making up as they go along.

When we were expecting our twins the advice we heard over and over was: "It's harder at first with two, but then it actually gets easier as they grow because they will play together."

I have no experience with having only one child, so I can only guess which parts are easier with two and which are much, much, much effing harder.

Last summer I worked as a performer and as front-of-house staff at the theatre in the heritage site that we live near (it is a huge part of the life of this community, this site, and I will write more about it but I still haven't quite decided how much or little personal information I want to reveal here...for now I'll just call it the Site.)  One afternoon a man came to the box office to buy tickets to one of the shows and he had his twin girls with him,  plus his other kids.  I said: "I have twin girls, too!" He asked: 'Do you have any other kids, besides the twins?" "Nope." he looked right at me with an expression of absolute knowing and said: "Don't ever let anyone tell you twins is twice the work. Because it's not.  It's EIGHT times the work!"

So now I have hard evidence that twins are harder.

But right now, as I sit typing, I can tell you that RIGHT NOW, it's easier.

And it's kind of magical.

My girls do not know what it is to NOT have someone to play with.  And their games are a joy to watch, and to hear.  They invent all kinds of crazy situations for their toys, and for each other.  They have a whole world that is just theirs.  J. and I are pulled into the games when they need a supporting character, but mostly we only sort of understand what's going on.

Right now each of their toys is being transported from the toy room to the bedroom, at which point the toy immediately dissolves into tears and cries: "What's happening to me!?" And then the toy is comforted with kisses and "it's okay"s.  Every so often the game stops and girls just start to laugh hysterically at a joke only they get, and when they're done laughing the game picks right back up again.  This is the big pay off, I think.  This is the reward that comes after the months of trying to feed two infants, of trying to get two babies into the car, of trying to shop and go to playgroup with two instead of one. The pay off is right now, when they are big enough to play together, when instead of doing what I NEED to do I am sitting here, typing, and refusing to interrupt the crying toy laughing game.

Friday 20 January 2012

ABC Snap


Ass-breaking cold. 

I just made up that term.  Because I needed some words to describe what we've just been through, and are only JUST emerging from.  

A few days ago I was preparing to go to the nearest city of "size" for a meeting.  I was going all by myself, which is a treat as I have rarely slept in a bed without couple of kids in it for three years.  I have always been a person who recharges via solitude, and me time has been an elusive bitch since I became "Mumma." So I was really excited to go, stay in a hotel, and watch TV!!! (We have decided not to get cable in an attempt to shield our daughters from the crap, and this has not been easy for me or my husband J., as we are both unapologetic screen addicts - we still watch DVDs all the time, but we are spared commercials and reality TV).  

As my day of departure drew near I began consulting weather network dot com and was just thrilled to see that one of the worst cold snaps in years was predicted for the entire time I was away, with the most severe drop happening overnight ...on my hotel night!

I have already mentioned I am a neurotic.

We have recently purchased two 75 year old heritage buildings, and this was to be the first ass-breaking cold snap of our residency.  So, as my day away drew closer my paranoia about what was going to become of my house and family in my absence grew and grew.

As the ABC snap was in its infant stages I was already walking around the house looking for cracks in walls as I had convinced myself that the cold was going to somehow freeze, twist and explode the building (which, as I mentioned, has endured ABC winters for over seven decades, AND was renovated from top to bottom by the previous owners, AND was thoroughly inspected prior to purchase).  When it comes to our new house, I ascribe to the Mad Eye Moody school of thought: CONSTANT VIGILANCE!  I was also obsessing about the fact that my somewhat forgetful mom-in-law would be watching the twins while I was away and J. was at work, and I had talked myself into believing that she would somehow forget that we were in the midst of an ABC snap and take them outside.  I continued to believe this in spite of the fact that the mere act of opening the door at minus 40 is like being hit in the face by a frying pan. But I pressed on, and drove the two hours to the “city”, leaving a list of directives for my long suffering husband: “Turn on the hallway heater and keep the bedroom door open.  Leave taps running overnight.  Check the temperature in the crawlspace before bed, etc. etc. etc.”

When I checked in at the hotel the ABC snap had begun in earnest.  As I attempted to sign the guest registry my hand was like a frozen claw and I accidentally threw the pen at the desk clerk. 

Once I was all registered I left the hotel lobby and headed out to park my car.  I drove up the ramp to the recommended parking lot and noticed that each spot was equipped with a plug in.  Ugh.  Not only had I not thought to bring a cord, I’d never even checked to see if there was a block heater in this new-to-us vehicle.  I decided not to stand out in the danger zone and start searching under the hood for a block heater when I lacked a cord and it would just make me feel bad either way. I resigned myself to the fact that I would most likely have a dead vehicle by morning, and parked my car.  But, as I was walking toward the hotel door, I heard a whirring noise.  I turned and noticed that a few spaces over was a large, monolithic block of metal with a large fan facing one of the parking spots.  I walked toward the metal block and when I reached it was hit with the unmistakable smell of generic restaurant grease.  I put my hand in front of the fan and thought: JACK POT! Out of the vent was pouring hot air from the cafĂ© two floors down!  I jumped back in my car and moved it over to the space corresponding to the grease fan.  My car would smell like hamburgers in the morning, but at least it would be warm(ish)!  I skipped into the hotel feeling like the only person in the history of the world to figure out the hamburger fan car park trick.

I made it to my room I immediately called J. to check on the girls.  No answer.  Voice mail.  Instant panic!  What could be wrong?  Something, obviously, or he would have picked up.  I redialed and redialed and redialed.  It is minus 35, for the love of Pete, he can’t be out!  Clearly the house has exploded. Why is he not answering! As I was busy inventing tragic scenarios the cell phone rang in my hand.  It was my J.

“Why do you keep calling over and over!?”

“Why aren’t you answering!?”

“Because I’m on the other line…on a business call!!!”

Right.

The other line.


There is an other line.

“Everything is FINE! I will call you back later.”

I sheepishly hung up and decided to watch TV to calm myself down.  Now, here is something I know now that I have been without cable television for two and a half years: television is, at its essence, alarmist.  Every news channel was shouting at me: “It’s so cold out there you will get frost bite in UNDER FOUR SECONDS!” “Don’t go out unless you are bleeding from a massive head wound!” “Don’t try to start your car if it dips below minus forty because IT WILL BLOW UP!” 

My “relaxing getaway” quickly morphed into an evening of repeatedly calling J.to reassure me that the house hadn’t exploded while I watched “Betty White’s 90th Birthday Celebration.” (The other thing I know for sure about TV after a two and a half year absence is that there is never anything good on, ever, and I always end up watching something soul sucking, like a reality show about the Judds.)

I did manage to get through my meeting and get back home just before the temperature dropped to the most inhumane levels of this ABC snap, and stayed there for three days. 


This kind of cold is serious business.  This is the kind of cold that can kill, and even a neurotic like me cannot be too careful.  This kind of cold reminds everyone in this little mountain town that your neighbours should be looked in on, and contingency plans in case of power outages are a matter of life and death. And this kind of cold reminds us that our town may look quaint and gentle on the surface, but we live high in the mountains an hour's drive (in good conditions) from the nearest hospital. We live in a place where the weather, when it decides to be, is huger than all of us combined.

This afternoon the thermometer croaked its way back up to minus 13C and it feels positively balmy. Neighbours ventured out for the first time in days and compared stories of frozen water pipes and stalled cars and wood heat adventures.  J. and I even took the kids out for a nice walk in the snow.  Although, part way through our walk I started to get really worried as I just read somewhere that, although the danger of frost bite in under four seconds has passed, there is still the possibility of the less damaging but equally sinister “frost nip.” CONSTANT VIGILANCE! 

Thursday 19 January 2012

Utterly Themeless

I don't want this to be a "mommy blog."

There is absolutely nothing wrong with mommy blogs, I just don't want to write one.

I certainly don't want it to be an "old mommy blog" (yesterday, when I was on the phone with the guy from the bank he asked, after hearing my kids screaming in the background: "Are those your grandkids?").

And I really, really don't want this to be an ACTOR blog. Not anything wrong with those either.

And I'm not ready to write an artist blog, and writing a writer blog seems weird.

I kinda want this blog to touch on the very particular joys and challenges of living in a tiny mountain town while trying to continue my life as an actor, artist, writer, wife and mommy of twins. Or, maybe I'll just write about celebrity gossip.  In any event, I will open this account, see what happens.  If it's anything like my gym membership then it will have been pointless to even start. But for now, here is what I vow: if and when I think of something to write, I'll write something.  Who knows, maybe a theme will emerge?

Oh...and also I'm a complete neurotic. Which I may need to write about. At some point.