When I was growing up I spent a lot of time in cars. Most of our extended family lived in another part of the province, so we drove back and forth from where we lived to where they lived. A lot.
In those days there was no such thing as a vcr or dvd player in the universe, let alone in the car. So my sisters and I passed the long car trips by playing, fighting, puking (that was mostly me), or just looking out the window.
I spent hours of my childhood looking out a backseat car window as some of the most spectacular scenery in the world whizzed by my formative eyes.
I know I was born with an inclination toward visual thinking, and with an innate appreciation for that which can be seen. But I also believe that my love of beautiful sights was nurtured and honed as a result of being allowed to stare at things without anyone judging or caring. Long car trips gave me the gift of noticing the glassy slickness of wet rocks, the lushness of moss on tree trunks, the sheer joy of soapy froth on a churning river.
J. and I have taken quite a few car trips with our little experience sponges, and only once did we allow ourselves to use a portable dvd player a friend insisted on lending us. I recall feeling a deep guilt and sadness as over enthusiastic cartoon characters filled their little heads as we drove through a canyon so breathtaking it feels holy.
After that trip I told J. I never want dvds in the car again. I want my kids to see the trees, and the river, and the mountains that look exactly like they did when I traveled the same roads as a child.
J. readily agreed.
At this point Z. seems to be emerging as the more visual twin (this could switch, we are constantly delighted by how a seemingly set trait in one will suddenly ease away from that one and pop out in the other).
A few months ago we were nearing the end of a long road trip, just hitting the outer edges of the biggest city in our province, when Z. began to laugh deep from her belly. I said: "Why are you laughing, honey?" And she said: "It's so beautiful! It's so wonderful!" I looked back to see her taking in the traffic, the mountains, the signage...and she was right there, in the centre of pure joy.
A couple of weeks ago we were in the bathroom, getting ready for a bath. I was hurrying the kids into the tub, but Z. said, firmly, "No, Mumma! Not yet." Her tone made me curious as to what made her so resolute. I saw that she was looking deeply at a painting on the wall. And she was in it. She was right inside that painting. I knelt down to her level, and I said: "What do you see?" She broke her gaze from the painting, looked me straight in the eye and said: "It's beautiful, Mumma."
I am so overwhelmed with how beautiful she is that I can sometimes forget that she also can be overwhelmed by beauty. It is my job to make sure, as she develops more language and this cynical world does its best to erode her wonder, that I am always the one who brings her back to that place of pure understanding that she felt in the car, and in the bathroom, when she saw beauty, and she let it fill her up.
The street where I live...
Monday, 19 March 2012
Friday, 16 March 2012
Linked Up
So now the hard part begins...
Keeping a "secret blog" is one thing.
There's a certain careless loveliness in writing something you're pretty sure no-one is reading. But, now that I have linked up my Facebook friends to this little writing endeavor I can't get all their (your) faces out of my head. Now, as I type, I have to challenge myself to not self-censor based on who I think might actually read my posts. Yesterday a dear old friend wrote to me asking for a few encouraging words as she begins the process of writing a chapter for an Applied Theatre book (something she has never done before). I gave her a piece of advice that is part of my own writer's self-talk: "Try to say what you mean, and not what you think they want to hear." So hard. But I need to keep this idea in my head as I proceed.
Another thing I now have to consider is feedback. After much trepidation I posted a link to here and received lovely, encouraging comments, which was awesome. But so many comments were in the vein of: "You are so brave, I couldn't have exposed myself like that!" This sent me into a mad panic of re-reading my previous posts. Was I really that open? Because in my real life, I am and I'm not open. I can be very candid when talking about certain subjects, and other topics are hidden deep in my personal vault protected by a Gringotts-esque spell of impenetrability. So I suppose I'll just have to trust that anything I've said, or will say, on here is something I would be willing to spew out in public anyway.
A really cool thing about suddenly having readers is: the blog stats report lets you see where they are in the world! I have had visitors from Canada, the States, Germany, Italy, Russia, the UK and Hong Kong! Although I'm pretty sure the Hong Kong ones were my bosses who are visiting there right now, and at least one of the UK readers is my uncle. But still!
So a very sincere thank you to all of you who have had a read of my little essays. I am enjoying the process, learning a lot, stretching a new muscle, and trying to SAY WHAT I MEAN.
Keeping a "secret blog" is one thing.
There's a certain careless loveliness in writing something you're pretty sure no-one is reading. But, now that I have linked up my Facebook friends to this little writing endeavor I can't get all their (your) faces out of my head. Now, as I type, I have to challenge myself to not self-censor based on who I think might actually read my posts. Yesterday a dear old friend wrote to me asking for a few encouraging words as she begins the process of writing a chapter for an Applied Theatre book (something she has never done before). I gave her a piece of advice that is part of my own writer's self-talk: "Try to say what you mean, and not what you think they want to hear." So hard. But I need to keep this idea in my head as I proceed.
Another thing I now have to consider is feedback. After much trepidation I posted a link to here and received lovely, encouraging comments, which was awesome. But so many comments were in the vein of: "You are so brave, I couldn't have exposed myself like that!" This sent me into a mad panic of re-reading my previous posts. Was I really that open? Because in my real life, I am and I'm not open. I can be very candid when talking about certain subjects, and other topics are hidden deep in my personal vault protected by a Gringotts-esque spell of impenetrability. So I suppose I'll just have to trust that anything I've said, or will say, on here is something I would be willing to spew out in public anyway.
A really cool thing about suddenly having readers is: the blog stats report lets you see where they are in the world! I have had visitors from Canada, the States, Germany, Italy, Russia, the UK and Hong Kong! Although I'm pretty sure the Hong Kong ones were my bosses who are visiting there right now, and at least one of the UK readers is my uncle. But still!
So a very sincere thank you to all of you who have had a read of my little essays. I am enjoying the process, learning a lot, stretching a new muscle, and trying to SAY WHAT I MEAN.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Artless
I am no great follower of Oprah, but sometimes I leaf through a copy of "O" magazine when visiting my sister. There is a regular feature in "O" called: "What I know For Sure" wherein famous and vaguely famous people share insights into the few things they perceive to be absolute truths. Whenever I stumble across this feature I do a little psychological experiment on myself: I ask myself that question and make myself answer without hesitation. And this is always the answer I give myself: "I know for sure that I am an artist."
I know that I am an artist and I have known this for sure since I was a very, very young child. This has been a certainty to me, and to my family, and to my friends. Very few people ever asked me "what do you want to be/do when you grow up?" because I had made it clear that not only was I going to be an artist, from the time I was in my single digit ages, I simply considered myself to be so.
I hope this doesn't sound arrogant, or pretentious. It isn't meant to be. I am not even a little bit rich or famous, but I have managed to keep "artist" of some sort as the main descriptor on my tax return for most of my adult life. I am proud of that, and I am deeply grateful. I am an actor, a writer, a director and a visual artist. I am grateful to every person who has said "yes" to me, and allowed me to make creative expression a basic part of my every day.
A few days ago a horrid announcement was made in Vancouver: The Vancouver Playhouse Theatre Company is closing its doors after nearly 50 years. I have never worked for the Playhouse, I have never even auditioned for the company. But as an artist, I am sickened. The VPH is an institution, it is a flagship, it is one of the main companies in Canada and it has now closed its doors because the company is broke, in debt, and has hit the wall when it comes to finding ways to keep on keeping on. Vancouver theatre community members have been protesting, grieving, ranting, hugging and just trying to find ways to make sense of it, to keep hope alive, and to yell out the truth of the matter: arts need public funding.
I find it soul crushing to read the comments on the internet from people who don't understand: "This is a free market economy! If you can't be self-sustaining you deserve to shut down. My tax dollars shouldn't be funding theatre, I never go to see it anyway." etc. etc. The simple fact is, art of any kind, save for a very few select instances, is not self-sustaining financially. Without public/state funding Shakespeare might never have written a play, Michelangelo would not have painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, countless Canadians would never have written and painted and danced our stories - arranged in the form of art. Art needs funding, and every great society has understood this. Go to London, New York City, Rome, Berlin... you will find these places rich with museums, galleries, festivals, live performance, music, public art...and I can assure you, none of this is self-sustaining. These cities fund their culture because they consider it to be as important as the more prosaic amenities like garbage collection and policing. Art is what a city uses to express itself to the world. Art is the soul of the city.
I recently defended my MA thesis. My thesis is about the use of theatre in museums and heritage sites, and the use of theatre in communities to help us all understand and appreciate our own place in the world. I called my thesis: "Telling Ourselves to Ourselves" because I believe that this is the very essence of the innate human compulsion to make art - because we all need to find ways to understand what it means to be human. Art struggles to make sense of humanity in the most beautiful manners of expression - song, sculpture, dance, plays, books, stories, poetry.
Right now, in BC, we have lost our way as far as the arts are concerned. We have become a society that views art as a non-essential service. If you are a person who truly agrees with that statement - that art should pay for itself with no initial assistance from the community in which it is created - then I challenge you to live one day without art. Do not watch television, do not read a book, do not look at a painting or a sculpture, do not go to a movie or watch one on TV. Do not visit a festival, theatre, museum or gallery. Do not look at public art installations. And while you're at it, don't read the paper or even go on an internet site where someone has written words. Don't listen to music. Cover all art in your home. Most creative expression was, at some point on its road to fruition, helped into existence through funding, donated time, space, material, sponsorship, etc. I hope you will soon discover, during your artless day, that a world where all that matters is that which can be immediately measured with a price tag is a soulless, bleak and heartless place. And it is a place where love has lost its voice.
I know that I am an artist and I have known this for sure since I was a very, very young child. This has been a certainty to me, and to my family, and to my friends. Very few people ever asked me "what do you want to be/do when you grow up?" because I had made it clear that not only was I going to be an artist, from the time I was in my single digit ages, I simply considered myself to be so.
I hope this doesn't sound arrogant, or pretentious. It isn't meant to be. I am not even a little bit rich or famous, but I have managed to keep "artist" of some sort as the main descriptor on my tax return for most of my adult life. I am proud of that, and I am deeply grateful. I am an actor, a writer, a director and a visual artist. I am grateful to every person who has said "yes" to me, and allowed me to make creative expression a basic part of my every day.
A few days ago a horrid announcement was made in Vancouver: The Vancouver Playhouse Theatre Company is closing its doors after nearly 50 years. I have never worked for the Playhouse, I have never even auditioned for the company. But as an artist, I am sickened. The VPH is an institution, it is a flagship, it is one of the main companies in Canada and it has now closed its doors because the company is broke, in debt, and has hit the wall when it comes to finding ways to keep on keeping on. Vancouver theatre community members have been protesting, grieving, ranting, hugging and just trying to find ways to make sense of it, to keep hope alive, and to yell out the truth of the matter: arts need public funding.
I find it soul crushing to read the comments on the internet from people who don't understand: "This is a free market economy! If you can't be self-sustaining you deserve to shut down. My tax dollars shouldn't be funding theatre, I never go to see it anyway." etc. etc. The simple fact is, art of any kind, save for a very few select instances, is not self-sustaining financially. Without public/state funding Shakespeare might never have written a play, Michelangelo would not have painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, countless Canadians would never have written and painted and danced our stories - arranged in the form of art. Art needs funding, and every great society has understood this. Go to London, New York City, Rome, Berlin... you will find these places rich with museums, galleries, festivals, live performance, music, public art...and I can assure you, none of this is self-sustaining. These cities fund their culture because they consider it to be as important as the more prosaic amenities like garbage collection and policing. Art is what a city uses to express itself to the world. Art is the soul of the city.
I recently defended my MA thesis. My thesis is about the use of theatre in museums and heritage sites, and the use of theatre in communities to help us all understand and appreciate our own place in the world. I called my thesis: "Telling Ourselves to Ourselves" because I believe that this is the very essence of the innate human compulsion to make art - because we all need to find ways to understand what it means to be human. Art struggles to make sense of humanity in the most beautiful manners of expression - song, sculpture, dance, plays, books, stories, poetry.
Right now, in BC, we have lost our way as far as the arts are concerned. We have become a society that views art as a non-essential service. If you are a person who truly agrees with that statement - that art should pay for itself with no initial assistance from the community in which it is created - then I challenge you to live one day without art. Do not watch television, do not read a book, do not look at a painting or a sculpture, do not go to a movie or watch one on TV. Do not visit a festival, theatre, museum or gallery. Do not look at public art installations. And while you're at it, don't read the paper or even go on an internet site where someone has written words. Don't listen to music. Cover all art in your home. Most creative expression was, at some point on its road to fruition, helped into existence through funding, donated time, space, material, sponsorship, etc. I hope you will soon discover, during your artless day, that a world where all that matters is that which can be immediately measured with a price tag is a soulless, bleak and heartless place. And it is a place where love has lost its voice.
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Bag Blogger
So what have learned about blogging thus far? ... number one lesson: it's really easy to forget you've started a blog.
My life is so full I catch myself complaining much more often that I should. All parents have very busy lives. We all have ample reason to complain. We are being pulled at and judged and challenged daily, by the hour, every single damned second. Parenting is hard work. But, knowing that we're all in the same boat doesn't make me feel any less sorry for myself. I still wallow in the self-pity on occasion.
So, my bad blogging excuse is this: I'm busy! I have writing contracts to get to, I have a new show to write and rehearse, I have one room and then another whole building still to unpack (we moved into our new house EIGHT months ago!!!!), I have a mom-in-law living with us who needs much help, I have the endless soul-crushing cycle of housework, I have a studio to set up (my lifelong dream of having my own art/writing studio has been realized and I can't even get over there to set it up), I have one on one time with my kids that I am determined to get to at least once a day... AND I HAVE TWINS!!!!
I still consider this to be my "secret" blog, as I have yet to post a link, or tell anyone other than my husband that I am doing this. But yesterday, after several days of forgetting I have a blog, I checked my stats and saw that a few people have popped over to visit here, so this little post is my way of saying: perhaps soon I will decide to tell my friends about this, but for now, readers I do not know, thanks for showing up and I'm sorry for being a delinquent blogger.
I will try to do better.
My life is so full I catch myself complaining much more often that I should. All parents have very busy lives. We all have ample reason to complain. We are being pulled at and judged and challenged daily, by the hour, every single damned second. Parenting is hard work. But, knowing that we're all in the same boat doesn't make me feel any less sorry for myself. I still wallow in the self-pity on occasion.
So, my bad blogging excuse is this: I'm busy! I have writing contracts to get to, I have a new show to write and rehearse, I have one room and then another whole building still to unpack (we moved into our new house EIGHT months ago!!!!), I have a mom-in-law living with us who needs much help, I have the endless soul-crushing cycle of housework, I have a studio to set up (my lifelong dream of having my own art/writing studio has been realized and I can't even get over there to set it up), I have one on one time with my kids that I am determined to get to at least once a day... AND I HAVE TWINS!!!!
I still consider this to be my "secret" blog, as I have yet to post a link, or tell anyone other than my husband that I am doing this. But yesterday, after several days of forgetting I have a blog, I checked my stats and saw that a few people have popped over to visit here, so this little post is my way of saying: perhaps soon I will decide to tell my friends about this, but for now, readers I do not know, thanks for showing up and I'm sorry for being a delinquent blogger.
I will try to do better.
Sunday, 12 February 2012
Sunday Morning
It's Sunday morning. The street outside my house is lined with snowmobiles. Sleds. That is the proper, "in the know" name for them here in our winter dominated Town. In fact, if you use "Skidoo" as a genereric term, someone here is sure to remind you, in a somewhat patronizing tone, that "Skidoo is a BRAND name." Well, if I use the term "Kleenex" or "Xerox" as generics, pretty sure you know what I mean then, too. But I've decided to pick my battles.
After a snowy November, a mixed December, and an ass-breaking cold January, February has come in like a lamb and remained pretty lamb-y. It's been unseasonably warm and sunny and consequently the traditional hardest month to get through in our winter Town has been a time of cheerful walks with kids in half the gear I'd usually have to fight them into.
But this morning it's snowing again. The sky isn't too dark, so it might pass and return to our sunny holiday. But right now it's coming down softly.
The sledders are here for some sort of annual trip to our Town. I haven't had to deal with them much before this year as we've always lived off the main street. Now we live right on it, across from the main hotel in town. Last night the restaurant at the hotel was open, and it has not been for most of the Fall and Winter, so we took the family there for dinner. Locals were thrilled to have a rare alternative to the one eating establishment that stays open all year, while the visiting sledders were perplexed by our quaint ways: "Can I get a glass of wine?" "Sorry, you need to leave the restaurant, cross the lobby, go into the pub, order it at the bar, pay for it, then carry it back to your table yourself." It makes perfect sense to all of us. We're just happy to have a Pub open in the winter. We are happy to fetch our own booze if it means we have a place to get some of it.
Speaking of the Pub: the whole town was abuzz yesterday as we woke to the news that, in the small hours of the night, some thug a-holes had driven from the nearest bigger town (which is really, still a small town) to our tiny Town to look for trouble. This doesn't happen often, but it happens. So, these two idiots went to the Pub and started taunting one of our local boys, trying to get him mad enough to fight. They chose the admirable technique of talking shite about a friend of said Local Boy's. The friend they were disparaging happens to be dead. Local Boy is a sweetheart, but he is also tough as damn nails. I've known him since he was a kid and he is one of those small town combo kids who is charmingly polite and respectful to the older local ladies and yet can turn around and mop up a barroom full of jerks with his fist and then go right back to being polite. I love guys like that. So Local Boy deflected the taunts, but when one of the a-holes (after being thrown out of the Pub) sucker punched the owner of the hotel/bartender when he went out to remind them that they hadn't payed for their drinks, Local Boy and his friends took care of business, fist-wise. It happened right outside our front door and we all slept through it. But, yesterday morning it was all over Facebook and quickly became the talk of the town. We were all giddy with the news that our Local Boys showed two a-holes who came here looking for trouble that you don't mess with our Town. David and damn Goliath, right outside my house. Everyone was talking about it in the hotel last night, and everyone will keep talking about it until something else happens.
Oh...right now, as I type, the sledders are firing up their machines and heading off into the mountains. It sounds like a chainsaw revving contest. The sun is breaking through the clouds now, and the snow is slowing to a soft sprinkle. And the kids are bugging me to go outside.
So this is a February Sunday morning in our Town.
After a snowy November, a mixed December, and an ass-breaking cold January, February has come in like a lamb and remained pretty lamb-y. It's been unseasonably warm and sunny and consequently the traditional hardest month to get through in our winter Town has been a time of cheerful walks with kids in half the gear I'd usually have to fight them into.
But this morning it's snowing again. The sky isn't too dark, so it might pass and return to our sunny holiday. But right now it's coming down softly.
The sledders are here for some sort of annual trip to our Town. I haven't had to deal with them much before this year as we've always lived off the main street. Now we live right on it, across from the main hotel in town. Last night the restaurant at the hotel was open, and it has not been for most of the Fall and Winter, so we took the family there for dinner. Locals were thrilled to have a rare alternative to the one eating establishment that stays open all year, while the visiting sledders were perplexed by our quaint ways: "Can I get a glass of wine?" "Sorry, you need to leave the restaurant, cross the lobby, go into the pub, order it at the bar, pay for it, then carry it back to your table yourself." It makes perfect sense to all of us. We're just happy to have a Pub open in the winter. We are happy to fetch our own booze if it means we have a place to get some of it.
Speaking of the Pub: the whole town was abuzz yesterday as we woke to the news that, in the small hours of the night, some thug a-holes had driven from the nearest bigger town (which is really, still a small town) to our tiny Town to look for trouble. This doesn't happen often, but it happens. So, these two idiots went to the Pub and started taunting one of our local boys, trying to get him mad enough to fight. They chose the admirable technique of talking shite about a friend of said Local Boy's. The friend they were disparaging happens to be dead. Local Boy is a sweetheart, but he is also tough as damn nails. I've known him since he was a kid and he is one of those small town combo kids who is charmingly polite and respectful to the older local ladies and yet can turn around and mop up a barroom full of jerks with his fist and then go right back to being polite. I love guys like that. So Local Boy deflected the taunts, but when one of the a-holes (after being thrown out of the Pub) sucker punched the owner of the hotel/bartender when he went out to remind them that they hadn't payed for their drinks, Local Boy and his friends took care of business, fist-wise. It happened right outside our front door and we all slept through it. But, yesterday morning it was all over Facebook and quickly became the talk of the town. We were all giddy with the news that our Local Boys showed two a-holes who came here looking for trouble that you don't mess with our Town. David and damn Goliath, right outside my house. Everyone was talking about it in the hotel last night, and everyone will keep talking about it until something else happens.
Oh...right now, as I type, the sledders are firing up their machines and heading off into the mountains. It sounds like a chainsaw revving contest. The sun is breaking through the clouds now, and the snow is slowing to a soft sprinkle. And the kids are bugging me to go outside.
So this is a February Sunday morning in our Town.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Stumbling our way through
J. and I are not big planners.
We kind of negotiate our way through life leading with our hearts and our gut instincts guided by the general notion that if something seems right, and feels right, it might be right, so let's do that thing.
But having kids is a great, new, enormous frontier of not having a clue. The idea of suddenly being responsible for other people is a crazy big concept. And although we wanted it badly, and worked hard to achieve it, our pregnancy was not peaceful - at all. My fault. Entirely. A few weeks in I kind of lost my mind. We had spent so many years in a desperate state of trying to conceive, and I had gotten used to that. The feeling was familiar, and the fight it presented to me was actually, now that I think back, a perfect scenario to facilitate me at my best: "we can't get pregnant, you say? - watch me!" I have a contrary personality, and when I am told "no you can't" I feel a massive wave of "screw you and stand back" churn up inside me. So I fought hard to get there, to be pregnant, and then once I got there I lost my mind. Terror of the reality of parenthood crept in like Winston Churchill's "Black Dog" and I panicked. Here I was, over 40, financially insecure, living in a one bedroom rented attic apartment, driving a hand-me-down from mom and dad car, and I was pregnant with twins! After six years of struggle, heartache and intense fertility treatments my honest thought upon successfully achieving a very planned pregnancy was: I don't think I really thought this through.
So, I spent the pregnancy in a sort of icy panicked haze of semi-denial while J. tried to experience a small amount of joy without freaking me out too much. Sometimes he spoon fed me bits of reality, like when he quietly went out and bought the car seats we would need to bring the babies home from the hospital. Other times he tried to snap me out of it with tough love and firmly reminded me that I was "ruining this" for both of us. Eventually I gathered myself up and admitted to my doctor that I was having trouble finding any joy in the experience. She encouraged me to get help and found me the number for insurance approved counselors. I went to talk to a nice old Irish lady who reminded me of a combination of Bea Arthur and that lady named Sue who used to give frank sex advice to kids and became sort of a celebrity (I can't recall her last name, but hopefully you know who I mean). The counselor was great, and quickly said, matter of fact: "You are having an identity crisis." The diagnosis sounded so 70s. But she was right. She helped me understand that of all the things I knew I was: artist, fighter, writer, actor, wife - "mom" was not one of them. She kind of helped me snap out of it, and get on with it.
The problem was, by the time I saw Bea/Sue the pregnancy was well in and we still hadn't done much planning. J. knew I went into a semi-coma of stress if we even looked at cribs online or walked near the baby section of a department store, so by the time I was too pregnant to think about it we realized we'd done none of the expectant parent cliche manouevres like decide the sleeping arrangements, pick out names, buy stuff for the kids, etc, etc. Near the end of my pregnancy things started to get dangerous for me - gestational diabetes, hyper tension, etc., so now I was essentially bed ridden and told not to move too much or stress too much. So there would be no eleventh hour scramble of nursery set up or parenthood classes for us. We moved straight from denial about the pregnancy to the reality of making sure it didn't kill me.
We had, without necessarily meaning to, set ourselves up for one option of parenting strategy: as with most aspects of our life to this point, we would be winging it. Luckily we had some experience there.
So, on the appointed evening we left our apartment and headed to the hospital for our next morning C-section. I recall, as we were leaving, looking back over our little home and thinking: "the next time I walk back in here, I will be a mom." The apartment looked just like it had for the past two years. Nothing in that space would give any clues to the fact that this was about to be home to newborn twins - no cribs, no bassinets, no toys, no cute outfits waiting to be filled by real life babies, no swing or bouncy chair. It was just our home, same as always.
When I think of that time now, three years into parenthood, I understand a bit more of what was actually happening to me when I was pregnant. I have always been a person who could only deal with things when I could deal with them. As a child I resisted doing things because someone told me I had to. Although I was always one of the highest achievers in the class academically, I dawdled when it came to learning to tell time, tie my shoes, ride a bike. I always did these things when I felt ready. I didn't get my driver's licence until I was 28 because I didn't really need it until then. And now, I needed to find my own way into parenthood. I needed to have the babies there and present so I could actually see what was going on, what needed to be done, bought, set up. I was doing it my own way.
J. and I are very good parents, but we are not completely conventional parents and we freely admit it. Parenthood is fraught with immense pressure to "do it this way." But we are a couple of people who often do it a different way because the usual way doesn't fit, or feel right. Gut instinct and improvisation seem to have emerged as our parenting style, from how we sleep to how we play, laugh and learn. So, this is how we came to be a co-sleeping, dancing, laughing, happy, bluffing our way through with love and guts family.
We kind of negotiate our way through life leading with our hearts and our gut instincts guided by the general notion that if something seems right, and feels right, it might be right, so let's do that thing.
But having kids is a great, new, enormous frontier of not having a clue. The idea of suddenly being responsible for other people is a crazy big concept. And although we wanted it badly, and worked hard to achieve it, our pregnancy was not peaceful - at all. My fault. Entirely. A few weeks in I kind of lost my mind. We had spent so many years in a desperate state of trying to conceive, and I had gotten used to that. The feeling was familiar, and the fight it presented to me was actually, now that I think back, a perfect scenario to facilitate me at my best: "we can't get pregnant, you say? - watch me!" I have a contrary personality, and when I am told "no you can't" I feel a massive wave of "screw you and stand back" churn up inside me. So I fought hard to get there, to be pregnant, and then once I got there I lost my mind. Terror of the reality of parenthood crept in like Winston Churchill's "Black Dog" and I panicked. Here I was, over 40, financially insecure, living in a one bedroom rented attic apartment, driving a hand-me-down from mom and dad car, and I was pregnant with twins! After six years of struggle, heartache and intense fertility treatments my honest thought upon successfully achieving a very planned pregnancy was: I don't think I really thought this through.
So, I spent the pregnancy in a sort of icy panicked haze of semi-denial while J. tried to experience a small amount of joy without freaking me out too much. Sometimes he spoon fed me bits of reality, like when he quietly went out and bought the car seats we would need to bring the babies home from the hospital. Other times he tried to snap me out of it with tough love and firmly reminded me that I was "ruining this" for both of us. Eventually I gathered myself up and admitted to my doctor that I was having trouble finding any joy in the experience. She encouraged me to get help and found me the number for insurance approved counselors. I went to talk to a nice old Irish lady who reminded me of a combination of Bea Arthur and that lady named Sue who used to give frank sex advice to kids and became sort of a celebrity (I can't recall her last name, but hopefully you know who I mean). The counselor was great, and quickly said, matter of fact: "You are having an identity crisis." The diagnosis sounded so 70s. But she was right. She helped me understand that of all the things I knew I was: artist, fighter, writer, actor, wife - "mom" was not one of them. She kind of helped me snap out of it, and get on with it.
The problem was, by the time I saw Bea/Sue the pregnancy was well in and we still hadn't done much planning. J. knew I went into a semi-coma of stress if we even looked at cribs online or walked near the baby section of a department store, so by the time I was too pregnant to think about it we realized we'd done none of the expectant parent cliche manouevres like decide the sleeping arrangements, pick out names, buy stuff for the kids, etc, etc. Near the end of my pregnancy things started to get dangerous for me - gestational diabetes, hyper tension, etc., so now I was essentially bed ridden and told not to move too much or stress too much. So there would be no eleventh hour scramble of nursery set up or parenthood classes for us. We moved straight from denial about the pregnancy to the reality of making sure it didn't kill me.
We had, without necessarily meaning to, set ourselves up for one option of parenting strategy: as with most aspects of our life to this point, we would be winging it. Luckily we had some experience there.
So, on the appointed evening we left our apartment and headed to the hospital for our next morning C-section. I recall, as we were leaving, looking back over our little home and thinking: "the next time I walk back in here, I will be a mom." The apartment looked just like it had for the past two years. Nothing in that space would give any clues to the fact that this was about to be home to newborn twins - no cribs, no bassinets, no toys, no cute outfits waiting to be filled by real life babies, no swing or bouncy chair. It was just our home, same as always.
When I think of that time now, three years into parenthood, I understand a bit more of what was actually happening to me when I was pregnant. I have always been a person who could only deal with things when I could deal with them. As a child I resisted doing things because someone told me I had to. Although I was always one of the highest achievers in the class academically, I dawdled when it came to learning to tell time, tie my shoes, ride a bike. I always did these things when I felt ready. I didn't get my driver's licence until I was 28 because I didn't really need it until then. And now, I needed to find my own way into parenthood. I needed to have the babies there and present so I could actually see what was going on, what needed to be done, bought, set up. I was doing it my own way.
J. and I are very good parents, but we are not completely conventional parents and we freely admit it. Parenthood is fraught with immense pressure to "do it this way." But we are a couple of people who often do it a different way because the usual way doesn't fit, or feel right. Gut instinct and improvisation seem to have emerged as our parenting style, from how we sleep to how we play, laugh and learn. So, this is how we came to be a co-sleeping, dancing, laughing, happy, bluffing our way through with love and guts family.
Monday, 6 February 2012
My J.
Last night I woke up at about 1am. Okay, to be fair, I didn't "wake" up so much as I was awoken by O. suddenly barrel rolling over me to nestle in between me and J.
I'm one of those people who has no trouble falling asleep, but I have a helluva time falling BACK to sleep if something wakes me up. And because I am pre-menstrual right now my brain likes to find things to obsess about. So, I found myself wide awake at 1am obsessing hard about the usual: house, money, contract deadlines, etc. etc. I slid out of the bed, went to the loo, and felt a full blown panic attack gathering in my head and in my guts.
J. needs his rest as he is in a very involved, stressful job. So I resist waking him up at night. But I did not want to be alone.
I crept back into the bedroom and stood at the end of the bed. J. woke and groggily asked: "are you okay?"
"No." I said, and burst into tears.
So, this is a short post, but it is a thank you post to my husband who, knowing full well he needed to be out of the house before 8:30am, got up in the middle of the night and cuddled with me on the couch while we watched "Sherlock" (so good) on Netflix until I calmed down. He let me tell him the whole plot of the mini-series I've just watched, and he kissed my head and told me everything is okay. He reminded me of how everything goes a bit crazy for me in the middle of the night, and especially if I am in my PMS phase. He distracted me by telling me about the original AC Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories and how "Sherlock" has adapted these into its modern day setting.
J. is currently in a professional position wherein he is constantly being "needed" by people. His phone never stops ringing, his email alerts sound like morse code, he can't go out without someone stopping him to talk business. This is a guy who could use a few minutes of not being needed. And yet, when I go nuts at 1am he gets up with me and talks me down. Because I need him.
So, thanks, J. You are a first rate husband, father and friend. And, sorry to have to tell you this, but we all need you. A lot.
I'm one of those people who has no trouble falling asleep, but I have a helluva time falling BACK to sleep if something wakes me up. And because I am pre-menstrual right now my brain likes to find things to obsess about. So, I found myself wide awake at 1am obsessing hard about the usual: house, money, contract deadlines, etc. etc. I slid out of the bed, went to the loo, and felt a full blown panic attack gathering in my head and in my guts.
J. needs his rest as he is in a very involved, stressful job. So I resist waking him up at night. But I did not want to be alone.
I crept back into the bedroom and stood at the end of the bed. J. woke and groggily asked: "are you okay?"
"No." I said, and burst into tears.
So, this is a short post, but it is a thank you post to my husband who, knowing full well he needed to be out of the house before 8:30am, got up in the middle of the night and cuddled with me on the couch while we watched "Sherlock" (so good) on Netflix until I calmed down. He let me tell him the whole plot of the mini-series I've just watched, and he kissed my head and told me everything is okay. He reminded me of how everything goes a bit crazy for me in the middle of the night, and especially if I am in my PMS phase. He distracted me by telling me about the original AC Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories and how "Sherlock" has adapted these into its modern day setting.
J. is currently in a professional position wherein he is constantly being "needed" by people. His phone never stops ringing, his email alerts sound like morse code, he can't go out without someone stopping him to talk business. This is a guy who could use a few minutes of not being needed. And yet, when I go nuts at 1am he gets up with me and talks me down. Because I need him.
So, thanks, J. You are a first rate husband, father and friend. And, sorry to have to tell you this, but we all need you. A lot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)