Moving out of your comfort zone.

After years of being the exception I thought I knew how to survive in the dark dangerous zone of unfamiliarity.  I was part of the brave new world where women were equal to men. I had obtained an honours mathematics and computer science degree from the prestigious University of Waterloo.  I had obtained a master's degree in engineering and was pursuing a doctorate degree in the same subject area.

The first inkling of a flaw in my internal logic with respect to gender came while I was pregnant for the second time (I miscarried my first).  I vividly remember being in the women's bathroom of my engineering graduate school department and looking myself in the mirror and saying to myself:  "Wow, being a woman sucks."

The precipitous 'event' which was less an event but more of an all encompassing new way of life for me at that time was being nauseous 24/7. It was horrible. Horrible enough to wish I wasn't a woman. It seemed grossly unfair to me that biology had dictated not only labour (of which I was mortally afraid and as it turned out, with good reason) but also this feeling of wanting to throw up, constantly.  Morning sickness became a cruel euphemism ridiculing my constant state of gagging. I wonder if Princess Kate had this same realization.

Upon reflection I see that this nausea was perhaps a biological reminder that by becoming a parent, you move so far out of your comfort zone that a warm up sure doesn't hurt. Science doesn't seem to support this idea but how could it?  How could this idea even be tested?

Yet, if you ask any parent if they believe having children moved them out of their comfort zone I believe you would get 100% concurrence on this sentiment as well as an addendum:  "Most rewarding thing I've ever done."

So, forgetting the science, ask yourself what is making you uncomfortable, right now?  Could it be something that if you persevere it will end up rewarding you?

I'm grappling with these questions even as I type these words.  Some of the reading I've been doing about the art and practice of writing suggests that if you are painfully extracting words from deep within, you have found your voice. I am all too familiar with this notion yet constantly reject practicing (i.e. like maintaining this blog). 

And now, she can vote.

In a curious alignment of the stars in the universe (and on this planet) today's date in 1994 had Johnny Depp on the cover of People magazine.  I missed that cover.  I was busily delivering what was going to be my own personal star that day. That morning, to be more precise.

My daughter was delivered at 11:50 a.m. on October 3.  Eighteen years ago today.

My daughter. My only. My star.

On that date those magical two words rolled off my tongue like the most exquisitely composed orchestral score for the very first time. My daughter.

We didn't know her gender and I had determined, through anything but scientific means, that I was carrying a boy. I can be stubborn like that, even still.  So when her little wee clearly female crotch came out of me and I saw it in the mirror they thoughtfully had placed in order to see the results of my 39 hours and 20 minutes of labour (yes, it was vaginal and yes I begged to be cut open but my family doctor thoughtfully refused even though I really really begged).  I almost didn't get to see that little crotch hanging half out of me and half still inside since I wasn't exactly in the mood for pensive mirror reflections (refer to previously detailed length of labour as to the explanation for the mood I was in).  It was my family doctor who was also my delivering physician, who demanded me to look. Again, I thank her for that thoughtful command.

The miracle of birth and the astonishment about my daughter's crotch simultaneously collided in my head and I was literally transformed from awkward pregnant blob into a full blown mother of a daughter in that instant. It was likely also the instant that the post-birth hormones were released since I've never felt that sort of high before or since. And the high sustained itself for days despite my exhaustion.  I can feel an echo of it even today by concentrating on that instant.

I've rattled and prattled about Daughter here before. Yes, she is in university now. Yes I've had a few struggles as a single mom and all that.

But there are a few things I've neglected to mention and on the occasion of her 18th birthday I think it's about time I came out with a few things about her.  First of all, she is awesome (and smart and funny and all those things you expect a mother to say about her child but in this case it's 100% true).  And second of all, she seems to have a fan girl crush on Johnny Depp. And since I just found out that he was on the cover of the world's most respected gossip rag (arguably) the day she was born I guess I'm gonna have to excuse her nearly lifelong attraction to this actor despite my (often stated) misgivings about the age difference. So I'll just come right out and say it directly to her:  "You can have him sweetie...I'll move out the way now....consider it your first birthday present as an adult :)"

"Next":  Command performance of 1st year birthday cake eating complete.
No more disgusting chocolate frosted cake. Where's the vanilla ice cream?

There are no rats in this race. None.

This missive serves as a formal thank-you note to the parenting warriors I know.  And no, you do not need to be a parent in order to be named a parenting warrior.

All of us wear, as a public front, the results of our parenting.  So if I directed you here I was informed by you and your actions as to my own parenting choices. I likely talked about you with Daughter in the form of "There is this really cool person I met from a food thing/school thing/random thing (including the internet)...this is their story or why they are cool". And some of you I know more intimately than that but I might not have directly named you in my story telling.

The internet allows me to mask identities with Daughter if I have intimate knowledge of something and I was to pass along a great story but not reveal true identity.  More often than not I have chosen to share stories of action rather than stories of identity so I guess that means I've fully rejected most notions of idolatry .Which also happens to make me a really great atheist, eh?

There are tumultuous times as parents. Birth. Toddler. Preschool/early school. Grade 6 (for estrogen heavy children especially). And then, finally, the holy grail of parenting: Teenagehood. A last childhood stage that hopefully finales with a goal towards further education (formal or otherwise) and intelligent voting (I'm not joking).

Daughter moved away to university yesterday. She and I both entered a whole new world. One where my role as a parent will have shifted away from one thing to another.  And, according the to the God (Dr.) Seuss :  Ah, yes of course. Thing 2 would like to clarify that just because he wears the number 2 does not imply in any way that he's inferior to Thing 1. 

And like everything else in this world, when life is tumultuous one tends to turn to others in order to support and inform. And sometimes literally carry you (extra long hat tip here to The Parents, luckily both still alive and healthyish).

So whether or not you knew it, if I've directed you here then you were part of my own personal strongly social media infused Information and Support Team: Parenting Branch. (Brief Aside to an interesting fact. I first went online in 1993 seeking out parenting support after a devastating miscarriage. This makes me an original netizen).

You were the people on whose backs I often trod. And most of you know I'm kind of addicted to learning so many of you were just plain teachers. But the best kind of plain teacher is the one that you actually learn from. So thank-you for teaching me even if you had no idea I used you for my parenting role model (especially if you are not a parent lol).

Parenting was the biggest challenge I ever took on and I had heaps and heaps of learning to do on the subject since I was not part of any large familial structure as a first generation Canadian. An extremely grateful Canadian, now.

Some of you I do not or can not name because our interactions were so brief I failed to obtain a name.  And some of you I do not name because you do not getz the social media internetz thang (remember, I am 45, GenX - we GASP wrote snail mail in our youth and many of us still do...not me though lol).  But I might actually snail mail a few of those sorts of characters.  And, of course in the age of social media, some of you I name, but do not know face to face since we have never actually met.  And sadly, there is one dear friend who I especially wish to thank but she recently passed on. She was, ultimately, a fatal victim to her own childhood demons.

Memory, being what it is, will forget some. And memory, being what it is, will enlarge some.

Be that as it were, I now attempt to name you here via various sorts of social media avenues including good 'old fashioned' email. Because, you see, in the land of social media I can now name my not-necessarily-blood-related-clan. And not only name you but sometimes to also publicly thank-you, without a face-to-face ceremony. And ceremonies traditionally employ food and it just so happens that I've broken bread with most of you. And much of it good healthy AND tasty food at that :)

I am transitioning to stage II parenting now. And I certainly feel a ceremony should occur. So this is mine.

My transitioning parent ceremony will occur over the course of the entire month of September and I will attempt to blog here regularly about my reflections on parenting as I drive across Canada from Vancouver to St. John's along the Trans-Canada Highway.  I'm also hoping to get a few cross Canada harvest food related stories up on my newish food themed blog (but not recipes: they are here).

Namaste and again, thank-you.  Go forth and multiply the intelligent and humane sorts of folks that we are capable of creating.  Be a seed, as it were.  Plant yourself, flower and prosper.

My angel will grow wings.

I had a nice day and evening planned for myself yesterday.  And none of it happened.  I'm delighted.

I feel like I was released from a sort of purgatory.  And I guess, in a way, I was.

Being the parent of only one child and being on my own for nearly her entire childhood had me in a state of purgatory.  I've known this for years and really felt quite powerless to change the feeling.

Oh wait.  Do you know what purgatory is?  My catholic upbringing gave me some propitiously delicious analogies and I forget that not everyone has access to them.  My childhood was filled with images of chubby unwinged (for they are not holy angels, the poor wee craters) and unbaptised babies happily whiling their infinity away in the in-between-heaven-and-hell state of purgatory.  So by using an analogy to purgatory I'm not referring to something negative.  On the contrary it is quite blissful and all the more so because of one's own ignorance about the other two greatly opposing states of heaven and hell.

So back to the end of my own purgatorial frolicking aka single motherhood.

I've blathered about Daughter leaving for university before. Well. It's happening. Tomorrow.

And yesterday I decided in the morning to throw away all the day's plans and take action on a crazy idea that's been simmering for a few weeks now.  And boom.  Bam.  That crazy idea looks like it is gonna happen.  I'm tickled pink.

The funny thing is, once I shared my idea with Daughter (over our Last Supper alone together since boyfriend is coming over tonight), she exploded.  I got a blow-by-blow account of every resentment, every flaw, and every fear that was simmering away inside her 17 year old self against moi, the far from perfect mother.  It was all laid at my feet.  And after a few passionate exchanges between us she finally blurted out:  "I'm petrified of moving away to university."

And there it was. My baby still needs me. Gratitude washed over me. But Momma needs to push her out of the nest.  I didn't share that with her but I did tell her that I won't dismantle said nest just yet.  Upon reflection this morning I am struck by how normal this exchange was.  And that leaves me with a feeling of enormous satisfaction and the sense of release from my personal and unconsciously self imposed state of purgatory.

And oh yeah...my idea?  A cross-Canada drive....from Vancouver to St. John's with this really cool service.  Crazy, right?

One squirt and the job is done, for far too many.

I had a Haitian-Canadian co-worker who had had two children with two different fathers by the time she was twenty-six.  She had her first at seventeen.  The second father had bankrupted her.  She worked two full time jobs and her mother looked after the kids.  I met her in her teacher job and we went clubbing together a few times.  She was intelligent and stunning and wise beyond her years.  We were quite sympatico as younger single mothers and we shared some good times.

In one memorable conversation we talked about how easy it is for fathers to walk away.  She'd had two "baby daddies" walk (my term, not hers) and I'd had one and both of our mother's had 'lost' our own baby daddies too.  Her French accent made her words that much more powerful when she used hand gestures to describe the birth of the child and she drew in the sky a line that represents the umbilical cord.  She said:  "You see this?  The umbilical cord???  It is attached and even though it is severed it represents the 9 months we have been attached to the child but once it is cut it is not like we can walk away...the infant is attached to our breasts then.  We mothers are attached.  And the fathers?  What do they do?  They squirt up here [use of hand gestures to illustrate this].  And then they walk away. Nothing is attached. Ever. They can walk away because they ARE NOT ATTACHED!!!"

Brand Spankin'

Marleeville November 15, 2011

I've seen both of them, but rarely together. Actually I've seen the three of them but only once altogether. I've seen them many times in the last few weeks. They are always walking down the middle or on the side of my uptown suburbanish wide street. They never walk down the sidewalk.  I've seen them in the sun, wind and rain. And at all times of the day.

The thing about not keeping a regular schedule is that it is a little like stepping up onto the desk à la Dead Poet's Society: You get to see the world and it's happenings through a sort of prism rather than just a plain clear glass. A neighbourhood is a dynamic place and not just full of people getting up and regularly stuffing themselves into a cubicle. And my neighbourhood is no exception but due to the inflation of housing prices in this city there are fewer and fewer young families about. The last baby born on my street was whisked away to a bigger house this past summer. It seems that the post war bungalows on this street no longer suit the families of today. It is troubling that these same bungalows were entirely suitable for the large contingent of italian and portugese immigrant families in the 1950s thru 1970s.  Many of the dwindling stock of bungalows (developers are slowly gentrifying my 'hood), have aging matriarchs and patriarchs still canning tomatoes and making wine every fall.  Most of the remaining non-gentrified bungalows have single or coupled folk living with no children.  Infants are few and far to be seen in this area.

So when I first saw the woman walking down the middle of my road pushing a covered stroller I recognized immediately the confluence of spring in her step and weariness on her brow. Such a dichotomy can only make an appearance during a unique phase in one's life. The Brand Spanking New Parent phase. This phase is so brief and so infectious that I swear just a small vicarious dose of it during one's reproductive years instills the desire, nay carnal urge, to reproduce and live through this phase first hand. And having lived it myself I have to confess that seeing it again, albeit quite vicariously as a voyeur neighbour, gives me a sense of communion with this world that I don't know if I could also feel if I had not.

Before the biological clock turned off for me, a mere few years ago, I might have viewed this quite differently. My womb would feel barren and I would intellectualize the impracticality of more children. Now my heart sings with delight. The difference is marvelous and like all new experiences I am nearly raw with emotion after seeing Brand Spanking New Dad walking down my street today.

It seems that this Brand New Child is rather difficult. I suspected this right from my first sighting of Brand New Mom going down my street on an early fall evening.  I noticed immediately that she was gingerly directing the stroller away from any noise making opportunities (crunchy leaves). I was walking my dog and she gave me a winning smile (Brand New Mom hormones emanating!). I wouldn't have dreamed to talk to her after seeing the way she was avoiding the leaves. I had a Brand New Child like that. A child that didn't sleep and then once asleep was easily woken. So the Brand New Mom and I have merely exchanged smiles when I see her out on the street.  I see Brand New Dad less frequently and he also emanates a winning smile.  I think I've them together only once. I try to force as much empathy into my smile as possible because I remember the desperation that comes with all the other wonderful new experiences as a Brand New Parent. The desperation for sleep. A solid night. Oh jaysus what I wouldn't have done for a solid 6 hour night in that first year.

And this morning, from my front window, I see Brand New Dad go down the mostly leafless side (on the road, not the sidewalk) of my recently paved and beautifully smooth street. There is a very slight downward grade on my street. Both Brand New Parents walk the length of this downward grade and turn around rather than pushing the baby carriage up the steeper incline that follows. So I watch and wait for him to turn around (I'm near the end of this sloping grade). I have not seen Brand New Dad as often as Brand New Mom so I was watching openly from my front window. He was distracted by trying to sneak a peak at Brand New Child while still pushing at the same fairly brisk pace that some Brand New Children demand. My own Brand New Child liked to be rocked at a definite upbeat tempo and this rocking had to be done with an upright adult, in their arms, in a particular position. This became more and more difficult for me as the desperation for a decent nights sleep kicked into high gear about 2 months into Brand New Parenting.

The penny dropped as I was musing about my own experiences while watching Brand New Dad this morning from my front window. Brand New Mom has probably hit that desperation for sleep point so on a Tuesday morning Brand New Dad possibly took a morning off work in order to get Brand New Baby to sleep after a very difficult night.  Lately I have been having difficulty sleeping and the gratitude that I no longer face Brand New Child sleep deprived insanity overwhelmed me.

And oh yes, the above picture is Brand New Dad at the end of my street.  The Brand New Parents don't live on my street but since my street is the widest and smoothest one in the area I suspect it's worth travelling to.  I wonder what other adventures Brand New Child will introduce to Brand New Parents during his/her lifetime.  I hope they are joyous and more restful than this first one!

You are my fate.

Daughter turns 17 today.  This means that I got to say "my daughter" for the first time 17 years ago.

Language is so powerful.  These two words melted my heart for days, if not weeks after uttering them for the first time.  Even today I can tap into the wonder and marvel of those words and feel my heart melt a little.

There are so many hormones involved in this thing called mothering.

When I went on that farm trip a couple of weeks ago I felt like I was going to 'let down' when they started milking the cow.  It blew my mind that all these years later I could still empathetically release oxytocin by merely watching a cow getting milked (by machine even!).

I was a staunch La Leche League (LLL) member.  Attachment parenting, etc.  My daughter's crib turned out to be a great clothes hamper - i.e. she rarely slept in it..maybe twice - and since she grew by leaps and bounds in that first year a good clothes sorting basket was a handy thing to have (albeit a bit pricy).  Once I start earning a living wage again I intend to put LLL to the top of my donation list.  They are an amazing organization for new parents to turn to for support in all aspects of parenting.

I remember being amazed learning through LLL that some women who adopted could train their breasts/bodies to lactate. With the cooperation of the new born infant.  The miracle of birth is one thing but learning about this marvel of the female body completely gobsmacked me.  Hormones.

Daughter was a real snuggler, well after being weaned,  and really only stopped snuggling with me when she started snuggling with her teenage friends.  They regularly lie all over each other in the school hallways with heads on laps, feet on arms, etc.  There is nothing sexual about it (not overtly) and they are all platonically affectionate with each other.

I find this amazing.  At 17 I was not lying around on anyone's lap that I also wasn't furtively groping on Friday/Saturday nights.  Affection was always regarded as a prelude to something sexual.  And frankly I'm not sure if that was a nature or nurture thing.  I think catholicism and a general prudity of culture lingering in my 1980s suburb world had a lot more to do with it than I would have thought even 10 years ago.

My child, now a young woman, has been raised with the assurance that she is loved.  I know that she is nearly finished putting on her wings and will soon fly away.  That breaks my heart in some ways but I also know that this attachment parenting thing goes well beyond the nursing stage.  Hormonal human bonds transcend biology, as evidenced by the adoptive mothers that trick their bodies.  As daughter herself put it best in one of her notes to me long ago:  "You are my fate".