Well played Grandma, well played.

Mum posted a reminder on facebook today that not only is this weekend the festival of Imbolc and St. Brigit's day but that it is also the source of her mother's middle name. My maternal grandmother was born in 1914 on January 31st. Custom in Ireland at that time was to name your child with the closest religious feast day (perversely, the roman catholic church was the original culture jammer). So on January 31st, 1914 an infant girl named Marie Brigid O'Sullivan launched into this world for a much too short life. She died of skin cancer in her 50s after a lifetime of tanning (which is still a strange fascination of women in Ireland, despite all evidence that this practice leads to skin cancer). My grandmother was also the victim of torture known as symphysiotomy. The long term effects on her health due to this horrific procedure we might never know but she got sicker and sicker after each of 6 live births and had to remain hospitalized for a very long time after her last child was born in 1957 (her pelvis had to be rebroken since it hadn't healed correctly after the procedure).

I have written about my maternal grandmother before. She was a fantastic storyteller (or in Irish, seanchai). How do I know this? Well one of my earliest memories involve her telling me the story of the food growing in her backyard.  She was dying and Mum went back with me and my infant sister to spend a few months with her. We were the only grandchildren she ever got to meet. I am the eldest of 18 grandchildren (and a still growing posse of great grandchildren and two great great grandchildren) on my maternal side so there is a huge gap in our lives due to this loss. I remember her pointing to the fruit trees and her telling me that they were planted in that location in order to maximize the sun they would get. Grandma literally planted the seed of my food justice activism because I remember being fascinated with how much thought went into something like the fruit I enjoyed eating.

Despite her early death one particular story of hers continued on in my life and has had a lasting legacy. I had an early talent for mathematics and was often told the story of how my grandfather was also gifted in math and had scored in the top 10% of the national Irish exams in math. Alas, as the only son he had to forgo studies in the subject in order to support his mother and sisters after his dad died just as he was finishing secondary school. As a child, Mum was given strong encouragement by both her parents for learning to do arithmetic in her head so she wouldn't be stuck serving tables. Grandma often told her the story about her dad as an explanation for the talent she was displaying. This encouragement helped her to excel in maths and is was what enabled her to have a successful career as a corporate accountant. And this encouragement also helped me excel in maths and I felt so proud obtaining the mathematics degree in 1990 that my dear grandfather was unable to obtain.

So imagine our surprise when in 1996, after my grandfather passed away, we were all back in my mum's childhood home in Ireland clearing out some bedroom cupboards and we came upon Grandpa's Leaving Certificate. His standing in Maths? Ordinary level/pass.

So today dear Grandma, I am having a good chuckle in your memory as I unpack into a new house and hang up my two framed degrees (one math, one engineering) obtained via a story you told to your daughter and that she passed along to me. In the parlance of today's world:  well played grandma, well played.

Dirty Family Secret

I briefly got to know my then 34 year old uncle when I worked in Ireland in 1986. I was a 19 year old computer science student doing a work term placement overseas (where I instigated & developed the prototype for a very successful automated tax software program, the first of it's kind). Up until that point this particular uncle had been shrouded in mystery and, well, infamy.

In those days, he was labelled retarded. Today, looking at pictures and knowing a lot more of my family history, I recognize that he clearly had what we identify as Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.  So yes, that means that my grandmother drank her way through his pregnancy. I can imagine her now, always with a waterford sherry glass filled on an afternoon and a waterford tumbler with gin and tonic in the evening. She was a champion national golfer and I really need to flush out a wiki page with more information. She has a brief mention here.

In 1952, in a pseudo-upper-middle-class Victorian Cork household, this high functioning level of drinking was perfectly acceptable. In fact, she continued drinking like that until her death in the early 1980s. I had a complicated relationship with her due to the fact that she clearly loved my sister better than me. I wish I had an opportunity to have known her as an adult.

But back to this uncle and his uniqueness. When I spent time with him as a child during brief visits back to Ireland I was astonished and thrilled with his Lego collection.  He was mentally very close to my age so he actually was kind of mean with the Lego. He would only allow me access to a very small portion of his vast collection.  I see now that he was likely retaliating at the limited amount of contact he was allowed with me, his eldest niece. By the time I was 19 we were both allowed free access to each other and I was able to enjoy him 'showing off' his more mature obsessions: taking photographs and stamp collecting. He was a bit of an idiot savant (I see that in hindsight). His cobbled together panoramic pictures were exquisite in their perfection. His thoroughness in documentation of his stamps suggested a commitment to detail that I still admire in others.

But his infamy? Alas, that's where the real story begins. It's one I just recently shared with Daughter and was surprised that I hadn't previously although it really does require a mature mind to understand it.

You see, this uncle was not only a fetal alcohol syndrome victim.  As is common with many FAS children, he was also sexually deviant. However, in the early-mid sixties in Ireland, that was not the label given to him. He was retarded, and, a pervert. So, as a pervert, his contact with my sister and I was severely limited (to the point that when my sister and I spent a summer in Ireland during my early adolescence, he was shipped back to Canada for the entire time).  By the time I was 19 he was very heavily medicated so the situation was 'under control'.

This skeleton in my family's closet cloaked a poisonous veil around sexuality and that was how the topic got raised with Daughter. Narratives around sexuality that are driven by church imposed guidelines are bad enough but when you've got an actual 'pervert' in your family it is quite another matter. I am just beginning to see the effects it had. It has affected my inability to give voice to the difficulties I have faced in my own situation with multiple sclerosis and the effects it has had on my sexuality.

In today's world (in Canada) this uncle would have been identified as FAS fairly early and, ideally, his sexual deviance would have been identified early and given appropriate treatment and support. In early sixties Ireland, his inappropriate advances were responded to with panic and medication and deafening silence. He was isolated from his only nieces and many others. His world was very small. And, at 39 years of age, after over two decades of carcinogenic medication, he was riddled with cancer and died within 6 weeks of first going to the doctor with a pain in his shoulder.

What lessons do I feel my uncle and his sorry tale leave me? Part of me will always feel enormous sorrow for my uncle. A victim of alcoholism and the pharmacological medicalization of his deviances. But, also, I feel his story allows me to start to see the tendrils that skeletons leave scattered throughout a family. His story gives me a deeper understanding of my family's narrative around sexuality. It gives me a personal understanding of my grandmother's plight as a woman blazing new trails in golf clubs in Ireland (and elsewhere) with a sorry state of affairs back home. And, at the heart of it, his story gives me a nugget of courage to start to tell my own tale. Watch for more, in this space.

My Slow Media Diet

At no other time in history have we had so much information.  It is like a primordial soup of information out there.  And I am the first to admit that occasionally I drown and have to be resuscitated with a good solid dose of self imposed solitary confinement away from all of it.

I did that this past weekend.  And upon my return I reflected that each and every time I return to the 'soup' I think...."Wait just a gosh darned second...I don't need this shite....most of it is not life enhancing."

It is the 'most' bit that gets me each and every time.  The fact of the matter is that there actually is some utility in the information and that marginal utility is what prevents my digital suicide each and every time I contemplate it.

I enjoy (need) to hear about the day to day activities of loved ones that are not near.  I enjoy (need) to hear about the activities of loved ones that are near too.  I also find that most of my news is obtained via social media streams and I love the fact that I can mute certain streams if they no longer meet my needs.

I need interaction.  I believe we all do.  Forcing oneself into isolation is an activity encouraged only in small doses and in today's dispersed and time-deficient world we interact electronically alongside face to face.

This week's viral article on "Listening to Complainers is Bad for your Brain" reminds me of the essence of my discomfort with all of this information:  It is, for the most part, negative.

In the last year I have consciously chosen to try and live-talk and e-post only good news stories except when my blood pressure simmers to the point of needing to climb to the top of the rooftop and literally scream my displeasure.  A negative article or comment from me is the equivalent of a gorilla pounding her chest.  I am a passionate (and, um, unmedicated) person so this tends to happen on a regular basis.

Slow media is a lifestyle that encourage others to do the same.  Thoughtful and conscious consumption and production of media could radically change our world while maximizing the opportunities for significant and positive world change that technology affords us.

Shattered Family Ties

Daughter is home today after 22 days with Mother. September 1st is move in day at her university.  I have exactly one month left of her at home.

I continue to sift, sort, trash, recycle and gift the possessions in my house.

Yesterday I opened a package that Mother has yet to bring back with her to Newfoundland.  It was the below picture, in a frame.

I held the picture for a good few minutes.  This woman has been dead for nearly twenty years.  She is my aunt by marriage.  She married Mother's 3rd brother and they were the only extended family that we had in Canada and we spent a little bit of time with them throughout my childhood.  Sister and I were flower girls in their wedding.  They came to the big life events of good catholic households:  first communion, confirmation, wedding, etc.  This particular uncle was legendary in the family since he started smoking by eight years of age and started charging interest to his older siblings for loans at about the same time.  He is now a senior banker and has resided mostly in South and Latin American countries since shortly after his wife passed on, suddenly.  He quit smoking years ago and used to run marathons with XHusband.  I believe he still runs.

I thought about how I'd love to have known this woman, my aunt, throughout my adult life.  She passed away before I was comfortably esconced in adulthood - I was merely 25 years of age and living in a town about 2 hours from where she lived.  My memories of her are of a woman that had a fabulous sense of humour and a wry take on life.  I believe I would have enjoyed her immensely if I had been given the chance to live closer to her as I raised Daughter.

And then it hit me.  The loss of this woman was preceded by the loss of another woman that I was not given a chance to get to know, even in childhood.  The loss of my maternal grandmother.  I was shattered.  I was gripping the frame and choking back tears.  The loss of these two women left an enormous gap in my family structure and the subsequent decades of dysfunction - which show no sign of abatement - seemed to mirror their deaths.

My aunt, just before she died, suddenly, in 1992.

It struck me how the glue that holds families together seems to exist in the maternal bonds.

Mother was a young adult in a different country when her mother passed away.  A country that was extremely expensive to get to or from relative to the inexpensive costs of travel today.  My maternal grandfather did his best to keep the family relationships alive and together (with a healthy dose of solid dysfunction added) but after his death in 1996 the shreds of familial connections started to fray. At this point in my life I feel very little connection to the sixteen younger (living) maternal cousins and various and sundry second cousins that are still springing forth due to the fact that I am the eldest and the youngest cousins are still toddlers (I have two uncles that reproduced as seniors).  There are a couple of exceptions to this but living in a far away country makes it difficult to maintain any sort of intimacy.

Daughter, at seventeen, willingly chose to spend 22 days with Mother.  Would I have done the same at her age?  I was not given the choice since both grandmothers were dead at that point in my life. I do know though, that most of my entire life I have felt like a buoy that is not anchored.  Yesterday was the first inkling I had that the anchor I missed having was real and not just a product of years of reading self help books that described dysfunction in detail but rarely beyond the immediate family.  My maternal grandmother was an anchor that kept my maternal family afloat and her tragic loss before her family had grown left a gap that still reverbrates. And the loss of my aunt did the same - shattering the one meager extended family relationship I had on the new turf her, my uncle, and my parents chose as home.

And today, having found and named the lost anchor I feel I have actually sealed the cracks in my foundation. Mother is writing a memoir about her mother.  I eagerly await getting to know my lost anchor and feel enormous gratitude that Mother's anchoring presence is still in my life.

Good Grief

Today marked an entirely new variety of grief.

I knew my day was gonna be, um, off, to put it mildly by 7:30 am.  I had been up for 30 minutes, had a good 8 ounces of coffee into me and I had yet to have a clear thought that didn't carry a huge lump in my throat quickly behind it.

So I attempted to busy myself.  You know the theory....idle hands make for the devils workshop.  So I hung the laundry in the near freezing morning.  That task usually chippers me up but today, with my wide open deck gate and back fence gaping at me I was confronted by my loss.  There is no need to ensure that these items are secured any more because we no longer have a dog in this house.  It's been nearly two weeks and today it feels like a raw and unhealing hangnail.

In this state of mind I numbly attacked my linen closet next (idle hands, devils playground).  That effort requires strong will and a sharp mind to make tough decisions regarding the dismantling and reconstruction of the currently near-useless shelves.  One small bag of goodwill items later (and nearly an hour of fussing before that) I gave into my muddled mind and grieving heart.  I made one rule for myself about today...I must make no major decisions and then let the wind of grief blow me wherever she may take me.

I took Daughter to school first (she skipped the morning due to a late night outing with her new boyfriend...it is hard to give out to her with that honours average, three university acceptances and three scholarships she's toting these days...).  We shared a good laugh about my decision not to make any decisions today.

Then, in order to make the grief move faster, I went to the humane society.  Hindsight is making me call it a grief 'enhancer', if you will. I actually had no idea why I went there other than to just feel something maybe.  Luckily I made that rule (no major decisions) for myself before I left the house or else I likely would have taken Maya, the six year old spitz husky mix, home.  I might go back for her tomorrow.  There are no major decisions today.  I went to the cat room at the pound and guiltily scratched a cat while chatting with a volunteer.  I felt guilty because of my own affection starved cat at home.

Since I was already veering towards the east side of the city I thought I'd check out the restaurant where I'd hoped to get a bunch of friends together for a birthday Jiggs dinner.  On my way out to the eastern location I cruised through streets I hadn't been through for awhile.  It wasn't until I hit Coxwell that I realized I could swing by my family's first house in Toronto....very near Coxwell and the Danforth.  My earliest memories are placed here and I tend to revisit the old homestead when I'm in the area.  I think I've written about that before but I'm not gonna try and find it right now.

I expected the floodgate to open when I cruised down the street and spotted the freshly coloured front door.  It was so cheery looking that I didn't even stop.  That wasn't gonna serve my maudlin intentions at all!  As I cruised by the house I made a minor decision...I thought I'd prod the grief a bit by parking directly in front of the house and let my mind free float.  And there was nothing.  Nothing but the wonder I felt at the enormous tree in the front of that house and how much energy that tree contains.  As I grabbed a pic, for posterity (and my parents) I did not really take note of the rays of light in the the shot and how beautifully they peered through the tree.  I felt a bit ripped off that the visit didn't do any purging but I carried on to find the restaurant. I easily found the now closed and rather seedy looking restaurant (unfortunately a bit too similar to some of the places my family has seen during tours around the Rock) and then returned home.  I rode in silence and my mind felt a bit clearer.

I write this now after nourishing my body with leftovers from yet another meal made without my cooking companion.  I ate the meal and peered at the picture (posted).  I often used to call these shots with the rays of light that are placed just so, 'god shots'.  Maybe I might start calling them Shamrock shots since she was a ray of light in my life.  Gosh darn it, the floodgate opened, finally, and yet again.  This grief thing bites.  Large.

First Toronto Hegarty Homestead
Pic taken 2012.  Hegarty Habitat from 1969-1973

Cooking Companion

I've made very few meals since Shamrock died.  Today I forced myself to make a late breakfast.

The rhythms of ones' life can be subtle.  And once disrupted by something like the death of a family pet it is like a microscope gets placed on them and the rhythms start pelting out.

Cooking is something I've found solace in since I was a mere child baking homemade cookies.  Alone.  One of my most memorable gifts was my easy bake oven.  I shunned dolls but loved the miniature oven and once I was old enough to tackle the real stove I delighted in the whole process of cooking - and then eating the fruits of my labour and sharing them.

Daughter has not been taught cooking by myself.  I like to cook alone.  Or so I thought.  But the past few days have found me wailing with grief in my kitchen.  My constant companion is gone.  Every morsel brought out of my fridge was inspected by Shamrock from a respectable but often awkward distance on the floor.  The floor training was gotten to quickly...she was a large dog and had to be taught to give people distance around food. But if you ever fed her from the table she never forget who was slack about this and who was not.  Shamrock had the habit of lying directly in front of the fridge which made it extremely awkward while cooking but she made sure you didn't forget that she was there for any offerings of scraps while preparing a meal.

In her younger days she would prance with delight when a broccoli came out of the fridge.  In the last few months her eyes would perk up from the floor and I would place the stems directly in front of her to save her from having to pull herself up.  I ascribe those broccoli stems and the plentiful raw carrot treats to the great condition her teeth were in after 13 years.  Any opening of the fridge signaled to her that something good might come her way and it was more often than not in the last few years that I'd give her more than the usual offering of meat scraps and raw bones/cartilage on top of the many vegetable and fruit trimmings.

I keep two large glass containers of water in my fridge and a full ice cube tray.  She always preferred ice cold water and each morning I would top it up fresh cold and refill the containers in order to replenish throughout the day.  That was part of her fridge duty as well...eyeballing her water tray as if to remind me not to forget water duty.  I just poured myself a glass of cold water and started wailing.  I don't need 3 Litres of cold water in my fridge for two people.

Raw grief.  I was warned.

Daughter and Shamrock in Newfoundland on the
Skerwink Trail overlooking Trinity, 2008

Shamrock, still smiling after all those years.

Shamrock Hegarty  January 1999 - March 2012
Photo taken March 14, 2012

We met you at the Kitchener pound on St. Patrick's Day 1999.  Took you for a walk.  Or rather, you took us.  That never much changed.   Four year old Daughter begged.  I had been somewhat serious about the pound outing.  You were named before we left the parking lot after making the application to adopt you. That mandatory three day wait to adopt was exciting and terrifying.  I was expanding my circle of dependents, willingly. The small Canadian Hegarty clan of 2 humans (me, Daughter) and one cat (RIP Cadbury) was about to include a canine.

This past St. Patrick's Day, our fourteenth together, I wondered about the upcoming ultimate decision I was facing.  Because you did give us warning dear girl.  I thank-you for that.  We all knew it was getting close. And last week, after you had perked up again - perking up at this stage was measured by your ability to get up and down the steep old staircase in our house - I briefly thought back to the days when you could still hear me speak but you were showing clear signs of slowing down.  The days when I'd say, "It'd be mighty helpful if you just up and died on us one day so that I don't have to face the ultimate decision."

Of course, the ultimate decision is making the appointment.  The one with the needle.  The one with the public portrayal of tears, even if that public is the home visiting veterinarian.

You and I communicated well for 13 years.  I didn't always agree with you, nor you with me.  But I guess you agreed with me on the ultimate decision and conveniently died this weekend on our front porch.  The very same porch we sat on together for many an evening....you racing through your elder years while I meandered into middle age.  

I don't know how I'll cope with losing two dependents in one year...Daughter to University and you to the ultimate dogapalooza in the sky.  But I won't think about that now.  I'll think about your goofy smile, your crooked ears and your never ending supply of adoration for your clan.  And the formidable number of complete strangers that stopped me over the years to tell me how beautiful my dog was.  Perfect, even in death, you were.

Nollaig na mBan

"A strong woman."

I heard this slip out of a man's mouth as I passed by him walking my dog in my local Toronto hood a couple of years back. The comment was uninvited and he did not use these curious words as a greeting. It seemed to be merely an observation of my aura. At the time I wondered briefly if it was a figment of my imagination.

It wasn't the first time I had been called those words and it wasn't the last. At times I curse this reality, for it is often a very lonely road. At other times, like my chance encounter with the street side truth teller, and more recently, with the grandson of a Peruvian jungle shaman, I feel honoured that the core of my very being is acknowledged. I daresay that as I age, I embrace these words more and more.

Fortunately for me, there is an ancestral custom that is specifically geared to celebrate strength. The strength of women, to be precise. In Irish it is called Nollaig na mBan and it translates to Women's Christmas. The date of this celebration is January 6th (today).

And so today I am preparing for my second annual weekend brunch to celebrate this festival. I hope to continue with this tradition that my mom first reinstated on this side of the pond a couple of decades ago.

For our family this custom involves a gathering of women and homemade food and small gifts that are brought together in order to nurture and celebrate the awesomeness we are. The date for this celebration is generally chosen some time after the hustle and bustle of holidays. I recall a few February gatherings at my mom's. This year I have the good fortune to be able to celebrate twice...once in my home and the week after at my mom's home in Newfoundland.

If you are a woman reading this, please consider taking a moment to reflect on your own strength and the strength of those around you. And others, take a moment to reflect on the primal female/uterine strength it took to get most of us out and about on this planet.

My head is bursting.

Me at Machu Picchu, Peru December 3, 2011

I have had two weeks that will change my life.

I know this with a certitude that has escaped me in the past other than yes, I wanted to breed and yes, I would attend university (for much longer than the average bear...as it turned out).

I have no idea how my experiences from the last two weeks will change me.  But, then again,  I didn't know how going to university and becoming a mother would change me also. The uncertainty of the outcome is part of the deliciousness of the certitude.

My linear mind wants to force the experiences into tiny  boxes and, to be honest, on facebook I just status-ed about my 4 distinct vacations/destinations along with a distance count (nearly 20,000 kilometers by plane, train, and automobile).

I think I will allow a few days of processing and leave this post as an indication of things to come.

An only

In my lifetime I have seen the disappearance of the large family in the socio-economic landscape of North America.  We all know of them.  The families with 4 - 10+ children.  An old neighbour of mine, 10 years my senior, is the eldest of 14 children.  Both my parents came from small Irish 1940s-50s families...four children in dad's, six in mum's.  The largest families I know today have four children and they are anomalies.  Most families only have one or two children...sometimes three (gender 'triplets', as often as not).

In most modern North American families the parents decide when or if there will be other children.  The miracle of birth control has allowed this decision making to be easily enforced and the availability of safe access to abortion makes any errors in judgment or failures of birth control remedied effectively (if desired).

However in some families there are choices made, either by nature or nurture, that disrupt this parental decision making pattern.  I was raised in such a family and it is only quite recently that I have accepted this.  I had one sibling, a sister, for nearly forty years and then, she disowned us.

Seeing the starkness of that last paragraph brings a lump to my throat.  You know that saying, "You can choose your friends but not your family."  Well, my sister wised up to this about five years ago and got the hell out of her own personal Dodge which included the entirety of her blood relations - and all connections to Canada.  So although she did not choose her family, she claimed personal freedom by firing the lot of us and moving overseas.

I played some part in this and tried to own the whole thing, for many years. I only recently realized that as usual, I was overcompensating.  Trying to take blame on where blame was not due.  In fact, there is no blame to be had anywhere in all of this.  It is comforting to finally realize this.  In my small 1970s immigrant irish catholic family we were victims.  Each and every one of us. Victims mostly to a society that has changed with an alarming and ferocious speed since the dawn of the industrial era.

I admit to being overwhelmed by sadness at times about this loss.  I also admit to being angry that I am left to deal with aging parents on my own.  I find I have a grudging admiration for the tenacity it takes to follow through on this.  A tenacity that I feel, for myself, is best directed at other things.  Like staying off the smokes and exercising daily. 

Throughout the course of my life I have often been overwhelmed by feelings of being trapped.  As a single parent this was manifested quite magnificently.  Wisdom is now allowing me to see that the only thing that ever traps me completely is my own attitude and by blanketing myself with the feeling of being trapped I am unable to see anything to move forward towards.  Being trapped is a very safe way of being.  A comfort zone, if you will.

In order for me to loosen and start to remove the blanket that traps me I know I don't need to fire my family.  But I do need to acknowledge that I really am now an only child. And there is no-one and nothing to blame for it.  It just is.

Click pic to find source:  an excellent blog post about the
advantages of being and raising an only child.

Time is an invention

The concept of daylight savings time has always hurt my head.  The fact that only some locales observe it, even within countries, makes it especially ache.  As a child I noted the difference since sometimes Mom and Dad came home from work in the daylight.  I also noted that at times, I would have to go to bed in the daylight (no fair!).  We are told that the spring forward time change leads to an increase in accidents due to people being tired.  We are also told that the extra hour in the fall soon wears off and people go back to their sleep deprived ways, pronto.  These factoids, and the knowledge that most of the world no longer observes daylight savings time, do little to alleviate my head hurting.

I took off my wristwatch in 1996.  I was 29 years old and there were no pocket sized consumer cell phones back then that would allow you to tell the time immediately.  The circumstances under which I made this decision was a total frustration at the lack of time keeping by my Irish family whom I was staying with whilst on a summer vacation.  Time seemed to have no meaning in Ireland back then.  I have not been back to Ireland in awhile so I do not know if the digital age has changed this cultural norm.

Later that same year, when I was back for a second trip to help bury my grandfather, I recall this same uncle pointing to a train pulling into the Cork city train station and saying "That'd be the 10 a.m. train pulling in from Dublin."  My other uncle, long before deviated from his Irish roots by emmigrating to another country, looked at his wrist watch and pointed at it to my mum and I.  It was past 11 a.m..  I knew right then and there that I had made a good decision.  The man was seriously stressed by the lack of respect given to his wrist watch by the Cork train company.  To me, it was a moment that vindicated my decision.

Humans need structure.  But we must balance that with spontaneity in order for our creative bursts to see daylight.  I wonder if by taking off that wrist watch, long ago, I was publicly declaring my allegiance to the creative spontaneity I am continuously drawn to.  

Today, having 25 hours with which to ponder these thoughts, I wonder how I may nurture that creative spark a little more without disturbing the minimal structure I have imposed on my life.  The shortening daylight hours make me want to throw structure to the wind and hibernate till spring equinox.  But perhaps this year I might find the balance that has eluded me for years.

Snap, you've been pwned.

There was recently some controversial press surrounding the choice of a Toronto couple to not reveal the gender of their baby (their third child) to anyone outside of their immediate family.  The flurry of public judgment surrounding their family's personal decision reveals much about the state of our society.

Each breeder makes many choices in the course of their parenting journey.  Some choose to release their children into other families.  Some choose to continue breeding well beyond societal and global norms - China's one child policy has been in place for almost 32 years and, according to their authorities, the policy has prevented almost 1 billion births.  Some breeding choices are more public than others.  The Toronto couple's controversy stemmed from the fact that many people felt that gender is something the public is entitled to know.  Gender is something our culture feels it owns and we are lambasted daily with media images defining gender norms.  So it is no wonder the controversy brewed worldwide about 'hiding' the gender of this infant. Our culture has given permission for that to be owned by others and kudos to these parents for highlighting this fact.

I remember touring a day care facility while pregnant and the tour guide proudly declaring their ability to look after babies as young as three weeks (this was in the days of six month parental leaves).  I recall being suitably impressed.  Nearly immediately after giving birth I started to question this.  My line of questioning revolved around the inane choice to breed and then hand off the responsibility of raising your infant/child to someone else...or most likely a series of other people that are paid very low wages.  The average baby in full time care spends 40 - 50 hours of their prime awake times with someone else.  This seemed logical before I gave birth but was extremely illogical, to me,  postpartum.  It was like a light switch went off the day I gave birth and it has never turned off.  The era in which I was raised made me believe that the natural course of events in one's life included the farming out of one's children to other people's care.  "Two earner families are a requirement in this day and age" is a line I've heard time and time again.

I feel strongly that the speed at which our culture changed in the 20th century did not allow time for our values and priorities to be thoughtfully re-adjusted.  For example, in the middle of last century my parents were both raised in homes where a mid-day hot meal was prepared and served by a homemaker.  Children came home from school for it.  I believe this contributes to their mostly good health (ps Dad's okay).  I look around at my peer group and I see many illnesses that were unheard of when my parents were in their forties.  Heart disease and diabetes being the headliners.  Cancer too.

The urgency of our world to reclaim feminine power in the 20th century usurped the basic human needs of healthy food (and nurture).  Communities have been decimated and reduced to enclosures that families shuffle into at night.  Neighbours are not regarded as allies but merely as temporary acquaintances until the next property flip or job change.  Fear permeates most opportunities for interpersonal engagement to the point that it is discouraged as soon as a child is allowed to walk alone on the streets (which is now at a much older age, if ever).  Families don't even eat together anymore!

But getting back to the gender free baby.   Our society is quick to pass judgment on this issue.  I myself was criticized many times for raising my child in a television free home ("but what about her friends at school? doesn't she feel left out?").  I was criticized for her father's and I choice to give her my last name ("you won't be a real family").  Etc., etc.

But that is not really the crux of it.  At the end of the day we all have to be able to look in our children's eyes and hear their opinion on the matter.  And last night daughter read me homework for her grade 12 english course.  It was a narrative essay that, in part, applauded me for my choice to raise her in a television free home. As a parent I can think of no better way to capture how I feel while hearing her read it aloud:  Snap, you've NOT been pwned. She'd shudder to hear me misuse modern vernacular this way but so be it :)

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".

Freedom 105?

Father called a short while ago.

"I didn't want to worry you."

Fuck.

He has been eight days in hospital.  This is his third trip this year.  No answers as to why he is passing out other than it has something to do with his heart, they think (!?).

One more test Monday and then they might be putting in a defibrillator.

Both of my parents are 68 and in moderate states of health.

My dad, up until last Friday, has been working full time at a seasonal job since April and was really pleased that he landed this full time job so that he can collect employment insurance throughout the winter and return to the job next spring.  My mother has basically never not worked since arriving in Canada in 1967.

So far, each of their retirement years have been spent paying off debt.

They are not together and haven't been since 1982.  I often refer to their continuing state of employment (well into what should be their golden years) as one of the perks of divorce.  Or penances.

I'm not alone with this view point.  I can't think of one divorcee that has had an easy time of it financially even if it meant downsizing into a luxurious condominium from the family mansion after divorce proceedings. I have also personally lived this reality and have come to accept there is no golden years future for me too.

If my father's health now means he will no longer be able to work I fear for his mental well being, with good cause.  He has shown himself to be unable to 'do nothing' and today I am left wishing that I could support both of my parents so that each of them could pursue more leisurely activities at this stage of their lives.  Travel for my father.  Writing and travel for my mother.

As someone who currently is not gainfully employed these are pretty lofty goals.  But as someone who also just witnessed the passing of a similarly aged neighbour I am not rationally processing my fears at the moment.

Damn.