Fireman-ballerina

My mother-in-law (really, my second mother) often tells the story of my gorgeous sister-in-law Kim(really, my fourth sister) trying to decide what she wanted to be when she grew up. She couldn't just pick one thing, and that's where the term 'fireman-ballerina' came from - wanting to be everything, deciding on nothing.

I've quit Avon and today is my first Avon-free day. I've spent some time thinking about what I wanted to be now that I'm not selling lipstick and bubble bath or answering zillions of website questions.

Obviously, I want to write more. My brain is happiest writing - words, descriptions, characters, and details make up the narrative in my head all day long.

I want to blog more. This place is my place and I want to share more of me with you. I want this to be a consistent part of my life.

I want to make more homemade gifts. Preserves, cookies, treats, homemade meals. Crocheted baby blankets, booties, hats, and dishcloths for the newly married. I want the cards that go with the gifts to be equally as beautiful, with delicate ribbons, stamps and punched-out paper. I want to be crafty. I want to crochet. I want to knit. I want to be Martha Stewart without the jail time and creepy calm voice.

I want to be the best mother ever. I want to spend quality time with my girls, helping them play and make memories. I want to have energy and patience for their antics and growth. I want to yell less and turn the tv off more.

I want to be a good friend and wife. Be there for those who need me, go the distance, talk for hours, be intimate in shared details and the mopping of tears.

I want to be a better housekeeper, where my house may not be clean, but tidy, not perfect, but not one step from a hoarders episode.

I want to read book after book after book, filling my head with other's art and stories, examining craft and stealing away to other places far from my reality.

I want to run. I can't right now because of my giant belly, fear, and cramping, but I want to in the future. I want to commit and be a runner for the rest of my life. I want my girls to look at me and know that being fit is a lifestyle, not a self-esteem barragement where one is simply trying to fix a finite problem. I want them to be inspired to be healthy and take care of themselves.

In short, I want to be a fireman-ballerina, jack of all trades, master of none, complete with time off for rest, naps, and having this baby.

Not too much to aspire to, right?

Goofy kind of grief

I have given up my leadership position with Sunday School and received a letter from the Canadian head of the church wishing me luck and saying he'll pray for me.

I have resigned from my paid position with Avon (I'm an Avon lady! Or was...) and now my manager is actively looking for a replacement.

I have officially told my Avon clients that this is my last campaign and that in a week and a bit I'll be done and now I'm receiving the 'I'll miss you!' emails.

I'm feeling raw today...sad and empty and helpless.

Rationally, I know that all of this makes sense. That if I don't pare down now I won't have a shot of avoiding postpartum depression again. That if I don't focus on what's really important, I will find myself quitting in an emergency situation, not when I 'choose'.

But, it doesn't feel like I'm choosing this. It feels forced...just not emergent.

I'm grieving a goofy kind of loss today. I'm grieving the loss of who I had become since my youngest, Lillian, was born. I'm grieving the job I created for myself, the life I had been living, the responsibilities I had accepted when I was well again.

I'm grieving the shift from Julia to Underwater Mama. Again.

And this grief is familiar and just as painful as before, even though I know that it is temporary and that I'll rebuild in a year or so.

I know all this.

And yet taking time to grieve, to cry, to mourn this loss of me again feels necessary. And present. And it won't go away until I've dealt with it.

Again.

Bye-bye, Julia. See you on the other side.

Fade

I feel like I'm fading.

Or at least just wasting away while waiting for something to happen.

It's not like there aren't things happening in my life. I'm the busy mom of two little people. I have friends and a semi-regular social life. Ish. I have a husband who I could talk to for hours.

It's not like I'm an island and I'm just frittering away my time, waiting for something to happen TO me. There are things HAPPENING. I just...

...it's like my skin isn't as bright as it used to be. It's dull. My hair even - streaked with ever-increasing lines of grey and hints of a hair colour that used to be mine. My clothes even feel scratchy, like my skin is trying to leave but the clothes are in the way.

What is that saying? Follow the rats? On a sinking ship? Or if they're leaving the slum all of a sudden? Get out?

I've wanted to escape my life before...before when I was sick and sad and broken after having my oldest, Sophie. I wanted to run away and never look back. I didn't have anything in particular to run to except for anywhere-but-here.

It isn't the same feeling. It's more like an "I'm here, now what?" feeling. As if there is supposed to be something MORE.

And maybe that's the issue. There isn't for now.

I'm a stay-at-home mom, so there is no MORE career-wise. I don't participate in my volunteer positions at church anymore, so there isn't any MORE there either.

Family-wise, I see people and participate and am engaged...so again, no MORE.

And getting out and doing things, I sometimes feel like it's too much, so I'm not comfortable adding MORE to that.

Is it that I'm missing a calling? Something I SHOULD be doing (although, if my therapist heard me use that word she'd remind me to stop shoulding on myself and start living my reality...smart lady)?

I don't know.

I do know that winter has been hard with being stuck inside, being overwhelmed with the idea of all the winter clothes and preparations needed to get out.

I do know that I have been at home by choice versus by blessing of a government maternity leave for a year...so I'm a year into being the stay-at-home-mom I swore I'd never be. Ever.

So I'm here. On my island full of people and teeming with life. I just need to find my spot again, find my equilibrium.

You know, before something else comes along and changes everything all over again.

Gratitude

2012 was a tough year.

It was a year where I finished my journey through postpartum depression.

It was a year where we found out we were having our third baby.

It was a year where we lost our third baby at 11 weeks.

It was a year of grief, of the deepest crying I've ever done, of the hardest work in our marriage we've ever had to do, and a year of leaning harder than we've ever had to lean on people.

It was the year we declared bankruptcy.

2012 was a tough year.

It was also the year I turned 30. It's a significant number because of the 0 at the end of it...and because it marks the end of the 20s, where everything magical was supposed to happen.

My 20s were magical - I graduated university, I married the love of my life, I established a writing career, I became a mother in 2009, I took a writing course with Miriam Toews, I became a mother again in 2011, I started my novel, and I learned more about myself than I ever knew existed.

To kick off my 30s, I decided I'd start a gratitude journal. The concept is nothing new. Oprah does it. There are apps for it. And Wikipedia even acknowledges it.

With 2012 being the year of really crappy stuff happening, I wanted to celebrate my new decade and 2013 with positivity. It sounds hokey and a little hippy-ish, but I was sick of only seeing the list above of all the bad stuff that happened and not remembering the good moments.

So far, I've been very faithful to it: every night before I go to bed I write down three things that were good. (I went with the List of 3 inspiration from Lauren of My Postpartum Voice - she often tweets about it and I liked the sound of "List of 3"...so I stole it. That's how that went.)

Some days I really need to hunt for things. I feel like I should be marking down extraordinary things, but most days they don't exist. It is in the hunt for three things to be especially grateful for that I realize that the ordinary good things that happen to us far outweigh the bad most days.

Some days I have to work hard to pare it down and ONLY pick three. I'm a rule follower and I have set these rules and I will follow them DAMMIT. Those are good days. :)

The most frequent thing I'm grateful for is coffee. With 2 babies 3 and under, this is not surprising. This is normal.

I think it's working, though, in helping me always look for the good. I haven't started looking for it during the day, just at night, but I feel like that is the next step. If I can find the good in reflection, then I will one day recognize the good in the moment. That sounds like an even better day.

Compromise

Some days I think about the compromises I made that got me to where I am and who I am today.

I'm not talking huge, life-altering compromises, but small, significant ones that looking back now I wonder - if I didn't make those, where would I be? Who would I be?

Where would I be if I didn't have to compromise a chance to live abroad simply because my sisters wouldn't also be given such an opportunity?

Where would I be if I wasn't busy compromising my pay cheque to keep my family afloat and I could have picked any school in the world instead of the school in my backyard?

Who would I be if I didn't compromise my deepest passions in order to be the perfect daughter?

What would my life look like if I didn't compromise risk and adventure for stability and a family?

I don't regret the choices I made (or in some cases that were made for me) - how can I without regretting every moment I get to spend with my husband and daughter, both of whom are my entire world?

But some days, the compromises are felt more than others...and the questions swirl...and all of the moments where a choice was given and decided become too hard to bear...

And I think - what Julia would I be if it weren't for all of the compromises I've had to make?

Losing myself

There are days when I don't even recognize myself anymore. Instead of a cool, level-headed 20-something, I'm an old nagging wife and mother who can't muster even an ounce of patience and compassion for my husband.

That's right - since I've last written, I've become a mother. The mere thought of this is insane - aren't mothers older than me? More put together than me? Better at this than me?

All evidence points to no, simply because no one is the "right" age to be a mother (there is no right age), there is no perfectly put together mother (it does not exist), and no one is better than anyone else (we are all our best at every moment by using what we've got and trying our damnedest to not fail entirely).

That last paragraph is the hardest thing in the world to embrace - that no one is perfect and I will never be.

But there are days when I feel like if I get angry one more time at my husband...if I am frustrated with my 3-month old one more time...if I breakdown and complain about motherhood to women who want children but aren't able to have them one more time...that someone is going to punish me by taking it all away - my beautiful baby, my patient husband, my good life.

I keep waiting, but no one comes...no one takes anything away....

But maybe it will happen one day. This is my greatest fear. EVER.

The art of losing

A very famous poem speaks of losing - of losing keys, time, and eventually, a relationship.

I feel like I'm mastering the art of losing people in my life.

It seems as if time is just zipping by. It's filled with all kinds of things - commitments, work, family, crisis, sleep. Everything that takes up my time is legitimate - it all belongs, it all must be heeded, and nothing really can be cancelled. But as my time is filled, I'm steadily losing people.

I've lost my best friends from high school. Granted, one of them moved to Switzerland on me, got married to an international, gorgeous genius, and now resides in Oxford. We kept in touch faithfully by email, until of course time came and ate everything all up. Now, we're lucky if every few months an email gets sent.

Another of those best friends is now married to an ex of mine...they went to a university 4 hours from here and while I stayed back, they grew up together and in love. I didn't go to their wedding because we had a family wedding up north on the same day and it pulled rank. I missed out on that moment when they finally solidified a future 7 years in the making.

Other best friends live in the same region that I do - distance and space are not the issue. Time is. People that I relied on, people that I grew up with, people that helped me become me have disappeared completely from my life.

Losing these people is not the most difficult part. It's knowing that I've lost them or am in the process of losing them completely that hurts the most. I know that I'm out of touch. In fact, I'm ranked on Facebook as the friend who is the most "absentee." And I know that only I can fix it and make it better.

Yet I plow through my life of commitments, work, family, crisis, and sleep, with hardly any time to do my hair, let alone connect for hours with old friends, never really getting back what I've lost.

I've mastered the art of losing, but I would love to master the art of finding, reclaiming, and ultimately, holding onto...because every moment lost is a moment gone forever.

Thanks be to Thee

Every Thanksgiving in our church, we gather up the harvest of the year in the form of vegetables, fruit, brightly coloured and creatively formed gourds, pumpkins, and squash, preserves, bread, sunflowers, mums, and brilliantly painted fall-leaf garlands. We then place them lovingly on the altar, bringing thanks to God like the people of old (except, no burning sacrifices - fire codes, and such, have changed slightly since biblical times).

I love Thanksgiving. A time devoted especially to saying Thank You, geninuinely, which, in my opinion, is a lost art. You either say thank you all the time or you don't, and both run the risk of losing the gracefulness of paying homage to someone that has done something for you. My husband, when he served behind that gloriously decorated altar on Thanksgiving morning, said that when you say "Thank you" you're really saying "I love you for what you've done for me." And it could be small, like scanning your groceries at the check-out, or it could be big, like being a surrogate for a family who can't conceive. The beauty of thank you is that for one moment you get to humble yourself, bow figuratively, and say, "I love that you took the time to do this for me." How beautiful of a season, how eloquent of a holiday, and how necessary it is to remember to do this, everyday every chance you get.

After this tradition of decorating the altar, though, is the bringing down of the plenty, which has it's own beautiful symmetry. We lay things on the altar to say thank you and then remove them when we're done, passing them onto people who need the food, need the love, need the thank you for the year past.

Some things, though, aren't needed. In fact, they are almost luxurious in quality. Like pumpkins or brightly coloured squash of every variety. Tasty? Yes. Proof of God's imagination? Yes. Necessary? Not like potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, apples, pears, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, and grapes. These items are a struggle to get rid of. As a faith that does not celebrate Hallowe'en, we have trouble moving things that others would snatch and carve in a heartbeat.

One sister at church, elderly, wise, and crusty beyond belief, came up to me, trying to sell me a large pumpkin.

"Julia, you know what I used to do? I used to take pumpkin, cook it, mash it, measure it out, and then freeze it. You can have pumpkin all year!" She looked at me like she had just unlocked a homemaking treasure, one that would lift me above the heartache of dishes and cleaning and dusting and cooking.

What could I say to her? I had taken 6 pumpkins and had done just that last week with the leftovers from a Sunday School craft and had 4 pumpkin-pie measurements in my tiny, one-bedroom-apartment-fridge-freezer already. I had no room for a huge, regular size pumpkin.

So what did I say? I told her just that, that I would, if I could, but I can't.

What should I have said, in the spirit of things?

Thank you, for that advice. For giving me a moment of 80 years of wisdom that comes from raising 8 children, all of whom are still faithful to God's work. For wanting to share that with me, a newbie in the world of all things homemakerish.

I hope next year I can take the time to tell her thank you, to say "I love you" in a way that means so much more than, "I know."

And the verdict is...

My job has ended.

And not because they hate me but because they've run out of work.

So it's back to the "find a job" grindstone.

And back to the panic. And the hurt. And the desperate need for faith.

See you on the flip side, hopefully with better news than this.

Butterflies

I am so scared.

I just handed in my first huge project. Not just for this employer, but in my WHOLE LIFE. And I have never been more nervous than I am right now.

Because I'm on contract. And currently that contract only goes until July 31. And then it ends. Just. Like. That.

And then I'll be unemployed, which is no good.

Not just because it is unemployment, but because I don't know if I can handle the stress of being unemployed again.

At the beginning of our marriage (and the months leading up to our marriage), my husband and I were both unemployed, which made doing things like living very, very difficult. With the help of God and our family and friends, we survived the 8 months of marriage with no money, although at the end I think I can honestly say that I knew what drowning must feel like. But I think that drowning would actually be mercifully much quicker.

Of course, our unemployment was brightened for two months by the employment from HELL, where I went home in tears every day and was scared out of my mind for two months. Because everything I did was wrong, stupid, and not good enough. It didn't matter that I just did everything I was told to do, or that the managers weren't so, um, good at their job. It mattered though that I was dumb, dumb, dumb. And in the end, who can argue with logic like that?

I could!

After being with the company I am now, which we will call the Dream Company, for 6 months, I can honestly say I'm not dumb. And my work is respected. And my opinion is respected. And my degree is respected. And my brain is respected. And most importantly I am respected. Which does wonders for a girl's ego, let me tell you.

But this project is still the biggest I've ever done and is still the most involved that I have ever accomplished. And it has also taken FOREVER.

Ay, there's the rub.

The amount of time I was given for the project had to be extended. A lot. And now that it is finally in, I hope that is worth all of those extensions. And that my boss will see it that way.

Because if he doesn't, I'm in trouble. And on July 31, when my contract could go either way, I know which way it will go.

And then I'll be dumb again. And unemployed. And that is the most terrifying thought ever.

Retirement

At work today, the nicest guy ever retired. He worked his last day for the rest of his life, or as long as he lasts in retirement before going crazy and picking up where he left off.

And as I sit there, a mere five months into my first, real, grown-up job (we won't count that awful experience from before - it never happened, got it?), I can't even imagine what that would feel like.

I have a feeling, though, that it won't feel as victorious and freeing as I imagine, sitting here bogged down with deadlines and too much work. I imagine it might feel kind of lost and maybe even a bit hard. Because how do you turn off a lifetime of something? Not easily.

But as I sit with my deadlines, crunching me as I come upon this long weekend (Happy Birthday, Canada!), I am imagining it to feel victorious and freeing, because that is what will get me through the next 40 years of deadlines and crunching.

Happy Retirement, Bill! May it be long, fantastic, and filled to the brim with good health and life. :)

Sinking

Somedays it's hard to breathe.

Hard to take a breath big enough to reach into the bottom of my lungs, filling them to capacity, puffing my chest out, and giving my body enough oxygen.

Somedays.

This past little while has felt a lot like that. I have been really, really, really busy lately, and everything in me just wants to lay down and sleep until I'm all out of sleep. And then get up and relax, doing stuff I actually want to do, not just stuff that is scheduled, and then oversheduled, and then triple scheduled (who ever heard of a stag and doe, and a part-time job, and Father's day on ONE FREAKING WEEKEND???).

Every new entry on the calendar feels like another puncture in my lungs, stopping me from breathing, from living, from enjoying. I feel burnt out. Again.

This feeling is not new or different from any other time that I've burnt myself out, but this time I feel like I have no way out. I feel as though this kind of thing could carry on forever and I don't know how to stop it. At least at school I could calculate, down to the minute, the moment that I would experience relief. Exams and due dates will help you do that. But in a grown-up life, where I get to "pick" my activities, it just doesn't work that way.

My husband says I should just tell them all no. No to your committee, to your brilliant idea, to your cause, to my God. Just say no.

That is the hardest thing to do. Even as I type this, picturing myself saying no, my stomach is tying in knots.

I keep saying that I don't know how. I'm not sure how to turn it all off, find peace, and refrain from participating. The troubling thing is I don't think anyone can teach me either.

So here I sit, slowly getting swallowed up whole by my schedule, slowly getting eaten alive, and all I can do is pray I can make it through the next thing without getting mad, freaking out, and potentially killing a friendship or seven.

Deep breaths, right? That will help?

I think I need more.

At the very least I know I'm in trouble. I mean, anyone who can fall blisfully asleep, complete with snoring, during deep tissue massage therapy 2 sessions in a row, because it is the only time that person is allowed to stop and close their eyes and just be, needs some downtime, right?

Please?

Why not?

An English major by trade, I have been trained to read the good stuff. Like a wine connoisseur, I can sniff out the books that will pack a punch for me and the books that will leave me wanting more and hating the fact that I've wasted my time.

There are, however, times where I will delight in reading something that's not completely heady, but sincerely well-written. In my humble opinion, and this is only my opinion, I love the Emily Giffin books Something Borrowed, Something Blue, and now, which I have just started reading, Baby Proof.

The premise of Baby Proof is this: Claudia, a 30-something woman, doesn`t want children. She knows she will not be the mother that she should be and she makes the decision to not have the bouncing babies society tells her she should. This, of course, puts her in a tight spot to find a mate. Eventually, though, she finds her soul mate, Ben. He is perfect and, to top it all off, he also doesn`t want children! A match made in publishing heaven.

They get married and are enjoying the single life when all of a sudden Ben wants babies. This of course throws their whole marriage off-course.

Now, I am a firm believer of making babies. I want them. Ask my husband - I ask for them ALL THE TIME. And although I know that waiting until we move out of our apartment and we have bought our own house with our own space is the best plan for baby-making, (which I heartedly agree with), I still WANT them. NOW. My poor husband. Anyway, I digress.

In the book, Claudia postulates the following question as she is getting bombarded with Ben's protests and arguments, and her best friend's concern: Why, when a woman says 'I don't want children,' immediately everyone asks, "Why not?" but when a woman says "I want children," everyone just understands?

That, I think, is a fantastic question. Why do we do that? I think there are a couple of really good spin-offs to this question.

Of course, the feminist rant comes first.

We harp and harp about women having choice - you can pick a) babies! or b) career! or c) BOTH, but in essence, we are only really offered option c.

If you only choose to have babies and no career, watch as the noses of people who are more professionally-minded start to stick up. Their mantra of career, career, career suddenly gets so resounding you can't hear anything else. Why would you choose raising your children over a fulfilling, rewarding, independent, freedom- and power-filled career? Why???

I remember getting a lot of these looks in just choosing marriage over grad school when I finished my degree. Why wasn't I heading up the mountain of success, and why on earth was a strapping myself to a man??

Well, have you seen my husband?

In all seriousness, I chose what would make me happy long-term, what I wanted, and what I have loved every second of since. Obviously, snooty career-snobs, I made the right choice FOR ME.

If you choose only career, though, like Claudia, you become the anti-mother, shunning all things maternal and gooey. How could you be so cold? So selfish? How could you give up your crowning achievement - your offspring?

Women fought for choice, but it certainly is portrayed that if you don't choose career-woman with 4 kids, you're picking stay-at-home drudgery or workaholic egocentric land. There is no choice. Let's be honest - we fought hard to "have it all" as defined by others, not to be realistic or aware of our very basic wants and needs.

Whoo. Feminist rant gone. Next order of business - BAD mothers.

We all know people who shouldn't have children. We watch them use, abuse, ignore, and forget their children. We watch them mistreat them or not treat them at all. We watch them as their children grow up to be the worst versions of themselves because their parents couldn't get it together long enough to teach them to be and express the best versions of themselves. And we cringe when we hear that they are pregnant. AGAIN.

And we all know people who would make fantastic parents. Give them a baby and it just starts purring. We all know them. And sadly, these star parents-in-training can't have children, for whatever reason. Can't procreate because reality is a big meanie.

And we wonder why?

What if each person who wanted children asked themselves, why? Why do I want kids? Why do I want to bring children into this world? And if they were honest about it, I think that people wouldn't have babies so quickly.

I know of a couple who are having huge marital trouble. They need to fix a lot of holes before they can call their relationship healthy. And yet, she wants children so badly. And she doesn't want to wait. And she has actually said that it's not fair that she's ready but he's not - why should she wait for him when she can have what she wants NOW. Because she wants it NOW.

But, as the age old war cry states, what about the children? How many kids are born into this kind of environment? And they're not just "kids," but human beings with rights and freedoms and purpose. Don't they deserve their best shot?

Which is why my husband and I aren't having babies now (even though I ask relentlessly, and I'm so sorry to make you be the stronger guy). We are waiting to give our children the best shot, not just any shot.

And the next time someone says, "I want children," I think I'll ask them, why? Why kids? Why you? And maybe a child won't be born without some thought behind it.

Because children are more than worth a second, third, fourth thought. And then they are worth your best. Always.

Observations from a coffee shop

Out on a field trip again today...enjoying the coffee shop working day.

***

On the way to work, as we sped along the on ramp to the highway, I noticed that the once bare hill that banks the left side of the ramp is now covered with long, skinny, shiney grass - the kind that picks up the light in a wave formation. As we flew by, it danced and shimmered, picking up the summer light, showing off its growth and greeness. It was a moment of nature among the hustle of highway, cars, contruction, and gridlock. I'm sure if the windows were open to let in the smell of pollution and "forward thinking," the moment would be ruined - but of course we had our earth-sucking air conditioning on, like any good citizen would.

***

The wind is here too, at the coffee shop, making the trees that were planted the day that the building was finished dance and play. They're tall and thin, showing off their delicate age still. Teenage trees that frolic, their rounded, full heads of hair bouncing around, nodding and looping, flirting and reaching to the sky, just as young people should. Enjoy, enjoy, but reach and soar. And if for one moment you forget that the trees are lining roads and parking lots, and if for one moment you pretend that you are in a field, carpeted with natural grasses, wild flowers, and unicorns, you can imagine that the trees are as happy as the wind makes them look.

***

Older people look so worthy to me - they don't look cocky and arrogant like young people, who feel like they know everything, while making ignorant decisions; they don't look like the middle group, of spit and polished corporate workers, or laid back relaxed corporate workers. They look refined, worked, weathered, strong, and calm. They don't have the nervous energy of youth, who can't sit still, who have to keep moving, keep busy, keep jiggling, keep up the facade of "I know!" They don't have the loud confidence of cologned and perfumed 30-somethings. They have the look of quiet power, of quiet knowing. I want that. I want, when I have reached an age to consider retirement, that kind of simplicity and wisdom.

Saw a woman on the way to work today - she had a shock of white gray hair, cropped short in a very hip way. She must have been 55. She was fit and was wearing a bright sundress, walking up the street with confidence and poise. Sunglasses, class. But then a peek at her bra under her arm mid-stride - not flashy, not patterned, not black. Pure white - the show of care for her clothes, for her bras, for the colour white. You know her mother told her to care for her undergarments. You just know. And you know that she listened now. And she may not have before, but now she knows, this is true. And she walked like she knew, but didn't have to tell anyone. Lovely. Perfect. My wish.

Man in the coffee shop who is tall, with white hair and conservative glasses. He is carrying a satchel, which could hold a computer, maybe. But instead he pulls out paper and a pen - old school. And he sits there, quietly, alone, working and thinking. Reading. Absorbing. And you know this is something he has perfected over the years. And his knowing is there too - as he watches the younger polished and the younger casual workers, chat and be excited, with their oversized coffees and laptops and cell phones (yes, me too). And he has a small coffee, a small notebook for notes, and a book open on his lap. And he knows, but we don't need to know that. Because he knows. Solid. Wise. My wish.

***

I want to be skinnier. Not in a starved way, but in a fit way. I want there to be a graceful curve to my neck, not rolls. I want my belly to be flat so when I'm pregnant you'll see my bump, not just exaggerated chub. I want gorgeous legs, or at least the the little bit of leg that I do have be fantastic. I want it. And I will get it if I get my round bottom off of the couch and out into the world.

***

Gentleman beside me recently lost his job. As I write about bankruptcy, where one of the main reasons people go bankrupt is because they've lost their job, my stomach hurts for him. He has a girlfriend and no job. Remembering my husband's and my unemployment I feel for him. The frustration, the worry. I have to breathe more...and remember that his plight is not mine. But I do hope that he finds a resolution sooner, rather than later. Hope, hope, hope.

***

Sleepy-headed boy, nodding off in a comfy chair. Brings back memories of when I was in school and I would head for the basement of Dana Porter Library, sink into one of their comfy chairs, and study and doze the day away, getting more work done than anywhere else. Granted, this groggy lad doesn't have any books with him, but he looks about the age that everyone assumes has the most energy. Truth be told, the most energy requires the most sleep. I miss the sleep of my university years, the frequent napping, and the flexible schedule. But the homework? That I will never miss. EVER.

***

Paris Hilton is going back to jail after she was released. Apparently, being Paris Hilton is not as glamorous as it seems in the photographs. Her head tilt, her model body, her sex on the internet, her television show, and all of her inheritance isn't saving her. And although the world is crowing about how awesome it is that justice is being done, don't you feel a little sorry for her? Not for going to jail and not for getting what she deserved, but rather for the fact that she has deluded herself into thinking she has real love in the world? That in her hour of need, the media-hooked-up world is calling for her hanging? Not petitioning that she be let go?

Can you imagine how isolating that must feel? Thinking you are beloved and then finding out you are reviled?

That would be awful. That's the part I feel bad for...her ignorance. And how stupid of her parents for supporting her delusions. For telling her she is loved. For telling her she is worth the world. For telling her that she is a celebrity. For telling her that she is precious. For telling her all that and then not mentioning that love only works unconditionally with her parents, not for the rest of the world. That she has to contribute and be something bigger than herself and her riches.

Poor, Paris. I hope she can see past her delusions in prison and figure out who she really is and who she really wants to be. Best case scenario? She does some soul-searching and finds a charitable, compassionate human being, instead of a cold celebutante.

Can you imagine a world where Paris is human and not fake? Where she practices humanity instead of toxicity? That will be a better world for her.

Now if only we could toss George Bush into jail, along with all of his idiot advisors. Those guys deserve to do some serious time. Stop killing the world - start making it a better place. Please.

Have you ever?

Have you ever stumbled across a story or a moment that touched you so profoundly that you startled yourself with your emotional reaction? That happened to me today.

I was reading through blogs that I have come across in recent days, and I discovered Sarah and Derek's heart-wrenching story.

Now, I don't know Sarah or Derek, but I do know that it is heartbreaking and even now, a couple of hours later, I'm still stuck thinking of this poor young couple and their crappy situation. She is dying from cancer. He is holding her hand. They are in their early 30s. It's just not fair.

And who am I to mourn? I have never, not even once, met them or heard of their plight before today. But for today, I feel as if I know them. As if I can appreciate the pain they are in. And it is not in a self-centred, egocentric way, but in a caring, compassionate, humanity-filled type way.

I look at my marriage, at my age, at my dreams, at the future that I have planned in my head, and I think about what would happen if it were all ripped away. What would happen if it all ended suddenly? What would I do? What would my husband do? What then?

It takes a lot of energy for me not to worry. I'm a worrier by nature, which I fully blame my mother for, and every day as I let my husband slip out the door to go to work, I pray so hard for his safety, for him to come back to me. Even though I know that God will only give me that gift if it is meant to be, and that I can ask all I want, but in the end it is still up to Him.

And every moment that I feel the glow of love for my husband, for my family, for my friends...each moment filled with laughter, loving quiet, hope, dreams, plans, and goodness, I have to struggle to hang on to the moment now, not to think about the moment getting ripped away. Not to think about what the future may bring.

I struggle so hard, and yet here is a couple faced with my greatest fear, and her husband has the strength to say, "Safe travels, my love."

Will I have that strength? I don't want to think about it, because I'm not faced with that situation...and yet I can't help but worry...

Love triangle

I've seen my future.

Well, okay, I've dreamed of my future. With my eyes wide open. So maybe, I've daydreamed my future.

I am dreaming of one day becoming a novelist...and not just any novelist, but one where people buy the book I write. And like it. Without getting paid or threatened to. That is the dream.

But this is not the dream that I talk about in my interviews with potential employers. The dream I talk about is different, slightly skewed for optimum brownie points, which, as we all know, make the world of job-interviews-becoming-job-offers go round.

The professional dream that I dream out loud to potential employers is the dream of being the head of a communications department - determining when and what should be communicated. Working closely with other writers and other brilliant people to send out a coherent, effective message. That is the out loud dream.

But it isn't the dream that keeps me up at night, or fills my brain with varying sentence structures and different stories. It isn't the dream that fills my mouth when I talk to my loved ones about my dream. It isn't the dream that I whisper to my slumbering husband..."You are the husband of a brilliant novelist."

I like that I have two dreams. It makes me feel like I will never tire of writing, even though that is what I'm currently doing for a living. It makes me feel like I have a barrier between the two, and they will never affect each other or cross over.

Inevitably, though, this barrier is only in my mind, and not in reality. And at some point I will hang up one of those dreams, possibly for the other. For like every other love triangle, eventually someone gets fed up with the arrangement, someone gets jealous, and someone gets too serious.

Unless, I can happily live in a polyandry world, where everyone is happy in our arrangement, because that is just the way it is.

Maybe.

Message for Britney Spears

Today is the first day in a while that I've felt peaceful.

During the end of November I went through some horrible things at work and ended up in tears and bruised (emotionally), and I quit my job. I have never in my entire life quit anything. I've taken breaks, I've taken deep breaths, but I have never quit. And I did it. I quit.

It was a horrible situation, one where I was getting yelled at for things I either didn't do or had no control over. My self-esteem and myself took a beating, and in the end I turned into this small version of myself. I didn't like what I looked like in the mirror, I didn't like what my brain was doing, and I felt impossibly incompetent and like a big fat failure. I mean, I had basically quit the only job that we had had.

I felt like a loser.

But yesterday I went on a job interview, and my credentials were lauded. The woman interviewing me even said someone drooled over them. And then the interview, which started out as a favour for a friend of mine, turned into my interview. At the end, she was giving me a tour and giving me information, and making plans to check my references.

In the end, I was back. I was competent. I was successful. I was a candidate. I was incredible.

And I realized that I had survived my month of depression, my month of not sleeping, my month of popping Tylenol everyday. And that I was worthy of a new job, worthy of being told that I was smart and savvy and brilliant.

I made it through the worst job of my life...and came out on the other side with a job offer and the promise of follow-up from another job.

That is what I'm taking into the next month, and the month after. Because I am worth more than every awful thing that that old place said. I am worth every moment of praise. Because I know I worked my butt off for 5 years in university and 10 years in total if you count the fact that I had no life in high school save studying and working and volunteering.

So now, I'm going to enjoy some nice relaxing time. Take some breathing space. And drink a cup of yummy, warm tea.

And bask in the glory of my comeback, which I feel is around the corner and much more sure than Britney's, I'm sorry to say.

Maybe I should call her and tell her that she can do it. She can make it. I wonder if anyone has said that to her yet. I wonder...

Bereft

My eyes are tired this morning...they want to close in the worst way possible, but of course, this will not happen until sometime tonight, when they are allowed.

My work is going slowly. I have one task today and it's not that big of one. Right now I'm stuck on fonts, but that isn't the problem -- I'm just lacking in motivation. I need someone to come along and pick me up and carry me through.

My sister recently lost a friend of hers in a car accident - he passed away at the tender age of 17. His death rocked the little church community we inhabit and she has been mourning fairly steadily since then.

Just this past week, she broke up with her boyfriend (she was the dumper and is upset and guilty and worried). These feelings of hurt have lead her to have vivid dreams, like she did when her friend passed away. A few nights ago she dreamed that it wasn't her friend that passed away, but her now ex-boyfriend. She was so upset, sobbing and dying inside, and then her friend, the one who in actuality passed away, came over to her, picked her up in his arms and cradled her, saying over and over again, "It's going to be okay." She said the peace and comfort she felt from that dream was unbelievable.

I remember having a similar dream about an ex-boyfriend. In our relationship, he was the dumper and I was the broken-hearted soul who couldn't take it gracefully (I was the person who was unable to make it through a day without crying). In my dream I was wandering around, bawling my eyes out (imagine!) and all of a sudden he was there. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me. The comfort of that moment, of having contact, was unreal. It filled me with such peace and it was as if I was given the strength to heal, to move on, to find myself.

I wish that that would happen now. I'm torn inside by my husband's unemployment, by the trouble I'm experiencing at work, and I wish that someone would come up to me, wrap their arms around me and tell me, "It's going to be okay," because the peace of that moment will take me through to the other side. Will make it all better.

And until I'm on the other side, I can't tell you, void, what it is that hurts so much, because I've read here that that is a bad idea. When I officially move on, though, I will tell you that I made it, that I lived, and most importantly, that I'm smarter than the average run-down employee.

I promise. Until then, could you send someone with really strong arms?

Wanted: Peace

I'm sitting in the middle of chaos and I want out.

I'm in chaos with my job. I feel like I'm useless and stupid when I know that I'm smart and able.

I'm in chaos at church. I fight so hard and work so hard to fit and be fitted, but in the end I'm still placeless.

I'm in chaos with my life. I'm so tired and so drained from everything else, that I want to sleep, but in truth, I really want to stay awake forever to live.

And there is this unreasonably loud banging going on in my work area and my head hurts. Right now that is the chaos I'd like to escape the most.

Renouncing

For the first time in my life, when asked what nationality I was, I said Canadian.

My sisters and I were raised to say that our nationality was Portuguese, regardless of the fact that we were only half Portuguese and that my mom was French-Canadian, a valid nationality to claim. Even now, when my sister is not speaking to my father, her bio on her work's website says that she has a large "Portuguese" family. No mention of our mom, who she calls daily.

Today, though, in an act of complete and utter rebellion, I said..."I'm Canadian." It didn't seem natural and in fact the statement stumbled off my tongue.

I feel naughty, like I'm going to get into trouble for stating the truth - I was born in Canada, I've lived in Canada my whole life, and my citizenship states I'm Canadian. For once, I chose my own nationality rather than the one I was given as a child or even my mother's.

It's actually kind of freeing.

Maybe this is how my mom felt when she announced to a room full of my father's relatives that she never changed her last name legally to my dad's, and therefore wasn't truly part of the family.

She survived that...I'm sure I won't get shot for being "Canadian" for the first time ever.