Me and Memory Lane

So remember how I said I was going to read as a focus for March? One of the things I didn’t anticipate was that I’d get so sucked into reading really good stuff that it would make me critical of my own writing. I’ve never been one to write and edit and revise and edit some more; I just hit publish. (Perhaps you’ve noticed.) So now I have posts in draft and I don’t want to publish them until they’re perfect. But what is perfect when it comes to writing? There is no such thing.

Hey, maybe I can publish them and revise them later and the publish them again as an exercise in improving my writing… Yes? No?

I digress.

Luckily Elaine and Heather have saved me for the time being with something fun they’re calling Old School Blogging.

Nice! This I can do. So without any further self-doubting rambling, here’s my response to the meme.

What were you doing 10 years ago?

I was working in human resources at an astrophysical observatory and thinking that perhaps I should have paid more attention in science classes.

What five things are on your to-do list?

I love how this presumes I only have five things on my to-do list. Here are the oldest items:

1. Send my passport renewal in. You know, the one I’ve had sitting around since July of last year (after Passport Canada sent my first application back because they didn’t like the photo. Heck, I didn’t like the photo either but I was willing to have it in my passport for five years).

2. Get the windshield on my car replaced.

3. Get the muffler on my car replaced.

(Anyone want to come and do these things for me? I hate doing car stuff.)

4. Submit the last few address change requests. What? We’ve only lived here for a year. And a bit.

5. Order a birth certificate for Ethan. (Apparently Alberta makes that more difficult to do than BC did. As in we have to actually find the application form online, fill it out and then take it to a registry office in person instead of being handed a form in the hospital and have a snazzy certificate sent to us not long after. I now understand why my birth certificate shows that my birth was registered several months after the fact. I used to think my parents were deciding whether or not to keep me.)

What are five snacks you enjoy?

Green smoothies. (Why was I scared of these for so long?)

Chocolate coconut bite things made by Dole. They’re way too easy a snack, especially when I need something I can eat with one hand.

Toast.

A late-night bowl of cereal.

Cool Ranch Doritos. (But not Coke, because I finally gave it up. Yay me!)

Name some things you would do if you were a millionaire.

Is it sad that a million bucks doesn’t sound like enough to do what I want to do? I would:

Buy a fabulous house.

Buy a summer place somewhere.

Travel a lot.

Donate more to charities.

Put money aside for my kids’ futures.

Name some places you have lived. 

I’ve lived:

In a waterfront house with a hot tub by the ocean.

In a building that looks like a castle.

In a house on a street named after a fruit.

In a one-bedroom basement suite with a very cute boy and two cats.

In an old-school university dorm room.

(I know those aren’t technically places, but I haven’t moved all that much so this is more interesting.)

Name some bad habits you have. 

Not following directions (see above).

Procrastinating (see above).

Being lax about editing my own work (see above).

Not exercising as much as I ought to.

Spending too much time on Facebook.

Name some jobs you’ve had. 

You had to ask, didn’t you?

Ice cream truck driver. (Seriously.)

Telemarketer. (I wish I were kidding.)

Baskin Robbins ice cream scooper. (I’ve lived a glamorous life.)

T-shirt salesperson.

Hotel front desk clerk.

Communications director. (Does that make up for the other stuff?)

That was fun! What are some of your answers to these questions?

Living in the Light

Rich and I had a fight not long after Ethan was born. We had both been sick – him first and then me. I got really sick. And I got pink eye. Twice. And, as is the way with many breastfeeding moms, I was up at night while Rich slept. And, as is the way with many moms who are up in the night while their partners sleep, I was cranky about it because being up so much made it hard to get better. And that’s what caused the fight.

I won’t get into all the picky details, but it was about sleep – the too-little of it I was getting, and my perception that he wasn’t helping me out as much as he could have. And then he pointed out that when he was at home and I was working when Connor was little he never got a sick day either.

“You didn’t ask for help!” I countered.

“I did,” he replied, much more calmly than was probably warranted.

long shadow in the sunlightThe thing is, I have no recollection of that. I don’t recall him being sick and me going off to work leaving him to fend for himself (and the energetic two-year-old).

I don’t recall a lot of things from that time.

This is one of the things about postpartum depression that — in my experience, anyway — is so hard to deal with. It’s like living in a fog, except that fog leaves those weeks or months completely socked in so that there’s never a clear picture of them, even afterwards. My particular fog was built from my anger — my rage — as if spewed forth from a fog machine I couldn’t turn off.

But it’s not like I don’t remember anything from that timeframe. Just certain things. Often big things. It’s come up in conversation a few times, where someone will be recalling something, and every single time I’ll think, “I have absolutely no recollection of that.” It just doesn’t exist as a page in my memory book. Whether torn out or never properly recorded I don’t know. It’s just not there.

I’m not really sure the point of telling you this, except to say that this time is different.

Now, I know when I’m being a bitch. I know when I’m picking a fight (and sometimes I do it anyway). I know when I’m not doing what I need to do for myself.

It doesn’t always make it easier to do what I need to do, but at least this time I’m living in the light.

***

Speaking of happy things, I’ve heard about three recently that are making the world a better place and I’d like to share them with you:

For the first time, there’s a product dedicated to helping fight postpartum depression. Jammies are the creation of Hélène Laure, a fashion designer whose clothing designs for women have been sold to such specialty stores as Henri Bendel, Bloomingdales, Bergdorf Goodman and Saks Fifth Avenue. Helene wanted to create a new business that gives back, so she designed Jammies with the intention of helping to benefit moms with postpartum depression. For each Jammies Jar sold, Helene’s company, Two Mice, A Bear and A Bunny LLC, will donate 10% of the profit to Postpartum Progress, the national nonprofit that raises awareness of postpartum depression and promotes better support and services for pregnant and new mothers with mental illness.

150x150JammiesadThese onesies are so cute (perfect for gifts). Here’s the description:

“100% pure cotton onesies for boys and girls made from a soft and breezy light gauge cotton Jersey that are are uniquely packaged in a sweet little jam jar. The design is reminiscent of the all-American long john, with its henley tab closing and ribbed cuffs, and a flirty ruffle added to the girls’ style. Mr. Bear, Lily (the bunny) and Cinnamon & Ginger (the identical mouse twins) are the delightfully hand-drawn characters featured on Jammies onesies.”

You can see read more about them (and order them) on the Jammies page on Postpartum Progress.

——

peacelove-teePeaceLove is working to combat the stigma against mental illness. One of the biggest ways they’re helping is through their giveback program: for each PeaceLove tee purchased, they give away a free expressive arts class to a child affected by mental illness. They just launched a tee campaign with the hopes of giving away 100 free expressive art classes (and they’re really close!).

——

February 27 is Pink Shirt Day, an anti-bullying campaign supporting Boys and Girls Clubs/Big Brothers Big Sisters. If you’re in Calgary, you can get an official pink shirt at any London Drugs. (And if you’re not, wear a pink shirt anyway.)

Chasing Intention

Being intentional is surprisingly difficult. I intend to be intentional, but then I forget and go back to flitting around in my usual way, doing lots of things but not really paying attention to any of them.

This is both a surprise to me and not.

This challenge appealed to me because I know I do this. I’m fully aware of it, often in the moment. I don’t like feeling scattered but that’s how I end up feeling when I’m not focusing on something with intention.

There’s a lot of noise inside my head right now. Some of it is actual noise, like the sounds of a child to whom “quiet” means something different than what it means to me. He talks incessantly, and when he’s not talking he bops and pops and thumps in a seemingly never-ending cacophony of sounds that is the trademark of a four-year-old boy.

view-from-tower

Perspective is nice, if you can get it.

But much of the noise is of my own creation, or perhaps just a normal part of life. There are whispers of laundry that needs doing and the annoying tap that is the constant reminder to figure out what’s for dinner. There’s the whirring calculator tallying how many times I was up in the night and the steady tick of a clock making its way towards bedtime. Ideas for keeping two boys entertained rush in with a whoosh and depart, either tossed aside or rejected, with a whimper. The noise echoes a traffic jam as it all becomes too much and then it reaches a crescendo and I lay on the horn and say STOP. ENOUGH.

Quiet. I need quiet.

My best moments, when intention comes in and stays instead of playing Nicky Nicky Nine Doors on my brain, is when it’s quiet. When the house is quiet – either asleep or away. When I’m walking. When I find a patch of sunlight and that light helps me see clearly. Sometimes quiet is a cup of tea.

Maybe I need to invite intention to tea.

I have found them — those moments of intention — over the last 11 days. Not always 20 minutes at a time, though, and sometimes (I admit with a feeling of shame) I’ve counted something as intentional after the fact.

But is that really the definition of intention?

in·ten·tion
noun

  1. an act or instance of determining mentally upon some action or result.
  2. the end or object intended; purpose.

In some ways, intention is means to an end, and so I suppose if I have had moments of focus or joy or productivity then I can count those as intentional. But to me, part of the point of this exercise is to boldly and deliberately seek out those activities that quieten my mind and those moments that bring me joy. There is a presence about it that I haven’t quite mastered yet.

And so, as I sit here in my quiet house, spending some time writing intentionally, I vow this: I intend to be more purposefully intentional. The road is paved and waiting.

On the Move: at Things I Can’t Say

You can find me elsewhere again today, guest posting for Shell on her Things They Can’t Say series.

Things I can’t say, you say? After all the stuff I’ve posted here you wouldn’t think there is anything. But it’s not actually about things I can’t say, just something I’ve opted to share over there. Where I hope my mother won’t read it. (Ahem.)

My post at Shell’s is about something I really should give up but don’t seem to be able to. Come and read about it (unless you’re my mother, that is).

 

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Four

I’m too sharp with him sometimes. Too impatient.

“Mama?”

“Yes, love?”

He’s talkative lately.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

Especially early in the day.

“Mama?”

By the eighth time on a too-early morning, I’ve moved on to “hmm?” And after two days, during which he has called for my attention countless times, I resort to a curt, “What?!”

Just say it, my duck. I’m listening to you, so just say it. I don’t want to have to acknowledge you every single time you want to say something to me when I’m sitting right there.

He deserves more from me. He’s four, and sometimes I forget that. And then I get frustrated and impatient and I don’t pay attention enough and he tries harder and I snap at him. And all of a sudden there he is in front of me – my boy who’s only four, which really isn’t very big at all.