Growing Versions

Lately I've been conscious of all the fighting vocabulary I and many others use. Fighting a cold, battling cancer, uphill battles...I reject the phrase "fighting cancer". It is just not a fair statement. It implies that there are winners and losers and blames the loser.  I am also all too aware of all the conflicts I have within myself and between me and others.  I accept that conflict is natural. It is a part of life.  What is not natural is fighting the wrong thing. Over the past few years, I've been living with more conflict than usual and it is only now that I understand I am not always fighting against the right thing.  In fact, some fights just weakened me as I "pounded" away at what I thought my problem was.  Fighting is not fun, but it is not necessarily useless.  Am I fighting a shadow? Am I hitting on doubt and thin air? Who is my enemy or is there even one? Only pick a fair fight, and that includes any fights you have with yourself.

They could slip past me at this point.  At this stage, they might slink up the stairs to their rooms, build forts and worlds until it is time to leave. They could have and have already begun to hide between the covers of a book or get sucked into an extracurricular activity that doesn't include me or get surrounded by a web of friends. If I weren't so tired, worn out from my labours of the first few stages, I might not notice.  Nodding off on the couch, bingeing on another world created for me might keep me comforted just enough. So, I deciding to slip into a lower gear.  Clear more space on the calendar, empty the toy box and replace the toys with empty space and spare parts that might just tug them back for a while longer. Lower gear is not as tiring.  I still feel like they are picking up speed in another direction and don't want me to follow, but there are just enough times still when I can still walk along side them, and watch the car slide off the track, ov

I was in need of redemption. I felt on the wrong side of things. Weepy and weak, unbalanced. I was just about to bury the feelings with take-out coffee when I decided that I would go to the library instead. It was the first of the day, usually caffeine is all the spiritual balm I require. But today was different, it was just one more day, on top of so many days .... I browsed. I picked out books about crime in Northern countries. It was not church, but it felt closer than I have felt in a long time.

My daughter sees and, so far, experiences, a world where women and men are equal. Her mother runs a business. Her doctor is a girl. When she was little she said, "you know mama, even boys can be doctors". Things are changing, but in my experience, and virtually every woman I know, there is one area that has not changed even a little bit, in our homes. She, miraculously, hasn't had to deal with the stress/threat of street harassment or subtle demotions due to gender. However, she has a mother who is still labouring under sexist expectations of her role in her own home, I've tried hard to shield her from it. But she will learn. I really wish she didn't have to. I kind of treasure this time before SHE KNOWS. I am protective of her naivety. We have lacked the language to put our frustration into words. How can sexism in the home exist? It is 2019. It is not MY job to clean the toilet. it is our job. It must be my personal problem. A flaw in my upbring

As the little children in my lives continue to grow, my humour has changed.  I started parenting full of jokes.  At first, it was self-deprecating zingers to cope with the overwhelming scope of my new job description.  As my children began to emerge and begin talking back, I tended to give into humour that was a little on the ridiculous side.  I would hear their lament, sometimes from their position sprawled on the floor of the grocery store and rally them with quips to get them up and out the door. Their ardent, earnest queries like, will you pick me up? were often met with jokey gambits like ...oh no sorry, I packed your sleeping bag so you can sleep here all night.  After a while, this approach ( as hilarious as it was to me) came to irritate my kids and they would vehemently command me not to joke.  As time slipped by, first my daughter, then my son started to become sarcastic and quick witted and my wit began to dim. As their humour turned more caustic, they will tear an epis

My daughter and I kept our new to us tradition of starting the new year driving somewhere and taking pictures, talking and listening to music. The car unleashes an intimacy that is difficult to achieve elsewhere. There are no brothers or fathers or noise except the noise we make. There is no need to hold back but also no need to talk. I treasure these drives. Who knows how long they will last? Not long, if breastfeeding/sleeping on my chest/mispronouncing words is anything to go by.