Out-of-Office Replies Are On

A doozy of a week, I'm afraid - sorry. Church band practice, guitar lessons (yeah, I'm awesome - I already know how to play a G chord, heh), teaching ESL, kids swimming, groceries, laundry, late work schedule, blah blah blah- all the usual stuff but still when it comes all at once, it gets tough to sit down at the ol' computer.

However, all will be forgotten once I get on that plane tomorrow. We're off to Florida with The Husband's family! A full week of M-O-U-S-E-ing. I'm very militant about my work responsibilities and housework being caught up before I go on vacation, mostly because I hate coming home/back to work to a mess. So, today is cleanup day all around, and then I shall walk up that gangplank (is that what they're called when it's onto a plane?) with nary a care in the world.

See you all in a week!

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Hating Myself for Haiti

All joy or sorrow for the happiness or calamities of others is produced by an act of the imagination, that realizes the event however fictitious, or approximates it however remote, by placing us, for a time, in the condition of him whose fortune we contemplate; so that we feel, while the deception lasts, whatever motions would be excited by the same good or evil happening to ourselves.
~ Samuel Johnson, 1750

Anybody else feeling guilty that they don't live in Haiti?

I'm no stranger to guilt (funny that it seems to bring out the Samuel Johnson in me). It comes in two varieties: feeling guilty over something I've done/not done, which leads to the ol' "whew, you certainly screwed that up, didn't you?" nighttime lullaby, or feeling guilty that I'm somehow better off than someone else.

Which means that what with the images and stories flooding in from Haiti right now, my inner dialogue is going something like this:

"Aw, nuts, I missed my bus again."

At least you have a bus to miss. And a job to which you can be late. They don't even have jobs in Haiti right now.

"Awesome - they really listened when I said 'extra beans' in my Chipotle Vegetarian Bowl."

People in Haiti haven't eaten for 13 days.

"So glad it's Friday - can't wait to sleep in tomorrow."

Nobody's sleeping in Haiti.

"Hmmm, bit of a headache. Wonder if I should take an Advil?"

They ran out of antibiotics in Haiti.

"You know, I really like my job."

No antibiotics = gangrenous limbs.

"Look how cute my kids are, coming in from school! Hugs and kisses all around!"

They're amputating limbs in Haiti...

"Yay - Netflix movies arrived just in time!"

...in the streets...

"Wonder if The Husband will be mad if the kids invite friends over on Sunday while he's watching the Vikings?"

...without anaesthetic.

I don't think it's guilt over feeling I've left something undone. We've donated, we're praying, we're trying to be the change we wish to see in the world by being gracious to those around us, volunteering our time, being grateful for what we have...all the things I'd advise someone to do if they asked me how they could help a terrible situation so far away.

So why isn't it enough? Why this underlying anxiety and discomfort with my own life? Is it a sense that there's a "guilt tax" to pay when you know you didn't get the short straw? (Seriously - how Mennonite is that?)

Maybe it's just trying to wrap my head around the immeasurable gulf between the hell on earth that is Haiti and the comparative paradise of my life and, in the face of unimaginable suffering, a sorrow borne out of frustration, a sense of powerlessness, and the knowledge that these images merely put a face on suffering and pain that exists all around this world and to which I unknowingly and unwillingly but nonetheless definitely contribute.

Sorry everyone, bit of a downer post to send you into your weekend.

Not so much of a downer as it would be to live in Haiti. Terrified orphans, bereaved parents, squalid refugee camps reeking of fear and groaning with pain and hunger, and you're worried about depressing your readers?

(See what I mean?)

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Gonna Fly Now

You've possibly noticed a bit of interior decorating here at PGT. I heart blog templates. I could look for the perfect one for hours.

(Actually, I did. I managed to crash our computer twice doing so - apparently some template sites are sketchier than others. So I was super excited to finally find this one here. There's lots of other lovely ones as well, so have at it!)

I also heart widgets. The idea of things I like, auto-populating and constantly updating, providing a fascinating and ever-changing glimpse into the fabulousness of moi - well, what's not to love?

So you've also maybe noticed my new mileage widget, with which I am tracking my training for one of my less cerebral undertakings. I'll totally admit up front that when I see it and the little numbers going up, I think that I am fairly awesome (especially since we're talking about someone whose lowest marks in school were always for Phys. Ed. and since The Monthly Mile struck me down with fear and trembling during high school).

However, I also have another motive beyond self-aggrandisement. Like many lazy people (or is it just people who tend to live in their imaginations?), I have a propensity towards starting things and not finishing them (see: quilting, being vegan, reading through the Bible in a year, doing yoga every day). It always sounds like such a cool idea, and my mind scripts a little montage where you see glimpses of me working towards my goal in bits and pieces, wiping sweat from my brow, grimacing when I hit a rough spot, but ultimately reaching the summit, all to the tune of the Rocky theme song.

But then I start and I get bored and then...well, there's no triumphant fist pumping on the steps of the Philadelphia Musem of Art for this girl.

So, it's as much for exposure as it is boasting. I figure if y'all are watching, then I'll be less likely to succumb to Old Dutch when the treadmill's call becomes faint.

And since I know everyone's watching, I feel I should address the fact that I apparently broke the cardinal rule of training yesterday. I'm still working out my schedule, and I was halfway into what I figured would probably be a 3-miler, when I started to feel guh-ross.

Knowing I'd run the day before, wondering if it was perhaps too soon for this fairly-recent-sneakers-convert to be running two days in a row and reminding myself of a short night prior, I decided to stop at two.

WRONG!

I have the supreme fortune of having not one, but TWO local running coaches. The Husband is the first, although he knows he only gets so far before I start to whine.

(Also, he has already declared that he does not think that I will actually run this race given my propensity towards Giving Up - see above - so I question his commitment to this whole trainer gig.)

But a work friend who has run about a bazillion marathons is my other cheerleader/taskmistress (depending on how well I've performed). I told her about yesterday's decision and she looked right at me and said sternly, "you can't do that."

But...I protested...explaining all about the whole still not sure about the schedule thing and how maybe PM's body just isn't up to the two days in a row thing. I even threw in the whole 4 hours the night before thing for some extra pity.

Nothing doing. She would have none of it. PM, she said, your brain is just looking for reasons to stop while you're doing it. Do NOT let it. You just have to bust through.

So, red-faced, I promised I wouldn't do it again.

And, you know, I probably won't. That's the funny thing about telling someone else your plans. Suddenly it's something you HAVE to do, instead of something you do because you want to (and then don't do if you don't want to). It's kind of ridiculous that it's only because of my fear of embarrassment and my frugality (I paid $60 to get into this race, and I'm getting my money's worth dangit!) that I haven't given up already even though I'm only two weeks in.

But whatever it takes, right?

So, please keep an eye on the widget to the left. If you don't see it creeping up ever so steadily, feel free to send an admonition my way.

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What a Difference a Day Makes

Yesterday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day down here in Americaland. It's one of those holidays - the optional kind where some people (read: school kids, daycare workers, government workers) get it off and other people (read: me) don't.

So I used up one of my precious holiday days and spent the day hanging out with the kids. Well, more like doing laundry, chauffeuring to and from a birthday party (they're baaa-aack!), and generally just trying to pick up around here.

Which? Pretty much sent me over the edge.

It's so strange - every time I see one of these days at home with the kids on the horizon I get all excited. Sleeping in! Enjoying the entire pot of coffee! Organizing the linen closet! Doing puzzles with the munchkins! It sounds all glorious and stay-at-home-momish and deadline-free and relaxed.

But in practice, it's always drudgery. Only one day and I'm climbing the walls. Sure, I like being with the kids, but there's always this feeling of neglecting something. I feel like I'm always trying to get something done, but my to-do list sits on the counter with not an item crossed off it all day.

Fast forward to today. I work from home on Mondays, but this week switched it to Tuesday since I was off yesterday. The Boy had a tummyache and stayed home from school. So, ostensibly, my day today looked very much like yesterday did - I slept in until 6:30, I drank the whooooooole pot of coffee, I took breaks between my tasks to snuggle with my baby. Heck, I even threw some laundry in.

Yet it felt so, so different.

When I look back at my SAHM days, I wonder if I am simply fundamentally unsuited to being at home full-time. I hated those days, and worse, was only able to admit how much I hated it after the fact. Being at home with my kids was supposed to be nurturing and the best possible caregiving experience for them, and it was supposed to be blissfully fulfilling for me.

It wasn't - on both counts. It drove me - not so figuratively - crazy.

This is not, of course, to disparage parents who stay at home with their children full-time. If anything, I tip my hat with the utmost respect. It is also not to say that children are not worth sacrificing of self or that if being at home isn't a cakewalk, then you're not doing it right. It's terrifying and fabulous and trudging drudgery and messy sweetness all at the same time.

I think what it comes down to is that I am not able to organize my life in a way that makes sense when my only focus is my kids and my home. Ironically, I'm more fragmented when I have less to do. I wander around, starting a few tasks, finishing a couple of others, staring at the growing to-do list, and still manage to give my family short shrift.

But when I'm juggling work and family, deadlines and sick kids, somehow everything makes more sense. I do work in my work time and family in my family time, and somehow my family gets more out of me than when my days are a long, monotonous, terrible stretch of busy boredom.

I honestly believe I'm a better parent now than I was when I was technically giving my kids my undivided attention. I'm happier, for one thing. I cherish my time with them. Everything balances out (well, most days).

So yay for the odd day off with the kids, so I can do some puzzles, get some laundry done, and then think, "Thank you Jesus!" when I log in to my office email the next morning.

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Happy Birthday, My Favouritest Son!

Taking a page out of my grandmother's book, I began this morning with a story about the night you were born.

Thinking to shower you with your just-born specialness and hug your heart with memories of your cuteness, I told of how you were a teensy, weensy thing and how we wrapped you up like a burrito, you with your wee little t-shirt, toque, and diaper.

"Diaper?!" you said. And you started to snigger.

Ah, seven years old. Right on schedule, it would seem, you've entered the Land of the Gross. Despite frequent time-outs for yet another thunderous fake burp and admonishments against flatulence (of the armpit variety or the more authentic), you revel in your body and its tempestuous abilities.

Life with you is equally tumultuous; somehow you manage to take up all the space in the room. Whether you're rocking it out at a dance party for one, flying through the house searching for your DS, or racing to beat your sister to the car, we always know where you are just by listening for the booms and crashes. Somehow even homework is a contact sport, with frustrated pounding of pencils and triumphant scattering of papers when you're done.

Yet despite being a whirling dervish, you absorb an astonishing amount of knowledge between rotations. You taught yourself to sound out words and read this summer, and you shouted out "45!" almost as quickly as your sister today when your dad asked how many minutes were in three quarters of an hour.

Crashing and speeding through life, and picking up new ideas with swift ease, it's probably no wonder that I'm always two steps behind you. I've long given up on being preemptory; I strive now to be able to react quickly enough after the fact to prevent any real trouble.

So it's probably understandable that, as much as I love the energy and infectious buoyancy you bring to my life, sometimes my favourite moments with you are when we're tucked up in your top bunk, you're snuggled with Ratty (your aptly-named stuffed rat), and we're a few minutes into the best part of our nightly routine when we "practice resting."

Your hair is damp from the shower and your body, sweet-smelling and worn out from its day's exertions, begins to relax. Your exhausted muscles give in to the bed's warmth, and your little hand creeps up to my neck where it still finds comfort after all these years. Your brain's lightning processing speed slows and you start to murmur softly about your plans for the next day. Your eyes droop and your breathing slows.

And then, suddenly, you're back to my teensy weensy baby again, resting next to me, innocent and trusting. All that's missing is the wee toque and tiny shirt.

And a diaper.

Snicker.

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But It's NOT FAIR!

Big Tobacco should be thanking its lucky stars that my daughter was born 40 years later than she was.

As it was, they enjoyed a decades-long run of cancerfying the world, snickering in their sleeves knowing that their victims' dependence on their wares was more than enjoyment of smooth taste and some effective marketing campaigns.

But if The Girl has been on the payroll? Man, there'd be a picture of her next to the word "whistleblower" in Webster's and The Insider would have been made 25 years earlier.

Yes, she's quite the relayer of information that one. Desperately important and crucial updates on the whereabouts/activities/misdemeanours/unshared privileges of her brother are thick and fast these days.

Sigh.

I try to counter the "The Boy's elbows are on the table!!" and "How come The Boy gets to watch another five minutes of TV while I have to shower?!" with mildness and (although I know it's futile) rationality. "Don't forget that you got an extra few minutes of TV while he was in the shower." Or "well, how about if I just pretend I don't notice that you said that with your mouth full and we'll call it even?" But that usually doesn't work.

Sometimes I try a trick I learned from a friend - "why are you telling me this?" If the answer isn't "he's bleeding" or "the rug is on fire," then I usually try to redirect her to some other, non-brother-related activity.

But usually, I end up having to resort to ol' faithful - "Life's just not fair."

As much as I hate hearing it, I have a lot of sympathy for what lies beneath "it's not fair that he gets [fill in the blank]!" It only takes a few minutes of watching HGTV and I'm grumbling about how unfair it is that I don't make a zillion dollars a year with which to remodel. I look with envy at people who seem to get all the breaks and I think about how I got the short end of the stick.

But when I catch myself saying it, I almost immediately remember that no, I don't actually want life to be fair. Or, another way to say it, I don't think I would be very pleased with my lot if all of the misery in the world were equally divided. Heck, I don't think I'd be pleased if I got an equal share of wealth - I have a distinct feeling that I'm squatting on a fair deal more than 1/six billionth of what's out there to be had.

There's even more understanding behind the complaints that "it's not fair that he doesn't have to clean up" or "it's not fair that you never get mad at him for doing that but you always get mad at me." And it's not only because I know that I can't possibly be as consistent a parent as I want to be.

What I totally get is that underlying frustration and outrage at the injustices of life. This sense that the guilty go unpunished. That the righteous get the shaft. Again, and again, and again. And, worse, that no one notices.

Or worse - that Someone notices. And doesn't care.

To me, that gut reaction of "it's not fair!" has always been proof of Heaven. If this was it, if our worldly lot was the sum total of existence, then where would this sensitivity to injustice come from? Why would we feel it so keenly when things were falling apart? How would we know that this wasn't how things were supposed to be? Why wouldn't we just accept it?

No, this yearning we feel for someplace, some time, someone better is from our hearts, which know more than what we are able to see, and insist to us that despite all evidence to the contrary, there must be somewhere where life is fair and just and right.

So while I know the tattling often springs from jealousy and selfishness, I also know that it has its root in something much deeper and more profound. She is discovering - as we all do at some point - that this world is pretty terrible at when it comes to dividing up that last piece of cake evenly. And I hope that she keeps this sensitivity to injustice and strives to do what she can to make things right in this world, even as she knows all will be made right in the next.

Until then, I'll keep reminding her that it's not her job to be a parent. And steer her towards a career as an auditor, I suppose.

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It's Dark. It's Cold. And There Are Wolves After Me.

Blargh.

This is the worst time of year for me (witness: here, here, here, or here if you need a reminder).

All the Christmas decorations have been put away and our forlorn, bedraggled, naked tree has been dumped unceremoniously on the curb. It's back to work and school. The nights are long and the days are frigid. We have no insulation in our walls.

I'm feeling stupid and lethargic and uncreative. It has taken an entire 1/3 bag of Craisins and 1/2 a can of Coke to drag these measly sentences out.

But, good things ahead, yes?

- Starting teaching ESL again tomorrow (not my favourite thing to go out on cold, stormy nights, but it makes me feel glowy inside to Be Helpful)
- Upcoming Florida vacation
- Half-marathon training (4 miles already this week, hey-o!)
- Guitar lessons (so I will be Steve Bell before you know it)
- Finishing Middlemarch for the seventh time

Because there's nothing a 600-page Victorian behemoth of a novel can't cure, right?

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