“I always forget how important the empty days are, how important it may be sometimes not to expect to produce anything, even a few lines in a journal. I am till pursued by a neurosis about work inherited from my father. A day where one has not pushed oneself to the limit seems a damaged, damaging day. Not so. The most valuable thing we can do for the psyche, occasionally is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room.”
May Sarton, Journal of Solitude
So she writes and says, “You haven’t been funny in a while, whazzup?” And I get all defensive and spittle goes out the corners of my mouth—she’s so lucky she’s writing from far away and not sitting across from me. But then I think… haven’t I? Perhaps not. It’s probably Joan Didion’s fault. That, and too much poetry, not enough television. That’s it. Ok. Funny. Funny, funny, funny. I haven’t forgotten how to do funny. Here you go, love:
I.
So we’re walking down the street in the coolest ‘hood in YYC and they’re skipping and I’m skipping and all of a sudden Flora’s in tears, tears, tears, because—squished click beetle, so-very-dead, on the sidewalk.
Cinder: “Look! Another sign of spring!”
And that just makes it worse of course, tears, tears, what to say, wah, I don’t know, must say something, so I say…
Jane: “Sweetheart. Don’t cry. Someone will eat it and it will be part of…”
Flora: “Ugh! That is so gross!”
Cinder: “Betcha Ender will eat it.”
Ender: “Eat what?”
Cinder: “The dead beetle.”
Ender: “Mmmm… maybe?”
Jane: “I meant a bird or something! Not one of you!”
Flora: “Are you sure, Mom? Cause you’re kinda disgusting…”
And also, tricky. D’you see what I did there? Tears—gone.
Click beetle—not eaten by one of my children. But it’s not there when we walk back.
Jane: “See? Someone ate it.”
Cinder: “I bet it was that guy. Look—he’s a-chewing something…”
Ew, ew, ew.
Birds. I’m sure it was birds.
II.
Wow, I think that was it. I. Got. Nothing.
Too much poetry.
III.
…
yeah… nuthin. Nuthin, nuthin, nuthin funny coming out.
Sorry.
xoxo
“Jane”
PS I’ve just finished reading Daniel Gilbert’s Stumbling on Happiness—brilliant, get it, read it, devour it—and, here, have a joke on Dan:
Two psychologists walk into a bar. One says. “You’re fine. How am I?”
Funny? I don’t know. But this video by Gilbert is funny AND it will tell you why you keep on making choices that don’t make ya’ happy. It won’t tell you how to stop doing that… but, you know. He had to save something for the book:
Original Gilbert TED talk on TED
PS2 Actually, if you’re gonna read the book because you want to make better choices, let me save you some time: you’re kinda screwed, you’re not gonna… but at least you’ll know why. And it’s fatalistic. But if you’re not gonna read the book, at least read this: The Psychology of Your Future Self.
PS3 Why are you still here? Go get off your laptop or ‘fone, find a squished click beetle, stake it out, and see who eats it…
I.
Yesterday was the day I wanted to brush Ender’s hair. (I do brush their hair, sometimes.)
Jane: Where the hell is the hairbrush? … OK, so I last brushed your hair, right here, in the middle of the living room. Um… what are the odds that I would have taken it back upstairs to the bathroom?
Cinder: Pretty much zero.
Flora: That doesn’t sounds like something you’d do.
Ender: Didn’t you throw it across the room because you got so mad at me?
We find it. In the Lego tub.
Jane: I definitely did not put it there.
Flora: Don’t look at me.
Cinder: It was probably Ender.
Ender: Sounds like something I would do. So Mom couldn’t find it.
II.
Today is the day that I explain to the children that reading a 700 page book of poetry backwards-and-at-random while listening to Leonard Cohen is something I NEED to do for WORK. IT’s WORK, dammit.
Flora: It. So. Is. Not.
Jane: Pretend it’s the Government of Canada’s Technical Guidance on Reporting Greenhouse Gas Emissions and LEAVE ME ALONE!
III.
Monday was the day I locked myself in my office (it’s a metaphor; I don’t actually have a door) (I don’t exactly have an office either) (but whatever, I make it work) (it works) (I work) (I write) with Philip Larkin, Mary Oliver, Anne Lamott and The Edge Foundation’s favourite maverick scientists* and then, for a while, abandoned them all for Sufi poets and philosophers. I sucked on the end of a fountain pen I was not using and threw chocolate wrappers at my computer screen, and called it work.
Intermittently, Sean brought me down food, coffee and chocolate.
He didn’t once ask—“Did you finish?”
Nor, “Did you start?”
IV.
Tomorrow is the day Stella’s mom looks after my children in the morning and afternoon and Baby M’s mom will look after Stella in the evening because that’s the way the web of a community works.
V.
Sunday is never a day of rest. But I stop moving, for a while. I have a bath in the dark, with Leonard Cohen.
Ender: Mom? Where are you? Mom? Come outside with me?
Jane: I’m in the bath. Not wearing any clothes. So, um… no.
Ender: Are you crying? Why are you crying?
Fact: You can’t listen to Leonard Cohen in the dark and not cry.
Fact: You can’t cry in front of your children FOR WHATEVER REASON and not freak them out.
Ender: Daaaaddddyyy! Mommy’s crying in the bathroom!
Sean: Um… Jane?
Jane: I’m fine. I’m listening to Leonard Cohen.
Sean: Wouldn’t you rather listen to some happier music?
Jane: No!
I turn on the lights, dry off, get dressed, and take Ender outside. I’m not done NOT moving yet. I lie on the brown, damp grass, soak up the sun.
VI.
Saturday was the day on which Flora slept over at Frederica’s house and Stella had a sleep-over with Ender, and we played Cards Against Humanity and laughed and when the night ended my lungs hurt and maybe, possibly I had broken a rib.
VII.
Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. They blur and knock into each other and I try to find their rhythm and sometimes I do, but too often it eludes me. An email, phone call in the morning sabotages everything.
You: But you thrive on chaos, right?
Me: That story is running out of juice…
VIII.
Today or tomorrow or maybe yesterday, I will go for a walk with Rumi in my pocket and try to photograph the wind.
IX.
Cinder: What are we having for supper today?
Jane: Oh, fuck. Probably… food. What’s in the fridge?
Flora: Food. An assortment of food.
Jane: Good. Food. We’re having food for supper.
Flora: Some of it’s slimy.
Cinder: Don’t worry. If it’s gross, I’ll bake cookies after.
X.
Today’s the day everything happens, and tomorrow’s the day it all begins again. And I can’t quite remember what happened yesterday. Right. I wanted to brush Ender’s hair, and couldn’t find the hairbrush. But then did.
I have to go now. Leonard Cohen wants me to take another bath with him.
xoxo
“Jane”
PS I now desire a Blue Raincoat.
*This Idea Must Die, edited by John Brockman (Harper Perennial 2015)
I.
Snapshot: Flora and I are careening down Deerfoot, singing along to Taylor Swift’s Blank Space.
Now, you might infer from this that I like—the singer. Or the song.
Truth: I couldn’t care less. I live under a pop culture rock. I don’t think I could pick out Taylor Swift from a line up. And, thoroughly unmusical that I am, I can’t tell you whether the song’s good or bad. It just exists.
Fact: Flora, 10, LOVES it.
Truth: I LOVE her enjoyment of it. It thrills me.
I think: She loves that I love her loving it, and she’s thrilled that I’m singing along with her.
Truth: We love doing this silly loud thing TOGETHER.
Bonus: When we scream…
“Boys only want love if it’s torture
Don’t say I didn’t, I didn’t warn ya”
…the boy children in the back seat make puking-and-dying-noises.
Everyone’s happy. Win-win all around.
II.
Ender’s six-year-old friend Stella is staring with disapproval at Cinder, who’s standing on the kitchen table, in order to reach something way up on the wall.
Stella: Jane? I think you need to come up with some rules for your kids. Like, they shouldn’t stand on the table, and…
I actually have some rules. Such as… You must wear pants at the table—after the horrible penis-in-hot-soup incident—and no vermin at the table after the traumatic “I lost a mealworm… I think it’s in Daddy’s salad” incident.
And also: Do not make fun of things your siblings love. You don’t need to love Barney (gods know I don’t), because you’re a cool 12 year old, that’s fine. But don’t ruin your little brother’s enjoyment. Don’t mock it. Don’t dis it.
Say, “It’s not my thing.” “I don’t really enjoy that.” “Not to my taste.”
Not: “It’s stupid.” “It’s lame.” “I hate it.”
There are so many things my kids love to do that I really, really don’t enjoy.
Playing video games (any).
Watching iCarly.
Playing Munchkin.
Eating Jelly beans.
“Mom, will you play Battleship with me?”
“You know, sweetie, I don’t really enjoy that game. Could we play something else instead?”
But sometimes:
“Yes, I would love to watch iCarly with you. Tell me, who’s your favourite character? Why? Really? Why do you think she acts like that?”
(Just to be sure I’m not misrepresenting myself: Most of the time it’s—“I’d rather not.” But it’s never, “Why would you waste your time watching that stupid show?”)
(yes, sometimes… I really, really want to say that. But I don’t.)
III.
Flora: Are you watching Pride and Prejudice again?
Jane: No. Downton Abbey. It’s like Pride and Prejudice, except without the hot guy.
(Sorry. Dan Stevens can’t hold a candle to Colin Firth.)
Flora: Is it boring—I mean slow—like Pride and Prejudice? I mean, are there any murders and things in it?
Jane: Well… there’s deaths… but yeah, it’s pretty slow. I don’t think you’d like it right now.
Flora: Well, maybe when I get older I’ll like boring, I mean slow, stuff too and I’ll watch it with you.
Jane: I look forward to that.
Flora: Me too.
IV.
Jane: Boys only want love if it’s torture
Flora: Don’t say I didn’t, I didn’t warn ya
Cinder: Mooooooooom! Aaaaareeeee you trying to kill us?
Jane: No. Just torture you a little.
Cinder: It’s working! It’s working!
(It’s not necessarily that he hates the song. It might be that I’m a really bad singer. But you know. He won’t say THAT either.)
xoxo
“Jane”
PS Want to sing along with us? Do:
I.
Meet Stella. She’s six, and, for a few more weeks, an only child.
Stella: Eeeeeeender! You never share! You do not understand what sharing is! Sharing is when I want something, you GIVE IT TO ME!
So I pee myself laughing and text Stella’s mom. She ROLFs. “Is that my fault?” she asks. “Probably,” I tell her, because I’m a bitch.
II.
Stella: Ender wants to build a fort, but I don’t want to build a fort. I want to play Minecraft and Ender wants to watch Good Mythical Morning. We can’t agree on anything!
Jane: You guys are together for four hours today. I think you’ll have more fun if you find something you can agree on.
Stella: I’m not going to agree on anything TODAY!
Jane: Then I guess you’ll have a miserable day.
Stella: I! Will!
So here comes Flora, who can’t bear if anyone is determined to have a miserable day:
Flora: How about if you two…
And here comes the intercept by an un-helicopter mother:
Jane: Baby? This is so not your job or responsibility. You have things to do. If the littles do not want to play together, it is not your job to make them.
Flora: Is it yours?
Jane: Fuck, no. I have things to do too.
(20 minutes later, they’ve figured it out. Yes, there was screaming. But no blood. This time.)
III.
Stella: My mom is way nicer than you.
Jane: I know.
Stella: But you’re a way better cooker.
Ha. By the way, beloved, that’s because I feed them lemon meringue pie for lunch.
IV.
Today’s story does have a moral.
Do you see it?
If not, go meet he who became my new favourite love in the summer of 2014—and then come back, and read this piece again.
xoxo
“Jane”
Nothing By The Book 