“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”
Do you remember, it was such a long time ago now, our big ones were our first-and-only ones, and we were walking and talking and you said, “I just wish I knew, is it PPD or general incompetence or my inner bitch unleashed?” and I laughed and we pondered how much more breastfeeding there was ahead of us, because the inner bitch could sometimes be soothed into submission with an excess of wine?
(Do you remember, when that joke stopped being funny, the year that I said, “I think I’m drinking too much,” and you said, “Says who?” as you were pouring a glass of wine, and I cried and drank water and you drank wine and it was awkward, until it wasn’t?)
Do you remember—I’ve been thinking about this so much lately—do you remember all our discussions about mood and responsibility and agency and volition and choice and victimhood and “the only person over whose behaviour I have any control is myself”?
You: The only person over whose behaviour I have any control wants to throw the world’s most obscene, outrageous tantrum right now.
Me: Mine too. Shall we let them? Or will that be the end of the world?
It might be. So, instead, I ask your inner bitch if she wants to go for a walk with my inner bitch. I promise I won’t talk.
“It’s definitely not PPD now, is it,” you say, a little wistful, a little ashamed.
“Anomie, ennui, life?” I answer.
“You said you wouldn’t talk,” you snap. I stop. We walk.
There are places on my hill where you can go and walk and no one will see you cry, but you choose the most public paths. You want witnesses. To what? My silence? Your exertion of self-discipline?
It doesn’t matter.
Do you remember the first time we stood here and looked at this view? You don’t. Perhaps I don’t either. But I tell the story anyway. It involves squirting breastmilk, a diaper change gone bad, and toddler vomit on my shoes. You laugh. But then:
You: You said you wouldn’t talk.
Me: I’m sorry. I will be silent.
I remember when talking to you about mood and feeling and responsibility and vulnerability and frustration and fear and life and agency and volition and pain was the only thing that kept me sane. Do you remember?
And I remember when being silent with you, face wet with tears, was all I needed.
My inner bitch is here. Whenever you need to talk. Or walk in silence.
xoxo
“Jane”
I.
How I know he’s mine:
Jane: Cinder? Could you take out the recycling when your game’s over?
Cinder: Is it urgent?
Jane: Well… it’s not urgent right now, but the cupboard’s stuffed full and barely closing, and so next time someone opens it, all the recycling will flow out, screaming, “Freedom! Freedom!” and make a mess on the floor and…
Cinder: So how about, as soon as I hear it screaming, I take it out?
Jane: Ok. Works for me.
Cinder: Just so we understand each other—you’ll scream “Freedom! Freedom!” if you’re the one who opens the cupboard?
Jane: Yes.
Cinder: But you won’t do it on purpose. Only if you actually have to try to stuff something else in there.
Jane: Yes.
Cinder: Ok. Works for me.
II.
How I know she’s mine:
Flora: I can’t believe this. I! Can’t! Believe! This! The only likeable character in the book, and they kill him off—and there’s like a third of the book to go! What the hell? Who does that? What’s wrong with this writer? I am never, ever, EVER reading anything by this jerk again!
Jane: Where are you going?
Flora: I’m going to rewrite this chapter the way it should have been written!
III.
I don’t know where the hell he came from:
Ender: I! Love! Boogers! I! Love! My! Boogers! I! Love! Your! Boogers! I! Love! Everyone’s! Boogers! Sooooooo! Muuuuuuuch!
IV.
How they know they’re mine (even though they’re not):
Flora: He’s so disgusting.
Jane: It could be worse. When Cinder was his age? He used to feed you his boogers.
Flora: Jeezus, Mom, seriously? And you let him? What’s wrong with you?
Cinder: She didn’t let me. I mostly did it when she wasn’t looking. And only if you were awake.
Flora: That’s supposed to make me feel better?
Cinder: Well, at least I never puked on you, Ms Lazy Esophagus!
Flora: I didn’t… Mom? Did I puke on Cinder?
Jane: Yes. Kind of incessantly. Don’t feel bad. It’s very common. And he peed in your ear. So, you know. It all balances out.
Flora: Children are really disgusting. Like, the most disgusting thing ever. And that’s not even counting the bloody birthing part.
Jane: Pretty much.
Flora: But you’re happy you had us?
Jane: There is no meaning or purpose to my life without you.
V.
I’ve read Joan Didion’s Blue Nights last week, and it almost killed me. Listen:
“When we talk about mortality we are talking about our children.
… Once she was born I was never not afraid.”
…
“A question: if we and our children could in fact see the other clear would the fear go away? Would the fear go away for both of us, or would the fear go away only for me?”
…
““You have your wonderful memories,” people would say later, as if memories were solace. Memories are not. Memories are by definition of times past, things gone. … Memories are what you no longer want to remember.”
…
“I no longer want reminders of what was, what got broken, what got lost, what got wasted.
…
In theory these mementos serve to bring back the moment.
In fact they serve only make clear how inadequately I appreciated the moment when it was here.”
…
“I do not know many people who think they have succeeded as parents. Those who do tend to cite the markers that indicate (their own) status in the world: the Standford degree, the Harvard MBA, the summer with the white-shoed law firm. Those of us less inclined to compliment ourselves on our parenting skills, in other words, most of us, recite rosaries of our failures, our neglects, our derelictions and delinquencies.”
…
“I tell you this true story just to prove that I can.”
I am changed.
VI.
They are loved.
They know they are loved.
Ender: Mooom! Hug! Kiss!
Cinder: Don’t do it, Mom! He was eating boogers!
Ender: I was not! I was only pretending. I was feeding them to Maggie.
Flora: Well, at least it wasn’t me.
Ender: Next time, I will share… My! Boogers! With! Yooooooooouuuuuuu!
Cinder: That’s my little bro! High-five, man!
Flora: Groooooosss! Moooooom!
Love. Disgusting, innit? 😉
xoxo
“Jane”
PS Of course he took out the recycling. Of course.
FROM THE ARCHIVES: There is such a thing as loving nature too much, or, more proof that children are disgusting.
I’ve instituted a new rule in my house. You’re welcome to copy it. It might save your marriage. It is thus:
DO NOT TEXT ME ABOUT ANYTHING IMPORTANT.
This is my compromise on the rule that I initially proposed, which was the draconian:
DO NOT TEXT ME.
This is because—ready? Revolutionary!—we do not speak the same texting language. AT all
Example A:
I’m working out of the house. Ping.
Sean: We are out of milk.
My reaction: Why the fuck are you interrupting my work flow with this inanity? (I don’t text it. But I THINK it.)
What he meant:
“We’re out of milk; could you pick some up on your way home?”
My reaction to which would have been:
“K”
But instead I’m pissed, my flow disrupted, and I wonder why I didn’t turn off the phone?
Example B:
I am out in the wild with the children and I see something beautiful-ugly-heartbreaking and I take a photo and I send it. Ping.
Jane: [Image]. Heart-broken. Sobbing. Despair.
Sean: WTF? Are you ok? What happened?
What he wishes I had said:
“Look at this disturbing picture of [X] I took. Doesn’t it make you think of heart-break? Despair? It is so evocative!”
What I want him to say in response to what I actually said (didn’t say, implied, experienced, tried to convey with fragmented words):
“God. Baby. Beautiful. I love you.”
Example C:
Jane: 2 out of 3 of our children want to go swimming and I’m going to force the other child to cooperate. Should we wait until you get back home so we can go together?
Sean: Walking from Bridgeland to downtown. PS Forgot to take out the steaks to defrost.
Jane: Does not answer my question.
Sean: I also have to go print photos after.
Jane: You! Still! Have! Not! Answered! My! Question!
But he thinks he has…
Right? He’s said:
“Here are all the things I’m doing and have to do.”
But he hasn’t said, what I need to hear, which is:
“There is no way I will make it back in time, go without me.”
Or even, you know, I’ll accept this:
“I really don’t want to go swimming. Just go with the kids; I’ll see you at home later.”
Dedicated to that girl I love, so far away now. You know who you are. Who insisted I should get a cell phone. And ruined my life. ;P
(Not really. But. Don’t you sometimes wish you could go back? I do…)
xoxo
“Jane”
I.
The rather annoying thing about having me as a mother:
Flora: Mom? I made my bed yesterday.
Jane: And?
Flora: And what?
Jane: Is that the whole story? Did you find something, break something, think something, learn something?
Flora: No. That’s it. I made my bed.
Jane: That totally doesn’t work as story.
Flora: Does everything I tell you have to have a plot or a climax? And character development?
Jane: Yes.
What? I’m busy. And I like to be entertained.
II.
The kinda awesome thing about having me as a mother:
My 10 year-old can define plot or climax. And character development.
So can the five-year-old.
III.
The really annoying thing about having me as a mother:
Flora: Ok, let me do this again. Mom? I made my bed yesterday.
Jane: I’m waiting…
Flora: Did you know that studies show that people who make their beds are happier than people who don’t make their beds?
Jane: What studies?
Flora: You know. Studies.
Jane: Where did you hear about these studies?
Flora: You-tube?
Jane: Did you know that most people who say “studies show” or “research says” are just making shit up? Whenever someone says, “Studies show” without referencing the specific study, what they’re actually saying, “I read this article on the Internet once and I’m now passing it on to you as proven truth, assuming you’re just as lazy as I am and will not track this information to its source.”
Flora: Does everything I tell you have to be supported by evidence?
Jane: Yes. Except when we’re talking about unicorns. Where are you going?
Flora: I’m going to Google the fucking bed-making study.
Jane: Good.
IV.
The really awesome thing about having me as a mother is that I’m going to loom over her shoulder as she scrolls and tell her: “Not a real source. Not real science. This is a blog—this is a blog post, and that is not research. Yes, this looks like a journal article, but what does it say, right here? See? ‘Research shows…’ What research? Yeah, this one’s not worth anything either. Keep on going… OK, now that one’s better, but what institution is he professor at, exactly? Let’s check that out… ”
My kids are going to know that typing search terms into Google is not research.
Research shows that children whose parents take the time to explain this sort of thing to them make better researchers. ;P
xoxo
“Jane”
PS My original headline was “Research shows people who make their beds in the morning don’t understand climax is necessary to good story” but apparently it had subtext.
I.
Ender hatched from an egg. That’s how they tell the story, anyway.
Flora: It was the cutest egg ever. Orange, all orange. But I’d decorate it with purple squiggles and rainbows.
Cinder: …and we all took turns sitting on you. Like, when Mom had to go somewhere, or even take a shower, Flora or I had to sit on you. But sometimes, when she was out for a long time, instead of sitting on you, we’d just throw you back and forth like a ball. You’re so lucky we didn’t smash you.
Flora: Mom was so mad was she caught us doing that once…
They’ve told him the story so many times, they’ve even got these details down:
Flora: …and after you hatched, I tried to keep the egg shells for my museum, but Dad said it would be unhygienic and he threw them out.
Cinder: But I kept one. Want to see?
(and the mystery to why he was rooting through the garbage earlier for chicken egg shells, and through Flora’s room for an orange marker, is solved)
Flora: You were the cutest little baby.
Cinder: Well. The cutest little maggot. You were all white and squirmy. You didn’t really look human until you pupated. That happened when you were two.
(he might have crossed the line here. Yes. Yes he did?
Ender: Mooom! Did I pupate when I was two?
What would you say? What should I say?
Isn’t all life just a really long metamorphosis?
II.
This is 100% true: While Ender was in the womb, we called him Two-Horned Rainbow Merlin Stinky Socks Marsh.
So it’s all our fault, really.
III.
I’m in a café, working, and there’s a new proud father at the table next to me, showing off his progeny to co-workers. “She’s such a good baby,” he says.
What he means is “easy.” And “convenient.”
She’s four months old.
In three to six weeks, he and her mother will look at each other, and one will ask the other, “When do things get back to normal?”
Ha.
Normal.
What they mean is “the way they were before.”
What they don’t want to hear: Never.
IV.
Jane: Do! Not! Call! Your! Brother! A! Maggot!
Ender: Yeah! I’ve pupated!
Ha.
xoxo
“Jane”
I’m stumbling home in a February spring, coat open, gloves off, a warm wind winding in and out and around me. I am half-happy, half-mad, all-exhausted. Each step takes effort, is so slow—I want to want to run—but I can’t—I can barely walk—one foot in front of the other, and suddenly, dizzy, I stop…
I’m tired. I’m so-to-the-bone tired, an exhaustion I’d tell you I can’t describe except it would be a lie, because that’s exactly what I’m doing now. I’m so tired, I can barely walk, I can barely think.
I’m stumbling home…
I’ve spent the morning writing and juggling. First, loving the morning-loving-Ender, negotiating with him my need to write Morning Pages as soon as I wake up no-matter-what-no-I’m-not-going-to-build-Kapla-or-make-you-an-omelet-here-eat-an-orange-when-I-am-done-I-will-make-you-eggs-what?-yes-I-can-get-you-cold-spaghetti-from-last-night-but-you’ve-got-to-let-me-write…
Then, walking, so very quickly, to a café—I cannot work at home today, it is oppressing me, squeezing me, reprimanding me with all the things it wants from me and I hate it, I need to run away, will-you-watch-the-children-thank-you-I-promise-I-will-come-back.
Coffee. “Dark? Medium? What size?” “Surprise me. I have no superfluous decisions left in me today.” And it’s only 9 a.m….
(She gets me a large latte; I feel bad I don’t have money for a tip.)
You come to visit me for a while, and we talk about EVERYTHING, and this time, neither of us cries, and we laugh about it. You’re my fix of… what? Something undefined, but needed. I appreciate it. An injection of energy that gets me moving, and after you leave, I write.
I’m writing about a woman who’s going to change the world. As I write, I believe it. I love her, I envy her. When I finish, I despair. I’m pretty sure they’re not going to let her. They’re going to destroy her.
(Can I stop them?)
I have more to write. Difficult things, technical things, uncreative things, necessary things.
I’m suddenly tired, uninspired and I don’t want to.
A text. “Can you be home by… I need to…” “OK. I’m done writing anyway.”
In a minute, in a second, in a moment of time shorter than that, this happens: I switch from writing-producing-thinking-happy to… fallow-done-exhausted-barely-alive. The fog envelops me and deepens as I walk towards home. With each step, I get heavier. Slower. More stupid. So tired. Where does this exhaustion come from?
I stumble home, into the house, crawl up the stairs—I have a window of perhaps 20 minutes before kids—I fall into bed. Eyes closed. So-exhausted. What do people who cannot nap do?
I don’t know if I sleep. I simply don’t move.
Ping.
“Dropping kids off at the top of the hill, can you meet them?” “On my way.”
I am still tired. Stupid. I think, the thing I wrote this morning? Worthless. The things I still have to write? Pointless. When will I do it? How? Despair.
I stumble out of the house. One foot in front of the other. February spring, wind.
Oh.
I inhale.
An idea…
One foot in front of the other up the hill I see three little bodies, arms waving, legs and arms pumping, oh-the-energy, infect me!
We walk home together. I am still tired. But I am not stumbling. I am not stumbling.
There is food on the stove (I text: “Thank you, my love”). I do some things. A request: “Sit beside me, Mom.” I do. I open the lap top. Caress the keys. Maybe what I wrote this morning wasn’t so bad.
Maybe what I write next isn’t pointless.
“Hey, Mom, do you want me to make you some green tea? You look like a zombie.”
I am, just a little, tired.
But no longer so-to-the-bone tired I can’t walk-or-think.
Still. I am looking forward to bedtime. Immensely.
xoxo
“Jane”
P.S. You really liked this post: Dear un-Valentine: the way you talk to your partner tells me more about you than the way you kiss. Thanks!
It’s Flora’s fault.
She’s sensitive, empathetic, and ruled by her heart. And she’s only 10, so her heart makes black and white rules. Wait. I’m telling this story wrong. I should have begun… never mind. Let’s start with Flora. And what Flora says is,
“But how can you like someone if you hate the way they treat their husband or wife?”
I’m not sure how to respond to that—I’m never sure how to respond to anything she says, really. And she goes on:
“I mean, how can someone be a good person if they treat the people they’re supposed to love badly?”
And I still say nothing, but I don’t need to, Flora is following her own train of thought, and she finishes:
“If you’re mean to your own wife or your kids or your husband—and these are the most important people in the world to you, the people you love the most—how will you treat me? If I’m a stranger, and you don’t know me at all, and don’t love me?
I would want nothing to do with such a person.”
And then she takes a carton of green tea ice cream from the freezer, and moves on to other things.
Meanwhile, her mother stands in the middle of the kitchen, phone in one hand, spatula in the other (I was making tacos—not that it’s important, but, you know, if you’re trying to assemble a full picture of the moment), and stares off into space, and ponders…
…that what Flora said should be true. Right? I mean—to flip it a little—that the way we treat the people we love the most should be the best we’re capable of.
Except it’s not, is it?
So often, the people we love best… they’re the ones who get the worst of us. Get treated the worst by us. Day after day after day…
Why?
There are three reasons for this ass-backward behaviour, I think.
First—when we love unconditionally and fully (or just a hell-of-a-lot, because most love is conditional, but we’ll talk about that another day) and are loved in return, we trust that love will be there no matter what. And so, when we trust, we let ourselves go. We snap, snip. We let our loves see us at our worst—and they still love us—and so we do it again… and again…
Second—husbands, wives, children, lovers, families—we’re together all the time, in each other’s faces. We rub against each other in the stress of hurried everyone-get-out-the-door mornings. We’re in each other’s faces in the I’m-too-exhausted-to-give-a-fuck evenings. We’re out of energy for politeness, manners. We snip. Snap. Again… and again… and again…
Third—we do it again… and again… and again… and then it’s a habit, and the majority of human behaviour and interaction is, simply… habit. And so… we do the nasty thing, say the mean thing again. And again. And again…
We say things to the people we love the most that we would never, ever say to more casual friends—to strangers—because, Christ, how unthinkably rude, cruel. Nasty.
We accept hearing/receiving these unacceptable behaviours from people who love us, because…
Actually, so here’s the thing, because—why, exactly?
Because they love us? And so it’s ok for them to treat us disrespectfully?
Because I love you, it’s okay for me to mock you? It’s ok for me to knock you down, undermine you, speak to you in a tone so disrespectful I would never, ever use it on a co-worker (not even that really, really annoying one)?
When Sean comes into the kitchen, I’m sitting in the middle of the kitchen, phone and spatula on the dirty floor, taco meat burning.
“What’s wrong?”
he asks, and I love him. I can’t put it into adequate words, so I put it into bad ones. And then, add:
“Do I ever speak to you like that? Ever?”
I don’t think I do, gods above and below, I hope I don’t, but does one ever hear oneself? Does she realize what comes out of her mouth? Does he know what he’s really saying when he says something so…
“Never. God, never, ever.”
(He’s lying. Because he loves me. I know that sometimes, when something he’s said or done triggers me, I react much less… kindly, tolerantly, lovingly… than I would had a less intimate-to-me person said or done the same thing. But I let him lie, in that moment, and I try to believe it.)
“If I ever do… stop me. Hard. The first time.”
Habit.
As Valentine’s Day comes up—my third least-favourite faux holiday—lovers all through North America will be exchanging flowers, chocolates, and Hallmark-sanctioned expression of love and affection.
I refuse to celebrate Valentine’s Day.
I prefer to show that I love—and to be shown that I’m loved—every day. Mostly, in little things, you know what I mean, the tiny stuff: “thank you for doing the dishes, my love” and “I’m so sorry you had a lousy day” and “I missed you, come sit with me” and “will you do this for me, it’s driving me crazy” and “this poem made me think of you” and “I’m so happy you picked up cream on the way home” and also “god you look good today, I want to devour you” (delivered when I feel spent, exhausted, and so unsexy, and I’m pretty sure you’re lying, but oh-it’s-so-good-to-hear).
I choose to show that I love by how I talk to you. To him, to her, to them. The people I love best? They deserve me at my best—or at least… trying, conscious, aware, fostering, building.
And when I slip up? Call me on it. The first time. Hard.
Don’t let me treating you disrespectfully—because you love me, and I love you, and so it’s all ok—become a habit.
Because it isn’t ok to treat the people you love the most the worst.
Flora said so.
And she knows.
Happy un-Valentine’s Day.
xoxo
“Jane”
PS I have some un-Valetine’s Day presents for you. First, 15 Compliments for Your Valentine, Courtesy of Erotic Artist Dorothy Iannone. Kind of awesome.
Second, 3 Misconceptions that Ruin Great Relationships by Kelly Flanagan from The Good Man Project. It’s essentially an essay AGAINST the grand gesture and for… habit.
Third, my friends and I have been debating for the last god knows how many weeks whether love is what you feel or what you do, and we’ve been reading and arguing about, among others, these:
- To Fall in Love With Anyone, Do This, by UBC’s Mandy Len Catron (in The New York Times)
- The Lie About Falling In Love, by Debra K. Fileta (on Relevant)
You’ve probably seen one or both pieces already. If you haven’t, they’re worth a read.
Fourth, Good Daddies Are Hot.
Fifth—the original title of this post was, “Dear un-Valentine: How you speak to your partner tells me everything about the type of friend you’ll be. And it tells me you’re a jerk, and I want nothing to do with you.” But I decided it was a little… wordy. Jane out xx
Making the first mark on a blank page, typing the first word—letter—on a blank screen. Beginning, commitment. Do you know, the place before that first stroke, be it with pen or fingertip, how seductive that place is? It is BEFORE. It is potential. Everything is possible. Nothing is chosen. Nothing is wrong.
Nothing is risked.
It is intoxicating-frustrating. It’s… it’s like that moment, when you’re falling in love, pheromones teasing—but before the first kiss. Will you dare? Will she? How will he respond? What will I feel? What will happen next? Will there be fireworks? Or rejection?
The place of “nothing risked, all potential, I took no wrong steps, I made no mistakes” —oh, that place is so seductive…
I have ways of breaking through it in my work. I type: Client Name-Project Title. My byline. I type the names and titles of the people I interviewed. The page is no longer blank. I haven’t really risked anything yet—but I’ve started. It’s like… oh, cautious physical contact before that first kiss, you know? A hand on the shoulder, brushing oh-so-casually against a hip-but-not-lower as you leave the table: “I’ll be right back.”
But then, the choices, risks have to start. The words have to come. In an ideal scenario, they just come: the piece is written long before I sit down to let it out. It writes itself in my head while I walk. Drive. Scrub the kitchen floor, reorganize the books I’ll never read but must own. I know this—this is why, often, I’m so reluctant to sit down at the computer until I know exactly how it begins and how it ends.
(The middle, generally, just takes care of itself.)
But “ideally” is… aspirational. It does not always happen—it does not happen often enough. There is no time for a walk that settles everything, there is no space for it all to plan itself out as it would like to. Because, deadline.
And so, I sit down with the laptop. Blank screen, blank page. I type. Client Name. Mock Up Headline (usually bad). Names and titles of people I interviewed. Key idea. Fuck. I have no key idea. I have no idea what I want to say.
The clock ticks, the deadline looms, and I stare at the screen and I’m pretty sure that no matter what I write, it will be pure and utter crap, and so… I don’t. I don’t want to.
I want to stay in this safe space of nothing risked…
I look at the time and it’s later, the deadline’s closer, and the kids will be home soon, and dinner, and…
I should probably go for a walk—a fifteen minute walk, a five minute walk, it would be more productive than this I am so stupid so lazy why have people not realized this and why do they keep on giving me work and why do I say yes to stories I can’t write, projects I’m too flakey-flighty-dopey-right-brained to comprehend?
I open another window. I type:
“Making the first mark on a blank page, typing the first word—letter—on a blank screen. …”
I write. I make choices. I warm up. And, mid-sentence, starting to run, I switch windows.
“My key message, what I need to nail down in this column is how the gut feeling that comes from the limbic fight and flight response that entrepreneurs get during a crisis, a downturn: what your gut tells you to do is wrong. That’s the limbic brain telling you sabre-tooth tiger over there, wants to eat you, stay very, very still. Paralysis. And you know? A moment of paralysis, of standing still? Do it. Don’t react too quickly, stupidly. But take that moment of frozen-still-scared… to think. Analyze. Evaluate. And look for opportunity. Because it is in crisis, when all the rules of the game are out the window, that innovation thrives, that you make that bet-the-farm play…”
It’s not good. It’s not at all what I want to say. It’s not a fireworks-producing kiss, a bold declaration of love that could be unrequited. It hardly ever is.
But it’s a beginning. A first step. Something risked. A sense of where I need to go. Where to next?
Choices. I keep on writing—the clock, relentless, keeps time—we keep on kissing and that first awkward “I’m not sure-is this ok?” kiss is now forgotten. I think there might be a firework coming—and, oh, yes…
“Mom! Where are you, Mom?”
“I’m writing! Hush! Almost done!”
“Mom! We’re home!”
“Five minutes, and I’m yours… Maybe ten… hold on… just one more sentence… ok, one more after that… and… I’m…”
…done. Fireworks? Not always. Not this time. The earth did not move, and it won’t when you read the final product—although, maybe, you’ll smile, a little, and remember that one line when I almost managed to bring it over the top? Will you? Doesn’t matter. It’s done. The clock doesn’t mock me anymore, time is not a terror, the page is not blank.
I put the laptop away. Choices made. Risks taken.
Story filed.
xoxo
“Jane”
I.
Flora: “I can’t stand bossy people. But boring people, they’re okay.”
Jane: “Really? How do you figure?”
Flora: “Well—bossy people, obviously—they always tell you what to do, and who likes that? But boring people don’t force you to do anything. I mean, yes, you have listen to them talk if they trap you in a room, but thanks to you, I know how to totally zone out and just think my own thoughts while they blather on.”
So… I’m not sure. Parenting win? Parenting fail?
Yes, I’m a little bit defensive. Yes, I must own this quality and technique: she learned it from me. My disassociation capabilities are legendary. It’s how I stay sane. (Not to mention, productive.)
Still, it’s not the sort of thing you put on your resume, right? Or a quality that endears you to… um, well, boring people. Because every once in a while, they stop and ask you a question—just to check if you’re listening to their boring story.
(BTW, darling… are you reading? I’m still writing here…)
And when you’re not…
Flora: “Fortunately, we don’t know that many boring people. Why is that, Mom?”
I think it’s because we live in this really awesome community in this really awesome neighbourhood in this really awesome creative-edge bubble and…
Flora: “I guess it’s probably because you’ve offended and alienated most of their parents. Good work, Mom!”
Parenting fail. Definitely, parenting fail.
Sarcastic little titch.
She gets that from me, too.
II.
I’m chasing happy. It’s right there—right there—just within reach—just two, three tasks away. 500 words away. A load of laundry away.
Ah, screw it. I jump. Grasp it with both hands… hold on to it for 30 seconds. An hour. Yes.
Let go. Put in the laundry. Write the words. Do all the things.
Happy.
III.
I’m writing so many things right now, in so many different voices, sometimes, the different voices start to shout at each other in my head.
Jane: “Shut! Up!”
Cinder: “Mom, please treat your computer with respect. And speak in an inside voice.”
Sarcastic little titch.
I don’t think he gets that from me. Oh wait. Yes, he does.
VI.
Flora: “Mom! Take a picture! The caption is: ‘Smoking is all the rage,but it will kill you!’”
Parenting fail? Mixed messages. Mixed messages…
V.
Flora: “Sometimes, I wish my life wasn’t so easy and so ordinary.”
Jane: “Really? Sometimes, I wish my life was…”
…so I was going to say, boring. More ordinary. But… really? No. I’d be lying. I was, truly, wishing for boring in the summer, fall of 2013.
But, I’m done.
Jane: “I accept the consequences of needing to live an interesting life.”
Flora: “What did you say?”
Jane: “Nothing. Why do you think your life is so easy and ordinary?”
Flora: “Because I don’t suffer. At all.”
Jane: “I can probably change that. I mean, if that’s what you really want.”
Flora: “Um… on second thought… I’m so glad I have an easy and good life.”
Parenting win.
xoxo
“Jane”
I.
In the category of things I’d never thought I’d hear:
Ender: And Mom is driving AND eating bacon! That’s just wrong. And dangerous. Aren’t you going to stop her, Daddy?
II.
In the category of things I’d never thought I’d say:
Jane: Do! Not! Use! Your! Butt! As! A! Bookmark!
III.
In the category of things I hope other people don’t hear them say:
Cinder: Mom! Construction workers in the middle of the street! Go to ramming speed! Mom? Come on? Please? You can swerve to the side at the last second…
IV.
In the category of “This my life”:
Client: What we’re really looking for… See, how can I put this… Have you any experience… have you ever dealt with someone completely, totally irrational, unreasonable and prone to throwing temper tantrums at the least provocation—and you had to deal with them, and work around them, and get the job done in spite of them, because firing isn’t an option, and killing them is wrong?”
Jane: Yes. Yes, I have some experience in working with people like that.
V.
I’m in the shower and I’m writing bad poetry in my head and life is really, really good.
That’s all. There’s no punchline. Maybe this: and nobody interrupted me.
Bliss.
xoxo,
Jane
PS Eating bacon while driving is NOT dangerous. Eating salted caramel ice cream, however, is.
It’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I’m making pancakes for Ender. Because I love him. Even though he got me up at 4:47 a.m.
And somewhere out there in cyberspace is an old crone—er, I mean post-menopausal matriarch—actually, I very specifically mean my Aunt Augusta, and maybe yours too?—who’s tutting at my complaint about my bleary eyes and fuzzy head and saying,
“Treasure EVERY second. One day you will miss those precious moments.”
Well, Aunt Augusta. I now have a teenager whom I can’t rouse out of bed before noon.
And it’s THE BEST THING EVER.
Sure, there are lots of precious moments from Cinder’s earlier and earliest years that I miss acutely and will treasure forever.
Experiencing his wakefulness in a state of comatose-ness at 5 a.m.? Not so much.
Not at all, actually.
Changing diapers, wiping bums? Not one little bit.
I didn’t enjoy, cherish and relish every moment.
And neither will you. (And neither did you, Aunt Augusta, you goddamn hypocrite; your memories are rewritten and you LIE).
And that’s totally ok.
I cherish him. Them.
In sickness and in health. In joy and in “OMFG-are-you-trying-to-drive-me-into-a-madhouse” moments. (Well, not in those moments. But shortly thereafter.)
But some moments, many of them occurring before sunrise, in washrooms, or at meltdown hour just blow goats. And that’s ok. You don’t have to cherish them. You just have to get through them.
xoxo
“Jane”
P.S. This post brought to you by purveyors of fine coffee beans everywhere.
I.
First, a text vignette:
Villager: Hey—do you know where the nearest registry is? Just realized our car is still unregistered!
Me: Just up the hill, by the library.
Villager: Ok, thanks.
Me: Do you need a ride?
Villager: Nah, what’s one more trip?
Me: K. Call me if you need bail money.
Villager: K. Thanks. Altho’ I might just stay in jail and get some rest. Will send the kids to you in a cab tho’. With a house key so you can feed the dogs.
Me: K.
II.
Now, a child-care vignette:
On Mondays, I pack my two littles (the near-teen is still sleeping!) into the truck first thing in the morning and drive them over to a friend’s house. Then gym (self-care, first!) and then work. Sometimes, I rush back to pick up my crew to get back home as another friend’s kids get off school and need to be looked after while their mom goes and earns some moolah.
On Tuesdays, a villager (the same one I might need to bail out of jail if the cops pull her over driving sans registration) brings her duo over as she leaves for her sanity break. I’m “gap” care until their dad gets off work and can come hang with them at their mom’s house until she comes back. Another friend’s partner swings by to pick up one of mine to take her to extra-curricular activities.
On Wednesdays, she takes mine for a couple of hours in the afternoons, so I can run downtown and schmooze clients. When Sean comes home that night, I might tell him, as I run out the door laptop in hand, that there is one-two-three extra children upstairs, because something’s come up for Jan…
(…or, I might forget to tell him, and he’ll just find out when one of the extra kids wanders downstairs and say, “I’m hungry. When’s supper?”)
On Thursdays, I take the littles (“I am not little!” protests Flora) to your house for the day. Gym. Time out for lunch with a friend. Work. Focused time with the near-teen. Kid pick-up.
On Fridays, I take your child. And, I’m childcare for anyone who needs it. I don’t attempt to squeeze any real work in—although every once in a while now, as they’re all getting older, I can manage a phone call or return email.
On Saturdays, Flora usually lives at other people’s houses. “I’ll be at Moxie’s!” “I’m going to Mimi’s!” “Can we go to the mall with Nelly’s mom’s friends?” “Rory’s going swimming, can I go?” I’m usually gone for most of the morning and early afternoon, writing in coffee shops. When I come back… “Where are the boys?” A neighbour took them sledding, skating. “You mean we’re alone?” We go for a walk. Other things.
I’m on deadline, and so my mom offers to take the kids on Tuesday. “I have two extra in the afternoon,” I say. “What’s two more?” she asks.
True.
III.
These are the ties that bind:
A phone call, a neighbour: “We have extra tickets to…” Yes!
A knock on the door: “I just got a call from T., and she’s stuck on top of the hill—the battery died. I’m home alone with the kids—can you or Sean go?” Yes.
A text: “What are you doing for dinner? Potluck? I have chicken and not a single vegetable in the house.” Awesome. I have no meat, but a sack-o-carrots and a bag of frozen peas…
Facebook post: “We need ALL YOUR TOWELS and MOPS at #6 RIGHT NOW.”
IV.
There’s also this:
Far-away friend: So we hit yyc on the 27th . Can we night over at your place?
Me: Shoot. We’re away until the 30th. But everyone on the lane has keys. What time do you get in? I’ll make sure someone can let you in.
V.
The moral:
Here’s the thing you either get or don’t—at this moment, I’m at the point of thinking that if you don’t GET it, there is nothing I can say to make you get it, and yet, here I am, again, trying.
I don’t live in paradise.
These supportive-connective relationships I have, they’re not effortless. They’re not some magic thing that just happens.
This web of give-and-take in which no one keeps score but everyone gets what they need? All this takes FOREVER to create. Like… decades. Years at the least. And it takes effort. It takes investment. It takes WORK.
It takes… oh, what’s the word? Realism, I think. Not all the people you help, who help you, whom you need, who need you—not all of these people are people you love. Some of them you spark with immediately, and others it takes two, five years to really get to know. Some of them annoy the shit out of you when you first meet—and that doesn’t change much five years later.
You’re not a love affair, you’re not a romance, you’re not eternally-bound kindred spirits who read each other’s minds and fulfill each other’s dreams.
You’re a village. A community. A tribe.
Sometimes you work really well… and sometimes you piss each other off.
You come together in a crisis… and then descend into immature internecine warfare over lame, don’t-matter-anything-in-the-big-picture (“What do you mean! Of course they do!”) details.
VI.
Villager: Which one am I?
Me: You annoy the shit out of me about 30 per cent of the time.
Villager: That’s pretty good.
Me: I think so.
****
So very grateful for my village. Absolutely dogmatic about the fact that if you don’t have one—you need to start building it. Today.
xoxo
“Jane”
Post-Script: “Easy for you to say, Jane. How the hell do I start?”
Small steps. Small steps. Get a neighbour’s phone number. Then text them. Invite them for coffee. Regift a fruitcake. That woman you’ve been passing in the stairway for the past six years? Say, “Hi. I’m just going to the grocery store—do you need anything?” And keep. On. Doing. It.
For years.
“But the thing is, Jane… right now? I can’t really give. I just need… and I don’t want to be a mooch. You know?”
Christ. Do I ever, beloved. Both my geographic-village—my physically near neighbours—and my heart-village—my intentional tribe, my creative coven—have been hammered by life’s caprices in the last couple of years. And we’ve often found ourselves looking at each other in helplessness and exhaustion, and saying, “I want to help you. I really want to help you. But I can barely breathe myself, I can barely keep my head above the water.” It’s a terrible feeling, isn’t it? Dual helplessness. I can’t help you… you can’t help me… what the hell is going to happen to us?
What I’ve learned: when I can’t help myself, I can usually still see a way to help you. And when you think you’re totally stretched to the limit… it’s easier to help me than to “fix” yourself. So. The chaos-mess-stress of my life is overwhelming me… but I can get your groceries for you. Drop in for a coffee and listen to you cry. Watch your kids, even though I feel I’m rarely sufficiently present for mine. You’re sick, exhausted and going not-a-little-mad from the pressures of THAT… but when you see a way to offer me relief, you give yourself relief. Cleaning my kitchen floor is easier and more fulfilling than cleaning yours.
One of the most profound memories I have from that flood thing is coming back, dirty and tired, to my dirty and messy house… to find two of my neighbours washing my dishes (two weeks old) and scrubbing my mud-covered kitchen floor. On which I then collapsed (mud-covered) and wept. Gods know they had enough to do in their own houses…
Go clean someone’s kitchen floor today. It’s a start.
‘twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house…
Ender: Moooom! Can we go to Babi’s yet? Is it Christmas yet? Do I have to brush my hair? Can I just wear a hat? Can we go…
All the creatures were stirring, and making a fuss
Sean: Jaaaane? Did we buy a present for my mom? And my sister? And her new-in-laws? And do we have any wrapping paper or scotch tape or…
The stockings were precariously attached to the tack board with push pins…
Flora: Moooom! I just realized I never made a card for Moxie, and I’m out of good green markers, and green is her favourite colour, and we need to go to the store and get me new markers RIGHT! NOW!
In the vain hope that this year, Santa would remember to put something there…*
Cinder: Mooom! Cookies! We never made those special cookies I wanted to make. Remember? Florentines? You said we could. And you said it was easy. Do we have time? Do we have the ingredients?
The children were running around like chickens with their heads cut off…**
While visions of presents-food-cookies-Christmas-is-tomorrow-we-can’t-wait! danced in their heads
Ender: Can this day just end, so we can have Christmas? Can you put me to bed now? I’m tired. It’s dark.
Flora: That’s because it’s still morning, doofus!
Jane: Do not call your brother names!
I’m trying to settle my brain for the season, but there is so much clamour, without much good reason…
Sean: Jane? Tape?
Cinder: Mom? Cookies?
Flora: Please? Can you take me to the store?
Ender: I. Want. To. Go. To. Bed!
Cinder: She’s not here.
Flora: Where did she go?
Sean: Jaaaaaaane?
Ender: Mooooom!
Flora: Oh, no her laptop’s gone too. Do you think she’ll come back?
I’m in the bathroom, the bathtub, with lights off and curtain drawn
Typing so very quietly, pretending I’m not home…
But I always come back. I’ll leave this dark space. Put on pretty clothes, maybe make up my face (probably not)
Brush Wolf Child’s hair. Braid the girl’s too. Argue with Cinder that ‘tis an occasion for a shirt without skulls and blood on it (or maybe not)
Give Sean the tape. Say,
Jane: Um, no, I didn’t get anyone presents this year, you know how I feel about that, and this year, yeah, I just decided to really walk the talk…
…just to get his heart pounding…
Ha. That will be FUN. Ok, no, just terribly, terribly mean.
Jane: In the office! Under the “to-be-shredded” boxes!***
My mom sent me this meme for Christmas:
I hope all of you get a unicorn for Christmas. I want mine to be green, with silver hoofs. And filled with dark chocolate (Chili or ginger).
It’s almost over. We almost made it!
Merry Whatmacallit. See you in 2015.
Xoxo
“Jane”
*That’s not, by the way, an expression of my grinchiness. The stockings are just not part of my cultural tradition. And I never think to get anything to put in there. Ugh. What a make work project.
**Sorry.
***For Christmas, Sean needs a shredding service. OK, Santa? Thanks. J.
I.
I love you.
But oh, you infuriate me. How do you get so filthy?
(It’s your fault, you don’t clean me.)
Why are you blaming me? You lousy ingrate, what have you done for me lately?
(More than you’ve done for me, slovenly slattern.)
And it just goes downhill from here. There’s a slam. And a bang. I threaten to leave it, walk out, FOREVER. It says fine, but it gets to keep the children. Oh yeah? I holler.
(Oh, yeah, you foul slob, where do you think they’re going to want to live?)
I weep.
II.
Flora: What the heck’s going on?
Jane: I’m fighting with the house! Leave us alone.
Cinder: She’s lost it.
Flora: Totally.
Ender: Does anyone want to build a fort in the living room?
III.
I think I would clean you more if… oh, I don’t know. If you just didn’t get dirty again. Immediately! If you could give me a day’s… hour’s respite. You know? Would it kill you? To stay clean, tidy, organized for more than 30 seconds?
(I am not the one who messes myself up, you know.)
I know.
Sob.
(Beloved. Do I not take good care of you?)
No! You’re drafty and squeaky! Too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter. You’re dusty and stinky and…
(Beloved. I wrap myself around you the best I can. Don’t I? Am I not your sanctuary? The place you run to when you need a rest from the rest of the world? Do you not write me the most delicious love letters when you are in that mood?)
Sob. Yes. But you are such a mess. And you need so much work. And I don’t want to do any of it. It’s thankless and never-ending. And you never say thank you.
(Beloved…)
Screw off. Do you ever thank me? Never! And then, when I do all the things… you just get filthy again! Look at that wall! That floor! And is that spaghetti sauce on the ceiling?
I don’t even remember the last time I made spaghetti…
(I just want to be clean. And beautiful. And welcoming. For you. You know? Don’t you love me more when I’m all, you know, all beautiful, all dressed up?)
Sigh.
Do I?
I don’t know. Maybe. Sure. But it doesn’t last. Ever. And so… I really don’t give a fuck. No. When you’re all prettied up and sterilized and scrubbed? You’re just this reminder, slap-in-the-face of what I’ve just done with my time that will immediately be undone.
(Bitch.)
Ingrate.
(Ingrate for what? You do nothing for me!)
I do everything! And it’s never enough!
IV.
Flora: Do you think we should call someone?
Cinder: We shouldn’t. They might take her away. You know. To the loony bin.
Ender: Let’s go hide in my fort.
V.
(Beloved.)
Go away.
(Just the bathroom and the kitchen floor. Ok? Please? Just… just the toilet and the mirror. Please?)
I pour Listerine into the toilet. Because, no cleaner. I feel the house roll its eyes and I bristle.
(Beloved.)
Fuck off!
(Thank you.)
What?
(Thank you.)
Really? Did you just…
(Thank you. Now… scrub the tub. And fill it. And put in bubbles. And my pipes and furnace will sing to you while you relax. Yes? Take all the time you want. Unwind… Yeees. Like this… And then… you can wash the kitchen floor.)
VI.
Flora: Hey, Mom… are you writing? I thought you said you were going to clean the kitchen floor?
Jane: Um, well, I was. But I decided to write about how I didn’t want to do it instead.
xoxo
“Jane”
PS The kitchen floor’s still filthy. What, you think I’m that easy to play? This house has no idea who it’s dealing with.
Hi. How are you? Feeling down-and-out, like the worst mother ever? Come in. I’m going to show you what it looks like when I lose my temper. Oh yeah, also, I ruin Christmas. It’s my Christmas present to you. Thought you suck? I’ll raise you your suck, and see you one…
So it’s that time of year, and I’m ordering crap on line. Toys my kids don’t need, won’t play with, but think they want. And they keeping on coming into the kitchen while I’m doing this, interrupting, peeking, sneaking, fighting, shouting, screeching, fighting, spying, trying, until…
Jane: Get! The! Hell! Out! Of! The! Kitchen! NOOOOOOOOOOW!
What you need to know: when I yell? It’s like I’m channeling Cthulhu. Kronos. The Evil One himself. It’s not shouting or nagging. It’s a “I can kill with my voice and right now I really want to” kind of sound.
Reaction from the children, who know they’re loved and who know not even Cthulhu can harm them:
Collected children: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Effect on overwrought, broke-and-hates-Christmas-at-the-best-of-times mother:
Jane: Do you understand, goddammit, that I am doing all this FOR YOU? I. HATE. CHRISTMAS. If we were doing Christmas my way—there would be no goddam tree in the house. THERE WOULD BE NO PRESENTS! There would be no Christmas Eve dinner, and there would be no Christmas Day morning and not a single bit of wrapping paper, mistletoe or fake snow stuff in the house. THERE. WOULD. BE. NOTHING. We would be… god, in Fidel’s Cuba or Maoist China, where “For Sale” and “Buy Now” are outlawed, and you can get shot for humming Jingle Bells! I find the crass commercialism of this season morally repugnant and spiritually bankrupt, and participating in it, at all, MAKES ME SICK. So everything I do—this stupid tree? These decorations? Getting you presents, because that’s the way I’m supposed to show you I love you this season? I do all this for you, and I hate it, and the least you can do is not keep on interrupting me while I’m doing it! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND??
Effect on the children, who know they’re loved, and know that not even the Mother of All Grinches can ruin Christmas:
Cinder: Did you not sleep well last night again?
Flora: Did your writing not go well this morning?
Ender: Thank God we have grandparents.
Wah.
I don’t think my shoes are too tight. And I don’t think my heart is two sizes too small.
He puzzles and puzzled til his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store! Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more!
What?
I try to find that every December. Fail. Because celebrating the return of the light—literal or metaphorical, depending on your (ir)religious predilection—disappears under the weight of millions of department store Santa Clauses.
Bah, humbug.
The Grinch
Nothing By The Book 