Very Good, Grasshopper

There was clearly a moment between my daughter and me when the student became the teacher. A few weeks ago, while helping arrange her university schedule for next term, I was reading the course descriptions over the phone when I stopped at the word diaspora. I freely admitted that I wasn’t sure what that word meant when, without hesitation, she rambled off an articulate definition. I was humbled and impressed at the same time, grateful that we may be getting our money’s worth at university and happy to offer up an opportunity for her to display her knowledge—which was totally what I was trying to do. Just in case you’re in the same boat as I was, Wikipedia defines diaspora as the movement, migration or scattering of people away from an established or ancestral home. So, now we all know.

Reminders that our family dynamic is evolving are all around me. Regularly for the last year, my son had me stand back to back with him to measure how tall he was getting. And now it’s official, I’m the shortest one in the house. Good news is: there’s something symbolic about reaching this point in my life when my kids are taller than I am which signifies how far we’ve come; bad news is: time is flying by.

At family parties over the last week, with many little ones to enjoy, I reminisced about days gone by. With kids around, people love to point out family resemblances, and when they exhibit behaviours or expressions similar to their parents’, it’s easy to assume that kids are simply miniature versions of ourselves; that they will grow up with the same likes and dislikes and have the same ambitions, and it’ll be great because you can save them from any mistakes you made or chances you missed. But it doesn’t work like that. We can shape our children and influence their environment but it's a powerful moment when we let go of misconceptions about who our children should be or could be, and realize that what our kids turn out like may not be what we first envisioned but is, in fact, better.

First Impressions

When I opened Jenny Lawson’s memoir Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, her dedication read:

I want to thank everyone who helped me create this book, except for that guy who yelled at me in Kmart when I was eight because he thought I was being “too rowdy.”  You’re an asshole, sir.

It's awesome when you know right away that you're going to like this writer. As opposed to other books, classic stories with countless fans, which I have tried hard to read but which left no impression on me. I must then humbly return them to the library unfinished, like a failure; and I love to learn new things, but I have to be honest with myself—I’m afraid of being the dumbest person in the room. This fear has left me with the unending task of attempting to better myself even though the only person I’m trying to impress is me because I usually don’t have a clue what other people are thinking.

Maybe I’ve managed to socialize or suppress all of my natural instincts away. I often second guess my choices, thinking I am acting like a carefree woman when, in reality, I’m starting to wonder if my lack of a make-up routine is more about laziness than a statement about female media images. Here’s hoping that my forties lead to a surge of self-confidence, or at least a mild case of knowing what I want.

Normally, when people walk into a house for sale they know if it’s the one for them. Not me. If you’ve read a previous post called Money Pit, you’ll know my notes before we bought this house included only one word: scary. My husband is the one who saw beyond the shiny diagonal cedar in the bathroom, the stale smell of cat urine permeating from the pink carpet, and the homeowners who stayed to watch TV while I tried to politely look around.  I could tell by our second visit that I was wrong because I couldn't see myself living in any other house. Luckily, I did a better job picking him out eleven years earlier. 

The summer of 1991 was already a hit because the two popular bars in town were competing for business by offering bottled beer for a buck and, as luck would have it, I had turned 19 that June. We had mutual friends who joined our table near the end of a hot July night. His first friend had obviously been puking shortly before asking me to dance (charming), and his second friend danced like a fence post, so when the DJ announced the next song would be the last dance, the man who would be my husband a year later did not have to do much to improve upon his predecessors. But it was more than that. Mick Jagger was still whistling the notes of Waiting on a Friend when I knew he was the one, like a puzzle that fit together in all the right places, and there was no doubt in my mind, this attraction would have a lasting impression. And that's an awesome feeling.

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm...

I love the a-ha moment while reading a book; that instance when the writer reveals a key piece of the puzzle she was holding back which beseeches me to backtrack through the previous pages searching for what I missed the first time around while acknowledging the writer’s cleverness. However, the more profound a-ha moments that keep me devouring books are when I utter to myself, “Wow, I’m not the only one,” or “What a terrible hardship this family went through,” or “I never knew this is what really happened during that time.”

I know I sometimes have a short-term memory deficit, and my long-term memory could not be depended on in a court of law, but I prefer to call my disposition absent-minded. The story I'm sticking to is that it’s more important who I am, as opposed to what I know (or at least remember), and this has been partly shaped by what I’ve read. Knowing there is a potential learning opportunity waiting to unfold within its pages is why I get so excited about books—what am I going to find out about myself or others that will change the way I look at life—and why I am enthusiastic to see other people reading.

In 1990, the group C&C Music Factory were speaking directly to me when they sang, “Things That Make You Go Hmmmm…” because things make me go hmmmm… all the time, and that same year, Deee-lite released what could be my theme song: “Groove Is In The Heart”. It was the year I graduated from highschool and what I know now about the world around me has increased exponentially since  then and I would bet there hasn’t been one day that I don’t read something that makes me think. That a-ha moment is the highlight of my reading experiences; but where that wisdom usually ends up is in my heart.

I may not be able to recall every tidbit of information I’ve learned but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to know more. I trust writers to be my teachers and it must be a great privilege and an awesome feeling to be able to give someone an a-ha moment.

…maybe that’s why I like to write? (Notice this a-ha moment in the making!)

20 Ways for 20 Years

How to stay married for twenty years…

1.      Know in your heart that you’re right but don’t insist on public acknowledgement.

2.      If you can’t say anything nice, write it down for future reference.

3.      Plan more for the marriage than the wedding.

4.    At one point, you will consider murder, but a slow death is less noticeable and who wants to put him out of his misery anyway?     

5.      It doesn’t work to threaten taking half in the divorce because he may take you up on the offer to have control over more of his income than usual.

6.      Imagine starting all over to train a new husband, or even harder, retrain someone else’s ex-husband.

7.      Holding it all in, carrying grudges, tit-for-tat, keeping score—it’s not healthy. Wipe the slate clean every once in a while.

8.      Count on those pheromones for a strong chemical attraction to help overcome the days when you don’t even want to see his face.

9.      Limit home renovations as much as possible.

10.   Find a partner who makes you laugh out loud because you’re gonna need it.

11.   Have compatible skills, like a business partner: one can fix things while the other knows how to fill out the paperwork.

12.   Unite against the children.

13.   Have a short memory for the bad times and a long memory for the good ones.

14.   Let a spender show you how to enjoy daily life and a let a saver prepare you for the future.

15.   Forget the following five words: All you need is love.

16.   Remember the following five words: patience, tolerance, empathy, humility, earplugs.

17.   If one’s an early riser and the other a night owl, that’s all the better for some alone time.

18.   The same disposition toward social interaction helps because whether you're both social butterflies or homebodies, it’s about being together.

19.   Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time. It’s a marathon not a dash. Don’t lower your standards but maybe your expectations. Don’t give up too easily.

20.   Mix together a lot of love, loads of laughter and whatever life has in store, then let simmer and savour for another twenty years, at least.

Peeps and Sheoples

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Last month, I had resolved to complain less using this blog as my outlet, but it’s so darn easy. And I'll be brief.                

Everybody wants a record of where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. Have a click on the typical privacy statement hidden in the deep folds of the website you’re on. Your computer has already gobbled up the info needed to remind you of the last three items you’ve browsed, what your local store address is, and on many sites, you have to unclick the ‘remember me’ tab to opt-out instead of opting-in (a perpetual pet peeve of mine). And even though I’ve repeatedly unsubscribed to their messages, I will often get a marketing email, just to keep me in the loop, in case the 15 times I’ve asked to be removed from the mailing list was just a typo. If you want to buy something or sign up for their service, prepare to be stalked. Not only will they share your email address with companies they feel you would like, how thoughtful, but first you must acknowledge their 5000-word terms of agreement that says they can collect any data they want, including your ISP to locate your address and your browser history to see what kind of websites you go to. Who needs nosy neighbours when our every move is being monitored by our computer. At least the old busybody next door isn’t selling your purchase history to marketing firms without your implicit consent. I’m not sure if it’s paranoia or common sense to cover my integrated web cam (maybe iTunes just wants to put a face to my name and credit card number?) More often than not, many people freely give personal information away rather than appear rude to the checkout person asking for your postal code before they can proceed or your phone number to record all your purchases in one convenient place. What companies offer in return, if anything, does not seem worth it. Yes, we’ll give you this download for free, you just have to allow us access to your hard drive, or the generous 5% discount you’ll receive on your $15 purchase from Old Navy for providing your email address gives them access to you long after your purchase of clothes that didn’t even hold up one season. Some cards are better than others, but several points cards, all designed to collect data on your purchasing habits, are almost insulting: when I spend a total of $1000 in merchandise over time, I get $10 off my next purchase, which expires in one month; or, for thousands of dollars’ worth of gas, you get a free bottle of windshield wiper fluid. Feeding off our need to feel a part of the club seems to be a strong motivator for our actions and companies have capitalized on it. Contrary to Mitt Romney’s statement: “Corporations are people” and the US Supreme Court’s decision to uphold this notion, this law does not make them your friend. Follow us on Twitter, take our survey, win a contest, Facebook us, stop in for a complimentary BBQ hotdog—no, thank you. If you were on my side, you would give me a discount without signing up for a three-year contract, not make me bend over backwards for a 10% discount on your lucrative mark-up, and stop calling me to say you’re in my neighbourhood cleaning heating ducts and would be happy to fit me in to the appointment schedule. I can’t help but think you may be disingenuous when you call me twice a year and I tell I don’t have a furnace but you don't listen.

Okay, so I had a little more to say about this matter than I thought. But now, I really have to go because I'm the 1,000,000th visitor to this ad at the top of my screen and as you know, opportunities like this don’t come around too often.

Wonders of My Small World

This month, I wanted to reflect on what I am grateful for. And happily, there are so many to choose from that these are only the things I could easily come up with in one sitting:

Butterflies landing on my shoulder

Patterned grooves of fossils

Intricate spider webs created overnight

Quiet smiles of a funny moment memory

Lime green inchworms curling and stretching

Skyping someone who’s 14 hours away

Shoulder massages that hurt at first before relaxing you to your knees

Warmed, glistening milk chocolate chips waiting to be stirred

Moths with giant hairy ears perched outside a window

Impromptu philosophical discussions while sharing wine and cheese

Hummingbirds hovering close by

Crisp new books inviting me in

Fiddleheads unfurling into maidenhair fronds

Many hands that make light work of a big job

The riot of colourful leaves before their bittersweet end

Juicy wild raspberries

Easy access to music recorded live on stage

Being on the same wavelength

Monarch caterpillars gorging on butterfly weed

The earthy smell of shaven black walnut wood

The deep colour of a clear blue night

40 years of birthday cards from my grandparents

The suspension of an outside world and slow absorption back to reality after leaving the movie theatre in the middle of the day

Greeting my husband in a crowded public space from across the room with a smile

Beautiful stone tiles that serve as organic artwork on the walls

Watching the hard-fought win of a closely-matched game

Discovering you have the same question as other Googlers, and better yet, finding the right answer

My blog readers…thanks for hanging in there with me.

Good Vibrations

Reading the title of this blog post, you may have thought I was going to review my impressions of Fifty Shades of Grey. But alas, no.

This is about how my favourite family memories are often set to music. When the TV goes off and the tunes go on, the atmosphere in the house changes. We may be entertaining guests, but more likely I'm only cooking dinner or organizing a closet and when the music is on, it means we’re hanging out around the house. I love the days spent listening to Sunday Mornings Over Easy or the Acoustic Brunch but sadly, the times they are a changing. Looming in the back of my mind is the knowledge that the whole family lazily starting the day, safe and sound under one roof, will feel different when one member of the household is AWOL (not that I don’t want her to go to school but, you know...).

Music was often playing in the background of our home movies. The kids were once willing participants in our musical rituals and I can’t help but smile when I watch videos of the kids when they were little, dancing around our tiny livingroom. The two of them could be seen holding hands, laughing and whirling in circles to the beat of The Beach Boys—spoiler alert for those with young children—those moments don’t last forever. This of course was long before they became eye-rolling, easily embarrassed teenagers who barely resurface from their iPods.

Our son will remain in our presence most evenings even though his mind is elsewhere, usually deep into group texting, but for many years now, our daughter’s voluntary appearances in our livingroom have been few and far between. That was until recently when we all spent a rare evening downloading YouTube music videos and sending them wirelessly to the stereo to fill the room with song. It was a humid 35°C night and we were gathered in the cool air inside the house, thankful the power grid on the eastern seaboard was handling the heat wave with ease. Maybe it was because her classes were done and highschool would soon be a mere memory, or because she was feeling pre-homesickness knowing she would be leaving for five weeks this summer before moving out for school, but she stayed in the same room with us for hours that night. My racing heart recognized that we were recapturing those elusive days of relaxed togetherness from their childhood, or maybe it was the chocolate-covered cashews we were passing around, but I knew I didn’t want to spoil the delicate balance that was happening. Anastasia and Christian would have to wait because I wasn’t about to pick up my book and break the spell of this enchanting evening. I would venture to the kitchen sporadically to fill my wine glass with a chilled chardonnay then mosey on back to my spot on the couch—I even put off going to the bathroom as long as possible, afraid of jinxing the moment. We drifted from Kim Carnes to Evanescence, Otis Redding to The Black Keys, and my husband and I reminisced aloud about roller skating to Electric Avenue and running under the bridge to Eye of the Tiger. I wondered if hearing a familiar song would resonate with our kids when they remember back to 2012 and think about the night we debated whether a particular song warranted its 400,000,000 views.

My advice is this: Don’t let those opportunities to enjoy the company of your teenagers pass you by. Ignore the dirty dishes and books, they will still be there ready for your attention when you’re all alone. You gotta keep those lovin’ good vibrations a happening. I’m baking treats and turning up the music right now, we’ll see if the magic happens again.   

A Penny Saved

Visa conducted a survey of American families with teenagers who said they would spend an average of $1,078 this year on the prom, a 33.6% boost over the $807 spent in 2011. The most interesting part was the data revealed that the higher the family income, the less spent on prom.

o    Parents who make under $20,000 will spend an average of $1,200

o    Parents who make $20,000-$29,999 will spend an average of $2,635

o    Parents who make $30,000-$39,999 will spend an average of $801

o    Parents who make $40,000-$49,999 will spend an average of $695

o    Parents who make over $50,000 will spend an average of $988

o    Parents who make over $75,000 will spend an average of $842

One expert suggested that because people are getting married later, parents are looking for reasons to celebrate and as is customary nowadays, we overindulge in our children. For our family—maybe because fashion, shoes, makeup, and hair are not my forte and definitely because I am confident that my daughter’s prom will not be the highlight of her entire life—our total prom bill will be as reasonable as we can manage while still honouring this milestone. But I can see all around me how tempting it is to want it all because we are surrounded with access to seemingly unlimited choices.

On CBC radio, I listened to a psychiatrist explain how middle-class people are pushing their limits to have bigger houses or expensive weddings but are reporting to be no happier than people 30 years ago were. In fact, he says we now tend to have more mental health issues because our values are distorted. You need only watch one episode of the TV show Say Yes to the Dress or MTV Cribs to see how our spending has gone out of whack and how the measure of success is determined by what’s parked in our driveway.

Thankfully, our daughter sees the bigger picture of her graduating year. She chose to spend a week volunteering for Habitat for Humanity in New Orleans knowing that would reduce her prom budget and she is aware of the large price tag for university this year. I have the getsmarteraboutmoney.ca scholarship contest to thank for having her calculate a budget for the income and expenses she will incur over the next year, which, truth be told, is even more than I expected when all is said and done.    

We are looking to the government for help with student loans and I am discovering that their calculations to determine need are just as odd as our society’s spending habits. A student who has saved money in a bank account or has earned money from working more hours has to claim that amount in their application and therefore their loan is reduced dollar for dollar for having that asset (for more info about recommendations to improve OSAP see: http://www.raereview.utoronto.ca/UTresponse_17_appendixB.html ).

The student would be better off spending their money or working less to show greater need. Our provincial government currently caps the amount of debt owing each year at a little over $7000, which is good, except the student has to come up with the remainder (OSAP estimates the cost of 8 months of university at @$17000) if they do not qualify for other grants.

In my simplified version of a better world, I would like to see tuition costs for any post-secondary education be free for all those willing to do the work. So instead of OSAP arbitrarily determining a family’s ability to pay for the student’s education, most people would have access to local schooling opportunities at a reduced cost, and then, if the student were to study elsewhere, they have made the choice to incur added expenses, and should be given a full student loan to use as needed, depending on their means, with the responsibility to pay for those outstanding debts. That’s my two cents for today.  

Education is the best way for a country to invest in the future and uplift all of its citizens. Then maybe we would see more value in ourselves rather than in our possessions.

Learn to be a Better Writer

I’ve been busy this month working on my young adult novel and children’s picture books leading up to a workshop I attended on writing for children presented by Brian Henry (quick-brown-fox-canada.blogspot.com). I met fellow writers, learned many good tips, and was encouraged to keep going. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t have anything to share this month except to inspire other writers with a list of my favourite books on writing.

Plot Whisperer: Secrets of Story Structure Any Writer can Master by Martha Alderson

The Forest for the Trees: An Editor’s Advice to Writers by Betsy Lerner

Writing Great Books for Young Adults by Regina Brooks

Eats Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss

The Book on Writing: The Ultimate Guide to Writing Well by Paula LaRocque

Spunk & Bite by Arthur Plotnik

77 Reasons Why Your Book was Rejected by Mike Nappa

Clean Well-Lighted Sentences by Janis Bell

Thanks But This Isn’t For Us by Jessica Page Morrell

Writing for Children and Young Adults by Marion Cook

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

Bryson’s Dictionary for Writers and Editors by Bill Bryson

When Bad Grammar Happens to Good People by Ann Batko

How I Write: Secrets of a Bestselling Author by Janet Evanovich

Writing Picture Books by Ann Whitford Paul

Writing & Selling the YA Novel by K.L. Going

From First Draft to Finished Novel by Karen S. Wiesner

Writer’s Digest magazine

The Time Has Come

I think the Mayans may have been right about the world ending in 2012. I know my world will never be the same: our daughter is starting university in the fall. The shock of how quickly time passes is not sitting well with me. I’m feeling nostalgic, reliving her childhood moments with moms of young children, impressing upon them the need to soak up every moment and record lots of video. But it all happens in a blur no matter how present you try to be or how prepared you think you are.

All along I knew I was getting her ready for the world but now that the inevitable is knocking on the door, I’m panicking. I’m not worried about her future; it’s all the days in between that weigh on my mind, which is no different from the last seventeen years of my involvement in her life: have we made the right choices, is she ready for the next milestone, is she safe and happy? With her independence hurtling toward us, and my slow acceptance of this major change, it only ups the ante of my apprehension wondering how the pressure to raise her game will play out. I understand this big step happens to every person eventually but just because something happens all the time, doesn’t make it easy (childbirth comes to mind).

The worst part is I don’t believe we’ll ever fully know how difficult or easy the transition was for her because although I’m sure the first few days will be hard, this kid rarely admits to fear and has often shown the wherewithal to stoically endure her situation. This “I’ll show you” attitude has always served her well. I felt the first inkling of her figurative middle finger when she came home after the first day of Grade 2. I had sent her off on the bus that morning, to a school she had already been to for a year, assuming the teachers would help the kids find their way to their new class. Apparently not. But she figured out what to do and was stronger for it—while I added one more strike to my running list of guilty mother moments. I lost more clout when she was nine years old and we dropped her off for a 9-day camp an hour and a half from home. She didn’t flinch but I wanted to turn around and pick her up before we even got back to the main road. If she had felt any homesickness over that week, she didn’t say anything when we picked her up but I was teased for months.

As a teenager, that figurative middle finger has become more vocal but with every needle to my heart, I’m counting on this independent, stubborn, I-can-take-care-of-myself attitude she`s had ever since she kicked off her blanket in the delivery room to be there when she needs it. I have no choice but to be more like my daughter and resist showing signs of weakness. I will have to pull it together and be the spring board she needs to set off on her own, even though I secretly, or not so secretly, hope she bounces back every once in a while.

Swimming with Sharks

Have I mentioned that I love books? The simply intoxicating nature of a whole world waiting at your fingertips, to take up at a moment’s notice, that transports you into the protagonist’s life whose fate is waiting in the balance for your return.

I put my book down and look up at the clock on the bedside table as it glares a harsh red back at me. My arms and hands tingle from holding up my head for so long and my eyes have been glazed over for the last half hour. If I go to sleep now, I’ll get under five hours of sleep before the alarm goes off. Just one more chapter, I promise myself. Of course, I know this is doubtful given the fact that the closer I get to the climax of the story, the less chance there is of putting it down.    

For a long time, the books I piled up around me were mostly non-fiction because of an insatiable need to absorb new information, punctuated with a few fiction novels recommended by family and friends that allowed me to learn about different places or eras. Somewhere along the way, however, I found myself reading novels that were so well written that they sparked a latent desire in me to write.

In 1996, I bought a book called Writer’s Market. It lists thousands of publishers and agents, what they are looking for and how to submit a manuscript to them. The fact that I even own this book is rare for me—I rely heavily on the public library to feed my addiction. I knew I wanted to write but I let the spark die out. In the years since then, I permitted family obligations to envelop me and suppress the fear of failure that stood in my way. No trying meant no rejection. Nowadays, my skin isn’t any thicker but my need to write won’t take a back burner to my growing children who are quickly becoming independent. No excuses left.  

After reading every book I could get my hands on about how to develop the craft of storywriting, I started to read all books with a critical eye. It’s like watching the DVD commentary of a movie that you can never watch with the same blitheness again—you know too much about what went on behind the scenes. I appreciate good books even more now because when the writing is exceptional, I stop paying attention to the bits and pieces that put it together.

Yes, I do spend an inordinate amount of time reading, to the detriment of socializing or a cleaner house, regretting any extra minutes carved out of the day that are wasted if I’m not reading. And yes, the rejections letters from publishers are adding up but being immersed in the writing life no longer feels optional.   

Like a shark that needs to move in order to breathe, I can only live if I’m swimming in words.  

Let the Record Show

There’s only one thing I envy about reality TV stars and that is their ability to look back on the footage of the previous hour, day or week. If my family’s everyday activities were recorded, I could tell you the exact time I first mentioned what time the practice was at, when we needed to meet someone, what was due at school that week, and the list of tasks around the house that needed to be done. I wouldn’t have to repeat myself over and over to remind my family what I’d asked them to do already (nor would I have to argue that they were, in fact, informed in advance). My moment of glory would come when one of them says, "You never told me that," and I would simply utter the magic words, "Let's go to the tape." There would be documented proof of whether or not teeth were brushed, who made that mark on the wall, why the back door was left unlocked, and who ate the last bowl of ice cream.

From this 24/7 account of my life, I could make a monthly montage of the highlights to remind my loved ones of how many times I was right and how they would have been better off if they had only listened to me. I would also have a record of all my brilliant ideas, witty insights, and utterly charming moments that were fleeting because I was interrupted by a whiny kid, a question about a lost piece of clothing, a pot overflowing on the stove, or the urgent need for a ride. I would, of course, give myself the power to edit out unflattering angles, bad hair days, and unfortunate clothing choices.

Many years into the future, I would be able to live every mother’s dream when visiting my grown children by giving them a little payback. I would leave my dirty dishes on top of their dishwasher, use up the last of their milk then put it back in the fridge, and unroll reams of toilet paper leaving just one square for the next user. I would not feel an ounce of remorse when I spill things on their carpet, leave crumbs on their counter, blast my favourite music, walk out of the room with the TV left on, and complain about what they’re making for dinner. When they ask why I was being so inconsiderate and ungrateful, I would bring out the recorded evidence of any random day from their childhood— and rest my case.

On the other hand, I suspect that this TV reality life would wear thin quickly resulting in too much information, a violation of privacy rights, and difficulty moving on from the repeats of a bad episode. My whole “I told you so” scenario may also blow up in my face when, on the rare occasion, the infraction may be mine. I would steadfastly deny that I said anything mean, inaccurate, or unladylike, and that’s when my family would say, “Let's go to the tape.”