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!)