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.”