Lesson Learned

Normally when I learn something, I go on and on about it here. I give a bit of background, I ramble, I theorize. I even get downright poetic at times. Today, I’m taking a pass on my usual motif and am going for short and to the point.

Why? Because it was Canada Day today and I spent the day celebrating my country’s birthday instead of making half-hearted attempts at housework. I have a friend coming for a playdate tomorrow and my parents arriving Friday night to spend the weekend. Somehow, taking one day off has yielded a mess of hurricane like proportions and something’s gotta give. In this case - the blogging.

So here’s what I realized today. Whining does not equate to sympathy and my husband likes and respects me more when I attempt to handle life’s curve balls with something like grace. In fact, the level of affection in our home seems to go up in proportion to the level of whining going down.

My quest to be an object of pity has now been willfully cast aside. I’ve decided I’d rather be liked than pitied.

Sadly, this is a big deal.

Were he truly cognizant of the effect blogging has had on my level of self-awareness I’m sure Neil would write my blog a thank you note.

Neil? You’re very welcome.

Sailing

I have trouble letting things go. It’s something I’ve always known about myself, but as life progresses, that fact is thrown into sharper relief. Because it affects me more and more as the years go by. I still cherish ill feelings against the girls who extorted cookies from me in exchange for “friendship” all those many years ago. My self-esteem still suffers because of the many cruel jibes directed at me in my high school years. And I have this horrible, ever present fear of abandonment because of certain events in my dating years.

Deep breathing time, Kim. Time to let it all go.

The more I probe inward at myself, the more clearly I see the effects of certain decisions I’ve made, and realize that the true blame lies with myself, not those people I claim have wronged me over the years. In truth, I’ve come to be grateful to those who were unkind to me. They’ve taught me kindness through their lack of it. I’ve learned that I want to be someone entirely other than who they were.

So why am I still angry with them?

I made a new friend here a few weeks ago, and I was over the moon thrilled. She’s funny, intelligent, kind hearted, and just plain fun to be around. However, she’s got a lot she’s dealing with right now and not a whole lot of mind space for building a new friendship. I don’t hear from her often, in fact, it’s been over a week, and I confess, it’s getting to me. The reason? It’s not just your everyday impatience (though heaven knows I’ve plenty of that), it actually hearkens back to years ago. To something I can’t quite seem to let go of.

I very briefly dated four guys before I met Neil. One of the four I broke it off with but the other three . . . well, there was a certain lack of closure with all three of them, in that once they decided to end it they simply never spoke to me ever again. I? Did not take it well. Especially the third time, because, well, it was the THIRD time. I went a bit squirrelly after that, and have had difficulty letting people get close ever since.

Once I finally accepted the possibility that it wasn’t something wrong with ME, but possibly with the fellows I’d dated, I got a bit angry. In my mind, a whole heck of a lot of blame was tossed around. They’d ruined me. They’d messed with my head with their selfish desire to avoid confrontation. How dared they?

But how dare I? How dare I let something so incredibly inconsequential as past dating experiences dictate the sort of person I choose to be? Because it has. I’ve been sitting here worrying and fretting that I’m losing someone I thought was a friend, simply because I haven’t heard from her in awhile. Why? Because I equate lack of contact with loss and heart break.

As always, I put this into words to make it more than the cobwebbing of thoughts through my mind. To give the lessons I’m striving to learn some sort of actuality.

I choose the sort of person I am, and the ways in which my past experiences influence my present and future. I do not have to be a powerless piece of driftwood cast about on the waves of life. I can direct my path and choose my destination.

I can sail along whatever path, and towards whatever ending I choose.

Most important though, is the realization that I can sail.

Honestly?

I didn’t used to be so honest. Hard to believe, I know, since I seem to have mastered the art of being honest to the point of making people squirm like an octopus in its death throes.

I often receive comments and emails praising me for how “real” I am, and while these give me a lovely little ego-stroke, they also make me feel a bit awkward and even fake. Because I’ve never once mentioned WHY I’m so blatantly honest on my blog. Maybe you thought this is just who I am and have always been. Or maybe that it’s a gimmick to get attention because heaven knows I try to get more than my fair share of that.

Truth is, it’s an atonement of sorts. In my youth, I was a pathological liar. Don’t scoff please, because I’m not remotely exaggerating. Somehow lying became a way of life for me. Call it habit, or mental illness, or just a selfish young girl playing games, but I’d say anything that I thought might make me seem more likable or pitiable or, but of course, less likely to get into trouble. Trouble was, I was so dang good at it that I got away with it for YEARS. You see, I was this little mouse of a thing. Shyest gal you ever met, with this pale scrawny face and big wide brown eyes. And I just reeked of sincerity. People invariably believed me.

As I got older, the lies got bigger. I pretended I was taking University courses that I wasn’t, and even went into detail about the classes and how I was enjoying them. How well I was doing. Problem is, my mum accidentally opened a piece of my mail one day and suddenly, I was undone. Her and my dad confronted me, and I could see the heartbreak and confusion in them. I’ve been struggling to be honest ever since. I didn’t ever want to see someone I loved so much look at me like that ever again. Didn’t want to hurt someone like that again.

Even still, so many years later, I still find potential lies come far too easily to my mind. A little voice whispers, you could say this and they would feel sorry for you instead of angry with you. Why don’t you just pretend you forgot? One of the kids could have been sick, that’s why you missed that appointment. You don’t want everyone to know what a flaky scatterbrain you are, do you?

It’s a struggle to silence that voice, and in doing so I know I veer towards the opposite extreme. I share things that perhaps are better left unshared. I make people uncomfortable. I ruin potential friendships because I’m so dang open and honest about things that I think people wonder if I’m off in the head. I suppose that’s why this blog morphed from a fun hobby into a catch all for my deepest and most troubled thoughts. Better here. Better put into words and read by those who CHOOSE to read them, instead of spewed out daily at innocent bystanders.

I don’t know why this weakness is one I’m set to battle in this life. I don’t know why the temptation to lie is so very strong. But I know that the more honest I am the quieter that voice becomes. The easier it is to be real. Fortunately, that becomes an addiction all of its own. I like being real. So much in life is confusion, and this helps me sort through some of it.

That’s what it comes down to, I guess. I like being real.

p.s. We had the ultrasound on Wednesday but alas, it was inconclusive. The baby is measuring on the small side though, so we have to go in for another one in a few weeks. I’m just so relieved to have seen the beating heart, the yawning mouth, the flailing fists. There’s a baby in there!

I Got Nothin’

I haven’t got anything to say, really. Nothing witty, nothing profound. Life has been too full to leave much time for the deep rambling thoughts I so often indulge in.

There has been far, far too much cake around here. Emma saying in her overly loud voice, “What a great surprise!” over and over again as she took in the sight of the balloons and streamers, the birthday cake and cupcakes, the presents, the friends, the goodies. It was a day passing delight for her, and more than worth the sore feet and aching back that plagued her suddenly old mummy afterwards.

Father’s day was full of cuddling and I love you’s. Sweet smiles and finger painted posters for daddy. Good food. Another cake. The priceless sight of Neil’s pleased I-know-I’m-loved smile that I wish I worked hard enough to see every moment of every day.

Monday was a Monday. Mild allergies morphed into sinusitis. A day at home curled up on the couch avoiding anything even remotely resembling thought. Cuddling my daughters, reading when the pounding in my head would allow. The lovely glow of pride over having made dinner despite my wretchedness. Folding laundry in front of a favourite TV show and forgetting the discomfort of the sore throat and stuffed head.

And today, the crazy wonderful commitment to host playgroup every Tuesday morning. The bliss of visiting with like-minded women and listening to the kids laugh and screech and holler as they ran about inventing worlds with every step. The bugs they caught crawling about in plastic buckets as I hid in the sun dappled shade. The word idyllic comes to mind.

I come to realize that these simple events and passings of time are not mundane. This is the stuff of which life is made. There is no great depth that needs to be found in such moments. It is enough, to paddle along the surface of things, and simply be.

I am not good at simply being. Mine is a mind that loves to complicate and ruminate. And yet, what a blessing to be still for a time and let life pass by without analysis or wondering or worrying.

I think, perhaps, I will practice this.

Ode to a Five Year Old

A tribute to my daughter Emma, on the occasion of her fifth birthday.
June 20th, 2009.

There is something in the way your eyes dance that makes my heart ache. Sometimes with love. Sometimes with envy. Everything in you is bubbly and alive. You bounce. You gleam. You spin. Words are nothing but an underline to the action adventure story that is your life, and what little dialogue you engage in is brief and fleeting.

Always it seems, you are running.

New worlds and stories unfold before you with every blink of the eye. A quick leap from here to there again and you are dancing on mountaintops, wading through crocodile infested swamps, swooning in your castle tower, captaining your very own pirate ship. There are no limits to you and I watch you burst forth in a torrent of could have beens and would bes. Everything is possible.

At times, I feel the weight of years more heavily as I watch you. I am bound in ways you are not. Bound by the long habit of disbelief. As I continue to watch I realize how flimsy are the bonds with which I am bound. Yearning blooms within me and suddenly I remember what it is to know that I can fly. You teach me this. You remind me of all that I have ever known and forgotten.

They tell me I am to teach you. How to behave. How to learn. How to live. After five years of such attempts I am minded to surrender. To give myself up to your form of learning. For the teachings of adulthood have not made me so very happy. It is in you, through you and by you, that I have recaptured those long escaped feelings of joy and wonder.

Will you teach me, my darling Emma? Is there patience enough in you for such a task? I think I could indeed fly, with you ever there to remind me.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart. May it multiply the joy which you so freely share with us all.

Happiness Loves Company Too

I’m really insufferable sometimes. No really, I am. When I’m miserable getting me to talk is as difficult as forming macrame-like creations out of wet noodles, but when I’m happy? Good luck getting me to shut up about it. I burble, babble, gibble, and gab. I sometimes even bounce.

It’s very disturbing.

The worst of it is the advice dispensing. I am an advice dispensing MACHINE. And we all know how annoying the advice givers in our lives are, don’t we? There comes a point when you just want to gouge their eyes out or duct tape their mouth or…well, yes. Being given advice doesn’t exactly rate on most people’s top ten favourite things to do. But I? Cannot seem to stop. And all the while the semi-sane part of me is screaming at myself to shut it already.

I figured something out this week though. I don’t give advice when I’m miserable. When I’m happy though, oh, I just want to drag everyone right on up with me. And when I’m happy I have more time for clear minded thinking. Funny thing, for me anyway misery makes for some pretty irrational sulking. It’s when I’m happy that the epiphanies start flowing in. And I just can’t help but want to share.

I can look at a friend’s life and, as if it’s been illuminated with bright yellow highlighter, I can see the source of their current angst, and think how to fix it. I feel BRILLIANT in such moments, and proudly share my observations, all the while knowing how incredibly annoying I’m being. In such moments, it doesn’t for an instant occur to me that I might be dead wrong. I’m too busy being a genius, don’t'cha know.

It’s maddening, really.

I don’t know if putting the problem into words will help me conquer it, but I can’t help having a little giggle over the thought of a friend maybe someday taking me aside and giving me some unsolicited advice along the lines of, “Kim. Just shush up already. We know you’re happy. We know that’s a big deal for you. But we’ll be happy when we’re good and ready, all right?”

I wonder how well I’d take it if someone did . . .

I’m Feelin’ the Love

Becca: I love you Mommy!
Me: I love you bigger!
Becca: I love you best!
Me: I love you more than chocolate!
Becca: Wow! That’s a lot! Well…I love you more than syrup!
Me: (trying not to laugh) That’s a lot!
Becca: It sure is!

Sweet morning moments . . . ah the joys of not dozing in bed in a semi-stupor instead of getting up with the kids . . .

Soul Searcher

By nature, I am a soul searcher. And I hate it. It’s exhausting and painful and humbling and sometimes even horrifying. I mean, as far as hobbies go, soul searching can be a bit of a downer. There are things I’d really rather not know about myself. Or at least, that’s how I’m feeling at the moment. I’m sure I’ll be grateful, later on, for all the opportunities for growth and all that. At the moment though? I’m having myself a big ole sulk.

Yesterday was a bit rough, soul searching wise. You see, there’s this gal I know who is, in many ways, not a person I like to spend time with. I know a great deal more about her than I’d like to. I know a great deal about her lying, her tendency to manipulate others for her own gain, and even certain criminal activities she has engaged in. Apart from all that, she rubs me the wrong way and I don’t like her much.

Things have come to head for this gal, and certain of her actions have been coming to light. And she knows that I know. We were at the same party last night and she kept tracking me down and talking my ear off. I was patient and polite, but made my excuses at the first opportunity. I was sure that she was trying to manipulate me. That her unusually friendly overtures had a nasty ulterior motive behind them. I was annoyed and even a little angry that she thought a little friendliness would change my opinion of what she had done.

Later that evening, I got to thinking about this woman’s life. It has been chock full of problems. Trial upon trial upon trial. She has had more stress in the last year than I’ve had in my whole life. She’s made some horrible, horrible choices, but suddenly it struck me that she must be horribly lonely. Her selfish focus in life has deprived her of friendships and kindness, love and generousity. She has struggled to take want she wants instead of giving people opportunities to give.

Perhaps last night wasn’t a manipulation. Perhaps it was a lonely woman who has made some bad choices, reaching out for friendship. And perhaps I was too cynical to see her behaviour for what it was.

I don’t know. I can’t know, really, what is in this woman’s heart. Her life is a tangle of lies right now, and the thought of trying to sort through them leaves me feeling tired and apathetic. But I couldn’t help taking a lesson from last night, and facing up to a not terribly nice aspect of myself.

I’ve grown cynical over the years. And worse, I kind of enjoy it. I talked to Neil about it last night before we went to bed. About how we sometimes enjoy being cynical because it makes us feel intelligent and superior. We feel like we’ve seen through someone, and we smirk and swagger a little at having seen what we believe to be the truth. And in that surge of prideful feelings we neglect to realize that we don’t know it to be the truth. We are human. Flawed. Limited. We don’t see half so clearly as we think we do.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable last night as I mulled all this over. I winced and grimaced and squirmed a bit as I saw myself more clearly than I would like to. I have a tendency to be arrogant and judgmental. I like taking the measure of a person and finding them wanting, because it makes me feel better about myself. I felt kind of sick, seeing that in myself. I thought I was nicer than that.

I guess there’s hope in the fact that I want to be.

What Was I Thinking?

That was my first thought immediately after I did it. What on earth was I thinking? My chest felt all tight and scratchy and my stomach was flip-flopping the way it does when my body is considering going into full blown panic mode. Yep, I thought, it’s official. I am stark raving mad.

It’s not as if I did it on a whim even. I couldn’t blame it on a momentary lapse in judgment. I had typed up the invitations, printed them off four to a sheet on the printer, cut them out to the best of my I-can’t-cut-a-straight-line-but-can-get-close-enough ability. I’d handed them to people, smiled and chatted cheerfully. I’m sure I looked excited to be doing it.

All the while though, I was planting the seeds of panic. This isn’t the sort of thing I do. This is the sort of thing I contemplate doing, yes. The sort of thing I sit around whimsically wishing I would/could do. But such impulses are not for giving into, right? If I gave into every impulse I’d have flaming red hair, an extra hundred pounds or so (most of my impulses relate to food, after all), and be lying splatted at the bottom of a really tall cliff in southern Oregon (some people are afraid of heights - I’m worryingly drawn to them).

But no. I’d done it. Invited a room full of virtual strangers to come to my house every Tuesday for the whole summer. The community playgroup had drawn to a close, we’re not going on holidays this year so hey, why not?

BECAUSE it’s INSANE. Because it’s a committment. Because it’s a complete shedding of the comfort zone which is my social hermitage. Because strangers would come into my house and play in our messy yard, and be eaten alive by OUR mosquitos. AND to top it off, I offered to make snacks EVERY week! And THEN, I blogged about it with LOTS of capital LETTERS.

Breathe, Kim, breathe.

So I had a full week to give into panic off and on. Such fun. Ah, the roller coaster that is life (for a fab post on that subject, please click here). This morning I got up early so I could shower, get the kids ready, tidy the house, make mini-muffins, tidy up the yard, and so on and so forth. It was exhausting. Especially since I usually spend that time dozing in my pajamas on the couch while the kids run amok.

10am rolled around, and people began arriving. And here is where the surprises started blossoming.

1) The panic subsided. Hmm. Strange, that.
2) They looked happy to be there.
3) Their kids and my kids played NICELY (again with the caps, oi).
4) Myself and the three other ladies chatted quite happily while our kids played and got thoroughly dirty.
5) Nobody complained about their kids getting dirty (good thing because sand & water table = mud table).
6) I had fun.
7) I was sad when they left.
8) I’m so glad they all said, “See you next week!” when they left.

And biggest surprise of all, I’m left wondering what other risks I can take. What other leaps outside my comfort zone might yield me. Because while familiar, a comfort zone really isn’t all that comfortable. It’s small, and stiffling, and a very lonely place to hang out on a regular basis.

I don’t want to climb back into it. Suddenly, I want to escape. But I’m scared that I’ll be smothered by it again before I find another way out. If that happens, bake me a metaphorical cake with a file in it, will you? Remind me how lovely it can be to be brave.

I’m an Ingrate

Instead of sitting here and contemplating the weekend just passed with a nice warm glow of contentment, I’m feeling a bit sour. How can the week compare?

How can boring blah weekdays compare to hours of fun with family and friends? Watching the kids play with their new friends, splashing in the kiddie pool and screaming with shock and delight whenever Neil turns the hose on them? Laughing hysterically while the kids put on plays for us and force us to participate. Eating fresh banana bread and fruit while sitting outside in the lazy haze of a summer afternoon.

And then a Sunday afternoon spent playing games as a family. Pancakes made sticky with syrup for dinner and fresh watermelon for desert. Tickling and laughter. Cuddles and hugs.

It was too idyllic. Normal life just can’t compete. And I should be grateful. Grateful for those moments of peace and contentment, chased down by the sort of laughter that leaves a lingering belly ache behind it. Instead I’m missing my husband. Missing my friends. And looking at the expectant faces of my young children who have no idea just what a boring day is in store for them.

Sigh.

All right. Moment of self-pity over. Time for the presto-chango transformation into Super Mom, yes? I think, today, we will paint.