Temporary? Insanity

Mentally yes, but in other ways as well.

Christmas is always a tricky time of year. The rampant commercialism, Christ being taken out of Christmas, etc…It’d be pretty easy to go through the season scowling at all the flyers and catalogues and store fronts. I make an attempt every year though to portion off my favourite aspects of the season and focus just on them.

The scent of simmering wassail and fresh baked ginger snaps. Lovingly brushing the bits of styrofoam off my porcelain nativity set and laying it out atop the piano. Teaching my children about baby Jesus and how much it means to us that he came. Leaving out cookies for Santa Claus and watching the joy and wonder in their faces when they find nothing but crumbs in the morning. And giving, giving, giving. Giving gifts is one of my favourite ways to show love and I revel in it!

As I was flipping through the flyer of a local store looking for gift ideas, I saw something that I’d seen in other stores that disturbed me greatly. Advent calendars. Not the cutesie ones with pictures of the nativity, or Santa, or snowmen, or children ice skating. Garishly bright ones with the faces of tv and movie stars on them.

Err…what?

Now I’ll admit that I’m a bit of an extremist when it comes to character merchandise. I go out of my way to avoid purchasing Disney Princess paraphenelia or Dora the Explorer clothes for my girls. I often grimace as I peruse the girl’s clothing section, looking for clothes that don’t have someone’s face smeared all over them. It bothers me. A lot. Perhaps not for any fascinatingly thought provoking reason…I just don’t like it.

I’ve been hunting for Advent Calendars for my girls for weeks now. Weeks. I finally found some at the local grocery store. $9 each. Ouch. But they’re beautiful. They have lovely snow dusted scenes portrayed on them, and the chocolate is manufactured by one of Canada’s leading chocolatiers. Hmm…wait…that may have been a bad idea…

Anyway, I suppose I just wanted to put my distaste into words, not knowing how to address a letter to Retailers of North America at large.

Christmas isn’t about Hannah Montana or High School Musical, Tinker Bell, Cars, or Disney Princesses. We can debate even about whether Santa and snowmen and cherub cheeked ice skaters really fit either, but really? It’s going too far, in my opinion.

Digg

Stumble Upon

Del.icio.us

Buzz

So once upon a time there was this girl (yes, that would be me - who else do I in all my egomaniacal glory ever write about?). She was your basic timid, sheltered, humour repressed gal with huge heaping helpings of self-doubt and neuroticism tossed in to boot. Her view of the world was narrower than that of a blindered horse and she spent much of her time wrinkling her nose and looking down at people. And not just because she had overactive olfactory receptors and a few inches of height more than the average.

She was a bit of a prude, truth be told.

She thought people who smoked, drank, and carried on in other such ways were Bad People. She sneered internally at people with weight issues thinking them foolish for “letting that happen” or “doing that to themselves.” She winced when people used Bad Words and wouldn’t watch movies that were rated above PG (and some of those were a bit suspect). She wore shapeless clothing and avoided talking to people, partly because she was socially handicapped, and partly because she didn’t meet many people she could easily understand.

Understanding people was something that either happened or…didn’t. Attempts and efforts weren’t made. It was something that happened immediately or not at all.

The girl grew up painfully slowly. The process could even be described as torturous. Her misconceptions and preconceptions were essentially twisted into the form of weapons and used to whack sense into her depressingly thick skull. She married a man whose family did Bad Things, told Bad Jokes, watched Bad Movies, and used Bad Words. And she loved them. Her misconceptions shattered into many painful pieces. Sheltered shy girl slowly morphed into a more open minded, tolerant, and loving woman.

With a few glitches, of course.

Years have passed, and she still catches herself regressing at times. Glimpses of the judgmental side of herself surging forward into the ole limelight. Assumptions kicking into high gear and then falling apart in the light of truth. That truth being that people are far, far too multi-faceted to be judged at a glance or over a single fact of their existence.

I met a young woman Friday night. She looked to be about sixteen years old, with funky hoop earrings, stylishly tattered jeans and a sporty but sparkly top. Big curly hair was held back by a hairband. I was shocked to learn she was twenty-two and had two children. As the evening progressed and conversation flowed I found myself assuming. Assuming that a woman whose mother had beaten her was a woman I couldn’t feel a true connection with, my own childhood having been so idyllic. Assuming that because she loves to hunt and I find the sport distasteful, here was not a woman I could befriend in earnest.

And yet, I found that as our small group of women chatted and laughed together, that woman and I made eye contact more than once, sharing a laugh together. A brief spark of a moment wherein we could tell from the expression on the other’s face that we were thinking the exact same thing.

It hit me kind of hard. I often reflect on my personal transformation. I hardly know myself anymore. Sometimes I get a little prideful over it. I start to strut. I think of how far I’ve come and I’m too content and suddenly I’m sliding backwards.

Sometimes it hurts to be humbled. I’ve been there. I’ve faced up to what a wretched girl I was and how much I missed out on because I dared to think I had the right to judge people I knew nothing of. This time though, it doesn’t hurt so much. I’m smiling through the humility. It feels good to know that I am not done. That this moment is not the sum total of my potential.

I have it in me to be so much, so very infinitely more.

Digg

Stumble Upon

Del.icio.us

Buzz

Not reading blogs = sad lonely Kim

No laptop = more stair climbing

Less time on computer + schmuck of a husband = FOUR and a half pounds lost since Monday!

Neil’s new fishtank + curious Emma = a four year old with a worryingly cavalier attitude towards death

A Kim eager to lose weight and craving image change = A hair cut that’s just the weest bit too short  Ah well

Having to write 2600 words today, take the kids to the babysitter, attend a lovely party at a friend’s house, and then drive an hour to a church function which will take up most of the evening and needing to prepare the lesson for the primary kids tomorrow = getting off the computer pretty much immediately

Still.  FOUR AND A HALF POUNDS!  IN SIX DAYS!

Weightloss Guru-dom here I come!

Digg

Stumble Upon

Del.icio.us

Buzz

Please.  I can’t keep up.  I’m wallowing in unread blog posts and I miss you, I do.  But I’m trying to lose weight which means sitting at the computer all day is a bit of a no-no, and I’m doing NaNoWriMo which is a yes-yes but a very stress inducing and time consuming one.  And Becca threw Neil’s laptop down the stairs yesterday so I can’t carry you all around the house with me and pop on here and there.  My legs ache from climbing up and down the stairs all day (good thing, yes, but still painful).  As to the email situation and comment responding plans.  Well…yes.  Sorry about that.

My mind is bouncing about like a piece of jello on a roller coaster.  As there’s so many different directions to wobble in, nothing seems to be getting focused on.

You’re possibly sitting there wondering why I haven’t stopped by or replied to your comment or email, and I’m just sitting here wobbling about.

Wibble wobble wibble.

And I’m getting my hair cut tomorrow.  Please may I not do anything mental to my hair.  I will take before and after pictures, of course, but when it comes to proving that no, I rarely look as nice as my head shot might lead you to believe, I can make no promises.  An attempt will be made though. 

With all there is to do both here there and everywhere, I think what I’ll probably end up doing tonight is curling up in bed with a good book and fall asleep while Neil’s in the tub.  I’ll likely wake to the sound of him tsking and moving my book off the bed and tucking me in proper.  Then I’ll doze off whilst thinking in a foggy sort of fashion…

…crap.  I forgot to brush my teeth.

Anyway, please don’t scratch me off your blog rolls and feed readers quite yet.  If I survive it, I’ll see you on the other side of the weekend, yes?

I’m going to brush my teeth now.

Digg

Stumble Upon

Del.icio.us

Buzz

Whether you believe in God, the Universe, Karma, or nothing much at all, there are life events that speak of a greater power overseeing everything. That for all the evil and horror we inflict upon each other, sometimes someone or something steps in and pats us down. Let’s us know we’re not alone. Teaches us that no, it’s not coincidence.

I believe in God. A Heavenly Father. Who much like earthly parents watches his children do horrid and stupid things, or just falter and fall as they try to get the hang of this earthly life gig. I believe He holds himself back from reaching in and preventing all our sorrows because we have so very, very much to learn in this life. And we have our agency. We have the power to make choices and have an impact on our lives and the lives of those around us. God will not take that agency away from us. It would defeat his purpose for us in this life. Much as carrying a child through life and never letting them walk lest they fall, would be to defeat our own purposes for our children.

But sometimes He does reach out. Lifts us for a moment. Helps us regain our balance. Today has been a rebalancing sort of day.

It began with Neil leaving early for the dentist. He settled the blankets back in around me and gave me a tender kiss, wishing me a happy day. He may be a schmuck sometimes and hurt my feelings with his bluntness, but he is a good man and never does so intentionally. He is not malicious and his stark honesty is not a sign of a lack of love as I sometimes fear.

The girls woke up sleepy instead of bouncing about as usual, and they snuggled me sweetly for a good twenty minutes, offering spontaneous declarations of “I love you Mommy.” The morning yielded happy play. No screaming or crying as has been the norm the last few weeks. They played hide and go seek together for a half hour. There was much giggling. They pulled out their wooden blocks and built towers together. More giggling.

They are munching on apples right now, as am I. We had a healthy breakfast together earlier. I am drinking water. Being kind to myself. I’m able to read through the lovely supportive comments on my last post and realize that I have access to suppport and love here. Neil has not progressed to the point that he is able to offer that, much as I have not progressed to the point where I can offer him all that he might hope for from me. We are great big bundles of potential, and we can urge and inspire, or we can criticize. This is a choice that needs to be made every day. It feels good to realize that. I’m going to make Neil one of his favourite meals tonight. Service is his favourite way to be loved.

I feel like I’ve been steadied. That I was about to fall down into the deep dark again but have been caught just in time. It doesn’t feel like coincidence, though many would name it so. It feels like love.

Digg

Stumble Upon

Del.icio.us

Buzz

You know that saying, about how sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better?  Hitting ole rock bottom before you can sproing back up?  It’s been that sort of day around here.  It started with what will soon be labelled The Great Pants Incident of 2008 (pants as in slacks, not underpants, you barmy Brits).

I am, it must be said, somewhat lacking in the pants department.  I chucked all my too big ones, have stacked my too small ones neatly in the closet, and I wander about in one or two pair that “will do” until I lose weight or get pregnant.  Problem is, it’s been a rough couple of months and I’ve treated myself accordingly (read roughly).  So my one or two pair are just the weest bit tight.

Last night, I told Neil quite frankly at the dinner table that I’ve gained nearly ten pounds in the past few months.  I didn’t whinge and whine about it (minor miracle, that), but I did tell him I was feeling a bit miserable over it.

Half an hour later he mentioned that my pants were a wee bit too tight.  I took it well.  Laughed at his audacity saying most husbands would be lucky to get off with only minor scrapes and bruises after a comment like that.  I told him I was so glad to know I wasn’t the only one in our marriage who could do with wising up a bit…and I let it go.

Till he repeated the comment.  In more detail.  The very next day.  To the point of telling me that they looked quite unflattering and didn’t I have another pair I could wear.  I replied, through severely gritted teeth that no, I did not.  But soon would because I was going to take his credit card shopping and spend a fortune on new clothes just to spite him.  I then pointed out that a wife looking not her best was better than a wife spitting mad at him and feeling even crummier about herself than usual.

He remains unrepentant and says it needed to be said.

I am now pondering burning said pants and dumping the ashes on his head.  Just to show I haven’t entirely lost my sense of humour.

What worries me though is that I’m so upset and angry over it all, so poised on the brink of outright melancholy over my grossness, that I can’t bear to eat anything remotely bad for me.  And I worry that Neil’s absoutely unacceptable level of bluntness despite my vulnerable state is going to be rewarded with a slimmer version of me who will laugh some day and say wasn’t it great he was such a jerk that day of The Great Pants Incident of 2008?

And I want that to happen and don’t want it to happen, and both rather intensely.  I am feeling angry and vindictive which really?  Are not good colours on me.  I want him to suffer.  I want him to feel very, very badly.  Instead he’s doing his trademark shrug and saying things are what they are and all that nonsense.  Worst of it is that he’s right.  I looked awful in those pants.  It’s nice that I didn’t go out of the house this morning in awful looking pants.

But I feel awful and the only way I know how not to is to smarten myself up and treat myself right (why oh why is that so hard?).

And of course, go shopping at that nice little boutique in town tomorrow…

There’s no point in hitting rock bottom if you don’t have a little fun on the way back up.

Digg

Stumble Upon

Del.icio.us

Buzz

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Digg

Stumble Upon

Del.icio.us

Buzz