On Turning 40…Please Advise

My birthday has always been one of my favourite days of the year. Ok. It is my favourite day of the year. Or at least, it was. This year I will be saying goodbye to my thirties. You know, the decade we lump together with the twenties. That was really great. Sigh. I know this is all about perspective and everyone over 40 reading this is rolling their eyes at me. But I am not 50 thinking 40 is young. I’m 39 damn it. And this is hard.

Just 4 - no zero

I have always loved my birthday because, well, I love being special. It’s likely a by-product of me being a first born - you know, thinking I’m special all the time. I also love getting presents. There’s no point to censoring myself at this point - I’m turning 40 - I can say whatever I want now, right? My birthday parties have never been particularly lavish but they have always been great. Well, except maybe my 30th birthday when Eric threw me a family pot-luck in our backyard. That was only ok.

I also love planning and throwing parties and Eric and I have become quite good at it. I have learned - finally - that the key to being a good host is drinking. I am the much nicer, more relaxed version of myself with a couple of one ounce Cosmos in me (I feel I've mentioned this before). I therefore assumed that I would want a big party for my fortieth. But the closer it gets I am not so sure and I don’t know why. I think I would want a hand in planning it and that seems, well, wrong. But is it? I feel like I don’t actually want the attention for this particular birthday. I also sometimes feel like big parties are actually quite impersonal and maybe the introvert in me wants a little more one-one-one time with my close friends for this one. 

Oh, 40. My magic number is 27. That’s the age my mind tells me I am. Maybe it’s because that’s the year I had my first child. ‘Life’ was still fully ahead of me. For so much of our lives we don’t think about the passing of time.  We just live. Then there is a shift and all of sudden we become acutely aware that time is finite. And I’ve always had a thing with ‘the end’. Somewhere on this laptop is a dusty blog about the obituary I want written and the vision I have of my own funeral. (I’ll post it, but only with some begging.)

So to mark the occasion of turning 40, I want your opinion. And I know many of you are also turning 40 this year. Go 1976! I’ll likely just do what I want anyway but I’m hoping something someone says will resonate with me.  What do you think about celebrating a fortieth? What would you want? What did you do? What would you have done differently? Milestone birthdays are quite personal and I know there will be quite a range of responses. I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts in the comment section below.

How are you? Terrible actually, and you?

How are you? We ask this question all the time. It is the English language’s equivalent to scratching an itch. You have an itch, you scratch it. You see a human, you say hi, how are you? It is an automated question for most of us; just like its response - good thanks, how are you? How the heck else would we begin a conversation with people? 

We also ask how are you? in a compassionate way to people who are going through a difficult time like a break-up, a divorce, an illness, a death or some other kind of loss. What kind of jerk would a person have to be to not ask a person suffering how they are? Well, now that it’s in writing it seems a little less…compassionate, doesn’t it?

I am confident in saying that when people are going through a tough time the LAST thing they want is every person they bump into asking them how they are. Would you like a little salt with that wound?  The recipient of such an unfortunate question really only has three options to respond with: lie and say they are fine, thanks with a forced smile; give you the sordid details of their suffering only to have to tell it all over to the next person who asks them how they are; or say I’m shit actually and walk away.

How many times have I done this in my life? I just did it yesterday.  What kind of answer did I expect? What kind of answer do we ever expect? We are trying to be kind but instead we are just inflicting a little bit more discomfort to an already unfortunate situation. Haven’t we all been in a situation where we have dreaded someone asking us how we are? Do I want to ask my newly divorced staff member how he is? Am I prepared to have a grown man crying in my arms? Of course I’m not. 

How are you? is actually a deeply personal question when asked of someone struggling. It should be reserved for the ones most closest to us. The ones we can actually be honest with, cry with, yell at, curse in front of and even curse at. The rest of us, most of us, don’t have the right to this information.

There is a better way to show we care.  It will just take a lot of practice to override that automated response we always default to. Here are some things we can say to people when we want them to know we care:

Hey. I’m thinking about you. Let me know if you need anything.

It’s nice to see you out. I hope you’re doing okay.

Welcome back. It’s great to see you. We’ve missed you.

Well, that’s all I’ve got right now but at least it’s a start. How could I have been such a jerk all this time?  Challenge yourself to abandon asking the dreaded how are you? to a person who would rather stick a fork through their hand than answer that well-intentioned yet super annoying and insensitive question. 

My Surprise Affair

It began so innocently. We had offered our home to visiting dance instructors for one week in the summer. We decided that would be a good time for Eric to take the kids to visit his family state-side and I would stay home to host our guest.  When Robbie arrived, I knew he was the one.

It was no secret that I had been in the market for a gay best friend for quite some time. There was such an allure for that kind of relationship that, so far, had alluded me.  All the gay men I knew were already attached. They don’t last long, gone as fast as an amazing shirt at Winners. Scooped up before the rest of us have a chance. Gay men offer the no strings attached, no competition, fashion-forward, hang out in your pyjamas and talk all night kind of bond that women want and need.

Robbie was almost perfect. The problem? He was out of my league. His 24th birthday would be on the upcoming Saturday for god’s sake. I can barely consider myself in my thirties anymore.  He also graduated from Juilliard. Let me repeat that he graduated from Juilliard. Before I had time to think about what I was saying I was telling him how much I loved watching Fame when I was younger. Fame? Really? I was in trouble of losing him. He lives in NYC which sealed the deal that he was the one for me. It was time to bring my A game to the table.

I made sure I had the house stocked with all the food I knew he liked; yogurt, nuts, fruits, greens, eggs and easy on the gluten.  I had done my research.  I did my best to hide our cans of Alphaghetti in the cupboard. I cleaned the house, sprinkled lavender oil everywhere, lit a Kate Spade candle and selected the perfect Songza mix.

It was the next night that my dreams of a straight woman, gay man relationship were realized. I met him at the dance studio so we could walk home together. We discussed dinner and settled on cooking at home. We stopped at the butcher and shopped for food together. We talked on the way back and it was all so natural. At home we put on another perfect music mix. We drank wine (yes, I drank wine), we prepared food, we took our time, we set the table and then we ate a leisurely dinner together. I was giddy with the reality this was actually happening. I sent a few secret texts to my friends to let them know how it was going and, let’s face it, to brag a little. 

A half a bottle of six percent wine from Sobey’s later, I told him that he was what I had been looking for. I shared my insecurities about our age difference. He told me I looked great and that I was very youthful. I bit my lip.  We ended our evening admiring Jamie Dornan in the first episode of The Fall and called it a night.

I know that this can’t last. How could it? Me here. Him in New York, jet-setting as a dancer in his prime. But it was good while it lasted. Really good. And I’ll always be his loyal follower on Instagram. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be different. I have to go now…he’s meeting me for tea.

Saying Goodbye

I have never been good at saying goodbye. When my grandparents sold their farm, one of my favourite places on earth, I chose not to attend the final family gathering; and therefore never had an ‘official’ last visit. The same thing when my mom sold the house I grew up in. I chose not to go back one last time to say goodbye. I just couldn’t face the finality of it.  But I was not going to be able to avoid saying goodbye to Lucas. Lucas, our Brazilian son, who lived with us for five short months.

We will miss Lucas’s laughter and quiet awesomeness. We will (actually) miss taking him to all of his practices and games and to the gym for his  marathon workouts. We will miss his wrestling with Nicholas and their cuddles. We will miss the laughter and joy he brought to our home and our lives just by being here.  Sometimes goodbye is so huge. And even in this age it feels so final. He was a part of our family - dirty clothes on the ground and all - and his leaving has left a void that will only dull with time.

The day he was set to leave was emotional. Both Eric and I found ourselves teary eyed and weepy all day. There were calls from friends and sad goodbyes from his 10 year old buddies. As we pulled out of the driveway the gravity of watching our house disappear was too much and Lucas wept. The rest of the short drive to the bus was silent - which is the first time since having children we have ever had a silent car ride. We all cried as we waved goodbye to him as the bus pulled away and walked to our car a smaller and changed family.

When we got home we all ended up in his bedroom; the place where we could feel closest to him. We all cried and we weren’t embarrassed or trying to hide it. I allowed myself to feel the void that his absence had created.  And I was ok with my kids seeing me cry - a lot.

While Lucas was so real to us, it won’t be long before this experience and his presence in our lives become just a memory.  I wonder what will Chloe remember? At three, her relationship with Lucas will be relegated to the pictures in an album and stories we share with her. Mia will remember more. And she will take with her something from this that she will learn about in little ways as the years pass. For Nicholas, the impact was the greatest and he will remember the most about his time with his Brazilian brother (like learning what 4/20 is).

It’s interesting how our lives have a way of evaporating into the past.  All the moments we take for granted, the daily routines that are what make up most of our lives and even the special moments we think we’ll never forget - it all just becomes part of our blurred past.  What won’t leave us from this experience is the affirmation that being open to something different can mean something wonderful. It hurts to have lost Lucas but it was certainly worth it.

Maybe, hopefully, we will see Lucas again. Eric and Nicholas hope it is in Brazil during Carnival (with lots of half-naked women). Wishful thinking. 

A Comfortable Silence

Eric and I were recently able to escape our real life for a quick getaway to Toronto.  I absolutely love these mini-vacations away from the house and our kids.  And no matter how much we may not be able to stand each other when we leave; we always reconnect quickly and remember why we got married in the first place. Before we left, we worked like mad to clean the house, wash the sheets and leave it all in relatively good condition for our return. We packed up three overnight bags for the kids (plus a thousand accessories) and shuffled them off to three different locations. I barely recall what it meant to only be responsible for myself. Now even the dogs need a babysitter and some sort of coordinated effort.

Like everyone I know who is in the business of raising a young family, we are busy. Crazy busy.  Sometimes we feel stranded in a perpetual state of demand: from our kids, our jobs and our domestic responsibilities. So when I get the opportunity to step outside of it all and breathe in the joy of time away, I take it without hesitation. And I generally don’t feel guilty about it.  I am no martyr of motherhood. I need me time. I love me time. I need time with just my husband. I love time with just him.

We had a nice drive in, each with our favourite drink; I like tea and he prefers coffee. We spent the time chatting, mildly arguing and sitting in comfortable silence. After more than thirteen years together it’s all very normal and, I suppose, just the way we like it. Lunch was the first thing on our agenda. We wondered around Queen St. and in very typical fashion made the act of finding a restaurant an extremely complicated event. I insisted we talk about our choices and decide together and he kept saying he didn’t care. We walked in and out of the same places several times before I felt I could make a decision. We ordered – breakfast for me and lunch for him. 

For almost two hours we sat with our lunch. We read the paper, checked our phones, and talked briefly about articles we were reading. It occurred to me that not so long ago I had watched couples like us (usually they were further on in years, much further) and felt sorry for them. How sad that out for lunch together they couldn’t find anything to talk about and instead chose to read the paper, occasionally exchanging sections; barely looking up while the sections crossed the table.  I simply misunderstood.

What is not seen in the quiet moments when a couple sits across from one another in silence are all the threads that tie them together. And while the affection between us may be far more subtle than when we first met, it is far deeper. We sat together, connected as a couple but also taking space for ourselves. It is in these quiet moments together that the pieces of our relationship (which sometimes seems as though they are simply floating all around us) come together to make the complicated yet perfect puzzle that is simply us.

I am already planning our next escape.

Dragons Live Forever Part II

I wish I could enrol in a parenting course. I need it desperately.  Just when I think I have a handle on the whole concept, my confidence evaporates and I feel like I have messed up my children for life.  If a parenting course were to be designed for me in my most current state it might be called Back off Bitch: How Not to Ruin Your Children’s Bright and Happy Future with your Constant Overanalyses of Everything they do. Sounds about perfect.

What they always tell you about being a parent but what you can never really believe is that it never gets any easier. When I had my first baby I knew that nothing in the world could be harder than being a first time mom.  And then when I had a toddler and a baby I knew no one could possibly be busier than me. And now, with three children and ten years of parenting under my belt, I finally understand what those people meant.

My son is just about to turn ten. Ten. Wow. I can cry just thinking about it. Where have the years gone? Looking back, it was so easy when it was so hard. (Ok, now I’m starting to really get choked up and I’m in a coffee shop. Get yourself together!)  There was a lot to deal with but it was so uncomplicated. Now, there is texting and girls and his ability to make his own (sometimes important) decisions. Decisions that I am not sure are always best. Unfortunately, and the reason for a needed parenting course, I don’t always know what is best.  I don’t know when it is okay to let him figure things out on his own and fail and when I really need to intervene. And maybe his choices that I so do not understand make perfect sense to him. It is a precarious position between over-parenting and under-parenting. (Oh great, now there’s a little four year old boy with a pretend helmet on excited for Halloween and I’m sitting here missing my little four year old boy and the tears are really coming.)

Our dreams for our children and the visions we have of ourselves as parents are so grand in the beginning. Then there is reality. When they are small it feels as though you have their whole life to mold them and teach them and model what it means to be a good human being.  And then all of a sudden they have turned into actual little grown up people and you realize how messy (literally and figuratively) it has been along the way and you’re not sure if you did any of it right.

It is just so hard sometimes; and so beautiful at the same time. We are meant to raise our kids to become who they were meant to be. To nurture their little souls with the knowledge that one day they will not need us. But the transition is not easy. It is marked with uncertainty and doubt.  And while preparing them to grow their proverbial wings we sometimes want to clip them so our children will not fly too fast too soon.

All we can do is our best. Even if some days my best looks like a crazy person has been left in charge. I have to accept that I won’t always know what to do or say and that sometimes I am going to get it wrong, way wrong. It is hard to let our children grow up. It is also amazing and wonderful.  It is a poignant moment when you realize your children are not actually yours. They belong to themselves and we have but a short time to prepare them for their journey. No one said it would be easy and they were right. Everyone said these will be the best days of my life and, they too, were right.

Haunting Photos

When I was in fourth grade, my friend had a book of haunted stories. The picture on the front of the book was the outline of a faint ghost floating through a forest. I was fascinated by this book and how terribly fearful it made me feel. I was especially haunted by this photo on the cover. I asked to bring it home one night but it haunted my sleep and I got rid of it the very next day. But this is not a story about those kinds of haunting photos.

This is a story about far more terrifying pictures and ones that haunt me far more deeply. I am talking about the thousands of photos I have stored on my computer.  Almost the entirety of my life since the digital age began.  I am overwhelmed by photos and I fear I will never catch up. I will never be able to go through and print and catalogue all of the amazing photos of us, our kids, our family and our friends.

I kept up for a while. I would go to the photo store for marathon sessions of selecting, cropping and taking out red eye. It cost me hundreds of dollars per time but I would have tackled almost a whole year of photos. Currently, I think I am three years behind. THREE YEARS! Do you know how many photos that is?  You probably do because I am sure you take ten photos of the same shot just like me. And then how do you choose? They’re all so great.

It’s not like the old days (really, I’m saying that?).  It was a one shot deal and you didn’t get to see it until you got the roll of film developed.  And each one was so special.  And still is. And it didn’t matter if someone had their eyes closed and someone else wasn’t looking.  It just captured the moment as it was.

Everyone loves to sit down with a photo album; to turn its pages and remember a time gone by.  Albums need to be created. Photos are not meant to sit on a computer never to be looked at again. But our digital cameras and phones, while inspiring us to take more photos than ever, have actually left us with a void of actual pictures to look at.

Well, there is no time like the present. I need to go through my photos and spend the hours upon hours it is going to require to bring them to life in actual print. They’re worth it. The memory each photo gives to us is worth it. I want my kids to have mini time capsules of their lives just like I do of mine. Even if it only happens once in a while it really is pure joy to sit on a couch curled up with your past and hug it one more time before you place it back on the shelf.