Mommy Magnetism

A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie. ~ Tenneva Jordan

I remember learning about magnets in school, but only understand on an intuitive level how they work.  Metal attracts to metal, and it has something to do with poles and fields (no-one ever accused me of being scientifically-minded).  Now that I am a mother, I have discovered another magnetic effect, an attraction not between metals but between organic materials, manifesting itself on a daily basis in my house.

My kids are magnetically attracted to me.  It’s the only explanation for why I can’t get  more than four feet away from them before I find them trailing behind me.  The trigger for this effect is any attempt on my part for a few minutes of alone time.  I can go unnoticed by them for hours when they are busy with their own activities, a comforting presence in their peripheral vision, but leave the room and all three kids gradually become aware that something in their universe is amiss. One child will eventually start a search.  From my basement bedroom, where I’ve gone with my tea to escape the atmospheric onslaught of music, video games, movies and sibling arguments, I can hear the process unfold:

“Mom?  Mom… (footsteps)… where’s Mom?” 

“I don’t know.”  

Footsteps down the hall.  “Where’s Mom?” 

“I don’t know.  Get out of my room!” 

Door slams, followed by more footsteps to the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom; then they head to the top of the basement steps. 

“MOM?  YOU DOWN THERE??”  I don’t answer; it’s not really necessary.  I sip my tea, awaiting the inevitable.  I’ve been down here less than ten minutes.

The footsteps now come down the stairs.  There is a pause, and then my ten year old daughter, Mikaela, appears in my doorway.  A huge smile, tinged with relief, spreads across her face.

“Hi Mommy!”  She comes in and throws herself on my bed.  “Me want cuddle with Mommy,” she says, clambering over the mattress to snuggle under my arm.  My drink sloshes precariously.

“Watch my tea.”


She chatters away, wanting to know what I’m drinking, what I’m reading; can she taste my tea; why am I down here.  Looking for some quiet time, I say.  Me too then, she says.   While we snuggle, I listen, waiting for what I know is coming next.  Sure enough, more footsteps now cross my ceiling, heading for the basement stairs.  Seconds later Madeline, half past 16 and ostensibly beyond caring about her mother’s whereabouts, walks in.

“Here you are.  What are you doing?”

“Having quiet time,” says Mikaela.

“Cool.”  Madeline joins us on the bed and starts talking as fast as only a teenage girl can, telling me about her day, her classes and her friends in a verbal tsunami of information.

I try to sip my tea as I listen, which is difficult now that there are three on the bed and the mattress is not quite still.  I am trying to get as much of it down as I can before Act III commences.  Then another head appears in my doorway, and quiet time is officially over.

“Hey, why’s everyone down here but me?” says Meredith, 15 and brimming with middle child ostracization issues.  She climbs up on the bed, complaining loudly that there is no room for her, while her sisters protest that they were there first. They push and prod each other, fighting for territory.

“Hey Mom, can we look at our baby box?”

“Ya!  Baby box!”

I put aside my tea, now cold, and pull out the box I have with all my keepsakes of their respective babyhoods.  Birth announcements, ultrasound pictures and first birthday cake candles; Mikaela’s Spiderman pajamas, Meredith’s first shoes.  There are several pacifiers, or “nukkies” as we call them, and there is spirited discussion over which ones belong to which kid.

The four of us sit on the bed, sifting through memories, my quiet time forsaken for this precious time with my girls.  I don’t mind; all too soon every day will be quiet time.  We go through the entire box while I tell them yet again the stories of their births.  Eventually, there is a fourth, heavier tread on the stairs and ten seconds later my husband appears in the doorway.

“There you are!  I was looking for you.”


“Someday” never comes

A little girl lived with unspoken dreams,
Others expectations met first.
Escape at eighteen, desires anticipated.
Now it is my turn.

What do I do to find my life?
This is your life, they say.
Finish school; find a job; get married; have kids.
Ok, done – now is it my turn?

The kids need shoes and lessons,
The car and roof need repairs.
My husband starts his own business.
When is it my turn?

The kids are grown, the house paid off,
The business is a success.
My hair is gray, my reflection unfamiliar.
Now is it my turn?

My children all have children.
I still wait for someday to come.
My family all say they love their life.
What about my life – when is it my turn?

My time has ended, the light grows dark,
My voice silenced, I sink to oblivion.
One final thought my last link to this earth –
Why was it never my turn?

Don’t wait for permission to live your life.

Kids thrive in large families

The lack of emotional security of our American young people is due, I believe, to their isolation from the larger family unit.  No two people – no mere father and mother – as I have often said, are enough to provide emotional security for a child.  He needs to feel himself one in a world of kinfolk, persons of variety in age and temperament, and yet allied to himself by an indissoluble bond which he cannot break if he could, for nature has welded him into it before he was born.  ~Pearl S. Buck

The validity of the above quote was made clear to me during our last family reunion weekend as I watched my children visit with their relatives.  It was our annual pilgrimage to Muskoka, where about 20 of us get together for a weekend  of fun and catching up.  The rest of the year we are scattered between 5 different cities in two countries and rarely correspond, so this is a much anticipated visit.  We all descend on the cottage owned by my Dad’s nephew and his wife, who one weekend every summer play host to an ever-growing group of fridge-emptying friendlies.  My kids talk about this trip all year, and it is always interesting to me to see how they act when there.

These 3 children, who at home leave toys and clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, and groan and complain every time they are asked to do something, turn into Martha Stewart wanna-be’s as soon as they finish hugging “Auntie Gail.”  They want to help cook.  They want to set the table.  They can’t wait to pass around dessert.  They fight for the right to fold blankets and rearrange throw pillows.  They help clean up, they tidy their room, they pick up their swimming toys…there wasn’t a single whine, complaint or moan out of any of them the entire three days.  I didn’t hear a single “I’m booooorrreeddd.”  There weren’t even any problems on the three hour drive there.  In addition to my girls, their two cousins were there as well, and there was no arguing or pestering from anyone.  Not even from Mikaela, who has recently perfected the art of pushing her sisters’ buttons for no reason other than to experience the pleasure of watching them become incoherent with frustration.

It is gratifying to see that my children have nice manners, are friendly and helpful and pleasant to be around.  Everyone told Steve and I several times that they were delightful children, well behaved and a pleasure to spend time with.  Every parent wants to hear that. But what I want to know is, where did those children go after we left?

We were not 5 minutes down the road when they started to bicker:

“Stop touching me!”

“Move over!”

“Mom, where can I put this pillow – it’s making me hot.”   And my favorite:

“MOM – Mikaela just licked my foot!”

They fussed and twitched and bickered for the hour and a half it took to get to Barrie.  They behaved reasonably well at dinner, and then back in the car we got and they were at it again.

“Madeline has her foot in my face!”

“Do not!”

“Do too!”

It was a long drive home.

What I see on these annual visits is children blossoming under the attention they are given.  They have a new audience who are eager to hear their stories, marvel at their talents and admire their individual styles.  Unlike their parents, they aren’t punch drunk from trying to give everyone equal time and attention 24/7.  They have the time to chat, to show interest.  And most importantly, they bring a different viewpoint and their own personal experience to their interactions with my kids.  My girls have conversations they might otherwise not have had, learn things I might not be able to teach them, and get a chance to hear different perspectives on the little happenings in their lives.  Their place in this family is very important to them.  They spent the first half hour of the drive home asking me exactly how they were related to everyone; who was a cousin, who was an uncle.  If Kevin was Poppa’s nephew, then what was he to them?  If Gail was his wife, what did that make her to them?  It is so important to them to figure out where they belong in the familial scheme of things.

When I was growing up I only saw this side of my family once, maybe twice a year.  I guess the visits were infrequent because they were a two hour drive away, but the effect of such infrequent visiting was that my relatives were only a few steps removed from being strangers.  When I was young the visits were uncomfortable for me; I was shy and barely knew my aunt and uncle, and it always took me some time to warm up to them again, and my cousins.  Their routines were foreign to me.  I remember staying with them on my own once and my uncle almost gave me a heart attack at dinner by asking me if I’d like to say grace – my parents didn’t say grace.  And of course, just when we were starting to have fun, it was time to go.   Months would go by before the next visit and then I’d have start all over again.  Fortunately my kids don’t suffer from my social anxiety; they can pick up right where they left off the year before.

I am looking forward to the next reunion, although it will be somewhat bittersweet as both my dad and my Uncle Robin have passed away.  It’s a shame we only enjoy each other’s company 2 days out of 365.  Society may have advanced enormously over the last 150 years, but when it comes to maintaining family ties, I think our ancestors were better off.

Midlife Crisis Soliloquy

To dye, or not to dye: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The evidence of outrageous aging,
Or to take arms against a sea of gray hairs,
And by coloration end them? To dye: to cover;
No more; and by hiding the gray we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That looking our real age is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d.  To dye, to cover;
To hide: perchance to go blond: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that color change what dreams may come
When we have shuffled out our front door,
Must give us pause: do we look young and beautiful,
Or like a decrepit Mae West?
But why should we bear the whips and scorns of time,
The mirror’s truth, the proud woman’s shame and
The pangs of lost youth, craving time’s delay,
Bad enough the insolence of wrinkles and the bifocals
That we must now wear every damn day,
But…that patient merit of the unworthy salon,
Where the hairdresser herself might her error make
With her dodgy chemical mix?  Who will bear the friggen fardel of my burnt hair,
Frizzing and breaking under a weary brush,
And then the dread of something after gray,
The undiscover’d country of baldness from which
No hair returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the hair we have
Than to try new colors we know not of?
Thus self-consciousness does make a coward of me;
And thus the native hue of my hair
Is sicklied o’er with a color matching my original,
And now begin this enterprise of great pith and moment
With this in mind the colors are mixed,
And lose the name of gray. – Soft you now!
The hairdresser!, Lady, in thy orisons
Be all my conditioners remember’d. Or no tip.

Waxing Philosophical

Since my dad died I have been thinking a lot about karma, fate, predestination, etc.  I never put much credence in any of it before, but now that I’m getting older (ugh) I can’t help noticing patterns, rhythms and happenings in life that I didn’t notice before.  For instance, the seeming inability to escape fate, or change your destiny.  I have been actively trying to turn my life in a new direction for 8 years, and it’s gotten me absolutely nowhere.  I have blog postings going back to 2009 deriding my finances, my job, my weight…yet here it is 2014 and my weight is only 6 lbs lighter than it was (and that just happened in the last 3 months), my finances are worse than ever, the same patterns repeating themselves over and over no matter what I do to change it.  I follow the rules, I get nowhere.  I break the rules, I get nowhere.  I’m selfless; nothing.  I’m selfish; nada.  Every time I try to break free, I’m pulled back in by a repeat of the circumstances that put me there the last time, and this has been going on since 1991.  This past year I’ve become a bit panicky about the whole thing.  I feel like there is a gigantic clock hanging in the air in front of me, the words “Life Span” tattooed across it, that every 60 seconds swings its minute arm forward another notch with a loud clang meant to remind me that yet another minute of what’s left of my life is gone, and I still haven’t done anything.

Do you ever feel like you have no control over the outcome of your actions?  I spent 5 years reading self-improvement and financial books and it hasn’t changed a damn thing.  And I can see and feel the same patterns swirling around me no matter what I do to try to escape.  It’s like the blueprint of my life is written in stone somewhere and is unchangeable; there are some things I’m never going to have; some things I’m never going to do.  Maybe everyone has that one thing they will never achieve, and mine is financial security.

In the greater scheme of things I have little to complain about.  At 47 I have no health concerns at all beyond a bit of what I assume is arthritis, while others lead lives constricted by their ailments.  I know people who have lost children, been diagnosed with cancer, had their homes burned down; there are children left orphaned by accident and illness; nothing this serious has ever happened to me.  I have my (rental) home, my children are healthy and happy, I have a job, and the only deaths I’ve experienced are natural cause- related older relatives; sad but nothing unusual.  I’ve also noticed that often when you hear of good fortune in others, they have a circumstance in their life that makes that run of good luck all the more welcome.  Lottery winners who are ill or unemployed for example.  And then some people just really seem to have no luck at all; ill spouse, unemployed, financial insecurity, illness of their own – all at the same time.

I see patterns in time, connections that don’t show themselves until years later.  Tonight I was looking at some pictures on my Facebook page of my hometown, Midland, Ontario, in 1959 when Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip came through during their Canadian Tour.  My mother is in this picture somewhere near the top; I think she is the girl top right, first row sitting.  She is 14 years old.


In this next picture, there are two O.P.P. officers just behind and to the right of the Royals, charged with providing Her Majesty’s security detail.  My mother is sure that the one on the left is my Grandfather, Chief Inspector William McBride (although I don’t believe he was a C.I. at that time – probably a Sergeant).  He was in charge of the Queen’s O.P.P. security detail so would have been quite close, and the profile, although fuzzy, looks very much like my dad.


Talk about predestination – my 14 year old mother is less than 30 feet away from the man who will become her father-in-law 12 years in the future.  How weird is that?  At the time of this picture Grandfather lived in Toronto, a two hour drive south, and my dad was 23 years old and attending the University of Toronto.  My parents met when Dad got a job at the same hospital Mom was nursing at and moved to Midland, in 1968.

Things like this have been turning my mind to thoughts of predestination and things “meant to be.”  I feel very strongly this is the reason my husband and I are currently together…life circumstance intervened when we were teens when his parents moved away, separating us when it wasn’t meant to be so.  Twenty years later he found me – 3 days after I had an incredibly intense dream about him wherein physically he looked as he appeared when we reunited, and not the way he’d looked the last time I’d seen him…how could I have known?

I am starting to regret things a little less, and become somewhat more accepting of what I have. I’ve been thinking that maybe the debt I unconsciously pay to the universe in exchange for my life of no drama or trauma, is a somewhat hum-drum life of few highs or lows.  Maybe I’m not going to win the lottery, or travel the world, or ever do anything exciting.  Maybe living a quiet, unexciting life, enjoying my children and husband and, occasionally, a few simple pleasures, is my lottery win.