Family Moulds

Sometimes I think of the family unit as a mould and its children the raw material. It is a simple analogy to describe the complexity of family relationships and influences.

My childhood moulded me in many ways. Primarily, I became a self-sufficient perfectionist. Qualities that made me ambitious and propelled me forward. But, I eventually found that these traits did not always work in my best interest displaying themselves in either a Dr. Jekyll or a Mr. Hyde persona.

It took time and reflection for me to identify Mr. Hyde's influence. I saw nothing wrong with being self-sufficient until I realized that I rarely sought out help. I know now that not everything can be accomplished alone. Life would have been easier for me if I had sought out a mentor in business and a health professional for my depression.

Being a perfectionist wasn't all it was cut out to be either. Things often didn't get finished because they were imperfect to my eyes or it took an unreasonable amount of time to complete a task when I couldn't detach myself from the details.

But among my key characteristics, I am also highly introspective. Human nature fascinates me and I am my primary subject of study.

Life is becoming easier now that I have acknowledged that it is okay to admit I don't have all the answers.

A Gift From My Mom

 

The small business can be easily identified as the neighbourhood variety store by the antique looking coca-cola sign swinging out front. A piece of cardboard covers the growing crack in the large display window. Above, are windows into the personal residence of the owner - the unintended victim of large grocery stores.

Unannounced, we pop through the front door. My mother is servicing customers from behind a weather worn counter. The moment her eyes take us in, she lights up and asks, “Are you hungry?”

In moments, kitchen aromas trigger pavlovian responses. A decadently rich meal, affectionately coined as “heart attack” food, is placed before us. Massive quantities of koldunai come smothered with a sumptuous sauce of rich flavours created by combining butter, sour cream, and bacon bits. Served along side is pan fried Kugelis – a creamy potato pudding. Empty plates and wide smiles end the meal.

We hug and kiss our goodbyes. Gone as quickly as we had arrived.

 

Today, I have made enough to feed a dozen starving guests when a mere eight are coming. My comedic husband states, “You are your mother”. I laugh giving him a squeeze. “Thanks for the compliment.”

Dearest Son, A Letter of Love

 My Dearest Son,

 

Now that you are a grown man, I often wonder if you have any inkling of how you have enriched my life by just being, or how much unconditional love I hold for you. I struggle with these feelings when my mind darkens with insecurities. Dwelling on how I treated my own parents. Asking myself, if I wasn’t a good daughter, could I be a good mother?

In the past, I may have told you and your sister that my pregnancies were accidents. Tales to provide some comedic relief. Only partially true. Yes, I was on birth control pills when you were conceived. But you were never an afterthought. Our plans changed. Apparently, yours did not.

When I was pregnant with you, I told family and friends you must be a boy. According to old wives’ tales, pregnancies are different for the sexes. I held back the part that the possibility frightened me. Having no brothers and a poor track record with male relationships, aside from your father, I felt insecure; lacking the experience one derives from life lessons.

Once you were born, I realized the flaw in my thinking. I shouldn’t label you a “boy”. You were an individual, your own person, and that’s how I needed to treat you.

I liken my fragmented recollections of your first year to a frame of mosaic tiles, each beautiful but when artistically positioned together, crafts something truly memorable. As the nurse placed you on my chest, I recall drawing your scent into my nostrils so deeply that I would know you, even with my eyes closed. You were our precious little 10 lb. 13 oz. bundle of love.

It may seem silly to you, but the first thing we did, as every parent has done for eternity, as you and your wife may one day do too, was take inventory. Gently, I checked each of your miniature appendages, reassuring myself as I noted their number and the tiniest of fingernails crowning each one. I outlined your palm lines with my own finger and wiggled my digit until you grasped it firmly within your fist. When your dad and I were satisfied, I remember releasing a breath so strongly that it surprised me, frozen in that moment. This wave of relief opened the dam gates, and a flood of joy rushed through us. We were now an example of family perfection. Two children, one girl and one boy. The dog will come later.

I think we both know that family isn’t always easy. Like individuals, no two families are alike. Belonging has its challenges. But it is forever. As your mom, this blood bond comforts me. It is the reason I know you will never be alone. It doesn’t matter whether you feel its connection. With or without your belief, it exists. I cherish it and revel in its expansion.

We remained in the hospital for a few days. I was recovering from surgery, and you spent a bit of time in an incubator. Having been delivered by Caesarean section, you were so much cuter than most newborns who could easily be mistaken for aliens if not for their human parents.

During this stay, your pediatrician came to speak with us. With the single word “problem”, the lightness of my joy dissipated as my heart sank from the weight of dread. Comforting words tried to repair the damage done. “We caught it early.” “Years ago, he may have ended up with one leg longer than the other.” “His condition can be treated.” You had a congenital problem with one of your hips. The joint hadn’t formed fully and needed to be immobilized to give it more time. Straps locked your tiny knees to your chest and restricted your movement.

Even with your legs held tightly in place, you appeared a contented baby. Perhaps you still felt the confinement of my womb.

Everything seemed easier this time around. Nursing went smoothly. You slept well, both at naptime and during the night. Your unwavering contentedness made me feel more confident as a mother. When I had only one baby, I was housebound. This round, I could take both you and your sister shopping on my own, giving me a sense of freedom, or probably more honestly, escape. Escape from your grandmother, my mother-in-law. The liberty I experienced was unexpected and welcomed. Your temperament gifted me the enjoyment of motherhood.

Something else was different this time. Your harness made diaper changes somewhat challenging. A fortuitous blessing. Unlike what I had experienced with your sister, where everyone was always snatching her out of my arms to do their cooing, they were now unsure how to handle your restrained body. In effect, they rewarded me with more you-and-me time. A warmth still flows through me as these frames of memory come into focus once again.

Looking at your baby photos, I smile back at the adorable chubbiness that was you. A side effect of your restricted movement. Eventually your Orthopedic Doctor gave us his thumbs up and my heavy heart lifted. Our baby was healthy, along with happy.

Today, at family gatherings, we joke at each instance your mannerisms or speech mirror your dad’s. Nature or nurture is still a mystery to me. The combination of genes from mother, father, and ancestors comes together uniquely resulting in imperfect beings, every one.

 

I remain your biggest fan.

 

Mom

P.S. If you ever need a pick-me-up, just imagine how my eyes and my heart see you.

 

Am I Crazy?

People often refer to writers as solitary individuals because when they are working, they often shut themselves off from the world with only their tools to keep them company. Unless, like witches of old, they have a cat. We’ll talk more about the cat later.

Readers don’t account for all the people we invite into our process who are as real to us as some of our closest companions. Many we welcome with open arms. We celebrate their successes and cry as they suffer a tragic loss or make a poor choice. Others come unwelcomed and we would prefer to just shut the door in their ugly little faces. Often these intruders still push their way in and remain far too long. No matter what, it is important that a close relationship is developed with each one.

At the moment, I’m trying to get to know Maggie - at least, that’s what it says on her name tag.

When I first met Maggie behind the counter of her cafe, she appeared quite ordinary. It wasn’t until she turned to face me straight on that my mouth opened and I stood silently, trying not to react any further. I observed that the left side of her face was severely disfigured. I wasn’t sure, but it may have been from a burn. What I was certain about, however, was there stood a troubled soul with secrets. A woman who had, in her youth, been a beauty.

Maggie is the protagonist in the novel I am currently outlining.

One of my least favourite visitors is my personal critic. What really infuriates me is that he tries to come off as an advisor, encouraging me to do better. Even when I remind him I don’t have a complete first draft yet, I can’t seem to stop him from pointing out phrases he feels must be rewritten immediately. It’s really hard for me to give him the boot because I recognize I will need him later.

These are only a couple of my visitors when I am writing these days. I am still early in preparing my outline. For the time being, I will only seek comfort from the various cats that show up when my thoughts drift to the advice presented in the book, “Save the Cat! Writes a Novel” by Brody.

So am I crazy to have so many imaginary friends?

To the Men in my Life

Ever since International Women's Day, I've been itching to post this message. I decided to wait a day or two, hoping not to be labeled insensitive. Here goes ....

To start with, I don't believe in taking one day out of the year to celebrate something or someone. Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day, Anniversaries.... For me, I believe in cherishing people (and their rights) on a regular basis through the things I say and do. My opinion about taking one day out of the year and elevating a cause tends to demonstrate that we have not yet integrated these values into our daily behaviour.

There were a lot of thanks going out to all the wonderful, powerful women in our lives on Monday - I trust that the women in my life know that is how I feel about you everyday, notwithstanding the fact that I didn't express this on Monday (being my son's birthday).

I believe that the human race is better blended, so as a reminder of this, I would like to thank the men in my life who value my idiosyncrasies and acknowledge me as a person: my husband - who always accepted me as his equal partner; my son, - who always challenged me to think outside of the norms and values strong women in his life; my father - who raised me to be independent; my male business colleagues - who valued my contribution; and my male friends - who saw me as a person.

I have worked for all women organizations and for male dominated ones but the best have been the businesses with a blended leadership. I don't have the answers to creating equality in the world. I choose to be happy in the knowledge that I can control my own actions and my desire to live my life as an example of my ideals. 

Sharing An Opinion on Social Media

I am a person with opinions, enjoying friendly discussion on diverse topics. Many yesterdays ago, I habitually blurted out my thoughts without consideration of consequences. Today, I try to be more controlled about the “when and where” and take time and care in crafting my words.

Typically, I do not voice an opinion to a general audience. More times than not, I find it a waste of my energy. It is not my intention to change someone’s opinion, I only hope to encourage the sharing of perspectives. What I experience is something more akin to debate. There is nothing wrong with this, and it has its place, but I find it combative. When people come together with the sole intent of winning over the opinions of others because they are convinced of their own righteousness on a topic, I think we lose an opportunity for improvement.

Yesterday, I couldn’t help myself. The topic was the censorship of books, and it was like another post I had recently seen. I felt compelled to register my opinion on this forum, populated with Canadian writers, against the advice of my inner voice which was screaming, “Don’t do it!”. So far, I have not received any mean comments, but one lengthy response got me thinking; not about what the writer intended to clarify for me, but how narrow minded our responses are when wrapped up in our own biases. Naturally, I again felt compelled to respond with a better explanation of my original intent, knowing that this was also a mistake. I was now caught up in momentum that was gaining traction and would likely have no fruitful outcome.

What did I learn? Social media is not the place to voice my opinions. If my intention is to encourage discussion so that I may gain insight from a different perspective, this format is too limiting to communicate with sufficient substance and it is too easy for people to throw daggers from the shadows of anonymity.

Do you have any personal experiences related to the sharing of your opinions on open social forums?

Censorship

I don't believe that you can make enough rules (or laws) to ensure that others will only demonstrate behaviours that are acceptable to you. For this reason, I have difficulty with the concept of censorship, even if the content is hateful and/or misleading. There always has to be a judge of what is acceptable. Is it not better that we choose for ourselves?

A friend of mine shared the following post from Penguin Books covering 15 frequently banned and challenged books in Canada. I have read at least 7 and watched one as a movie.  How about you?

List of Books

Are there any books there that you find offensive?