Open letter to little nut brown hare(s).

My mother used to hold her hand up and say: like all my fingers are different, all my children are different. But I love you all the same.
Like time lapse photography, accelerate forward at warp speed... I don't love my two the same. Because they are not the same.
I love them each with a deep and vast love, sometimes quiet, sometimes screamingly loud. I feel myself to be profoundly connected to each, but differently. I realize this is a landmine I'm traversing, but I trust in my history with each of them. I've been there from the beginning; First to hold them, kiss them, love them blind. Each is becoming such a very interesting adult person. There is much in each that reflects both mother and father, though not in equal measure. Of course, the best is that which is entirely their very own.
At this point, I have ceased to referee, interject, defend or accuse. My goal is to one day stop sitting in judgement, or at least to pass judgement in a gentler, subtler way.
I have often said to have a sibling is to have the greatest gift parents can provide. It is the closest you will get to that blind love, beyond me. It will outlive me (I pray), and survive their whole lives. It will be theirs alone, always. It will be in a different pocket,apart from spouses, or whatever else life can bring, joy or grief, like a twenty dollar bill you forgot you always keep for emergencies.

So its not about questioning my love or devotion or loyalty to one or the other. That's as certain as breathing for me. They have that, and each other, too.

Get your own sandwich!

Remember that TV commercial for Subway sandwiches where one guy would have the most beautiful sandwich starting from the inside out? It was just perfectly assembled, lovely and sweet, and you just knew he had been thinking about it alot. Remember how he knew it couldn't last forever, and he just wanted to savour it? And remember how the second guy comes along, sees this most perfect sandwich and immediately starts angling for it to become his?

So I'm thinking our almost adult kids and their very adult relationships inspire the same response in parents. That is, they did in my house. About 6 months ago BGC starting getting serious with her handsome frog prince. Recently, DH, who unabashedly and genuinely really likes the hfp, started feeling pangs not unlike the first guy in the Subway sandwich ad. As in, get your own sandwich! He wanted to bring down a protective veil around her, and try as he might, sometimes he just felt like sticking out his elbows and growling. Mano a mano, they were brohimes. But sometimes, when it was just us taking stock of our lives in the cosmos, DH admitted it was hard letting go.

I felt the same way with #1 son and girlfriends. Of course, all I want for our kids is for them to move into their own lives with confidence and optimism and boundless curiosity. I want them to think about their feelings, unspool them and and turn them over.

Displaced? Moi? Forced to take to the backround, blend in with the leaves, not be the sparkle?
I am reminded of another couple.
Miss Piggy: There can never be another moi.
Kermie: Ah Piggy....It's not easy being green.

Oh no you di'int!

If this is Tuesday, it's spin class day.
The Tuesday noon class is taught by instructor extraordinaire, complete with dreeeeamy South African accent. This week, however, Mr. Woonderbaar was away. His replacement was more like Liberace than Lance Armstrong. He was kinda short, kinda cute, and kinda... well...girly. He was, I think Filipino. The microphone amplified his accent, and an unfortunate lisp made following his rapid fire instructions just a wee bit more difficult, though alot more fun: Thpinners, increase rethithtance, thlow and thteady, and puuuuth through the pain!!!!
He had short spiky hair coloured steely grey, more of a fashion accessory judging by his unlined baby face. He wore a coordinating outfit in vivid yellow Lycra, in ladies sized medium. Yes, he told us. He said it thowed his thape the betht. Actually.

But here's the best part: 5 minutes into it, it was clear this was the best put together, most fun and by far most challenging class this veteran gym rat has ever taken.

So there I am, eyes closed, panting and puthing, when in sashays Miss I'm Too Sexy For Your Partay. Red hair a-swaying, purple bell bottoms just barely covering her southern cleavage, and a face that's all injectables. I have seen her about two hundred times in various classes and have observed one constant. She only speaks to those who have a penis. To everyone else, she is mute.

She is late. The class is past the warm-up, and well into a first set of intervals designed to separate the fittest from the mere mortals. She smiles, sashays over to her bike, taking the time to greet all the men in her row by first name. Her bike is directly behind me.

Less than one minute later, she surpasses her own previous record on the chutzpuh meter.She announces that this is not the regular instructor (thank you Sherlock)and where is Mr. Wuunderbaar?? And what was he thinking not to have forcasted his absence due to illness at last week's class? And, she demanded, who was this funny looking little man??(Funny looking little biaatch is what she really said).

Since she was surrounded by a small harem on all sides, this diatribe was directed to the nearest male thyclist, sitting two bikes over. And all delivered at a volume to be heard above Lady Gaga and her Love Games.

Mercifully the Lycra banana kept on going, oblivious to Miss I'm Too Sexy.
Was I the only plebeian gobsmacked by the goings on in the outskirts of Marginalia? And as if on cue, Donna Summer came blasting through the sound system at full volume, commanding: Go on now, go. Walk through that door. Don't you know that your not welcome anymore!

I'm down with that, she announced. Then she left, sashaying out just as she arrived.

She is woman, hear her purr.

The strongest woman I know has no big muscles, is on no athletic team, has never competed in a sport. She's the strongest, toughest feline in the cat box - and she calls me mom.
Yes...attention Walmart shoppers, she's my treasured daughter, beloved girl child.

And what is it about BGC that has demonstrated backbone beyond compare? At the tenderest, most vulnerable age she made difficult, life changing decisions. The ones that take your young life down a different path. She made them alone, all alone, and far from home. She endured a dark, long, tough patch that would have broken many adults with adult resources, skill sets and experience. And she wasn't yet old enough to order a beer to drown her sorrow.
Day after day, month after month, her feet hit the floor, and she pulled herself together to work through another day. She never folded, never quit school, never defaulted to crutches she would live to regret: no binge drinking, no drugs, no bad boy mistakes. She became thoughtful, analytical, insightful. With introspection came growth, then hope and optimism.
My princess is making her own happily ever after, as a work in progress, complete with handsome frog.

A joy to be with. A joy to live with. That is my beloved girl child.

Oh yes, Mr. Wolfe; You can go home again.

In a few days #1 son will be returning home for March break. This will be preceded by the typical minimum standard of culinary preparation he is accustomed to upon his return: brownies, his personal signature favourite; cookies, several dozen, of at least two varieties; muffins, baked in advance and frozen, so a different variety can be warmed a la moment in case the craving hits; brisket, made a day in advance and served on arrival- au point; a variety of legumes, to act as non-meat protein alternatives, for mid afternoon snacking which will be consumed on an as needed basis; all washed down with a boutique brew or three, local brewmasters preferred.

This prattle poorly disguises the undeniable glee that surrounds his imminent return. It's a sentimental one for him I suspect: it being his last one as a university undergraduate. When he returns again in a couple of months it will be as a university graduate. That's a scary crucible of expectations for him. That's an off ramp of sorts for me.
I am looking forward to an evolving relationship with an evolving adult. He has, of course, changed in four years. I'm not sure I've changed enough to keep up.

Since he will be back in the fold for at least the next year, we will have a chance to create the ebb and flow that is the dialogue of relationship. To quote Katsumoto from The Last Samurai: (read in heavily accented Japanese accent) He, will introduce himself. I, will introduce myself. We have conversation.
It will stand on the shoulders of twenty one years with the dearest, finest son a mother could dream of.

Stay tuned for tales of the girl child.

Ricky, YOU'VE got the esplainin' to do!

It started as we were loading the dishwasher after dinner. Mir, said DH, since our expenses will really nosedive next year, I really think we should get on with planning a Christmas holiday. Then the magic words he knew would seal the deal: with the kids, of course. Sly old fox, my DH. He knows that time away with them, particularly when we have spirited them off to another continent, is a no brainer. Now throw in a gorgeous beach, beautiful weather, fancy private condo, all on a swanky island in the Caribbean....while the rest of Toronto digs out and shivers....and I remember why I married this guy. I like how he rolls.
OK. I'm in. But. I remind him the back deck is sinking a few more inches every year. I don't care, says he. And it's listing at about a 30 degree angle towards the house. I still don't care, says he. And the stain is peeling. Don't look, says he. And it looks like a condemned slummy parasitic appendage that was mistakenly plopped between our lovely home and the swimming pool. Cue the violins here. BOOOHOOOOhooo. Yes, I recognize this would fall under white girl problems.

But are we missing the bigger picture? He works. He earns. He decides. End of story. Or is it?

When we married, we each had paychecks, bank accounts, Visa cards, and nice taste. Now we still each have all the above, but since only one of us is financially remunerated, does that mean he also has veto power? I gave up my job, I did not have a lobotomy!
So I suggest he think it over. OK, says he. I did. And I think we are not doing the deck. I suggest he think it over some more...say...until he thinks he agrees with me about re-doing the deck. OK, says he, you know I always end up agreeing with you; All you have to do is see it my way. Stay tuned.

Oh child, do not do as I have done.

So mom, when did you first do it? Insert here: get blind drunk, smoke a joint, have sex. Pick your vice, it matters not. They are all equally cringe inducing. If your age appropriate child has never lobbed one of these at you, stop reading this now. Go find said child, and start talking. Talk about anything and keep talking for the next five years or so. You're not in Kansas anymore Dororthy!
Just keep talking. That has been my mantra raising my own two kids. We have had rough spots, for sure. There are lots of times they don't listen, there are probably lots more times when they have felt I have not heard. They would not be wrong. But when it comes to the stuff that can be a game changer, I believe they know we are tied together at the ankles like in a three legged race. They are not alone. If one goes down, we both do. So, I'm right there, making sure we both make it to the finish line of adulthood.
I think the details of my own questionably sordid decisions from my youth are less important than the perspective I can imbue them with when viewed through the fog of middle age. I rode in a car before seat belts were legislated does not transcribe as: odds are it'll turn out OK.
I made some poor decisions, did some stupid things, yet dumb blind good luck got me miraculously across to the other side. But this is not small town 1975.
I have lectured on the perils of unsafe sex, described the cellular damage to the liver of binge drinking, and cautioned on the long term effects of smoking dope on the brain's grey matter. They hear: yaddayaddayadda. I think that's what they hear. But I keep talking. They sing my words back to me: dope is for dopes. Hahaha.
I hold my breath and hope that luck is holding.

THIS IS SPARTA or Thou Shalt Not Graze

So what is it about evening and grazing?

Most days, I faithfully clock time at the gym pounding out miles or lifting kilos in repetition to maintain an enviable fitness level. During busy daylight there is no sign of straying from my Spartan discipline.

A lovely, healthful dinner is prepared and enjoyed. It is always a convivial meal, rich in colourful veggies exalted by nutrition gurus. But soon after, with the sun long since set, I transform. Out come the ghostly grazers. I search for carbs, fats and sugar so successfully and self righteously avoided all day long. It is a near steady state of consumption that envelopes the rhythm of my household. For in the spirit of true partnership that is our blissful marriage, DH (dear husband) is usually by my side. He is my wing man on nocturnal recognisance missions for almonds, pistachios, dates, grapes, dark chocolate and light homemade cookies loaves and cakes.

Then, in my carbohydrate coma I pad my way to bed, and hope for a better day to follow.
To have hopes, have those hopes dashed, day after day, is as deflating as having no hope at all. But as Scarlet so poetically put it: Oh great balls of fire! I can't think about that now. I'll think about that tomorrow.

The Winter Of My Arabesque

Once upon a time on a sunny icy prairie, a shy, plodding 8 year old dreamed of taking ballet classes. She was invited to the recital of a much pudgier, pampered little classmate, and from that day on she pestered and pestered until her mother agreed and dollars were gathered and classes were booked. She loved watching the beautiful, graceful teacher demonstrate, and could see the magic emerge as the teacher extended her fingers on a raised arm or turned her head to the note of a piano chord.
She had a secret crush on the cool, gay piano player whose burning cigarette dangled from his lusty lips.
As the years passed something else emerged. The realization she was not particularly adept at doing this thing, though as a spectator it took her breath away. So in her head she began to star in her own full length ballets, where of course, she was perfect.
More years went by, and the little girl became a middle aged lady. Lo and behold, a young and beautiful ballet teacher came to the gym where she exercised. She was so excited to try the classes. But when she did, her body refused to cooperate with her mind. In her mind that starring ballerina was still conquering stages. But in the mirror of the gym studio....the plodding 8 year old was back!
How are those hurts so deeply branded that decades later nothing short of perfect will do? Why isn't it enough to move to the music and enjoy? Why do the mirrors enslave, pronounce judgement, and sentence to forever inadequate? Clearly the key is to turn away from the mirror, and channel the prima swannerina within.

Oh Shut Up and Pass the Chemo.

Tommy Douglas's bones must be doing wheelies. Yesterday in Toronto a young woman with breast cancer went public about being denied coverage under our universal health care system. She would have to pay for an adjuvent chemotherapy drug found to decrease recurrence of her type of cancer because her tumour hadn't grown big enough yet. Hold the presses. Tumour you say? Check. Malignant cancer? Check. Needs chemo? Check. Resident of Ontario? Ooooooh. Sorry. You're just going to have to wait for your malignant cancer to double in size. Then it will be big enough to merit OHIP coverage. Not big enough yet? Not big enough to be more statistically likely to recur? Not big enough to complicate her recovery? Not big enough to result in a less optimal outcome? As the Flying Circus would say: "Not bloody likely!" Forget that this flies in the face of all public campaigns urging us to seek treatment early and not ignore the signs. Forget that the Hippocratic Oath we swore to as first year medical students went something like: "first do no harm". Forget the optics (if you can because they are really bad) of telling a 35 year old woman with undeniable breast cancer, to take her chances at recurrence, because her lesion must double in size to be considered eligible for OHIP coverage. Consider just this: in three other Canadian provinces (Saskatchewan, Alberta, and British Columbia) her chemotherapy would be fully covered. So she is going to pony up 50G's to walk the road each of us prays we can dodge in our lifetime. Who said we don't have two tiered medicine? I don't know what additional hardship this price tag will cause her and her family. I don't know anything about this lady. I do know that sometimes life is a crap shoot. This young mother came up on the short end of the stick just now. Our health care system ought to be improving her odds for survival, not gambling on them.

Zena, Warrior Princess at the end of a needle.

One year ago today I started putting a needle into my thigh every day. As a doctor by training,injections were absolutely no big deal. As a 50 year old woman, the reality of where I had arrived made my heart sink like a stone. I have been breaking bones since I was twenty, usually stress fractures from pounding exercise. I had been taking ballet classes since grade three, which were replaced by pounding aerobics classes with really funny looking Lycra; Then I discovered the zen of running. Finally, there was the dieting, the endless dieting. In order to stay thin enough, lithe enough, svelte enough, yaddayaddayadda.... I was pretty much perpetually dieting. This, and a heaping helping of bad luck, left me with the bones of a 90 year old. But in my mind , I was still Zena, Warrior Princess. I refused to slow my pace. One year ago I snapped my left ankle whilst walking around my house. So after I stopped crying into my diet Sprite, I started daily injections of a drug to help make my bones stronger. I stopped running, but kept walking. And one step at a time, I emerged from my deep, dark place. I haven't broken a bone in the year since I started shooting this drug into my body. And what's the best part of this journey? Zena's back!

Ready. Set. Write. Let the blogging begin.

Here's a riddle: who can bring you to your knees with joy and gratitude, fill your heart to bursting with pure and selfless love, and also inspire in you an overwhelming urge to throttle... all at the same time? Answer :Your children, of course!
The extremes of emotion do not subside as the years accrue. From the time each of my two kids were born, and they are now both in university, I have carried a latent dread; It's that fear deep, deep in the bottom of my metaphorical purse, that something terrible will take them away, will rob them, and me. That death, terrible death, will take them first. I know this dread comes like a one stop shopping purchase when you put your heart inside another, and become a parent. Last weekend at my son's university this remote and nebulous dread became two families' reality. These tragedies were accidental, alcohol related, and never, ever should have happened. I hold my breath when my children travel the roads and highways, travel through parties, and bars, the subway at night- through life as they live it. I think of all the proverbial bullets I dodged growing up on the Canadian prairies in the 70's, and pray my kids will be just as lucky, and a whole lot savvier.