On fear and motivation

Weird things have been going on in my writing life lately.

As I've blogged before, I've dipped my toes, blushingly and hesitatingly, into writing fiction. I have never, ever written fiction; from the very first scribble, I wrote non-fiction. Character studies, non-fiction short stories, narratives, journals, and then on to articles and interviews and radio scripts. Reality was where my pen was most comfortable.

But now that I am no longer a working journalist and can no longer spend my days asking real people questions, my reporter-brain has despereately started asking imaginary people about their lives and thoughts and stories. It's weird. I don't know how to deal with all these people who hang out in my brain and tell me things.

My first fiction manuscript is stalled, simply because I do not have the time to research the minute technical details properly, what with The Hubby's training and the full-time job and the rugrats. I wil get back to it, since it is, at its core, about identity, military family life and the nature of the life of a journalist, both in and outside the newsroom. The question I'm asking the protagonist is one I ask myself: "When do you stop being a journalist? Where does the reporter end and the person begin? How does your spouse's identity affect yours? Can you be two archetypes at once?"

The first chapters of the second manuscript exploded out of me about two months ago (before the computer croaked). That one I don't need to research so much. It is much more visceral and personal, and it is about something of which I know more than most obstetricians. (A sub-group Internet friends have immediately figured out what I'm talking about. Yes girls, I'm writing about it.)

But what it's really about is fear and the strange things we do when we're frightened.

Fear is a powerful motivator, and in some ways that's supremely appropriate. When we're frightened by a physical threat, we either run or fight, depending on what will best protect our sorry hides. Adrenalin exists for a reason.

But most of the things which frighten us are not physical, and we can't physically run from them. How do you run from illness or loneliness or death? How do you run from thoughts and emotions? How do you make yourself, or the ones you love more than life, safe again?

Finding safety in those kinds of situations is never simple or straightforward, and it often takes calm and quiet to suss out the answer. But here's the tricky part: fear is fear, and our bodies react the same way to each fear-threat. Adrenalin kicks in, and that particular hormone doesn't do calm and reflective very well. Its whole point is to flush out the indecision and make us act right away.

Often, when someone we love is sick or suffering, and we are terrified for them, we want to listen to the adrenalin and just make the pain STOP. It's hard to remember the short-term pain may be worth it, in order to avoid a longer-term consequence of absolute agony.

I remember when Super A. was a toddler, no more than 14 or 15 months old, he got very sick and needed to go to the hospital. The doctors ordered an IV placed and blood drawn. I held A. while the nurse did her job, expertly getting the IV in one stick as poor A. writhed and sobbed. Hubby held his other hand and stroked his back.

Then A. hiccuped out, "I be good, Daddy, I be good boy. I be good, no more owie."

As I kissed A. and assured him he was the best little boy in the world, and we were not punishing him (where did that never-spanked angel get that idea?), Hubby kissed his head -- and walked right out of the treatment room.

Later, he told me he had almost punched out the nurse, and had to walk away to make sure he didn't -- the nurse who was fighting to get fluids into our dehydrated and very sick boy.

That's what fear and terror and heartbreak can do to you.

So I'm writing a novel about fear as a motivator. Although it's not about me, I've already lived one side of the story. Now I'm asking myself how I might react if my own precious pearl faces my greatest fear.

I'm beginning to understand how fiction is just another form of writing the truth. I already knew the truth ain't pretty.

Wow, um, sorry 'bout that

Add a month alone with the kids to a computer collapse (freaking hard drive) and you have a full month of no blog posts.

Apologies to my four readers!

Still saving that dance

Fifteen years ago, when I was 17, I went to a homecoming dance in Stellarton, N.S. with a friend. She was hoping the boy she was crushing on would be there, and although I had acquired a very pretty black eye trying to play Ultimate Fribee that day, I smeared on some make-up and grumpily agreed to go.

Alas, the boy in question wasn't at the dance, not was anyone else over the age of 14. Chris and I prepared to leave; we weren't going to dance with teenyboppers!

"Wait," Chris said, peering into the dark arena. "There a guy from my class over there, and he looks bored to death. Let's go over and say hi."

As we approached, I saw a tall, skinny seventeen-year-old boy hunched up on a chair, elbows on knees, hands cradling his face . His shoulders were too big and wide for the rest of him, his hands too large. He had curly hair, tanned skin and was scowling at the infants dancing nearby.

"C., what are you doing here?" Chris shouted through the music.

He looked up and finally smiled. He'd been dropped off at the dance by his folks. He was stuck there. He seemed very glad to see us.

We spent the rest of the night dancing. I gave him my phone number. He called the next day, and every other day that summer. I liked him, but found his persistence a little annoying.

A month later, he picked me up for another dance. I opened the front door for him and realized I was in love with the guy.

We had a great final year of high school together. I went to Carleton, leaving him behind in Nova Scotia -- or so I thought. But no matter who I dated, no matter how crazy my hijinks, no matter how many times we dumped each other, I always seemed to find my way back to him.

So, to that boy, who is now my husband, my soulmate, and the father of the most beautiful children on the planet: I saved that last dance for you. I always will. Happy 15 years!

Happy belated birthday, Hubby!

I didn't have the perfect post on your birthday, but I've found it now.

Love you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryf1NpGOgvg

Defining quotation

"In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." -- Albert Camus

This defines who I am at my most basic. No matter what happens, that summer is somewhere in there.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Love you.

Weekend with Megan H.

I needed to go to Edmonton for business, so Megan joined me for the weekend once the work was done. Here's some random shots -- more pics at Meg's site.

Perceptions of "working" motherhood

I've been alone with the children during the evenings this week. A few days ago, I took them to the playground down the road after supper, to blow off some energy. A mother out alone with three children usually attracts a lot of attention in B.C.; people tend to stare and either marvel or scowl.

While pushing Toddler N. on the swing, I started chatting with another mom. She asked me if the three of them were all mine. I said yes and prepared to hear the dreaded phrase, "you've got your hands full!" Instead, the mom nodded and said, "We've got four: my daughter, my older son, and the twins."

We immediately started talking full speed; another mother-of-more-than-two is rare here. I thought I'd made a new best friend when I happened to mention I work full-time outside the home.

The other mom blinked and said, "Oh, that's why you're so calm. By six o'clock I'm ready to lose it."

I wanted to sit down on the wood chips and cry. I finally found a person who understands a part of my life, and she threw the Mommy Wars in my face.

I find this tendency of moms to suppose other mothers' work arrangements are easier to be tremendously annoying. I've been a stay-at-home mom for three and a half years and a working mom for four years. Both are hard.

Sometimes, they are hard in the same ways -- kids are kids and their needs don't change. It's just a matter of how many hours you're dealing with it on weekdays. But there is a dramatic difference in being with your kids all day long versus being with them half the day, I admit that.

But why anyone would think working all day long in a high-stress job, commuting for an hour each way, then coming home to cook a meal and deal with children alone all night (another high-stress job) would induce calm is beyond me.

Let's be honest here. I do a very demanding and stressful job with multiple deadlines in a day. The only reasons I can do it between 8:30 and 4:30 is because my bosses are understanding and because I am a ninja. It often takes the entire bus ride home to find my equilibrium before walking twenty minutes from the bus stop in heels to children desperate to see me. And this isn't even me at my very best -- I gave up my best so I could be home before 6:30 p.m. or 7 p.m. every night.

I wasn't in the mood for that kind of judgment at the park, so I wished the mom a pleasant evening and started climbing the jungle gym with Toddler N.

The next day, I stumbled across a conversation about working motherhood and stress at Momversation.com. "Ooh!" I thought. "Awesome, let's see what the bloggers have to say."

I was disappointed: although there are some 9-to-5 workers who are panelists on Momversation, NONE of them were part of this discussion. All of the mommy bloggers in the conversation worked for pay from home. That's valid work, and has its own set of stressors I've never had to have. But let's acknowledge it is not the same as strapping on heels and trooping out the door at 7:15 in the morning. When you work at home, your child's school play, dental appointment or field trip is not a professional crisis. It takes a long time for me to get home; the round trip means I lose half a day of work. There are many days I just can't leave, and I don't know that until 20 minutes before I was planning to go. I've managed to avoid missing anything important, but it is always on my mind. I would have liked that reality, the reality of many working for pay moms, to be reflected in the discussion.

Work is work. It can often be stressful. Motherhood often conflicts with it. Can't we find a way as mothers to acknowledge the differences in our work without thinking everyone else has it easier?

Flop

The garage sale was a total flop. We had one guy look over our bike and tell me it wasn't worth any money, especially not the $10 listed on the sticker; and a neighbourhood kid who tried to buy our dinkie mat as Hubby loaded the detritus into the minivan to take it to the Sally Ann. Hubby took pity on the guffer and gave him the mat.

Salvation Army shoppers, look for some fabulous merchadise this week.

I miss Yellowknife.

Garage sale city

I am a devotee of the garage sale and of secondhand living, and it's all Yellowknife's fault.

When the Hubby (then Fiance) and I moved North, we needed many, many things to furnish our first home. We owned no furniture, no cutlery, no pots and pans. We essentially owned the clothes on our backs and an old dresser my former roommate gave me.

What we needed we got from friends, the secondhand store in town and the Yellowknife garage sale circuit.

You see, in the North, furniture is an expensive and precious commodity, since it has to be shipped from down south to get there. It doesn't matter if the local furniture store is selling it or if you order it from IKEA in Edmonton, it still has to travel, and the consumer pays up the nose to get it there. That goes for lots of other stuff, too, such as brand-name clothes and chic baby gear.

Conversely, when people leave, it is often more expensive to ship their Northern furniture and other items south than it is to buy all new and shiny stuff at their destination. That means you have people desperate for cheap furniture and other items, and other people desperate to sell their stuff for any price, just to get rid of it.

It's garage sale heaven.

We furnished our apartment on the Saturday of the May long weekend in 2000, with the help of our friend Julie and her trusty truck. She'd just moved North too, and with her wheels and Hubby's lifting skills, we all did well.

When the Hubby finished his basic training, I held a massive garage sale a week before he came home to move us to Victoria. It was raining, so the turnout was small. For two hours my front yard was stormed by about a hundred furniture seekers, clothes shoppers and pregnant women.

So imagine my dismay when I saw the Victoria version of a garage sale: a few paltry tables of worn-out toys and kitchen stuff, with one lonely and disgruntled shopper digging through the wreckage.

We are holding a garage sale tomorrow to sell some old furniture (Northern vintage!) along with a tonne of awesome kids' clothes and shoes (including two pairs of Robeez), a bike, some DVD stands, computer games, a computer speaker system, etc. If you live in town, come on over. Whatever is left will be free for the taking after noon. (This never would have been an issue in Yellowknife.) Wish us luck!

For my mom

Elvis singing a classic Ann Murray tune -- Mom, what more can you ask for? Happy Mother's Day!

No inner peace here

Today is Mother's Day, and I have received some of the usual spoiling from the Hubby and our little brood (breakfast in bed, flowers, a meal out, ice cream; it's been a good day.)

After a little more than eight years into this motherhood gig, and many sacrifices made for my guffers (I'd love to NOT have my C-section paunch, thanks very much), I'm at the point where I' mot sure what I've learned from all this.

When A. was born, after the first few months, I could list all the wonderful qualities I'd been learning as a new mom: patience, tolerance, forgiveness, compassion, an ability to function on less than three hours a sleep a night for more than a year (no, I am not joking.) I felt as if I was discovering my true abilities, my gifts and strength. I was a reporter and a young mother; I'd show them all this could be done. Pop in that university mixed taped of rousing feminist ballads!

Baby I. came, and Baby N., and I still felt I was doing pretty well. It was hard; I cried a lot, but I was getting better at it, day by day.

And then A. went to school. Lately, as he matures and starts doing and experiencing things I've never dealt with before, I often feel like they've handed me a newborn again (a 50-lb. one) and I have no idea what to do.

In the Gap ads, mothers are thin women with wonderfully toned arms who run through the surf with their perfect offspring, laughing and smiling at their handsome husbands with six-pack abs.

Motherhood is not like that. Motherhood is not bliss. It is hard; it can be frightening and is often downright messy.

I have learned this much: motherhood is not supposed to be sunshine and rainbows. It's not about self-fulfilment or inner peace, and I think that modern expectation is what makes so many mothers feel like failures as they deal with squalling, colicky infants at 3 a.m., or second-graders who insist on bullying their classmates, or teenagers who never want to eat and say they feel fat.

Motherhood, in essence, is about the survival and betterment of the species. Period. Little humans need a lot of things to grow and grow well, but none of them are a perfectly toned, perfectly tanned mother with a personal shopper and a perpetual smile.

Motherhood has shaped who I am, and that person is better than the one I was before the kids came along. I think that's certainly one of the benefits of motherhood. But I don't think that was the point.

The point is, motherhood is not about the mother at all.

A request for my readers

I ask all readers of this weblog to have the common courtesy and respect to contact me directly, whether via the comments or the new email link on the right, if they have a complaint about this personal blog.

Thank you very much.

Thoughts on marriage

Megan over at Reflections on the Snow-Covered Hills is having an amazing discussion about the nature of civil vs. religious marriage, especially in light of gay marriage. One of her commenters, Jason, asked us to detail the differences between civil and religious marriages.

Below is my reply. I invite Megan's crowd of commenters to come on over and continue the discussion here, if they wish.

Taking up Jason's challenge -- much of my marriage, in its day to day workings, is similar to Jason's. My husband and I love and support one another, raise children together, share a home and household expenses, pool our earned money, file a joint tax return, claim each other on our benefits, take care of each other when sick, are intimate. Jason and his husband also do all these things, I'm guessing.

The differences are harder to quantify (and I'm going to talk about Catholic marriage in terms of what the Church teaches now -- many Catholic couples you know may not be living this commitment fully -- heck, I know I don't fully live up to it, but Hubby and I try.)

A major difference is the idea of the purpose of marriage. In Catholic thinking, marriage is NOT about romantic love at all (although that's very nice and encouraged.) It's about love as an action, as a set of choices. It's committing not to the feeling of love, but to the idea of raising and caring for a family. Of course many, many married couples also raise families, including Jason and his husband, but I would argue the secular view of marriage is that it is about a commitment to romantic love first. For Catholics, romantic love is secondary, although still very nice and encouraged.

As Catholics who practice our faith, my husband and I have pledged to procreate -- the Catholic wedding service requires you to state you are open to new life and will accept any children God sends through the marital act. (Notice I didn't say parenting, because Jason and his husband do that as well, as do many if not most straight and gay married couples.) That means no artificial birth control. We also accept the indissolubility of our religious marriage -- in other words, we accept that we are married until one of us dies, period. No spiritual divorce (although we have the legal right to divorce the civil aspect of our marriage, and the Church accepts that legal separation is sometimes necessary for the safety of members of the family.)

My husband also has different duties as a married Catholic man than Jason and his husband would -- Hubby is responsible for the entire family's religious education and direction, and that includes me. It's his job to feed my faith and to help me in my religious learning. He will answer for that when he meets the Lord in a greater way than I will for his education. Now, if he abdicated these responsibilities to me or the kids, I would need to step in and teach my kids my faith on my own. And of course, I am very involved in their education, but I take my lead from Hubby.

I also have a different duty as a Catholic wife, and this is a doozie -- I have committed to obeying Hubby's spiritual direction. That doesn't mean going against my personal conscience, ever, but it does mean accepting he has the duty to be involved in my religious life, and I have a duty to accept that and to at least listen to him. It also means I have to accept his primary spiritual direction of the children.

The most important difference of all, I guess, is the Catholic belief is that marriage is a sacrament, not just a ceremony, and therefore confers special graces to the couple through the Holy Spirit. It is a marriage of three, really, a promise to each other and to God, and the Holy Spirit helps us live the vocation.

I hope I haven't totally butchered this, and it is all given with respect. I know other Christians see marriage slightly differently, as will people with different spiritual beliefs. This is simply what my faith teaches, and I think the additional layers on our marriage, the non-civil stuff, is more obvious once explained like this.

Isaiah 55:8-9:
"For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD.
"As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts."

Our thoughts: only the physically attractive, those who spend their time thinking about themselves and how they can get ahead, are talented and successful.

God's thoughts: A frumpy, lonely, poor, loving, compassionate middle-aged woman who spent her adult live selflessly caring for her elderly and sick parents has the voice of an angel, and is a commanding presence when she sings.

When I watch this talented and passionate woman sing, every single sacrifice for my family seems insignificant in comparison to her sacrifices for her parents.

Well done, Susan Boyle. Keep singing!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

Click the link, you will not be disappointed. But I promise you will be surprised.

Adventures in kitchen paleontology

Big I. is obsessed with dinosaurs. All small children seem to enjoy the ancient lizards, but Big I. is fixated. He now owns two separate encyclopedias on dinos. My four-year-old son can tell you about the different types of skulls each dino has, and why they have sails or plates or horns or massive claws. He can't spell my name, but he can read the names of such dinos as Baryonyx and Xenotarsosaurus.

Big I., you see, has decided he is a paleontologist.

So when the men were at Toys R Us today, and they saw a dinosaur excavation kit, all plans for baking Easter cookies were off. Big I. had bones to dig, and he needed an excavation team.

Chief paleontologist Big I. prepares for the dig.

The first strike of the excavation.




The excavation continues. Digging dinos is hard work.

Excavation team member Daddy chips in.


Chief paleontologist Big I. gives the team instructions and praise.


Putting the skeleton together.

It's a velociraptor! Well done, excavation team!

Quick Easter pic

Sorry I don't have more Easter pics to share (long story), but here's one of the kidlets after Mass on Easter Sunday.

Happy Easter!

Happy Easter!

First, why I am a Catholic. The Lord and His Truth never change.



Second, why I am a Christian. "The grave became a place of Hope."

I have a soft spot for Michael Card's music. :-) Happy Easter, everyone!

(For my Christian friends, please do me a favour and pray for me. I need some help. Thanks.)

Gone, baby, gone

The CBC is laying off 800 people, cutting programming, and hacking at CBC North's budget (at least $500,000 gone for the North, possibly $1 million.) At least two former colleagues are definitely losing their jobs.

I'm in shock. A part of who I am is wrapped up in that place. I believe in the CBC's mission, especially in the North and in remote areas of Canada, and especially radio. And I'm so very sorry for my worried friends at the Mother Corp., all wondering who will get the ax and who will get pressured into taking early retirement. (They say it's voluntary, but I've seen how management pushes people they don't like to quit or retire.)

It's like the lockout all over again, the realization that the corporate types are out to protect themselves, rather than programming. (Why couldn't they merge the dual bureaucracy of CBC and Radio Canada? Cut the never-ending stream of managers?)

I don't even have the energy to be grateful I'm no longer there and not part of this. How can I be happy I'm not suffering, when so many good friends are, and when the listeners will ultimately lose out?

And now the politicking really begins, but it's going to make no difference. Thanks for trying, MP Charlie Angus.

Who's on top?

On my very first day at CBC Radio, my manager sat me down at a table with a piece of paper and a pen between us. P. drew a triangle on the paper; he drew a little circle on the top and a bunch of little circles on the bottom. He then drew some lines horizontally through the triangle.

"This is the CBC," he said. "The circle here is the president of the corporation. These circles down here are our listeners and viewers. In between are the vice-presidents, directors, managers and staff."

I nodded. It seemed like a pretty routine corporate structure to me.

"This is the way some people see it," he said, showing me the graph with the president on top.

Then he turned the paper so the viewers and listeners were up top, and the president at the bottom.

"This is how it really is," he said. "These people who listen to us, who watch us, they are the boss. They are the reason we are here. They are the reason we produce shows and run the news and try to make them laugh from time to time.

"We're here to serve them, to give them what they need, to tell them stories they need to hear. Never forget that, and you'll do all right."

Over my years at Mother Corp., I tried to remember P.'s advice. I tried to tell stories my real bosses needed to hear. Because of that, I was lucky to do some fun, intriguing and (I think) important work. I often covered stories people outside the North would think unimportant -- but hey, my bosses were Northerners, and at least half of them lived in small Aboriginal communities.


With all of the problems at the CBC lately (the enormous budget shortfall, the passive-aggressive statements from the federal minister responsible, the anxiety and panic amongst the staff as rumours of 600 to 1200 lay-offs float about), I keep remembering that Sunday morning in Yellowknife, and the look in P.'s eyes as he showed me that graph.


That's what is the root of the problems at the CBC, really. Sometime in the past ten years (or longer), the upper levels forgot they are actually the lower levels. They forgot about the real bosses. And oh boy, it showed

They chased after potential listeners/viewers, and ideal listeners/viewers, and hip ones and young ones and ones who dig it when you use swear words on the air. They worried about being contemporary and trendy. They Stromboed the news, rather than just The Hour.

And you know what happened? Some of the original bosses quit. Especially the television bosses, the elusive viewers. A lot of them quit. They went over to CTV and Global, where they weren't the boss, but at least they weren't being condescended to death.

Then the lower levels forgot the middle levels are the ones who keep the bosses around, who make radio and television worth listening to and watching. They tried to make us all expendable, contractors with no job security and no defense against being fired on a whim. At the same time, the amount of managers (who do not produce stuff for your eyes and ears) increased dramatically. They locked out the staff and pissed off a lot of the real bosses. Some of them never came back after the lock-out.

And now we are in a recession, and revenue is down, because why spend money on ads on a network that is losing its viewers hand over fist?

I don't know how to solve this crisis. But I do know if the CBC is going to continue to exist in some semblance of what was meant to be, the guys at the bottom need to wise up and remember the guys at the top.