How does it feel?
A cake.
A candle.
A happy birthday morning.
How does it feel to be four? (An impossible question that somehow begs to be asked.)
Category: Birthdays
A time to celebrate
party supplies
Shopping for birthday supplies with my enormously chatty almost-four-year-old. He chose these candies and this candle. Last year he really didn’t want to turn three, and refused for several weeks to accept the change. This year he can’t wait for his birthday. “Is it this month?” he’s been asking … for months.
He makes us laugh. And it is so easy to make him laugh. “How old are you turning again?” I asked yesterday. “You’re going to be five, right?” “What?! No!” Big snorts of laughter. “Oh, I know — you’re turning back to two. Right?” More laughs. “What?! You can’t go backward, Mommy.” “Oh, that’s right. Hm, well, then, you must be turning four.”
“No!” Suddenly serious. “Do it silly again, Mommy.”
I’m glad he’s over his existential crisis of a year ago and happy to be growing up. But here’s the thing. I’m the one who’s experiencing pangs this time around the sun. My littlest is so tall and logical, so learning his letters, so able to dress himself, so trained overnight, so good at playing with his big brother and sisters, so big. And I’m thrilled, and it’s wonderful. And I love sleeping through the night and having this freedom during (part of) the day. But those baby years are exactly what everyone tells you — gone so fast. In a flash.
Could my years already be gone? Yes, by all available evidence they are, for real. But I haven’t quite accepted it yet.
At this moment in time …
Alright blog, what have you got for me today?
This feels like a day for random bits. Things I want to remember about this very moment in time.
**My two eldest children, at this moment in time, have exactly the same shoe size as me. And apparently I have a lot of shoes, because right now my eldest wears a pair of my old running shoes as his indoor shoes at school, another pair as his outdoor shoes, and his winter boots were also formerly mine; and just this morning AppleApple took my pink lightweight tennis shoes to school to be her new indoor shoes. She’s outgrown her old ones. She’s also outgrown all soccer shoes. And this morning started with a lengthy search through her drawers for clothes that still fit. Suddenly all pants are rising above the ankle, and all shirts above the wrist. The very definition of a growth spurt.
**I’m plugging away at my multi-sport activities. This morning was spin class. Do I push too hard in this class? I really give it my all, leave everything in the room; and then look up with glazed eyes at the end of hour and realize it is 7:15am and the bulk of the day’s responsibilities still lie before me.
**I had my first DNF in a race on Sunday. It was a 30km race, and given my injury I could neither train for it, nor hope to complete the distance. I’d accepted that it wasn’t to be a few months ago, but hearing people in spin class this morning talk about their experiences in the same race made me more than a little envious. I feel like I’m holding steady in terms of my fitness. Barely. After such exciting gains last year, it’s difficult to stay positive about just hanging in there. But just hanging in takes commitment too. And I haven’t quit. Four early mornings a week is four more than I was doing two years ago. It’s hard to remember sometimes, but daily commitment and discipline isn’t often or even usually about an immediate reward, nor does it happen because we feel like doing it every day. It’s about making change over time, the steady accretion of experience. Mostly, it’s just about showing up.
**I’m starting to do research on what I hope will be my next book. Kevin and I have marked several writing weeks on the calendar, one per month for the next three months. I’m nervous about diving into a new character and a new world. But I’m curious to see what will come of it. Stay tuned.
**Remember when I used to get a good revelation after most yoga classes? Not necessarily an enormous life-altering revelation, but at least something small, some interesting new way of approaching a problem or idea? And that doesn’t seem to happen any more. It’s made me wonder whether I’ve stopped looking for revelations. Am I going to class free from specific unsolved problems? Or have I forgotten to use that time as a meditative space? I’m not sure. In any case, I took a nice long shavasana yesterday evening, and emerged with the notion that I should learn how to write screenplays. Is that nutty? Maybe it was sparked by reading this article in yesterday’s Globe and Mail about the slow decline of the novel, and the rise of awesome tv shows. A large part of being a writer (for me) is wanting to express ideas and be read, to provide entertainment but also food-for-thought — to an audience. I never got around to writing in-depth about Mordecai Richler’s biography, but one of the things that impressed me about his career was its breadth across the mediums. He wrote frequently for television and radio, and in his early career worked on many screenplays for which he received no credit, but obviously gained valuable experience. Would my abilities fit into other mediums of expression? … that was yesterday’s take-home yoga “revelation.”
**But I’m too tired this morning to follow up. On just about anything. So a quick and dirty blog post it is. And catching up on emails.
**And running birthday party errands for an almost-four-year-old; that will be this afternoon’s main task. The bar for today is set pretty low. I was just glad to get laundry in the washer, and soup in the crockpot after waving the kids off to school this morning.
Briefings from Recovery Sunday**
This is just to say that I made it through Party Week*! Party Week is officially over, and we are now revelling in Recovery Sunday**.
*Party Week is defined, for this early-rising cougar-aged gal, as more than one late-night social event in a seven-day span. This Party Week included three late-night social events in an intimidating four-day span.
**Recovery Sunday involves me and my pajamas. Do not knock on the front door unless you want the visuals.
:::
Have to report yet another breakdown: first the tooth, then the hip, and now the camera! (Yes, it feels like a part of me). As of this morning, my camera refuses to connect with my computer. It looks to have broken bits in its USB port. The manufacturer does not answer the phone on Sundays. Photos of last night’s address to the haggis are therefore inaccessible. You may or may not be sad about this depending on your feelings toward haggis.
The worst/best time to have a birthday
Yesterday was such a perfect day. First thing in the morning, my friend Nath delivered a birthday cake that was just like my Grandma King used to make for me when my family happened to be travelling on my birthday (and which I remember eating for breakfast before getting in the car for a long ride home): angel food with strawberry frosting.
The kids and Kevin gave me the whole day off. I went shopping, an annual event, and refreshed my wardrobe for the coming year. (And, no, I’m not exaggerating; it really is an annual event. Lucky me, my birthday falls during prime sales time). Add to the list of happy happenings: yoga, naptime, dinner out, and late-night vegging on the couch watching episodes of Modern Family (why so funny? can’t analyze it), and it was such a fine day.
When I came home from shopping, I found these messages on our chalkboard.
“Happy birthday Mom! why we love you.”
“I love everything about you mom, the way you look smell and act.” “I love how you’r a good role model to look up too. When I grow up I want to be just like you.” 
“She plays piano.” “You are generous.” “I love how she does everything.” “She makes the best cookies.” “She makes the best food.” [this message brought to you by the fussiest of all my eaters!] “She gets lego for me.” “She cooks for us.” “You read bedtime stories.” “Because you are organized and kinda bossy.” [“Who wrote that one?” “Daddy!”]
When I was a kid, I was pretty sure my birthday fell at the wrong time of the year. Now I’m pretty sure it’s exactly right. Just when I’m collapsing into the post-Christmas/pre-New-Year’s slump, along comes my birthday to fill me right back up again.
Which is good, because today we return to our regularly scheduled programming.
Birthday girl
Well, that’s me. On my original birthday. It’s been awhile since I looked like that. Soon after this photo was taken I developed a wicked red rash and all photos for the next few months (and there were plenty; I was the first child) show the homeliest infant you can imagine, though I did exude a lot of personality. I was not an easy baby: a screamer with stamina. In one of my favourite baby photos, I’m standing stiff-legged in the palm of my dad’s hand, probably about six months old. Strong and determined. And grinning ear-to-ear.
I haven’t had the chance to blog over the holidays, which is a good indication of an excellent holiday, and a busy one. The photos posted yesterday equal the sum total of decent photos I took this Christmas season. (With the exception of some adorable captures of my beautiful nephew, but I didn’t want to confuse you by including him in my wordless album post–Hey, Carrie’s got an extra kid, when did that happen?) I didn’t take many photos, truth to be told. This year, I felt pulled to participate in the moments rather than record them.
My birthday falls at the perfect time for annual summations and dreaming ahead. On the night before my birthday, for the past number of years, I’ve stayed awake until midnight, and written something in my journal about the year past and my hopes for the one to come. Since I rarely write anything by hand anymore (and thank heavens for that–my printing is virtually illegible, even to me), the journal contains a series of snapshots, which I re-read every December 28th with a mixture of sadness and appreciation. It gives me a sense of movement and change. I catch glimpses of the groundwork being laid that allowed for major life shifts in attitude. Change is slow. And you never know what will actually change when you choose to do something different, or try something new, or leave something behind. Change is rarely predictable. We go where we’re going, not necessarily where we point ourselves.
But it’s helpful to point ourselves too–beyond helpful, actually. It’s critical to be alert and reflective and not to avoid recognizing the things that hurt. I would never speak against plotting and planning and organizing and trying your best. Just leave plenty of room for free-form leaps in your carefully laid plains. Leave space for rest and enjoyment. Be kind–to yourself and to everyone around you. That’s perhaps the biggest lesson I’ve learned over the years. And the best advice of all is To thy own self be true.