Category: Family
Wednesday, Oct 9, 2013 | Family, Good News, Kids, Photos, Publishing |
morning at the pool
It’s funny how being up before dawn becomes comforting habit, signalling that all is right in my world. Yesterday, while my swim girl swam before the sun was up, I swam too, covering 2.4 km in an hour, which is exceptional for me. (Though not even close to exceptional for her — plus she swam for an hour and a half, and did drills like 25 yard dolphin kicks underwater, and other things I could only dream of being able to do, as I crawl back and forth, slow and steady, in my lane.)
I’ve been thinking about what comforts me, how there are particular places I visit, stored in my memory, that bring me happiness and calm. I mean actual places that no longer exist. There are specific things that I associate with happiness, with peace and safety, like shag carpet, and barn beams, and a double bathroom sink, that belong only to my own private catalogue of good associations. I wonder what associations my children are absorbing, and where their happy places are.
new bed
I was thinking about stuff on this morning’s dog walk. How comforted I am by the things that surround me. And yet how frivolous so much of our stuff is. How so much of what we think we need, we don’t, and paradoxically how a certain perfectly placed object can set the mind at ease.
no good photos were taken on this outing, either
Yesterday, I took the family out to celebrate the German deal. We went to Beertown. Kevin and I drank German beer, and the kids drank root beer. The food wasn’t especially German, though I did order schnitzel, just because. Afterward, stuffed and dozy, we decided that we’re going to have to start cooking some of these celebratory meals at home. I’m not quite ready to make official announcements, but the news from the Frankfurt Book Fair has been exciting, and I can tell you that more internationally-themed meals are forthcoming. To celebrate the UK deal, we’ll do fish and chips out with Kevin’s family this weekend (it seems apt, as his parents arrived in Canada, by boat, from Scotland, just before he was born), and then I’ll get creative in our own kitchen. And then I’ll take pictures and share them with you, no matter the quality of the photography.
girl runner
Saturday, Aug 24, 2013 | Family, Kids, Parenting |
Camp is over for the season.
Today, I brought home this tired and braided girl, after a morning campfire and singalong, hugs to counsellors, and a prolonged and eventually successful search for her “rescue” puffer. I did not bother rushing, or trying to rush. On the way home, we stopped for poutine, a hot dog, chicken fingers, and fries. We also had with us one of her friends, who asked me, musingly, of the roadside restaurant, “Carrie, would you call this place a dive?” to which I replied, “Not really, no.” But then couldn’t think of what, exactly, I would call it. I’ll tell you, though — I’m still thirsty.
It was a beautiful day for a drive through landscape that I consider some of the most beautiful anywhere, even though it has no mountains or vistas or oceans: just rolling fields, brick farmhouses, small towns, and the colours of August, all deep greens and straw yellows against blue skies and white clouds.
But I’m glad to be home. I’m glad we’re all home together! I can’t help but feel a little off-balance when one of my kids is gone, which the three eldest have been for at least a week, each, this summer — different weeks, each of them, creating a different home dynamic each time. It gets me to thinking about how quickly the kids are growing and how soon they will be ready to leave us, for longer and longer stretches of time, and how we’ll have to get used to that. As I suppose we will, because that’s just what one does. Even as I think these thoughts, I try not to let melancholy creep into the now. One of the things I’m trying to do these days is avoid being nostalgic for things while they’re happening. Know what I mean? Instead of trying to hold onto a moment, I want to be inside of it, living it, and also letting it be.
Be here now. Where else to be?
:::
P.S. And completely unrelated: I wonder if the heaviness I felt all summer might have been my book? Having finished the revisions and sent it off, I’m feeling an unexpected lightness of spirit and mind here at the end of summer, despite it being the end of summer, and despite nursing a mild concussion that hasn’t allowed me to do any of the fun endorphin-related stuff I usually do to keep my spirits bouyant.
Tuesday, Aug 13, 2013 | Blogging, Dogs, Family, Fun, Kids, Play, Soccer, Writing |
on the Cataraqui trail
A legitimate concern about blogging, one I take seriously, is whether or not it turns a person into a curator of her own life rather than a participant. I have no answer for this, just instinctive response: if it feels off or forced, don’t do it. Maybe that’s why I’ve been taking less photos this summer, and also leaving my phone at home sometimes, shutting off, disconnecting.
But then I look back over this blog’s history and feel so appreciative of the scrapbook-like nature of its collection of years. Obscure CanLit Mama is almost exactly five years old. I was truly Obscure on the CanLit scene when I began blogging, and I’m only slightly less Obscure now, though much appreciative of the path forged. I wonder what the opposite of Obscure would be? Secure? Established? I’m uncomfortable with the thought of attaching those words to myself. My identity is tied up with being on the margins; but maybe that’s short-sighted and snobbish and needlessly, well, obscure.
My fears: One never wants to get too big for one’s britches. Pride goeth before a fall. Be careful what you wish for.
This is not the post I set out to write. It’s been almost two weeks since I had a chance to settle into my novel revisions, and I’ve missed it like homesickness. I’ve missed it like friendship, like comfort, like a good night’s sleep. Sitting at my desk and writing all day has become essential to my well-being, seems like. Maybe it always was, like running, and I didn’t know it. But I know it. Honestly, I could hug these words for being here right now, for letting me sit amongst them, for letting me think things through via some magical collaboration of mind and hands and eyes. Tap-tap-tap on the keyboard.
This is the post I set out to write.
The one about being a curator of my own life. Still, I would argue that I’m infinitely more participant than curator, that I’m only marginally curator, and that curation is a bit of a calling for me, being reflective by nature, wanting to gather and observe and make orderly. This blog represents only the smallest slice of experience. It’s my hand wrapped around a moment and then opening to let it go.
Here is yesterday:
We’d planned to do back-to-school shopping with my mother-in-law, who loves to shop. Instead, AppleApple sought me out (I was doing laundry in the basement) holding her arm at an odd angle, teary-eyed, to say she’d landed “funny” on the trampoline.
So, instead of shopping, I left my sister- and mother-in-law home with the other kids (Kev was golfing with his brother, lucky man), and we went to emerg. Many hours and several detailed x-rays later it was determined to be a bad sprain and not a fracture, which opened her summer back up again. We’d been sitting there together, bored, chatting, waiting, unable to stop ourselves from imagining the possible cast and all it would affect: camp, cottage, swim team, soccer team, piano. This was definitely a best-case scenario result.
DJ at DQ
We were home in time for supper. Kev and Albus were off to another soccer game, so after supper, the rest of us decided to walk the dogs to Dairy Queen. Spontaneity, family, scooter, stroller, bike, dogs, baby, sling, and a beautiful cool evening. Oh, and sweet treats for all. Pretty much vacation perfection. We took the long way home.
Then it was bathtime. Kev and Albus came home with another tied game under their belts, against the same team they played twice on the weekend — every game weirdly identical, with our boys going down by two goals, and coming back to tie it up in the second half. This third game, and the bizarrely harmonious result, lightened the mood between the two teams, which had been tense over the weekend.
I read from Little Town on the Prairie, with everyone listening. Little kids tucked and lights out.
Kevin is the blur in red and white
And then more spontaneity: the big kids and I went to watch Kev play soccer. My brother also plays keeper on the same team. It happened that a friend was there to watch her husband play, too, so we sat together under the lights on a picnic table and cheered, and made silly commentary, and generally had a blast, despite the mosquitos. Apparently the four of us made a bigger fan club than the team has had in ages, and our shouts were appreciated. We even made friends with a linesman who loaned us his bug spray. The game ended 0-0. We didn’t see the Perseids for the lights, but there was something about it all that brought me great comfort and joy. Being alive … how many moments do we get like this? As many as we want? As many as we leap into?
the trees behind the field looked like a painting (that’s my bro in net)
So I took out my phone and stole a few photos. Maybe it’s curation rather than participation, but I want to remember. I want to remind myself, when I’m busy and harried and it’s not summer anymore, that the best times are easy to come by, in a way. They’re there for the taking. You sit with your kids and shoot the shit. It’s so basic.
And then you come home and enjoy a beer with your sister-in-law and talk about things that want talking about, and you sleep, and you wake, and you work, and you pray, and you write it all out, if that’s what you’re made for.
running through beauty, in it and of it
Wednesday, Aug 7, 2013 | Family, Fun, Holidays, Kids, Play, Swimming, Travel |
We visited Kev’s family for the long weekend. Lucky for us, they live just down the road from this spectacular tourist attraction: Jones’ Falls locks on the Rideau Canal. That’s a view of one of the locks, above, and it’s on top of the hill, with this big reservoir that feeds the lower locks (not pictured). The reservoir is a great place to swim. Even when it’s not that hot out.
The kids had fun getting me to photograph them jumping in.
Then we tried to get everyone jumping in at once. CJ had to think about it for awhile. He had a lot of encouragement.
False start.
Here we go!
All in.
(Kevin and I swam too, but no one got photos of that, which was probably a good thing, since I insisted on wearing my swim cap and goggles. My swim cap is bright orange. Every time I put it on, I wonder why I chose that colour??)
And now for some obligatory adorable cousins-together photos. C’mon, you know you want to say awwwww.
The weekend’s entertainment also included a round of par-three golf (Kev and the older kids), a 21.6km run on a gorgeous trail (me, with Kev accompanying on bicycle), and a whole lot of backyard badminton and soccer (pictured below).
Goodbye, farm. We’re headed home to new adventures that must wait for another day’s telling.
Wednesday, Jun 12, 2013 | Exercise, Family, Parenting, Play, Sleep, The Juliet Stories |
Back porch: a collection. Roller blades and helmet, new for his birthday and much used. Goalie gloves, for after-school practice with little brother taking the shots. Dirt, from the snails, who returned to the wild with great sobs of sadness from CJ. Dirty running shoes. Dirty socks, examples of which can be found almost anywhere. I found one on the driveway yesterday. Yes, it belonged to someone in our family. I have a gigantic single sock collection on my dresser and never give up hope of finding matches.
I’m going to insert a tiny rant here about the sliver of hell that occurs daily between 4 and 5:15. This is when a) the kids are newly home b) hungry for snacks c) I’m cooking supper d) supervising playdates e) trying to catch up on any issues f) reminding kids to get ready for soccer/swimming g) packing my own gear for running h) texting Kevin for missing ingredients i) asking for help setting the table j) suffering increasing disbelief that we’ll be able to meet the deadline for multiple departures while k) throwing hot food on the table and demanding it be eaten in five minutes flat. Soccer and/or swimming begins at 5:30 five nights a week. There is no way to make this easier that I’ve discovered. The good news is that as soon as the 5:30 people have left, the others can relax and enjoy dinner and dog-walking until their own 6:45 deadline arrives, which, the other good news is, only occurs three times a week.
Monday evening, returning the carshare car to the library post-swim-girl pickup with little kids in tow, we took the opportunity to pop in and exchange books. It had been raining, lightly. I was slightly worried about the walk home in the cooling rain, as darkness and bedtime edged closer. The kids ran ahead to the children’s section while I unloaded a pile of books at the front counter. A woman stopped and said, “Are you Carrie Snyder?” I didn’t recognize her. “Yes.” “I just wanted to say that I read your book — The Juliet Stories — and I liked it very very much. Thank you for writing it.” Oh! “Thank you for letting me know!” Glow! (Vainly, I simultaneously wondered how bedraggled my hair, how rumpled my clothes, how pursed my forehead might, at that moment, be.)
hide-and-seek soccer ball
This week is thin on running/exercise time (unless I want to set my alarm early every morning), so I packed my soccer cleats and some balls and the little kids and I played together yesterday evening while waiting for AppleApple’s game to start. It wasn’t the same energy-burst and release as going for a solo run, but it helped. Except maybe it didn’t help enough because by the time we were all reunited at home, it was after 9pm, supper was still sitting on the table, we appeared to be all out of snacks, people needed showers, someone had forgotten to study for a test, and then it was discovered that a mysterious blue substance had been spilled on someone’s sheet, apparently a disaster worthy of dramatic meltdown. By the time I’d gotten the little kids in bed, I was this close to meltdown myself. I’d scarcely landed in the downstairs world of dishes and table clearing when I heard a little voice: “Mom???” Well. “No you did not just do that!” I hollered up the stairs. Screeched might more accurately describe my tone. “I am not coming up there again! I am taking a shower and going to sleep, which is what you’d better do too! Minus the shower!”
After the shower (mine), those of us still awake discussed subjects covered in our fifth grader’s health class that day — a public health nurse had visited, apparently with a vagina puppet and tampons (I must say that sounded really cool, and much more helpful than the weirdly uninformative movies we were forced to watch in my era). Anyway, the topic of PMS came up, and I said I never noticed it myself. “I have plenty of emotions at all times,” I said, and everyone in the kitchen agreed. Lest you think we’re a cool quiet and collected house. And I am a cool quiet and collected mother. We aren’t. I’m not.
And then we all went to bed.
This day is off to a fine start. One contract signed and sent. Notes from an editor on the new children’s picture book to mull. And another application completed and ready to be sent. Also, I began with an early morning run. That might have helped too.
Monday, Jun 10, 2013 | Chores, Family, House, Kids, Laundry, Travel, Weekend, Yoga |
Sunday at the farm
My Monday contains an early morning yoga class, the coordinating of this week’s many details, a really good bowl of soup for lunch, a finalized book contract to sign and send (details coming, I promise), and eight loads of laundry (no exaggeration).
family
This past weekend we travelled north of Kingston on Saturday, home again on Sunday, to visit with Kevin’s family, some of whom had come all the way from Scotland.
cousins
roommates
Badminton was the popular sport, with soccer coming a close second.
cousins
There was even a baby to hold.
:::
Our visit was preceeded by a minor home renovation. On Friday, I realized that our front hall reeked. The smell was distinctly dog, and I don’t know how to describe it other than to say, come smell our carpet, which, trust me, you really don’t want to do. In any case, you can’t. Friday afternoon, tormented by the smell, I abandoned my office to scrub the carpet before leaping to the sudden conclusion that the carpet had to go. Like, now. I vacuumed the rest of the house in an attempt to bring order to the chaos that had become instantly apparent to me, everywhere, not just in the front hall. And on Friday night, after we’d packed and the kids were all in bed, and we should have been too, Kevin and I ripped up the carpet. Lo and behold, the wood floor beneath was pristine, and after a late-night scrubbing, reeked of nothing at all. I find it funny how often Kevin and I make snap decisions, together, that feel absolutely right. It seems to be how we operate.
Let me ask you a question about cleanliness. Would you agree that women are still judged on the cleanliness of their homes, while men (even those who participate fully in household chores) are not? I think it’s true. I would like it not to be. (She says, heading down to the basement to deal with laundry load number 6. Only two more to go!)
