Juliet, out and about
I was glad to have a companion for yesterday afternoon’s rather odd errand — I’d heard the book had arrived in our bookstore uptown.
“I’m feeling kind of silly about taking my camera into the store. ‘Hi, can I take a picture of my book?’ What do you think?”
“Of course you should! It’s your book!”
I was surprised to find copies smack-dab in the front window, too. The article in the window is from yesterday’s local newspaper; an interview. Inside the store there was a poster about the launch party this Saturday.
I’m trying to figure out how I feel about all of this. I’m not taking it for granted, not at all. It’s lovely. That’s what it is. It is a lovely experience running alongside the rest of my life.
Yesterday, the rest of my life revolved around selecting disastrous areas of the house (they are all disastrous, so I decided to make the job manageable by focusing on one at a time), and sorting through the accumulated minutiae, organizing, and then vacuuming.
before
after
Is it just me, or does “before” actually somehow look better, more welcoming, filled with life, etc., than “after”? Whatever. Those photos represent hours of labour. I was pretty grumpy by the time we got to the uptown photo errand. And I missed my chance to go to yoga class. And no make-up yoga today because Kevin’s working in Toronto. And tomorrow is Family Day which means the pool won’t be open early. And And And.
So, yes. It’s lovely to find the mundane interrupted by the unusual.
Dreaming the house
Short post this morning. Because I MUST CLEAN THE HOUSE. Someone has to do something lest the crumbs start plotting a takeover. And the house is on my mind. Or perhaps more accurately in my subconscious. In the last week I have dreamed about the house, in one way or another, every single night.
The dreams are all essentially the same, though the details change. But the essential thread holding them together is that our house is not our house. We have moved to a different house, inevitably a house in sad disrepair. We’ve sold our house and now regret it terribly but it’s too late. We can never go home. Or, we return to our house but it is changed, and not for the better. We stare at the front window, broken and boarded up. We wonder why someone has torn the numbers off our house and spraypainted new numbers onto plywood. We feel desolate and confused.
In last night’s dream the children had to go to new schools with crowded, noisy classrooms. They had to walk long distances to get there. They were struggling to fit in.
I’m no dream analyst (okay, I’m an amateur dream analyst; it’s an unavoidable side gig as a writer), but this speaks to me as fear of change. Fear of the unknown. That sideways wandering into a life that is just a little bit different from the known, comfortable, and familiar. The way a seemingly insignificant change can tip us off kilter. Not all change is chosen. What happens when we come back to the house and discover it is not the same house? Remember that feeling of going home for Christmas those first few years after leaving home, as a young adult? Remember the dismay and sadness? Realizing we couldn’t go home in the same way–also that we didn’t want to, but that we missed what was gone forever.
This morning, CJ came into my bed to tell me another Cookie Monster story (“I think this will be a short one, Mommy.”) And when that was done, he said, “I forgot! We need a snuggle.” And when a snuggle had been had, he hopped down and headed for the door, paused, turned: “I will remember this snuggle forever, Mommy.” Little feet trotting down the hallway. Stopping. Returning. His face suddenly sad. “I won’t remember this snuggle forever,” he said. “You can always come back for another snuggle,” I reassured him.
Because that’s what we do. We reassure our kids. Even while we’re thinking, man, that is so damn true. You won’t remember this snuggle forever. Neither will I. It’s a pinprick of a moment in a wide life. I mean, it’s a good pinprick. But it’s here and gone. Change, change, ringing like a bell. And we’re opening the door to a house that is familiar, but not ours.
A more cheerful post to come, very soon. Meanwhile, I will test out the theory that tidying, vacuuming, cleaning, and baking will put the dreams to rest, at least for a little while.
Today and yesterday
my view, bedtime
I’ve been reading A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh to the kids before bed. Lights have to be out by 8:30 in the little kids’ room, so some nights that means we don’t get much read. When the big kids were little, we read through the classics before bedtime: the Little House on the Prairie series, Charlotte’s Web, Roald Dahl, some Narnia Chronicles, the entire Harry Potter series (Kev read those to the kids), Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, and more I may be forgetting. The little kids are now getting old enough to hear these stories too, but our schedules are so different just a few years on. Evenings have shrunk to make time for extracurricular activities. Sometimes bedtime rituals amount to little more than toothbrushing and tucking in. Lights out.
So when I picked up Winnie the Pooh a few weeks ago, it seemed like the bare minimum. The bar was set pretty low. What I’ve seen is how all the kids crave this time. Crave being read to. It started with the two littlest. The older ones were just passing by in the hallway when they heard laughter: “What’s going on in here?” Room was made in the bunks for them too.
When I looked up from the page last night I saw the most beautiful picture. The photos do not do the scene justice. CJ likes to lie facing me, hands holding chin. Albus brought homework, listening in with one ear. AppleApple was giddy with laughter. Fooey was half-asleep, content and warm under the blankets.
“What time does the clock say?” I ask the kids, and one of them will usually tell me honestly. At 8:30 the last paragraph gets read, the page turned down, the book set aside. Lights out. When we’re done with Pooh, I will pick out another book, for sure.
Aside: Albus is bored with the books he’s been reading and re-reading, and I want to tweak his interest again. Any suggestions? He’s ten and a half and capable of reading quite complex chapter books.
:::
Today I spent an hour at physio, working on strengthening exercises. I also ran on a treadmill for 8 minutes and oh my goodness how I wished it were longer. But I’m supposed to continue doing what I’ve been doing — slow, short runs — for another week.
Today I did not get up early for a swim. I read for an extra hour last night, and slept for an extra two hours this morning (7am versus 5am; makes a big difference). While I regretted not starting the day with momentum, I need to get work done, and with physio knew I’d be hard-pressed to squeeze in a nap too. Brain must function.
Yesterday, I read this post from the Afterword on the fraught business of publicizing one’s book, by fellow Anansi author Robert Hough (and now I must read his new book!). Today I am working on posts for the same venue, to run next month. Topics are wide open, which is rather daunting.
Also, today, I am thinking about the time I have to write. The actual literal time that is available to me. Next year CJ starts kindergarten. But it won’t change my life very much. Except for Tuesday afternoons when the two of us are home together, he is either in nursery school (mornings) or with a caregiver (afternoons until 3pm). My work day ends at 3pm. That will change very little when school starts, or going forward for years to come. The school day is really very short. Several afternoons a week, I pick the kids up for after-school activities that require me to organize and ferry them around (swim lessons; piano lessons). On the other afternoons, perhaps I could shut my office door, lay out snacks, and let the kids fend for themselves until 5pm, in order to gain a full working day, but … would that work? Here’s the thing: by 3pm I’m revved up and working well creatively. It’s painful to shut it down at that moment, day after day. Starting earlier is not an option, not if I want to work out before dawn and see the kids off to school.
How do people work full-time? How? I want to know. I want to be able to do it too. I’m sensing there are no easy answers, just more compromises. So I will count my blessings and be grateful for the time I’ve carved out. (This is worthy of a larger post. When I finish the biography of Mordecai Richler, which I continue to read as if mining for hints and clues to writerly success, I will get to that larger post.)
Things I am glad for this morning
**My mom likes my book. Actually what she said was, “I love it; couldn’t put it down.” (I gave her a finished copy yesterday afternoon; I hadn’t shown the book, in progress or finished, to my family before now.)
**Inspiration. While at soccer last night, I opened a message from my wise editor. She suggests I stop worrying over the launch of The Juliet Stories and get to work on the next book instead. I really really really like that idea.
**Valentine’s day. Kevin surprised me. He pulled off a romantic evening despite swim lessons, soccer games, and me still doing the dishes at 8pm.
**Helpers. CJ helped me with those late-night dishes. It was his stream of cheery curious chatter that helped the most.
**Friends. Friends who plan parties. On my behalf. Friends who walk instead of run. On my behalf. Friends who get up early too.
**Naptime. What would I do without those twenty minutes of bliss every morning? The kids leave the house. The house is quiet. I lie down and sink into rest, I dream, and then and just as easily drift out of rest and dream, waking gradually, gently, fortified.
**Plans. A day in Toronto meeting old/new friends! An after-school forest program coming to our neighbourhood (maybe)! Friends who are planning big birthday parties! Overnight babysitting exchanges! Kundalini yoga! March break! Summer road trip!
That flying sensation
suspense
Every Monday morning my alarm goes just after 5am and I wonder, why am I doing this? Less than two hours later, I’m showering after a good swim and the answer is loud and clear, because it makes me feel terrific. And just like that the new week begins with good energy and a sense of momentum.
This winter, I’ve really pushed the early morning exercise, aiming to rise early at least four mornings a week. Last week it was five. Surprisingly it was not that difficult, though it did result in an unplanned crashed-out nap on the counch at 7:30 on Friday evening. Still. Worth it? Yes.
I took this photo on Sunday afternoon following my second post-injury run: sixteen short minutes of snowy bliss. I felt just like this: like I was flying, like my feet weren’t even on the ground. Monday morning, after the swim, I went for my first physio appointment and the news was good: dedicated strength work should balance out my muscles and make me faster and stronger in the long run (pun intended). I’ve been feeling rather down on myself, questioning whether I’m too old, whether my quest to become fitter and faster has hurt rather than helped me. But that wasn’t the physio’s take. She sees me as an athlete who needs to focus and hone my training in order to support the good things I’m doing for/with my body. It isn’t silly to dream of getting faster. It’s a perfectly natural goal, and achievable too.
I’m excited.
Momentum. Sometimes I think sheer will can get me anywhere. Sometimes I know that’s bull. But will does wonders. Sometimes I feel arrow-sharp, aimed at a goal. Sometimes I feel indecisive and anxious. But even on the most indecisive morning I can get up early and swim, and I do. That’s the sheer will I’m talking about. And if nothing else, it gets me off the ground.