Making peace with the last-minute scramble
There is no snow. This is a photo from last week, when ever so briefly snow fell and stayed. Now it has rained for days. The wishful thinker in me imagines the piles of snow that would have accumulated between then and now had the temperature been lower, the possiblities for snow forts and snowmen and seasonal festiveness. The practical thinker in me says: Remember shovelling? And scraping the windshield? Remember bad drivers?
Ah, but remember the sound of the snow, the muffling effect, the crunch underfoot, remember crispy eyelashes after a long run.
This morning was one of those mornings when I spent about ten chaotic minutes wishing things could go more smoothly. The obvious every day things like: getting all of the children out the door, along with all of their possessions, and their homework completed. But maybe that last-minute flurry is just the way that it is and ever will be. Maybe I should apprciate all that we managed to accomplish this morning, despite the last-minute scramble.
– I swam 2.5km
– Kevin and Albus swam for half an hour (AppleApple was too exhausted from her multifaceted weekend to get up early)
– supper was started in the crockpot
– six people ate a healthy breakfast
– a load of laundry went into the machine
– Albus completed homework that was due last Wednesday and only discovered at 9pm last night (well, at least he did it; I hope there’s a lesson in there somewhere)
– Fooey practiced piano
– the after-school walk home was arranged
– everyone took their vitamins
– Fooey took her medicine (she’s on antibiotics for strep)
– I talked to FedEx to arrange couriering the page proofs to my publisher
– everyone except Fooey got out the door; most were even wearing appropriate footwear
– I remembered to call the school re Fooey’s absence today
– no one was late
And it wasn’t even 9am.
Is there a better way? It’s so tempting to think that there must be, that life can always be improved upon (and I’m not advocating staying in a rut of obviously wrong behavior). But maybe sometimes there actually isn’t a better way. Maybe sometimes I need to take a deep breath and gut through those ten minutes of chaos, and appreciate everything that is working.
The week in suppers
**Monday’s menu: Tandoori vegetable soup. Baked fish. Rice.
**Inspiration: This recipe in Saturday’s Globe and Mail. Except I used my own mixture of spices, threw it in the crockpot, and skipped the shrimp. I suspect the recipe would also make an excellent base for a fish stew, but my kids prefer their food options separate, so I baked the fish separately.
**Tuesday’s menu: Beans and rice and tortillas.
**Because: Easy and good.
**Totally lacking: A vegatable. Oops.
**Wednesday’s menu: Saag paneer. Baked potatoes.
**Because: Discovered a bag of russet potatoes in the cupboard. And a package of paneer. And some spinach! And threw them all together into one fantabulous meal.
**Thursday’s menu: Black bean chili in the crockpot. Cornbread (pictured above). Leftover rice. Retro-cabbage salad with broccoli and carrots.
**Because: Leftover beans + new vegetarian crockpot cookbook + slug of balsamic vinegar = really fabulous chili.
**Reviews: “I’ll take the cornbread in my lunch tomorrow, Mom.”
**Note to self: It might be time to double the batch of cornbread from an 8×8 pan to a 9×13 pan.
**Note to reader: In many instances, including this one, “retro” actually means “mayonnaise.”
**Friday’s menu: Leek and potato soup in the crockpot. Steamed broccoli. Biscuits.
**Because: Feeding MIL who loves leek and potato soup. Also, accumulation of excess leeks in fridge. Suspect they may be producing offspring. Generations of leeks! In my fridge!
**Sigh: I may be lactose intolerant. The biscuits were light, fluffy, and loaded with butter, and my stomach was heavy and puffy. This has been happening every time I eat butter! Life without butter? Throw me a lifejacket.
**Weekend kitchen accomplishments: Nary a one. Such is life.
**Vegetarian confession: I am craving meat! I almost ordered ten pounds of hamburger from our local food buying club. Somehow stopped myself. But I can’t wait for the turkey I’ve promised “the children” for Christmas day. The guilt!
Extravagant life, the pack-it-all-in-dance-it-all-out version
It is raining when it should be snowing this morning. I am wearing pajamas and listening to Christmas carols being played on the piano. That probably sounds more romantic than it actually is. Life often does in Blogland. But that’s another topic for another post.
Yesterday’s going to take some recovery time. But I don’t mind. Welcome to our recovery Sunday.
Yesterday was a long and well-coordinated day right up until our youngest daughter had a nosebleed while we were out at a restaurant. Suddenly it got a whole lot longer and slightly less coordinated. On the way to the hospital, Kevin reminded me to drive safely and I assured him it was fine because “I always tail-gate slow drivers.” (I was ever so slightly resenting how calm he remained — not that that’s a bad thing in such situations, but I kind of wished I weren’t the only one freaking out, if you know what I mean. It would have made me feel less like I was freaking out.) The good news is that her nose bleed had stopped by the time we got to emerg, and lest you think we’re alarmist parents, we sat at the pho restaurant for about 15 minutes waiting for it to slow, which seemed negligent, until the nurse at the hospital told me we could have waiting 45 minutes. Did you know that?? I mean, the nose was pouring. I hope you’re not eating. Luckily both grandmas were with us at the restaurant so Kev and I were able to depart quickly and together and know the other kids would be fed, and that the performer would get to her performance. Because yesterday was AppleApple’s Singer’s Theatre show. I’m sad to say her dad missed it altogether due to the medical crisis. I’d gotten to see the afternoon show, and it was so good. Those sweet sweet children. And my dancing daughter in her soccer head band. She’d come to the show straight from soccer (grilled cheese sandwiches eaten in the car on the way to the curtain call) and the head band stayed on. She was the only child on stage who looked like no one had bothered to brush her hair. No one had. It was beautifully brushed for the evening performance, which Kevin and I both missed, but thanks to quick planning and cellphones, both grandmas were able to attend.
And after all that, after a day that included a visit from the washer repairman, and two birthday parties, and bowling with Grandma Alice, and taking a cab (due to having only one vehicle), and two soccer games, and carpooling, and two performances, and a spot of Christmas shopping, and supper out, AND a trip to emerg, Kevin and I made it at last to the first holiday party of the year. Thank God for Grandmas. We were able to stay out as late as we wanted. And so we did. Ergo, today’s slow recovery.
I wore red high heels, borrowed from my sister Edna (come to think of it, she might not know I borrowed them from her … uh, thanks, Ed!).
There was a lot of dancing. It’s really the point of the party, which has become an annual tradition. This might be the fourth year we’ve gone …??? And every year it seems impossible that another year has passed and we’re back in this house crowded with friends, getting down. It’s kind of a good marker, the way birthdays are. You can remember yourself from year to year, note the changes. The first year we went I was nursing an eight-month-old. I was timid on the dance floor. Clearly timidity was a passing phase.
Not to get too philosophical, but dancing, oh, so good for the soul and the body. Every once in awhile you hit the perfect song, the perfect rhythm, there’s a mindless and perfect connection to the beat, and you’re just lost to the world. It’s a gift when it happens. If you feel like dancing, try this. And happy kick-off to the holidays, everyone.
Advent: celebration and anticipation and hot chocolate for breakfast
I got this advent calendar several years ago from Ten Thousand Villages.
I wanted to mark the days of advent without the excess of, say, the Star Wars Lego advent calendar. (Not all of my children agree, and in fact last year we had both this calendar and the Lego calendar, which is the most secular calendar you can hope to find: last year’s version had Santa in what looked to be a Speedo taking a shower. Not even kidding. This year’s, according to those in the know, ie. my ten-year-old, features some kind of car chase or bank robbery. Just the thing to get you into the seasonal spirit.) However, who am I to talk? The advent calendar pictured above has been, for the past couple of years, nothing more than a repository for a daily dose of candy. Something small and sweet. I didn’t have the energy to fill the little pockets with thoughtful activities, despite having greater intentions. I just didn’t. So, candy it was. And Speedo Lego Santa.
This year I discovered a new cache of energy and resolve. And I started early, BEFORE advent season (ie. last week). I think the energy comes from this new office, and from having every weekday morning to myself. Have I mentioned how lovely these quiet mornings are? Five mornings a week! Sometimes I write, but sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I dream up advent calendar activities for my children. It feels decadent.
And it may be decadent; but then again, maybe not. This is a larger question for a very different blog. In any case, this year, with these quiet peaceful spacious mornings to myself, yes, those little pockets pictured above are filled with activities. One per day. I have extra ideas stashed. I didn’t want to overload my every day with a mandatory activity that I would be unable to pull off. So right now a few of those pockets have “hot chocolate for breakfast” as my fall-back option. That I can manage; if it turns out I can manage more, I’ll make a swap.
My activities spring from a larger theme of celebration and anticipation, and not so much (I’m afraid) from a theme of giving and community. Visit my friend Rebecca’s blog for more community-minded advent activities: she has some terrific ideas.
Here are mine:
– Hot chocolate for breakfast!
– Bring down Christmas books and CDs from the attic (Which we did today! Hurray!)
– Candy canes!
– Put up the Christmas tree!!!!
– Set up the creche
– Celebrate last swim lessons with ice cream
– Make snowflakes for front window
– Write Christmas letters to Santa
– Pizza and movie night (Christmas-themed movie)
– Write family Christmas letter to send
– Plan and make homemade gifts for each other
– Everyone wear green and red
– Look at old photo albums
– Christmas concert/singalong (at home)
– Make Christmas cookies + gifts for aunts, uncles, grandparents
– Deliver Christmas treats to friends and neighbours
– Pick up Christmas turkey and plan menu for special Christmas meals: everyone choose a favourite food!
– Christmas cookies for breakfast!
– Read The Best Christmas Pageant Ever
– Celebrate winter solstice: eat supper by candlelight!
– Grandpa Arnold’s Christmas party
– Hang stockings + Christmas eve party
(Why the random exclamation points, Carrie? Your copy editor would not stand for this!)
Extra ideas, not currently in pockets
– Volunteer (ideas, anyone?)
– Decorate a tree for the birds
– Make popcorn and cranberry strings
– Skating at the rink uptown
– Make decorations for the tree
– Night hike with hot chocolate
– Sledding (oh, let it snow, please!)
– Family games night
– Bowling (we’ve never tried this, but who knows?)
– Family art night
– Dance party
Proofing the page: reading Juliet
I am thinking about perfection. I happily admit to being a perfectionist. Not about everything, mind you. But when it comes to writing — and writing fiction, particularly — I obsess. I consider myself a technician, deeply interested in grammatical construction and the very tiniest of word choices. You would not believe how long I can suffer over the inclusion or removal of a “the.”
But as I read these page proofs, I’m starting to question my obsession with perfection. I mean, for me it’s the way I do it and I’m not likely to change what’s working. But I’m seeing that it may not be that important in the end. In the end, a story, a whole book, it works because it leaves the reader with an impression, an emotional impression, something intangible that exists because it exists. Not because a “the” was removed. I’m not speaking against a careful craft, please understand.
I am speaking against perfection.
Sometimes, the imperfection of my creations bothers me. I’ve worked so hard and yet I know here and there is a paragraph too many or a flabby word choice that I cannot budge. But when I let myself sink into what I’ve made and forget about how it could or should be perfected, I am moved by what is being offered. To do this requires me to place a layer of distance between myself and my words, almost to read as if I were someone else.
When I consider my favourite books by other people, none are perfect — and I couldn’t care less. It’s how they make me feel when I read them that matters. It’s that they make me feel. They catch me off guard. They push me. Or they lift me. And though these books almost all display technical accomplishment, it is not for their technical accomplishments that I love them. I love them for existing.
That is the kind of book I hope to write; I hope to have written. Imperfect. With feeling.
I am loving this quiet week in my office, reading words on the page that I’ve written, gathered into a whole. I am loving being pulled right through the book from beginning to end and understanding its wholeness differently, in a new way. This feels like a special and unusual experience. I don’t expect to have it again anytime soon. I am savouring it.
:::
P.S. The photo is a detail of a photo that depicts me posing in costume to look like a very old family photograph of my Great-Grandma Carrie Anne, my namesake. (A little more about Carrie Anne here.) The photo was taken for a photo project by Ilia Horsburgh.