Mommy, Where Do I Come From?

Kelly called from California. She often slips in questions that enlighten me on what life is like adjusting to a completely different country, to a people who may not be quite familiar with Canada.

Today her question is: Mom, do we live on the East Coast?

Now, I know that Kelly knows Canadian Geography – like most kids in Canada, you learn that in our very fine public school system (I should know, many of my relatives work in that fine system and it is finer for it). So, I’m stumped that at twenty-five she is asking a question that she learned at five.

I’m metaphorically scratching my head. Is this the type of question like Little Johnny from Nebraska, asked: “Mommy, where do I come from?” His mom very diligently and in an age appropriate way spent fifteen minutes explaining to Little Johnny all about 'the birds and the bees'. Little Johnny was very patient and looked interested but confused. When his mom had finished with her sex-ed piece, Little Johnny said, in a somewhat exasperated tone, “Yes, I know all of that! But Billy says he comes from Chicago; where do I come from?”

I’m pretty sure that this is not this type of question, though. Kelly knows where she comes from; and she sure does know all about birds and bees and condoms.

Turns out, she often gets asked which part of Canada she comes from (Helloooo, can you say Toronto Blue Jays?!). Quite often, people take a guess and ask if she is from the East Coast. She doesn’t think so, but she is wise enough to ask me just in case (yeay, I still have purpose!)

I explain that we are in Central Canada. That is not good enough to her, though, because it doesn’t have the same pictorial sense as what the U.S. citizens use to demarcate their geographical regions (East Coast, West Coast, South, etc.). She says people around there think that Toronto is somewhere near the New England States so we must be on the East Coast.

Well, no, said I, we are actually above New York State. So, our Central Region is analogous to the Mid-Atlantic Region of the U.S. (However, I've since learned that New York State is part of what is referred to as the East Coast.

She sighs, having tired of the distinctions already, and says she’ll just tell people she is from the East Coast – that’s easier than having to explain all of this to them. No doubt there are far more weightier things to deal with in her life...

A day or so later she sends me an email that illuminates what she occasionally deals with:

Vancouver has won the chance to host the 2010 Winter Olympics and people from all over the world are now asking some questions.

Believe it or not, these questions about Canada were posted on an International Tourism Website. Obviously the answers are a joke; but the questions were really asked!

Q: Will I be able to see Polar Bears in the street? (USA)
A: Depends on how much you've been drinking.

Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Canada? (USA)
A: A-fri-ca is the big, triangle-shaped continent south of Europe;
Ca-na-da is that big country to your North...oh forget it. Sure, the
hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Calgary. Come naked.

Q: Which direction is North in Canada? (USA)
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you
get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is...oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Vancouver and in Calgary, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.

Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth.
Where can I sell it in Canada? (USA)
A: Anywhere significant numbers of Americans gather.

Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Canada. It's a kind of
big horse with horns. (USA)
A: It's called a Moose. They are tall and very violent, eating the
brains of anyone walking close to them. You can scare them off by
spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.

Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you will have to learn it first.

I now understand. So, I guess she can take the path of least resistance and tell people she is from the East Coast and she won't be totally wrong to these unsuspecting Americans. Then she can tell them: when you visit Toronto, we'll have a kitchen party. Come Naked, eh.

My Beautiful Baby Girl

My baby turns twenty five years of age today. I am amazed and awed that I am the mother of such an intelligent, graceful, generous, and loving daughter. I had wanted a girl baby that I could dress up in pretty, fancy clothes, like I did my doll babies when I was younger. She was the baby of my long-ago childhood dreams. She allowed me to unleash my little girl fantasies.

Little did I know, though, how those fantasies would pale in comparison to the reality of being mom to Kelly

My girl baby was born on a Sunday. She came into our lives at a time when Jim and I were struggling with our marriage. Alcoholism had taken a toll on us and Jim was in his early years of sobriety. Even though he wasn’t drinking anymore, alcoholism is a disease that is not at all about the bottle. It is about learning to live and be different. And the family around the recovering alcoholic has to make space and have patience to deal with the emerging new self and the roller-coaster dynamic of recovery. Some days I felt that our marriage was being held together by invisible and quickly fraying threads of duct tape.

Jim “took” so well to AA that he went to many, many meetings. Indeed, on that Sunday morning when I went into labour, he was at a meeting. I knew from the timing of the contractions that I didn’t have a lot of time to get to the hospital. So, I sent my next door neighbour (who’d never had a child and was completely flummoxed and terrified as I struggled with a contraction through my instructions) to go to the meeting and get Jim. He later reported that when he got there and told Jim he was needed IMMEDIATELY Jim said “couldn’t she wait till the meeting is over?” Of course, Jim knew that babies don’t pop out instantly; there could be hours of labour ahead of us. Not so our neighbour. If he could, he would have fireman-carried Jim out of the building! Our baby girl was on her way!

And she was on her way fast. My doctor was out of town and no doctor was available at the hospital for obstetrics. They had to try everything to slow down the labour so they could page an on-call doctor who was at that moment still sitting in church. Our baby girl wasn’t having any of that nonsense though! She kept merrily coming down the birth canal (wheeeee) oblivious to the medical shortage. Look out world, here I come.

The doctor didn’t even have time to gown up when he walked into the birthing room. He had scant seconds to put on gloves and hold his hands underneath me. (At that point, I didn’t care whether he was a doctor or a garage mechanic; this child was ready to be born.)
Out into the world came Kelly, my beautiful, baby girl.

Jim aptly calls Kelly “our AA baby”. She was instrumental in bringing our marriage back onto solid ground at a time when we so badly needed a new foundation. The joy that she brought into our lives was immeasurable. She completed a circle of life that was missing a critical link.

Twenty five years. There have been some struggles. Yet, there have been many more moments that have connected us in an everlasting bond. Kelly has taught us much about life and how to meet challenge and adversity with grace and dignity. She is a power of example in a world hungry for models of generosity and accomplishment.

She has a smile that blankets you with warmth and a laugh that would banish the darkest cloud. At twenty five, she is a stunning person on the outside and an even more beautiful one on the inside. She has the drive to take on life with the same vim and vigour that characterized her great big rush into the world a quarter of a century ago. My world is richer for her.

I am looking forward to the next twenty five years, baby girl. Thank you for all the treasure that you bring into my life. Thank you for the grace you bestow on your parents. Most of all, thank you for weaving strands of gold where once there was tattered duct tape. I am so blessed and grateful to be your mom.

Happy Birthday, my beautiful baby girl.

Watching Scotty Grow

There is an old song called “Watching Scotty Grow” which I love. It is all about watching your little boy grow to be a little man.

I watched Corey grow over the last couple of years to be the man that he has become. A daddy. He sure does love his little boy and that love is reflected back countless-fold in the “Daddeeeeeeeeee” joy that Ayden has for Corey.

And now to a new stage in Corey’s life. He has bought himself a house. I was awestruck to see the process of my “little boy” negotiating mortgages. It seems like just yesterday that he was negotiating with me over an extra half an hour at bed time. Dealing with home inspections. It was just yesterday that he wanted a lock on his bedroom door so Mom couldn’t inspect his room. Figuring out taxes, and hydro payments, and household needs. Wasn’t it was just yesterday when the only most important purchase was a new game boy? Asking about water bills. I remember just yesterday it was all about one more stalling-plea for a drink of water before he went to bed...

He will finally have his “man-cave” now; a finished basement that Natasha has promised him will be his own. A place where he can be by himself and get away from the travails of being an adult. Something like he had when he was living with us at home. Yet, a dozen steps above his cave, will be the delight of his own family and the products of his own life.

And he and Natasha and Ayden can have a place called “home”, where they can build memories and lasting family moments. It will be so different for him than living in a one bedroom apartment with a two-year old -- sixteen floors above ground! There is serenity and safety in a two story townhouse.

I am so proud to see my son as the man he has become and how he takes on his responsibilities in his quiet, caring, serious, and diligent way. I cannot express in words the feeling that I get when I hear him singing a silly little ditty to his precious son. Indeed, I don’t know that Webster himself has discovered the term. To say “my heart is full” doesn’t quite capture it. The gift I have from my “little boy” is the sum of the years of joy in being his mother. My little boy who now has a little boy as precious to him as he was to me. My little boy who is now a man.

I got my own rainbow
And I’m sitting here shining
Watching Corey grow.

Serendipity, Chaos, Synchronicity, Gratitude and Grace

One of the gratitude-boosting benefits of my simplified life this summer is to be able to make detours along my daily way. Yesterday, I had one of those moments that called softly to my soul, inspiring me to take a side trip to memory.

A few years ago I was trying to figure out a way to commemorate a dream come true for my life. In a twist of fate, I found myself on the website of the York Regional Police. Under a pop-up menu, there are “cold cases” -- unsolved crimes that, rightfully so, continue to plague the police. One of those cold cases was my childhood friend Tracy Kundinger. Tracy had her dreams ripped from her in August 1975 when, at eighteen years of age, she was murdered on her way home on a lonely stretch of Don Mills Road. It must be only yesterday that my mom woke me up to tell me Tracy, my friend, was gone. A beautiful, talented, and spirited young girl, with dreams yet realized.

"At 5:30 on the afternoon of Thursday, August 21st, 1975, two young boys riding their bikes on mounds of top soil on the grounds of German Mills Public School at 61 Simonston Blvd. in Thornhill, just north of Toronto, stumbled upon the dead body of a young woman. She was 18-year-old Tracy Kundinger, who lived with her parents on nearby Monsanto Ct. She had been strangled with a piece of twine. There was no sexual assault. She had not been reported missing because her parents were away on holiday and she was home alone.

Police believed Kundinger, returning from her summer job as a lifeguard at a pool in downtown Toronto, took a shortcut northbound through a park after getting off a Toronto Transit bus at Leslie St. and Steeles Ave. E. Wednesday night, and that her killer followed her as she made her way through the woods.

A few days later, police issued an appeal seeking a suspect. Described as a white male in his early to mid-20s, about 5'8" to 5'11", with a fair complexion and well-groomed light-brown hair combed over his forehead, he was the only other passenger with Kundinger on the bus on Wednesday night, and they got off at the same stop at about 10:50 p.m.

A solid suspect was later arrested, a 34-year-old mental patient who had an unusual interest in the crime, but the case against him fell apart in 1977 when it was established he had been fed details of the crime by a former policeman."

I decided, after gently consulting with her parents (who I hadn’t seen in many decades but tracked down through the ubiquitous grace of the internet), to memorialize Tracy by placing a dedicated memory bench in the park where she was murdered. Inscribed on the bench is a brass plaque which reads:

Though death leaves a heartache no one can heal;
Love leaves a memory no one can steal.

Tracy Kundinger, August 1975

You can see the bench in the picture and, if you look north of the bench across the parkland, you will see a large rock that originally was placed by the municipality to mark the spot in perpetuity where Tracy was found. (In an interesting side note, I found out by asking questions in the neighbourhood that the rock had been moved some years ago to accommodate construction in the park. The current Town of Markham staff were unaware of its significance. At my request, they readily agreed to place a permanent note in the park’s records to ensure that future generations would be attuned to the eternal worth of this sacred stone.)

Back to yesterday. When I made the arrangements for the bench, one of my relatives scoffed that – although it was a nice idea – the plaque would be gone quickly as these things are targets for vandals or thieves. Yesterday, I felt the pull to put that premonition to rest. The plaque is still there and the memories for me were still very alive as I remembered Tracy.

Serendipitously, it is thirty four years ago this week that Tracy made her fateful last journey.

Driving home I was reflecting on all the things that Tracy’s death taught me:

• Friends are too precious to every forget and I make a point of keeping in touch with those who mean something to my life;


• I have a healthy fear of dark places at night;


• I understand why I was terrified of my daughters being alone on the streets and night and constantly reminded them not to walk across parkland or, in Kelly’s case, through the catwalk that connects our street to a main road;


• I am emotionally distressed when I look at the naturalization of parkland (especially in my local elementary school playground). Although I intellectually know that it is a environmentally friendly practice, the child in me sees an stranger-danger trap;


• I have a sneaking suspicion that coincidences – especially bad ones – are cause for heightened concern (the police believed at the time that the theft of Tracy’s motorscooter, one she normally rode from the end of the bus route to her home, a week prior to her death was too suspicious and a terrible coincidence not to have been a factor in the killer’s plans);


• Rather than coincidences, I look at the world through a kaleidoscope of serendipity, chaos, or synchronicity, while being aware of the inexplicable and inescapable shock of random catastrophe;


• I trust my intuition and gut feelings in safety-sensitive situations;


• I know that the most normal of being can hide the monster beneath. A stranger doesn’t always look like a stranger. Tracy’s killer was, by the account of the bus driver, a “normal-looking young man” (think Paul Bernardo here);


• I appreciate why, even when I was forty years old, my mom would ask her girls to call her when she knew we were out, just to let her know we were home safe. Though we chaffed at the binds, we understood the love underlying the burden.


• I realize that parents make great sacrifices on the road to allowing their children to sprout their growing wings. Even the first time allowing my kids to go to the bathroom alone in a MacDonald’s restaurant was a throat-closing experience for me. (Tracy’s parents had never before left her alone while they went away to their cottage and only did so this one time because she was unrelenting in her pleas; she apparently didn’t tell her parents about the missing scooter);


• I recognize the irrational roots of my fear when I don’t hear from Kelly at least every few days, three thousand scary miles away;


• I am thankful that the TTC has a “Request Stop” program where the rider is permitted to exit the front door of a bus between regular stops while the rear door remains locked from exiting (Tracy’s killer exited from the rear door of the bus);


• I am grateful for each and every new day of my life; but, most of all


• I am indebted to Tracy for having been my friend.

Out of tragedy, comes everlasting wisdom.

Rest in Heavenly Peace and Sweet Dreams, Tracy, my friend.

Take a Look Around...I'm Already There

I have semi-retired this year and more-than-semi-retired this summer. I’ve decided just to relax and enjoy life. Sitting poolside most days, I’m the CEO of my own book-of-the-day club courtesy of my local library. Lapping water; brilliant sunshine (yes, it is in Toronto if you know where to stop for it); “Julio” the pool boy offering me wine at the stroke of five; being available to see Natasha and Ayden at a moment’s notice; being handy to anyone who needs to have a conversation or a visit with me in the middle of the day when all their other friends would blow them off as being ‘too busy’. No shirt, no shoes, no problem.

I'm available to the clients I have within minutes of their call. Indeed, it is often only a couple of seconds between the time my receptionist (Julio) tells them I am in a bikini in the backyard to the time I am taking their call. (Note to file: get a more discrete receptionist!)

Today I was offered an interesting possibility for an executive job. Back to working downtown; back to sixty + hour work weeks; back to “working for the man”; back to traffic snarls and commuters in bad moods; back to a sure income of six figures. I told the company I would seriously consider it and let them know.

Obviously the life I am currently leading is way more magnificent in balance that what was on offer in the executive suite. However, my ever present low grade anxiety when I am not racking in the money had me momentarily considering the offer on the table.

Serendipitously (the chord that runs through my life), the following story landed in my e-mail this afternoon.

A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village. An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them.

"Not very long," answered the Mexican.
"But then, why didn't you stay out longer and catch more?" asked the American.
The Mexican explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family.

The American asked, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"
"I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, have a few drinks, play the guitar, and sing a few songs...I have a full life."

The American interrupted, "I have an MBA from Harvard and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat."

"And after that?" asked the Mexican.

"With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet of trawlers. Instead of selling your fish to a middleman, you can then negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to
Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City! From there you can direct your huge new enterprise."

"How long would that take?" asked the Mexican.
"Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years," replied the American.

"And after that?"
"Afterwards? Well my Friend, That's when it gets really interesting," answered the American, laughing. "When your business gets really big, you can start selling stocks and make millions!"
"Millions? Really? And after that?" said the Mexican.

"After that you'll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, play with your children, catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife and spend your evenings drinking and enjoying your friends."

Forget the offer. I sticking with the moral of this story: Know where you're going in life...you may already be there.

Cheers!

Why on Earth?

As I sat writing my last post, I can hear the sounds of various garage sales being held on our street (and no, we have not yet got to the point where Jim will part with his junk enough to discover if it would be "another man's treasure").

It reminds me of a time a few decades ago when Corey was a very little boy, still learning about the world around him and the language we adults use to describe it.

Our neighbour, Pete, was having a garage sale.

"Come on, Corey, we are going across the street to Pete's garage sale", I said excitedly.

Corey looked at me as if I had suddenly grown two heads.

"Why do we need to buy a garage, Mom? We already have one!"

The delight of and from a child.

My Gift to the Future

I have been quietly astounded by the number of articles that I have read recently of women publicly bemoaning the fact that they had children. Or of loudly proclaiming why bringing a child into this world is the worst thing you could do to yourself, or to them. There seems to be a growing mass of disenchanted, disaffected, and distracted women with warnings about how a life with children is a life ruined.

I have recently been reading and learning about “regret”, a powerful emotion that encompasses anger, sorrow, loss, hopelessness, disappointment, and remorse. As one definition would pose: Regret is a distress of the mind. (My learning journey is a precursor to what I hope will be a Master’s Thesis in my upcoming studies).

So, the word “regret” automatically grabs my attention today whenever I see it in passing. This article, about a Frenchwoman who regrets having children combined the two theories. I found myself thinking that I could never regret the choice to have my children. Instead, I anticipate regret would haunt if I were at the beyond of my childbearing years not having experienced the twin faces of wonder and worry visited upon me by my children.

Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things that we did not do that is inconsolable.

I don’t look down on women who consciously choose not to have children. Like the debate between being a stay-at-home-mother and a career-mother, it must remain a choice that is personal to each one of us. We ought not to judge from our limited vantage point based on what might be our contrary, and potentially flawed, opinion and choices.

Once having made that choice, however, it is inconceivable to me that a woman might regret her choice to have children along the lines of the Frenchwoman:

"Children are born to disappoint you," she says. "Because we dream about wonderful children, but there are no wonderful children. They are people like me and you, and they fail, they do things you don't expect, they dream of things you don't even imagine, things that are pointless for you but not for them. So of course they have to disappoint you. Most children are difficult."

What damning statements. She damns her children for the very things that she admits that she cannot do herself. She admits that no one is perfect, yet she expects her children to be perfect. She recognizes in the article that she can be a difficult person, yet she censures children because they can be difficult. She conjures up a destiny of disenchantment if one has children, yet she is astonished because her own children (at 10 and 13 years of age) were disgruntled when they were forced to visit an “exhibition of Belgian surrealists”. And, most astonishing of all, she leaves us with the impression that she would actually tell her children that they have been a disappointment in her life!! As I read the article, I wondered if she would allow her “less than perfect” children to express the same – Mom, you were as big a disappointment to me.

Frenchwoman needs to be held up to the mirror of reciprocal relationships. Children will occasionally disappoint you. As you will disappoint them. They will make choices that you don’t agree with. As you will do in kind. They will have imaginings that don’t square with your dreams for them. And they have the right to do so because they are independent beings. They will sometimes fail your expectations. As you will sometimes fail theirs.

To the contrary, children will often delight you. They will fill you with a sense of wonder and accomplishments as they reach their own dreams. They will make choices that awe you with their spirit and daring. They will fill your home with laughter and joy, even amidst the chaos of growing up and out of your life. They will share their experiences of the world with you, and you will vicariously and vividly enjoy those novel stories. They will leave footprints on your heart and you will never, ever be the same.

I want to tell Frenchwoman that her children have bestowed her with precious significance and one that I hope she eventually discovers: Children are the living messages that we send to a time that we will not see.

My children are a gift to the future.

One hundred years from now
It will not matter
What kind of car I drove,
What kind of house I lived in,
How much money I had in my bank account,
Nor what my clothes looked like.

But one hundred years from now
The world may be a little better
Because I was important
In the life of a child.