Blogging

I didn’t ever set out to be a blogger. Twelve months ago I did not even know what a blog was.  At about the same time, I had gotten my laptop for Christmas and I started writing.  My first stories would only ever be read by my husband and a few close friends and family and otherwise they were collecting computer dust on my hard drive.  As my collection grew and I became more confident with the encouragement of said friends and family, I began to think that maybe starting a blog would be a good step. And, eight months later, here we all are. 

I have posted a story a week since I began.  My deadline is always Sunday.  I set this ridiculous standard for myself and more than once I have wondered what I was thinking.  Then I rationalize, if it is only me who is holding me to this deadline, who cares if I don’t meet it? But for some reason, I just cannot miss a Sunday. I have no idea why. It is not like I am not going to fire myself and I am not a particularly disciplined person.  It is quite baffling, actually.

Inspiration for what I write comes quickly.  I may not have a clue what I am going to write about all week and then, just like that, something will resonate with me and the words flood in. There is no agenda to what I write. I am not trying to touch on certain subjects.  I just write what I know and feel. 

I have come to learn some interesting things about writing a public blog.  Mainly, that people are either terrified that I am going to write about them or waiting to recognize them self in a story.  I think the only person I have ever hung out to dry is my husband and, in his unwavering support of my new hobby, has at most rolled his eyes at finding himself the centre of yet another storyline.  And those afraid to be the centre of my attention (there’s really only two – my mother and you know who you are) have made it clear that they do not want me writing about them. Actually, I think my mom would just like me to censor what I might write about her...she would make for a great couple of blogs.

I was only made aware of the second group while out for dinner this week.  As I said, inspiration comes quickly and not always with any sense.  I have not ever thought about trying to mention all of my friends as I don’t measure my closeness with them by whether or not they have ‘made it’ here on these pages.  So I was surprised when one of my closest friends (now you've made it girl!) took the opportunity when it presented itself to subtly mention to me that I had not yet written about her.  It caught me off guard because I never considered that my friends might actually be anticipating reading about themselves.  I was flattered but I also felt a new responsibility.

On a final note, there have been weeks that I thought the story was not going to happen and times that I wonder what I am doing this for.  And just when I think I am going to miss my very first deadline, someone will drop me email and say something really nice and my perfect record is saved again. Thank you for that and thank you for reading.  

Life is Good - Part Two

This morning when I crawled out of bed at 6:30am, exhausted from yet another night that my two year old did not sleep through the night, I felt like I was the most tired person on earth. Then I remembered my sister and her new born baby and figured her night had probably felt a little longer than mine.

When I was pulling out of my driveway at 7:01am on my way to work, I felt like I had to be the only one up in the whole city.  But then I saw my neighbour who was also on her way to work.  We chatted about our jobs (we are both teachers) and how great our students are and I thought that I was actually really lucky to have, not only a job, but a job that I love. When I got to Tim Horton’s for my bagel, I realized the woman behind the counter had been at work since before 6am and the same for the teenager at the local coffee shop who had started work when I was crawling out of bed (yes, I sometimes make two stops in the morning…don’t judge).  Clearly, I was not the only one up, not by a long shot.

Yesterday, I had been on the phone complaining to a friend that my husband was going to be away overnight and that I was going to have to be alone with my kids (ok, that sentence makes me sound like a terrible mother but I am going with it anyway) and then I remembered that her husband is gone from her and her three kids for the better part of the year for work.  I felt a little insensitive.

I was so tired tonight that I dreaded having to put my kids to bed (it is currently 9:38pm and none of them are actually sleeping yet).  But as I was tucking in my baby and as my five year old was showing me her latest dance moves on my bed, I remembered that some parents don’t have their children to tuck in anymore and they would trade all that they own to have one more bedtime with their beautiful child.

It is easy to complain about the things in our life that we have and take for granted. It is even ok to complain once in a while. We are only human. The thing is, many of the things I complain about the most are some of the best things in my life.  So, let me take this moment to acknowledge how truly fortunate I am in this life.  I need to be a little less dramatic and show a lot more gratitude for all that I have.

It is a beautiful thing that I can wake up early, stop for a tea on the way to a job that I love, call one of my best friends for a chat and have a cuddle each night with my kids before they fall asleep.  Life is good and I know that. I just need to remember it more often.

Pretty Little Cookies from Hell

A couple of years ago, I was introduced to the world of cookie decorating. At Easter, a good friend of mine presented me with a tin of the most beautiful cookies. They looked professionally done and they were almost too pretty to eat. I was inspired. I chose last Valentine’s Day to try making them myself. I thought it would be a fun Sunday activity to do together with the kids. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. This was a foreign world to me and there were moments that Sunday afternoon (early evening and into the late night) I wished it would have remained that way.

The day started with the instructions and shopping list. My friend gently encouraged me by saying that they only looked overwhelming. I had never even heard of piping bags, couplets and meringue powder. With the assistance of the nice woman at the bulk store, I armed myself with all of the necessary supplies. I was in the bulk store for over an hour trying to choose the right size piping things and colours. It had been a lot of work (and money) already. My enthusiasm was waning early.

Preparing the cookie dough was easy. I like to bake...I was remembering why I took this challenge on in the first place. I failed to read through the instructions far enough to read that the dough would have to chill for an hour. Much of the day had already been eaten up by the gathering of materials. Now we would have to wait even longer. My daughter was ready to go into hysterics at this point because all she wanted to do all day was decorate the damn cookies. I made a mental note to prepare the cookies the day before next time so that family fun day might actually be fun.

Eventually, the dough is chilled and rolled and cut into hearts. They are baked and ready for decorating. I had no idea of the delicate dance it would now take to make all the various colours of icing, some to spread over the whole cookie and some to use for the finer details. I was up to my elbows in red and pink frosting but I was able to give my daughter the satisfaction she was craving of decorating a few cookies. I gave her a knife, some sprinkles, and a bowl full of frosting. I knew she wasn’t ready for the ‘real deal’ of cookie decorating. 

I was beginning to wonder why my friend had encouraged me to do this at all.  Oh wait, she hadn't encouraged me...I had been inspired.  Ugh, why is it that everytime I am inspired by something I feel the need to ruin it by trying it myself. Why hadn't she warned me how much work this was going to be?  Maybe she has a different skill set than me. Maybe I was not cut out for the world of fancy cookie decorating. There was no turning back now. I was in too deep.

I still had not decorated one single cookie myself and it was time to put the kids to bed. I remained in the kitchen with dozens of undecorated cookies, as many bowls as I own with various shades of frosting in them and equally as many piping bags loaded and ready to go. It looked as though a Valentine’s Day bomb has exploded in my kitchen. I got to work. I piped around the edges, filled them (another new term for me) with watered down frosting and then painstakingly decorated each cookie in its own unique way. It was midnight before I would finish. MIDNIGHT. This was supposed to be a Sunday afternoon activity and it had consumed my entire day. And I still had to clean up.

I crawled into bed absolutely exhausted and sure that I would never, ever decorate cookies again. But, I have to say, that when I looked at my cookies with fresh eyes the next morning it felt good. The kids were excited to eat them and, in some small way, they made that Valentine’s Day special. Only a person clearly out of their mind would ever attempt to engage in such nonsense again. Yet, for some reason I can’t explain, as this Valentine’s Day approaches, I am getting the itch to do it all over.

(A sampling of last year’s cookies. In my mind, they were a lot more amazing than this…)

　

Smile!

Isn’t it charming when people feel the need to give you unsolicited observations about your appearance or mannerisms.  You know, as if they are pointing out something you hadn’t already recognized in yourself a thousand times before.

People love to tell me that I never smile.  Or when I do smile, they love to say, “Wow. You’re actually smiling”.  I am never quite sure how to navigate this.  I usually launch into my defence that just because I don’t walk around smiling all of the time it doesn’t mean that I am not happy. I am just not a smiley person.

I then spend the next portion of my day observing others to see if they walk around with smiles on their faces. Why isn’t everyone else subject to the same smile expectations that I am?  Then I think, maybe it isn’t that I am not smiling but that I am scowling.  I carefully study my face in the mirror and try to see what others are seeing.  It’s not so much a scowl, I don’t think. I practice turning the ends of my lips slightly up.  But thinking about having to do this all of the time is exhausting.

I suppose I don’t want people thinking I am grumpy all of the time just because I was genetically engineered to slightly frown.  Maybe their advice is useful and I should take it as an opportunity to improve myself and people’s perceptions of me.  Because I am happy damn it; well I’m happy most of the time anyway.

My friend has recently run into similar unwanted comments.  This month alone she has been told by a number of people that she has emotional baggage that she needs to deal with and that she has fifteen years of bad posture. And even though she was completely annoyed by the nerve of these people to be offering their two-cents, she has spent most of the month crying and trying to stand up straight.

I think a lot of us sometimes walk around in a bit of bubble about ourselves. We are so used to us that we don’t see what everybody else sees.  And then someone (or ten people) comes along and makes a comment that makes us stop and think. As I said, I already knew I wasn’t a smiley person but the fact that my peers are feeling the need to tell me I never smile makes me think I am a lot less smiley than I thought I was and certainly less the average person.  My close friends might not notice this about me because they are too used to me to.  At some point in our friendships, the good and the bad just all get rolled into one acceptable package.

There is a large part of me that does not care what people think of me. But there is an equally large part that does.  We care what people think because our connections to others are all we really have.  I want to look on the outside the way I feel on the inside. And on the inside I am a (mostly) happy person.  Smiling a little more often can’t be too hard, can it?  I am sure someone will tell me soon enough.