I've been telling people about your stroke, and they all tell me the same thing: don't feel guilty; it's not your fault. But I do feel guilty - not responsible, I'm not deluded - but guilty for the way I felt before the stroke. How I resented your visits because I was afraid of what you would say or what you would ignore. Or who you would favour. I lost the trick of your approval, and I always wanted to figure out how to get it back. I wanted you to like me. I'm trying to be ok with you not liking me. I'm trying to just love you now, while you're here, and not be angry because I didn't make you happy. My friend Clarke, the priest who married me, once said: "Aleta, you can't like everybody and everybody can't like you." I used that to get me through teaching. Now I'm using it to get me through this week.

I know that you love my son, love him without reservation. You still look right at him as soon as he speaks, no matter where he is in the room. One of my friends told me that when your head comes round to watch him, that you might be mistaking him for one of your own sons or grandsons. That you may be traveling in time. I don't think so. I think that you love him still, that you know who he is, and that your love is stronger than this stroke that's pinned you to the bed.

I think you hate your daughter brushing your teeth and changing your diaper. I think it's hard for you to need these things done for you. I think you saw yourself as immortal. God knows, I did. This is why I can't stop feeling guilty. Mom knew your time was limited. She would make excuses for you left, right and centre. I had this immature conviction that you would never grow frail or sick or on the edge of death. I was so sure that the strength of your will would keep your body and soul together. I was so sure that you'd be chain smoking over my burial plot. I was so childish.

When I told people about you in the first few days after your stroke and they immediately told me they were sorry, I rushed to reassure them. It's okay, I would say, we're not close. I kept saying that. And I couldn't figure out why I would go into a mild panic attack when I tidied up and found the ornaments you'd brought for the tree still sitting in their bag a week after Christmas. I couldn't understand why just looking at the envelope where you'd placed 4 crisp five dollar bills for Blake's Christmas money made me want to cry. I would think back to Christmas Day and how weak you were then, and tell myself that I should have known something was up. It's taken me days, whole days, to realize how important you are to me. I didn't want you to be. I wanted to brush off the crisis. My mom did, too. But she didn't because she found a deep, uncomplicated love. I'm trying to find that love. It's hard, because in a lot of ways I try to be as tough as you. I try to pretend I don't feel anything. The two of us are such liars.

I'm sorry you had these strokes. I'm sorry that you're in this bed when you should be up and about and telling the nurses all about your sister and your greatgrandson. I'm sorry that I couldn't relax when you tried to give Blake everything he could possibly want in the Mandarin. I'm sorry I disappointed you. I'm not sorry that I can help my mom care for you. I'm not sorry to have this chance to tell you that I love you. And that I get the chance to tell you that I'm sorry.

Labels: death, family, threshold experiences

"If you must go to work tomorrow, well, if I were you, I wouldn't bother.
For there are brighter sides to life, and I should know, because I've seen them.
But not often."

Today was a difficult day, but I think ultimately a happy one. We enrolled Blake in the local Montessori school, so he'll be going to full-time school in the fall. This was a difficult decision for me, because I think Blake is too young to be in full-time school, but he clearly needs more programming than the 3-days-a-week at the local highschool (excellent and beloved though it was). My choices were:

1. Send him to JK, with my parents dropping him off and picking him up (and my mother expecting her usual rate for a full day).
2. Send him to my parents, pay for a full day with them and also pay for the pre-school (they were picking up that tab last year out of the money I was paying them).
3. Freak out, quit my job, watch Blake all day until the bank forecloses on the house and we have to move back into the basement.
4. Freak out, make the Boy quit his job and watch Blake all day until the bank forecloses on the house and we have to move into the basement.
5. Send Blake out to work. I hear this area is in need of some slender, bright chimney boys.
6. Realize that tuition is only $150 more than what I'm paying my mom. Enrol Blake in the local Montessori school. Buy a uniform and order laundry labels and think about hemming and try not to lose it completely.

My dad was pissed. I haven't spoken to my mom yet, but I have no doubt that she is also pissed. Their plan, which was plan 1 (with plan 2 as backup) was making me uncomfortable. I've always liked the Montessori idea, and though Waldorf is my first choice of alternative schooling, that is just one more thing I get to give up thanks to my choice of real estate (also, I really can't afford it). This is very convenient to the house, very desirable in terms of philosophy, and very necessary if I'm to feel more actual gratitude and less secret resentment for my parents.

Of course, I feel bad that my dad is losing his wingman, but I did ask him to watch Blake for the first few hours of the day. Maybe that will be enough to ease the transition. I'm really looking forward to going back to a straight familial relationship with my parents, rather than the queasy mix of client, child and debtor I've been for the last few years.

Labels: blake, family, threshold experiences

Yesterday was my seventh wedding anniversary (as opposed to my mothering anniversary which coincides neatly with Blake's birthday, or the anniversary of the day I came out of retirement to clean up this rotten desert town.) I feel cautious in saying this, as there have been many storms this month, but I think it went pretty damn well. I got up with Blake and hurried through a number of chores and giftie preparations so that when the Boy woke up we could concentrate on getting him to church with his accordion.

(Aside: at the beginning of the summer, I signed him up for special summertime music. I thought it would be a good deadline to learn the new instrument, plus he'd be the lead-in to two weeks of tween instrumentals. If you haven't already guessed, standards are looser in the summer. This was a good plan right up until Saturday, when he began to panic, hence straightening his accordion path on Sunday.)

The Boy was excellent, and although there were a couple of train wrecks, people were too busy singing and clapping to mind. You definitely have surprise on your side when you walk up to the front and pull out an accordion. Even people who have been told aren't quite prepared for the majesty that is our creaky, dead-grampa-smelling accordion. It's just that awesome.

Blake fell asleep during the service, and thus chose books over a snack when he woke up (he may have been sleep-addled, as this is not a typical choice). We came home, made a massive 5-egg mushroom & cheese omelette, and revelled in the Boy's victory. Then there were presents.

(Aside: In all churlishness, I was a little afraid of what the Boy would get me. He had told me a few days before that he was starting from scratch, due to the massive series of fights we'd had after my birthday. I try not to get my hopes too high, but this year is wool-themed. It's relatively easy. Just Buy Me Yarn.)

I had made up a little knitting basket in honour of the Boy's fluctuating interest in knitting. There was exciting thick-thin Romni Yarn (and most importantly for the Boy, it was blue), two balls of the cheap cotton I'd picked up last week in Watertown that he'd admired, a pair of Brittany Birch needles to replace the ones I sat on and broke, and a copy of Knitting With Balls (the modern man's guide to knitting, which isn't nearly as stupid as it sounds). I also popped in a co-operative educational card game we'd picked up on the night we went dancing, and The Dangerous Book for Boys (a how-to omnibus which may very well have been his favourite gift. It rocks my socks, too.) The basket was to be for his stash, projects or whatever. I was pretty proud of myself.

Then he pulled out the ballwinder & swift.

Um, if you're not into yarn I just lost you completely. A ballwinder and swift are two tools that turn skeins (that yummy figure-eight of nice yarns everywhere) into a ball suitable for knitting. For two and a half years, I've been using God's ball winder and swift (i.e. my hands and my knees/my kitchen chair), which can be actually quite therapeutic if you enter into it with the correct spirit. I'd always consoled myself by holding that my lack of gear made me more like the knitters of old. Well, turns out that was just me being brave because I love my new equipment!! We wound two "yarn cakes" yesterday, one of which Blake immediately adopted and took with him on his overnight to Camp Grandpa. We'd've done more, but it's actually better to leave the yarn in a skein until you're ready to use it. More stable that way.

This constituted a second victory for the Boy, so we celebrated by watching Blake dig in his new giant grandparent-built sandbox all afternoon. It's the Cadillac of sandboxes: cedar planks, 900 pounds of soft sand, 8 feet by 4 feet…they went to town on this one (Sandbox Town, one assumes.) The next step is to trick it out by painting sea creatures on the seats and sides. Gorgeous.

My dad came over in mid-afternoon and picked up Blake for his night at Camp Grandpa, leaving the two of us to read, knit, work on the computer, snack, listen to ska, and generally indulge ourselves in the way that the child-free folk do. Unfortunately, I started feeling ill, so we cancelled our reservations at a nice restaurant and made do at a cheap Pho place instead. (Mental note: next time I'm sick, I'm going to avoid the tripe.) And then we caught the early show of Stardust, which was a) dashing b) complete c) only changed in a few tiny ways, one of which was disappointing, one of which made little difference and once of which was an improvement. So hooray for that! It's always good when a special occasion is complimented by a good book adaptation. Bravo to Mssrs. Gaiman & Vaughn: you have ensured that my anniversary did not descend into disappointment.

And as I have never made a habit of writing about the other stuff, we shall draw our curtain here. Happy anniversary, Boy.

more photos here

Labels: blake, gifties, the boy, threshold experiences, triumph

Two days ago, my tenth anniversary of this online journal quietly came and went. No cake, no cards, no fireworks, no telegrams…just me and my slippery memory. But since that's what I started with, that's enough.

What I find most amazing about this milestone is that I am one slender month away from celebrating it where it all began: in my parents' basement. Back then, the basement had silver reflective wallpaper in hexagonal patterns and orange shag carpeting halfway up the walls, and it was always at least ½ full of my dad's stuff. Now it's suave and sophisticated, with blue walls & new blue carpet, finished with white moulding, plus a sunshine yellow bedroom and a functional kitchenette. Now, 2 weeks before Nic moves in, it's so empty it echoes.

I started this journal because I was very nearly completely alone, my social life having noisily exploded that spring when the Poet-Ophelia-me-Alexi thing wound up. I was wracked with guilt over what I had done, guilt that was even more intense because it had all come to nothing in the end. I could only blame alcohol for so much; the rest I had to take home with me. And it was social China Syndrome. The only people who wanted to see me on my 21st birthday were Dirk, Scherezade & the Lawyer. I was out of the city and home for the summer, working away in my parents' house for next years' tuition and eating my heart out with solitude. I wanted new friends, and the Internet seemed as good a hunting ground as any.

Also, since I was 8 I wanted to be a writer, and I hadn't given up on that dream at 20. I thought that this would be a good chance to write something that other people would read. The Internet was less saturated with personal writing then, and I could still stand out with my white-on-black website and my picture of myself in Ophelia's PVC dress and my grandmother's fishnets.

It was good for me, it really was. I got feedback and praise from strangers, which boosted me out of that dark place for at least a few hours. My writing improved and improved and improved, until I got to a place where I could read my own entries without wanting to jump out of my skin with embarrassment. I met Stacy, I met Javina; later I met moms in the same boat and even later, knitters. I love that so much of my life is available to me, and I can search out little stories and moments to give myself whenever the present seems overwhelming.

I also love that I am a happily-ever-after story, at least for now. I've dated, married, graduated, moved, given birth and changed jobs, all in the time I've done this project. I've travelled from sitting alone in a psychedelic cellar to sharing an office in my new house with my sweetie and pausing my sentences to zip a pre-schooler into a Buzz Lightyear costume. There is less dancing, and no sleeping away the weekend on Dirk's couch, but more snuggling and far less unhappiness. It is a very good life, la dolce vida to be sure.

Thank you for being with me for some or all or none of the journey. I owe at least a piece of my happiness to you, my readers, for just doing what you do and for letting me into your lives for the space of a few minutes. You make me very happy. You always have.

And here it is: my first post in all its ugliness. Enjoy if you can.

Labels: basement, blake, dancing, family, friends, house rich, nostalgia, on-line diaries, the boy, threshold experiences

I BOUGHT A HOUSE!!!!!

I know, I know. When I got engaged, I was coy. When I found out that I was pregnant, I was too deep in denial, in nausea (and in cigarettes, it must be noted) to screech it out. But today I wish the heavens to ring: WE GOT A HOUSE!

It's a few blocks away from Mr. Shoreleave's old house, and thus if we stay there too long Blake will end up going to my old highschool (nooo!). I plan to be back in Toronto then anyway, so that he may join a gang as Nature intended. We close on May 11th; I've celebrated with a ladybug ticker. But why are we using text when you can look at photos?

See you later! I'm going to read the Ikea catalogue again.

Labels: house rich, threshold experiences