"Because when you're tied to your mother's apron, no one talks about castration..."

I'm still having dreams scored by the Smiths. Help me, for I am 17 years old. Except that I didn't discover the Smiths until I was well into my 20's, so that's all right.

We're spending our first day of the long weekend catching up on the housework. I know, I know - this is not the life you signed up to read. Now that FCN dominates every breath we take at home, we spend so much damn time away from the house that we're continually running behind the most basic of chores. I'd really like to vacuum, but I'm 3 hours of work away from even cleaning enough floor space. It's a shame, because I really liked living here. I like it when it's clean & neat & filled with sun...I even like it when it's cluttered & crowded & full of shadows. I like the little curve in the hallway between the kitchen door and the hall closet. I like the big tree in the front yard.

But I suppose I'll also like living somewhere that doesn't require me to be on yellow alert every time I enter or leave the building. I'm getting so sick of the useless adrenaline rush that pumps though me every time we pass FCN's door (I never do it alone anymore; I have the irrational fear that she'll pop out of her door like an evil troll and push me down the stairs).

Anyway, I'm getting maudlin about this place. It's time to move on and stop mourning what's been denied. Fair or not, I just have to deal with it.

I woke up this morning thinking about Thanksgiving. I think that in this part of the world we all carry around a template of what Thanksgiving is "supposed" to look like. For me, it's all about my grandmother. It's about putting on a white blouse and wandering between the lawn chairs set up under the carport and the livingroom couches. As a kid, I carried a can of Sprite or a drinking box of juice, and I played with my brother. As an adult, I carried a bottle of light-coloured beer and went from relative to relative, giving the Coles Notes version of what I was up to that year. All through the afternoon I'd nibble on cheese & crackers, potato chips, and when it became popular, the inevitable still-frozen shrimp ring (for some reason, no one could ever time the defrosting with any accuracy, and we picked off little ice shells every year). Thanksgiving itself was an orgy of turkey, mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, salads, boiled root vegetables, and wondrous stuffing. I think there may have been brussel sprouts in there too, but I ignored them right out of existence.

When I was 8 or so, I used to mix everything together into one glorious savoury mash. I'm not sure why I wanted to do it, nor am I sure why I stopped.

Sometimes, Thanksgiving was the only time of year when I didn't feel like a complete genetic freak. My dad's family is really nothing like me, and the collection of weirdo uncles and grandparents made me feel valued. I could have conversations there; conversations that I felt suited my somewhat-inflated idea of my own importance as an intellectual. There, we were all unique, a mixed bouquet of philosophies & obsessions.

Looking at my entry for last year, I see that I barely talked to anyone for fear that I'd break down. I can't help thinking now what a waste that was. Not that depression isn't always a bit of a waste. At least I didn't make a scene.

The worst thing is that after a year, Thanksgiving & Christmas tend to run together in my memory. I spent hours thinking about last year before I realized that I was actually reminiscing about Christmas. Last year at Christmas I remember seeing my uncle and aunt. They had just moved in with my grandparents, giving up my uncle's place in teacher's college because he was sick. Naïve as hell, I didn't realize that he was terminal. We teased him about his special vegan naturopathic soup, a delicious-looking mix of beans & grains & veggies intended to fight the cancer that was eating him up instead. I drank pop that year too, as my life with anti-depressants had just started.

It didn't feel like a proper Christmas, either. But nothing felt right that year.

This year I'm thankful for the Boy who is my rock; for a healthy pregnancy with the Sprout; for the Sprout, who decided to show up on its own schedule rather than mine and managed to fix a lot of problems I was struggling with; for my parents who'll shelter us in our hour of need; for the outpouring of love, admiration & support from my friends; for Stacy, who among other marvellous things gave me a chance to be a pirate extra; for Dirk, who keeps me entertained & lets us stay at his house when our home situation collapses without notice; for the federal benefits that will allow me to stay home with my baby for most of the next year; for a strong union that protects my job and provides me with decent living conditions; for a country that affirms same-sex unions and decriminalizes small amounts of pot possession; for the host of wacky people who bought me maternity clothes; for the midwifes who keep me calm & happy just being pregnant; for my frustrating, irritating, amazing students who always have a surprise up their sleeves; for the coincidences that continue to follow & astound me; for electricity & clean water & safe food; for my crazy neighbour who has unwittingly educated me on the uses and limits of apathetic compassion (i.e. the conviction that you're heart is good enough to survive anything so you don't have to act); for the perpetually stuffy Purple Lassitude that absorbs my crumbs without complaint; for the plentiful supply of Kleenex in Canada; and for the many authors, books & magazines who keep my brain exploding.

There. That was my Oscar speech. Like it?

Booty Call: Day 218 - Baby's pupil will now constrict if light is shined in eye.

5 years ago today: when I watched hockey to impress the Boy