yesterday

Yesterday did not start out well at all.

I had planned to create a post about our weekend - the kind of weekend I love. It snowed a lot, I shoveled the drive and walked the dog - my mini poodle loves snow, and snow storms. He chases blowing snow, and buries his head in snowdrifts just for fun. We have a neighbour with a doggy pal, and when we walk together, the dogs go nuts in the snow.

Later on Saturday afternoon Meg and her boyfriend and I went grocery shopping and picked out a tree.

In many ways my eldest has shown great maturity lately. But underneath it all, she's still sometimes the little girl I nurtured and loved. In Christmases past, when she picked the tree, she would manage to pick the most unsuitable tree possible. The one with the needles falling off, or the one with the great big gaps. The tree with two tops, or missing crucial limbs. We adjusted. Once they're decorated, you can't tell the difference anyways.

I paid for the tree, and I went to get the car, to bring it to the tree yard. Meg is still using a wheelchair to get around outside the house, so we needed to load wheelchair and tree in the back of an 06 Focus. Fortunately, the trees in the Zehr's lot were pretty small. I pulled the car up to the lot, and there they were, standing proudly with one of the biggest trees I'd ever seen. Tallest, anyways, and it was wrapped, so I couldn't gauge how big it was. It fit in the trunk, barely, with the trunk open, and we drove home slowly through a typical SW Ontario squall - big wet flakes and driving winds, with paranoid me thinking that the tree was going to fall out any minute.

Once we were home, we left the tree outside. Emily was with her dad until Sunday, and we weren't putting the tree up without her. The next morning, I looked outside and noticed that the tree had rolled across the porch and was covered in snow. I went outside to prop it up against the wall - I'd rather not have all that snow indoors, thanks.

I couldn't lift it.

Now I am not small, nor am I feeble. I occasionally lift my 5 year old, who weighs about 55 pounds. I've never had a problem lifting up a Christmas tree before. Even when N was around, I was the tree person - he does not have much affinity for Christmas at all. But this darn tree was so heavy that I could barely drag it across the porch.

Meg's boyfriend put the tree up while I was out walking the dog. It is huge - it's the kind of tree that belongs in a hotel lobby somewhere, or in someone's great big vestibule in their expansive suburban house. Not in the tiny corner that we have for a tree. But we managed to make it fit, even though we can barely fit through the living room doorway.

We had a wonderful afternoon. We decorated - Meg sat in my desk chair and rolled around the living room, putting up "her" ornaments, that her uncle has been buying for her since she was a baby. The tree looked very much like the tree in the commercial, where only the lower half of the tree was decorated, because neither one of the girls could reach the top of the tree. I pitched in a bit and moved a few things. But the poor tree, it looked rather - empty. I've never had that problem before. Megan has her own ornaments, and I've been a preschool teacher for 16 years. There are three kinds of gifts that are favoured for teachers, at least preschool teachers. Candles, chocolates and Christmas tree ornaments. I usually have more than enough to fill the tree.

But it was a beautiful tree, especially after the ribbons and garland went up.

We spent the rest of the afternoon baking cookies - gingersnaps and haystacks. Meg wheeled around in the desk chair,stirring and mixing, doing everything she could. Emily sugared the tops of the gingersnaps, sang a lot, and started to become her usual overexcited self around bedtime.

Monday was a typical Monday. Nobody wanted to get up.

Tuesday morning I was lying in bed. I'd turned the alarm off already, and it was about 5:45 am. I was doing a good job of pretending that I really didn't need to get up when I heard a sound. It was a slide and a gentle tinkle, like a sheet of ice sliding off the roof. I went to the bathroom and looked outside - no freezing rain, so no ice. What could it be?

I walked downstairs. Meg was sitting in the recliner, cats at play around her feet. And there was our glorious tree.

Lying in the middle of the floor.

Okay, I'm late for work, the tree's on the floor and I can't lift the damn thing up by myself. I tried, but I accidentally put the tree in Megan's lap, which did not please her. Emily was upstairs crying and telling us that the ornaments had to go right back on the same branches she put them, and I'm swearing and sweating, and not very happy at all. Damn cats! I thought, but Megan pointed out to me that the cats had been downstairs with her when the tree fell.

I had to leave the tree, and my crying child, because it was snowing hard and I needed to get to work. I fed them breakfast, and brushed all the snow off the car. I turned my key in the ignition, and turned on the windshield wipers, which went up, down, up, and then...stopped.

You can't drive without wipers in Ontario in December. Particularly when it's snowing heavily and the forecast is calling for freezing rain.

Back inside. I call my supervisor, and tell her I'll be in as soon as I can. When you work in preschool, you can't just take a day off- you need to be replaced.

Whew! At least I was able to go back inside and calm Emily down, and try to clean the tree up a bit. I also got to walk her to school, which I'm not able to do these days because of my work schedule. I took the car into the garage, and walked home. By the time I arrived home, the mechanic had called.

There is a small part in the wiper that needs to be replaced. A fifty-cent component. Ford will not sell the piece on it's own. Instead you have to buy and replace the entire wiper motor.

Total cost, including labour: about three hundred and fifty fucking dollars. Excuse my language but I'm still pissed off. And the part won't arrive until sometime the next day.

I got a day off, and after I de-stressed a bit, it wasn't too bad. my sister came to visit. I baked more cookies (my christmas cookies are rapidly disappearing from the freezer, almost as fast as I can make them. I must speak to Megan about that)

And I applied for membership here:





This housing co-op is about a 25 minute walk from where I live now. They have a three bedroom townhouse available for a nice, low rate. I've lived in a co-op before, and I like the principles of joint ownership, and joint responsibility. I could rent an apartment for the same amount of money or a little bit less, but I wouldn't get the same benefits;
-an on-site playground
-a community garden (important for me, my hands need dirt sometimes)
-fenced in yards
- a walking trail beside a creek, adjacent to the units
-a few blocks from uptown waterloo
-walking distance to groceries, and a really good school district
-community
- a bit further from the old neighbourhood than is comfortable for walking, but I think the benefits outweigh the disadvantages.

I'm going to arrange a viewing tonight. I walked around the outside on my way home from the garage and I really liked what I saw. It's exciting to find something that I like, something I can see myself comfortable with for the foreseeable future. I'm not really big on "owning" a house anyways. And co-op members are joint owners of the property. Good co-ops are amazing places to live, if you don't mind putting in the time and effort to benefit the community as a whole.

So my not-so-good day turned out to be not-so-bad after all.

changes

Yeah. Even more of them. Hopefully not tomorrow or next week, but they're happening all the same. Change is not necessarily bad, but it's...change. Something new to cope with. Another flurry of activity and angst before things settle into...what?

We've talked and talked. I've resisted, acquiesced and resisted again. I know, deep down, that I can't afford this house, that my better than average ECE salary is enough to rent a really nice place, but not enough for mortgage, plus taxes, plus the hefty utility bills that come with owning a barely-insulated 100 year old house. I can't keep up with cleaning a house that has four levels, from attic to basement. I love my eldest but she really needs to be renting her own place - when she's up and about. I could learn to sand and stain, install windows, caulk, replace flooring - I am capable, but I must do all this in my nonexistent spare time, in between working full time, parenting, and trying to live a life.

But I love my house. I love the creaky wood floors, and my amazing kitchen, with pull-out cupboards and lots of counter space. I love my main-floor laundry room, the big window in front that looks out onto the street. I love the old-fashioned front porch, and the tiny walled-in back yard.

I love my gardens. I put a lot of work into my garden, and I don't know what I'll do if I can't stick my hands in dirt once in a while.

I need to let go. It's too much for me to handle. But it's so hard.....this has been my home for four years, I've put down so many roots, and when I transplant, all those little connections will be lost, or pulled out painfully. It will take time for the dirt to settle, for me to feel at home in new surroundings.

Our finances are still tied together, and will be for the next few months to come. But he's offered to buy me out - take over the house, while we split the equity. That would (hopefully) put some money in my pocket, and even if that amount is small, I will be debt-free, and fully independent. I need this. I need to make my own decisions, I need the freedom of living only for myself and my kids.

The ideal plan is for me to find something in the neighbourhood - so that we can both be close to Em and her school. There are lots of lovely old duplexed houses around here, but there are things I need. Ground floor access. A yard for the dog and for Em. Enough space so that she can play and live comfortably. Storage. Laundry. Trees. Perhaps a bit of earth to dig in - or closer proximity to the nearest community garden.

Em gets to have a place to live with both parents. Right now she lives with me and visits her dad - occasional overnights, but his living situation doesn't allow for more than that. I'm still the primary, but she needs her own room in his home, she needs her own space. But I worry about the effects of another change on her - she has gone through so many changes lately, and another one would be hard. Change is always hard for her - I am starting to recognize that she has some special needs, and she needs lots of love, encouragement and support. More about that in another post.

There will be compensations. Maybe I can take a real vacation. I'll have more time (hello notebook - pen -ambitions). I have lots of warning, so I'll be able to find the home that I want. I won't be rushing around at the last minute and taking whatever I can find.

But it's hard. Saying goodbye all over again. Does it ever stop?

(I'll post pictures when I get home from work)

we don't discuss that

It's almost December. I've missed a self-imposed deadline by about two months now.

I was determined, way back in early September, to come out to the rest of my family as soon as possible, by Thanksgiving (Mid-October here) because I wanted to move forward, keep going with my new life, make sure that everyone important to me had a chance to know who I really am. It didn't happen that way.

And on the heels of another needless argument with N over nothing in particular, where he made perfect rational sense and I became angry and defensive yet again, I started to wonder - why? Why can't I tell my brothers, their wives, their families that I am queer. What's holding me back? I barely slept last night - there's a virus setting in, and I am just overwhelmed with worry and fear. How will they react? What happens if they reject me, because they might. More likely, it will become, as it seems to have already, the next family secret. The thing we don't talk about.

N spent a lot of time reassuring me in September - our parents love us unconditionally. They will accept me for who I am, they will understand and support me. And when I drove down to see them, to tell them about myself, I did it when I was raging over something else, when I had no support, no one to talk to, nobody around me who could give me the comfort that I badly needed. For goddess' sake, my relationship was over, I was grieving, he obviously wasn't because he just sailed into something else like I didn't matter, like I'd never mattered. At least, that was my mindset at the time.

What I had hoped for in coming out to my parents never materialized. They didn't disown me or anything - I'm still family, family sticks together, don't you know, and there I am, cooking thanksgiving dinner, making birthday supper for Meg's family party, hovering in the background with this big thing to say, and no courage to say it. I silenced myself, again, I am waiting for this big opportunity to come, and it never will, unless I create it. And how do I do that?

My parents said it didn't matter. But they act like it does. Do they ask me how I am, how things are going for me? No. When I told them that I was grieving, they said to me "well you can't really blame him for moving on." Like there was someone to blame, and the someone to blame was me. I wasn't throwing blame around at the time, just carrying a lot of shame and guilt for having wreaked so much havoc in so many lives. On bad days I still do.

They told me that they wouldn't tell anyone else. That it was up to me to come out, in my own time, in my own way. But they added a caveat - that I should let my siblings tell their children - or not - as they see fit. Which means, that I structure my revelation in a way that does not include the kids, even though my older nephews and nieces at 21, 16, and 14, are well able to understand what I'm talking about.

There is something to hide. There is something to be embarrassed about. There's something wrong with me. That's the message I got when I came out to them, the message that I internalized and carried with me, giving it no conscious thought until yesterday, when I was trying to explain that I didn't have time to come out - why? Because when do I ever see my brothers without their kids unless the occasion is completely contrived? So do I feed them dinner and make a big announcement? Do I drive an hour to my hometown in the dead of night to tell them when their teenage children are asleep, giving them the opportunity to lie or conceal the truth from their almost grown-up kids? Do I become the pariah, the person tolerated but not accepted because my being flies in the face of the 'traditional" values they espouse?

My mother told me that I could have come out to her when I was 21 and it would have been okay. I told her that I didn't believe her. It's not okay now, it's so not okay that I have not had a conversation with them about my sexuality since that day. And it's so important to me right now - it's what i spend a lot of my time thinking about, mulling over. Every major decision and change I've made in the last three months has been a direct result of being queer and acknowledging it to myself. So why can't I talk about it, given that it's such a huge part of my life right now, and always will be?

I feel like I'm standing at the foot of this giant mountain, with all my gear, ready to climb, and there's no one to spot me. I can't do this alone. How do I do this at all?

oh yeah, that's what single parenting is all about

Wednesday 11:30 pm - Bedtime, after making my lunch and Em's for the next day, unloading the dishwasher, feeding cats and dog and watching top chef with the dog in my lap. I feel guuilty. He didn't get a walk because Meg was asleep before Em, and i didn't want to leave Em alone with only someone sleeping two floors down.

Thursday 12:30 am Cat wants outside. Cat paws frantically at the baby gate that still blocks the top of the stairs. He starts off quietly, and if I don't move fast enough, he gets louder and louder.

12:35 Anna lets the cat out.

12:45 Sleep. Again.

1:45 Meg's boyfriend leaves for work. He works crazy shifts. He slams the door on his way out.

1:50 Thank goddess Em is still asleep.

1:55 Small voice in the hallway. "Mom. Turn off your alarm." Em hates my alarm clock with a passion. It literally keeps her up at night. I need something loud enough to get me out of bed at 5:30. She needs something quiet and unobtrusive, because loud noises bother her. Enough to wake her out of a sound sleep and get her worrying about the next day.

1:56 Em and I are cuddled in the rocking chair, so that she can settle down again.

2:00 "Mom! Mom! I have to pee!" Not from the five year old in my lap, but the almost- nineteen year old on crutches who sleeps in the basement. She doesn't climb the stairs by herself.

2:10 Oldest child back to bed.

2:11 I am back upstairs. Emily is waiting for me in the hallway. She is wide awake.

2:12 Back to the rocker.

2:15 Em has to pee.

2:20 Snowplow is clearing the sidewalk across the road. "Mom, that's too noisy. it's keeping me up.'

2:30 Now we're trying to sleep in my bed.

2:50 Em has kicked all the covers off because she's too hot. And now I'm cold. She's wide awake. "Are you sure the alarm's off, mom?"

3:00 Back to the rocker.

3:10 I'm in the rocker and Em's in bed, staring at me. Not sleeping.

3:15 "Mom, I'm sick. I can't go to school tomorrow."

3:20 "Mom, when are we getting a Christmas Tree?"

3:25 The parking lot at Tim Horton's (for my US readers, best darn coffee ever, across from my house, too much light and noise in the middle of the night) is being cleared of snow. Scrape of blade on bare pavement. That darn beeping every time the plow reverses. Emily is lying in her bed quietly, with her eyes screwed shut. I have only asked her to try to sleep about twenty-five times at this point.

3:30 Back to my bed, alone. I've asked Emily to just lie down quietly if she can't sleep.

3:40 "Mom. I can't sleep. Did you turn the alarm off?"

3:41 "You know what, Em. I think it's time for mom to buy a new alarm clock."

3:42 Her feet are in the small of my back and she's got the covers all twisted around.

3:50 Deep, regular breathing from the other side of the bed. Finally.

3:55 ZZZZZZZZZ

5:25 One eye open. I shut the alarm off before it rings. I'll let Em sleep and get her things ready (it's a school day today).

6:10 I really wake up. I need to leave for work in 30 short minutes.

6:11 I roll out of bed, jump into my clothes, pay absolutely no attention to what I am wearing.

6:12 Bathroom.

6:13 Put library book in Em's backpack. Put lunch in backpack.

6:14 Throw something in my own backpack for supper. Staff meeting tonight and pizza for the rest of the staff. I don't eat pizza, and don't want to be a party pooper so I bring my own.

6:15 Em's clothes laid out ready to put on. Meg can supervise but not assist.

6:18 Cat is scratching at the window.

6:19 Feed cats. Let the dog out.

6:20 Get Em's breakfast ready. Always the same - corn flakes with brown sugar, toast with strawberry jam, and fruit.

6:25 Descend to the basement to rouse and assist eldest daughter.

6:30 Get Meg's breakfast.

6:35 Someone is wailing at the top of the stairs.

6:36 Em comes to terms with my departure and sits at the table to eat breakfast.

6:37 Megan needs water.

6:38 Where the hell are my car keys? My mittens?

6:39 kiss the girls goodbye

6:40 Thank goddess it didn't snow much. I don't have to brush off the car.

6:42 Tim's. Egg and cheese breakfast sandwich, and two extra large coffees with double cream. One for now, one for my break at work. I take the top half of the english muffin off and throw it away. I have no time to make breakfast, and I need to eat.

6:45 On the road to work, to be there by 7:15.


I'm tired today. Any questions?

The Silent Blog

My silence over the past week or so is not meant to offend in any way. Nor have I decided that blogging is not for me. I'm trying to keep up with everyone else and commenting where I can. But the reality of spending 11 1/2 hours away from home is that there is less time for everything. And in terms of relative importance, blogging falls well below spending time with my youngest, and caring for my oldest as she recuperates, but somewhere above cleaning the house. Who needs to clean, anyways?

It's late Sunday afternoon, and the sun has just set. I still love snow, and it's a good thing, because it's like January outside right now. November is usually a combination of grey and white, snow flurries and frost on the roof much of the time, but interspersed with the first chills of winter and depressing rain. Not this year. We've skipped autumn altogether and moved straight into winter. More than two feet of snow fell in St Marys on Friday night, so say my parents who hesitated to come up yesterday for my daughter's birthday celebration. Thankfully, there's not so much here. I like snow and all, but I have no winter boots yet - only my hikers.

My oldest daughter is holding her own. Our insurance claim has provided her with some relief. She will start getting home care for several hours a day on Monday, because she can't function all alone in the house. Her leg is not casted, and she can't weight bear for another six weeks, so she needs assistance to do just about everything. Fortunately, her boyfriend has been as supportive as can be, but even so, my workload at home has increased. I'm doing all I used to do, looking after her, and realizing how much she was doing around the house in the few short weeks that she was home before the accident.

Her 19th birthday is on Friday. In Ontario, that's the equivalent of a 21st birthday in most states in the US. She's a little bit bummed - her words - because the outing her uncles had planned for her has been postponed indefinitely. But I'll take her out, she can order a drink, they'll ask to see her ID ( I hope that having her mother along won't deter the server from his or her legal obligation). And she'll be "officially" 19. One drink is all she gets - shiny new wheelchair rental or no, she needs to be able to navigate on crutches at the restaurant and at home.

I can't believe that I am the mother of this beautiful young adult:



Maybe it's because I'm single this year, and feeling younger than I have for a decade (losing 120 pounds has that effect), but I can't be a parent to a grown up. Can I? I've barely grown up myself.

N and I are working our way through the ups and downs of separation. It's a good thing we like and respect each other, because we've seen and talked to each other a lot the last two weeks. Between M's insurance claim, planning for a lawsuit, and talking about what to do with the finances in general, and the house specifically, we've had a serious discussion almost every day.

It's not easy. We agree on most things, but everything is still up in the air. All we have is a general sense of where we are going financially. I'm someone who likes to know what's going to happen and work for it. Of course, I'm the one who turned my own life upside down, but I had to, despite all the unknowns that I now face.

I wrote a post last Tuesday that will never see the light of day. It was completely morose and self-pitying, written in the throes of yet another depressing moment. I think fatigue is getting the better of my common sense. I'm tired all the time, and as the week wears on, I get more and more fatigued and irritable. By Friday I am a walking zombie, having had 11 1/2 hour days, plus all the parenting, cooking, cleaning and general stuff to do when I get home.

Writing? Who has time to write? I manage my morning pages because I have time to do them at work. I plan on spending a few moments today with pen and notebook. The house is empty for the first time in two weeks.E is at her dad's. M's on an outing, and I have some badly needed "me" time.

I have mentioned the long hours twice, but I have a half-full glass, not a half-empty glass (although I may think differently on Wednesday night at 10:45 pm when I'm still emptying the dishwasher at home and I have less than 7 hours before I have to start another day). I really like my job. A lot. The long hours are only temporary. By January sometime I should be working a regular shift. I like my co-workers, our non-profit employer treats us with respect, and the kids are great. It's also nice to work in a place where there are sufficient resources to meet the needs of the kids. And the food...a local Mennonite-run restaurant caters the food, it's fabulous, and if there are leftovers we can take them home. I would rather do this job, at this child care centre with long hours and everything, than take another job with regular hours somewhere else. For one thing, I'd likely suffer an unpleasant pay cut. For another, I've worked in a few child care centres in my 16 years as an ECE, and there aren't many that have the right philosophy and working conditions to meet my standards. This centre does.

Emotionally, as I mentioned, I am up and down. Mostly okay, sometimes not. I've always had body image issues. Losing 120 pounds has helped in some ways - hey, I look good in clothes, and I never did before. Not ever. But I am 43, and I've had kids, there are saggy and wrinkly parts of me, there are more imperfections than I would like to see. And there's some disassociaton - I still don't get that the person that I look at in the mirror every morning is me. So many angles instead of curves and heaviness. Healthier. Stronger. But somehow, not yet me. I will grow into myself, at least I hope so.

Then there's this whole "I'm gay and I've never been with a woman and who wants a 43 year old 'virgin'" thing that I've got to get over before I can really move on. The thought of being with anyone scares me silly. I know I'm not ready. But I want to be ready someday.

And last, but not least, there are still family members to whom I have not yet come out, who deserve to know who I really am. I must find the time and space to come out to them, so that I don't waste anymore time pretending to be someone I'm not. I can't be authentic, I can't begin to live my life until they know. It's time.

the superficial

Who would have thought that it would make such a difference?

My feelings of isolation and sadness come and go. it helps to be away from home for long stretches - 11 hours a day - because work and doing stuff at home take up almost all of my time. I have no time to think. I have enough time to get something on the table, unload and reload the dishwasher, put my laundry away, put Emily to bed, read a few lines of whatever book I'm trying to read, and then I collapse somewhere. If I'm lucky, I wake up in my own bed. The other morning I woke up in the rocking chair in E's room, still fully clothed, because that's where and how I fell asleep.

She's not always there, my little girl, and it's hard to be at home when she's away. The house is too empty. My own voice echoes through, when I talk to the dog, or the cat. And I do.

You'd think that with one daughter on crutches, and the other just five years old, I would have no time to wallow in self-pity. Megan's doing well - she doesn't need constant attendance anymore, and she can get up and down the stairs, which means she no longer occupies the living room. But that gives me more time on my hands, which is somehow dangerous, these days....

After all the changes I've made, it's difficult to acknowledge that I'm still not comfortable with who I am. Part of it is a physical thing. I've never been comfortable with my appearance. you'd think losing 120 pounds might cure that - I thought it would. But I still cringe when I see myself in the mirror - for different reasons. Instead of being large and soft, cumbersome and awkward, I am angular and severe, wrinkled in strange places, and awkward. The awkwardness never leaves me - it places my head at strange angles in every photo I take. Do I really look like that?

I disbelieve the people that tell me I look good. M thinks that a good shopping trip will cure me - all I need to do is find clothes to make me look good, and I will feel better. But I feel comfortable in my jeans and sweaters. I like them. When I try to dress like someone else I feel....awkward.

Snow

Images of last winter:







It snowed last night, the first real snowfall of the year.

I love snow. It is a quiet blanket of white that covers the earth and muffles sound. Flakes can fall gently, as they are this morning, or they can whip about in an angry widnstorm. I love all facets of winter.

It's only fitting that yesterday I bought a new winter coat, and today the ground is still and white.

Winter is my time of turning inwards. Time for stillness, silence, reflection, planning for the coming year of growth. Solstice officially marks that time for pagans, but my time of reflection begins at the first snowfall.



This song speaks of winter in my part of the country. Loreena McKennit lives just a few hops away from my hometown:



Snow

White are the far-off plains,
And white the fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree
Falls down scarce audibly.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snowfall hoods me around;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence is everywhere.
Save when at lonely spells
Some farmer's sleigh is urged on,
With rustling runner and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog,
To cattle, is sharply pealed,
Borne, echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far afield;
Then all is silent and the snow
Falls settling soft and slow
The evening deepens and the grey
Folds closer Earth to sky
The world seems shrouded, so far away.
Its noises sleep, and I
As secret as yon buried stream
Plod dumbly on and dream.
And dream
And dream
I dream
And I dream…









Peace.