Fire Your Wife…or husband.

Yesterday I did something exciting, sad, happy and commonplace for at least half of today’s married couples. I finalized my divorce proceedings. After more than a year, (Well….1 year, 3 months and 18 days. Or 472 days. OR, 11,328 hours…679,680 minutes – or in seconds 40,780,800) I found myself sitting beside my soon-to-be-ex-husband in a courthouse, waiting to take an oath and watch everything become notarized. Our lives in a red docket (why are they red?). I don’t know what was more depressing – the fact that more than 6 years can fit into a simple file folder, or the fact that the clerk quipped that she processed “tons of these a day”. Because the latter affects society as a whole, I’m going to stick with that one.

            I was furiously texting while in the designated waiting area and a friend decided that I would get a kick (and some useful information on divorce statistics in North America) out of the website www.FireYourWife.com . This is now the third post in my blog that I have mentioned my need for a smartphone. I know my soon-to-be-ex-husband would have appreciated the humour of THAT particular site. Right? Who’s with me? But given my lack of the most recent and useful technology, I digress.

Now I know that there is this myth that has been perpetuated (by spurned men no doubt) that once a woman is set on divorcing her husband that she transforms into a Greek Hydra-esque creature. Once you think you have cut off her head and have slain her efforts to take your money, stuff and kids, two lawyers grow back for every kick at the can that you take and subpoena you. These are men of the same ilk as Jon Cryer’s character on Two and a Half Men. Writing alimony cheques and living on supposedly good humour and mildly caustic feelings towards their exes, watching them reap the benefits of their hard work. Or something like that. If you had to ask my ex-husband, he would be forced to answer honestly that he pays no child support OR alimony. He will also tell you that you can’t squeeze blood from a stone and that I left him. But the following statistics were incredibly interesting and worth sharing:

Divorce Rates in the United States

• In 1998 2.2 million couples married and 1.1 million couples divorced.
• In 2000 58 million couples were married, yet separated.
• In 2000 there were over 21 million divorces.Divorce Rates United States
• People between the ages of 25 to 39 make up 60% of all divorces.
• Over one million children are affected by divorce each year.
• Approximately 1/3 of divorced parents remain bitter and hostile several years after the divorce.Di Divorce Rates United States vorce Statistics United States
• In 1990 the average female age for re-marriage after divorce was 30.6 years; for males, 33.7 years of age.Divorce Rates United States
• In 1990 the average female age for a second divorce was 37.3 years; for males, 40.4 years of age.Divorce Rates United States
• More people are part of second marriages today than first marriages.
• One-quarter of all Americans have experienced at least one divorce.

Divorce rates are generally calculated by comparing the number of divorces with the number of marriages in a given time period.

• In theUnited Statesin 1999 there were 8.4 marriages and 4.2 divorces per 1,000 total population. Divorce RatesUnited States
• Thus it can be seen that in 1999 there was one divorce for every two marriages in theUnited States, a “crude” divorce rate of 50%. The Rutgers National Marriage Project (marriage.rutgers.edu) bases their review of divorce trends on the number of marriages per 1000 unmarried women 15 years of age or older, and the number of divorces per 1000 married women in the same age bracket. Divorce RatesUnited States
• This look at divorce in relation to the population of marriageable age rather than the population as a whole produces a slightly lower divorce rate.Divorce Rates United States
• However they note, “Overall, the chances remain very high?close to 50 percent?that a marriage started today will end in either divorce or permanent separation.”Divorce

 

How I fall into those statistics personally makes me feel so ordinary and part of society in a way that is both depressing and comforting. Whether or not I stayed married, I am completely normal (a fact that a few may debate). Due to the Family Court Laws inOntario, I was separated for the required year. I fell into the 25 – 39 age category at the time of my divorce. I fall into the 2/3 majority of parents who are amicable with their ex-spouse.

The next round of stats really threw me for a loop. If I want to be 100% on the nose, it seems that I must remarry by 30.6 years of age. Given that I’m 28.1 years of age, that leaves me with only a couple of years to find someone, settle down and get a ring on my finger. If we do the math, and I remain diligent and start serial dating, in six months I can conceivably move in with someone, live with them for a year, have them propose marriage, and spend the next year planning a wedding. Right – let me schedule that in the calendar of my non-existent smartphone. I still have male friends that remind me that a woman who wants to catch a winner better do so before they are thirty and reach the maximum limit of their shelf-life and expire. Become un-marketable so to speak. What am I? A tub of sour cream?

My ill-fated love life is a topic of conversation on a regular basis for me. I turn my stories into humorous anecdotes for friends and family alike, and I suppose random clerks at the courthouse are no different. After a quick scan of the room, I noticed the abundance of men and women filling out applications and made the bad joke that at least I knew everyone in the room was single, or about to be, and it wasn’t a bad place to find a date. My soon-to-be-ex-husband laughingly said I was finally getting into the spirit and I could find my next-to-be-husband here – kind of like one stop shopping. I walk in with a man…I leave with a man. The clerk, hiding her smirk, let us know that I wouldn’t be the first woman to meet her second husband in the Family Law section of the courthouse in downtownOttawa. But what an incredible story to tell at a dinner party when queried just, “where did you meet him?”

All in all, my soon-to-be-ex-husband and I get along well. We laughed and joked so much that a woman next to us filling out the same form commented that there was “no way we were getting divorced.” After we confirmed that we were, in fact, in the same boat, the second clerk said that many couples made the mistake of marrying too quickly before living together for any real period of time. Again, we corrected her, adding we’d been together for four years before marrying. The woman, (who looking haggard and a little heart-sore by this time with her stack of papers from a law firm with a name that took up the top third of the page), said that while all that may have been true, we were lucky to go through this with no children so we could get along. My soon-to-be-ex-husband promptly showed her a photo on his phone of our almost three year old son. I suppose we can count ourselves lucky that we can at least get through a divorce with no lawyers, no fuss, no muss, just in order to have our lives legally separated again. When we are champions for the same cause, we work extremely well together.

The clerk was hell-bent on letting us know that she planned on handing out divorce packages with marriage licenses, after having repeat customers. I think that kind of cynicism is a contributing factor to divorce in the developed world. People are entirely too cavalier about marriage, divorce and broken families. I suppose I don’t really have the right to comment on it, but after all…this is MY blog.

I could be melancholy, I could be a little angry that things didn’t work out in the end. But being negative is only contributing to another statistic. I’ve got enough of those working against me. I frequently wonder how much easier life would be if we weren’t parents, if we could just walk away with a clean slate. Divorced friends without children are the first ones to tell me no one walks away with a clean slate. Even in the best of situations, we walk away with baggage. I like to think of it this way – while I have to share my child and he now has to go through life without parents that aren’t married (to each other), he represents the best of both of us, and the love that at one time, we did foster for one another. I am reminded of my ex-husband’s laugh in Myles, and my smile. We can still share funny things Myles did while we spent time with him.

I have no feelings of deep, passionate love for my ex-husband. I don’t dream about being with him, or wonder what could have been. Fruitless and pointless thoughts. I am confident I’ve made the right decision for all of us. All three of us. My ex-husband is happy with another woman, and I’m happy with myself for the time being. The lines of communication are open, but are full of brevity,  and limited to strictly essential conversations and we live our own lives. Separated in every single way except for Myles. Which is the way it should be. I will be connected to him for the rest of my life, but I don’t have to talk to him…or even like it. That’s Ms.Michelle to you!

Please Enjoy Responsibly

            You know how there are ads to enjoy alcohol responsibly and abstain from drinking and driving? There should be similar ads to warn us of the dangers of texting and busing. Or texting and walking…or generally making executive decisions while texting…

            I feel fairly confident that in my second go-round of busing that I qualify as a semi-pro. After all, it’s not that hard. I only have to take one bus. And I’m fortunate enough that if I wait at the Park and Ride in Kanata, a bus that goes downtown passes every couple of minutes. If my schedule with Myles were a little less erratic, I’m sure I could even take the bus that comes to the corner of my road straight to the Park and Ride and then downtown. However, every single day I’m either dropping off, or picking up my child, so I require my car at least in one direction. Besides – the schedule for the bus that runs close to my house comes less frequently, and if my alarm happens to malfunction, or I am running late (which seems to happen more often than not), I don’t want to have to wait another twenty minutes for a bus to pass by my door. It would necessitate getting up much earlier, and I’m a person, who on most days, values her sleep. Especially that delicious extra twenty minutes I sneak in almost every morning. Forbidden sleep is the best sleep!

            So a typical morning with Myles requires getting up, preparing breakfast (for Myles it’s usually fruit, yogurt and cereal and myself, coffee), having a shower if I didn’t the night before, getting dressed, getting Myles dressed and wrestling him out the door. Kids are dawdlers. Stallers. The best at stretching out time and duties to the point where you thank God they are small enough to still pick up, and end up carrying them halfway down the hall, lest you’ll be late getting to wherever it is you need to go. It doesn’t seem to matter how much extra time you give yourself, they can waste it. I’m sure more than one neighbour has had a good laugh watching me in heels and a skirt, with an almost-three-year-old dangling from under my left arm, bag in my teeth and keys in my right  hand, lurching my way to my car in the morning, in order to try and make it on time. Usually, he’s holding some forbidden toy, or something that I would really rather he not take to daycare, but making small concessions in order to just get him out the door to make it to daycare is one of the compromises I make as a single mother (who is not a morning person).

            I am like any other mother. I worry about my child, and want the best for him, and I am incredibly lucky that not only do I like my daycare provider, but she is family and does a fantastic job of taking care of him during the day. I have never once worried about him, or wondered if he was getting the attention he deserved and needed while I was at work. She does crafts with them, takes them outside, and puts up with him when every single day he asks if they can have chicken for lunch. Because we all know that even though our children are the most precious thing to us, doesn’t mean another adult is going to feel even close to the same way, or foster the same kind of patience that we have for them!

            Even though Myles is always fine going to his daycare provider’s house (once he gets there), every morning is the same thing – we get on the Queensway towards Castlefrank and he asks the same question – “Grammy’s house?” and the same tears when we get back off the Queensway. Those tears are temporarily forgotten when we approach stop signs – “Stop Ummmyyy!!!”. He loves to read the speed limit signs and tells me what I should do when we approach traffic lights. And most mornings, he’s happy to leave me and is generally a well-adjusted little boy. I always hightail it to the Park and Ride, take whatever bus happens to say “Downtown” (which except for the 101, seems to be every single one) and plug in my iPod. If I get a seat, I do the crossword, if I have to stand, I lean against the wall and doze.

            So going back the same direction in the afternoon should not be a difficult chore. I work (for the next few days at least), only two blocks from the bus stop, and just like the morning, there are a slew of buses that pass by. I’m always a little dopey by this time, and am either trying to come out of the work fog from another crazy day, or if things were quiet, generally pay attention to what’s happening around me. Afternoon commuters have far less patience. We all want to get home, and there is some competition for a seat, for a line-up to the front door, and if the weather is bad, a dash to make it there first. We sneak furtive glances at each other, trying to anticipate where the bus will stop, and who will make it up the steps first. The timeless rule of women and children first is conveniently forgotten – each man/woman/child for themselves, and if you snooze – you lose.

            There are many buses in the 60’s series that go toKanata. Not all of them go directly to the Park and Ride. I keep trying to memorize which ones do, and have pretty much assumed that it’s the even numbers and the 61. I still have to ask occasionally, and am slightly embarrassed to do so, but the Express buses save me a huge amount of time, have more seats available, and smell much better. (Simple laws of odour – more people, at the end of a workday, smellier it is. Most Express buses have government commuters. We still smell alright at the end of a workday).

            So my story begins yesterday afternoon when after a quiet day at work I had been texting back and forth with a friend, and got into a very lively debate. After a recent Facebook post, I had family and friends trying to convince me that I needed an iPhone. I maintain that if I were to trade my Zack Morris model in for a smartphone, I would cease to live in the real world. I would be immersed in all the apps, the internet and communicating with people electronically instead of face to face. My people watching days would be over! I would never pick up a book. As it was, on my old, tired phone, I was texting at a furious rate, and enjoying the conversation. I made it to the bus stop and promptly looked up – I couldn’t remember crossing the road or turning the corner – how did I get here?

            Just as I was admonishing myself for not paying enough attention to where I was going, the 66 was pulling up to the curb. Remembering that the even number 60’s series went to the Park and Ride, I thought nothing of jumping on the bus, depositing my tickets, nose buried in my phone returning a text message. The ride was uneventful – save the person who kept falling asleep next to me and therefore, falling on my shoulder. I didn’t notice anything was wrong until we got off at Moodie – my head snapped up – only the 96 got off at Moodie, and right back on the Queensway. The bus made a sharp left turn and trundled down Moodie with alarming speed! My kneejerk reaction was to jump up and immediately ring the bell. The next stop was, luckily, at a major intersection.

            Lost (but not really, just carless, and wishing I had a smartphone with internet to be able to hit the OC Transpo site and find out which route would effectively return me to the Park and Ride), a little frightened and upset, I knew that the 118 passed by and anyone who takes the bus in Ottawa knows the 118 goes everywhere. After a short hike to the nearest stop, and waiting another 10 minutes, I was, what I thought, back on track. I wasn’t going to take any more chances at this point. I asked the driver, only to find out, that the bus went to the shopping centre – not the Park and Ride. Panicked again (and clock watching, I had to pick Myles up) jumped out at what I could determine was the closest possible stop to the Park and Ride.

            After a few weeks of lovely Ottawaspring-like weather (I’m being facetious of course, we had nothing but rain and temperatures barely above zero), the day was a complete turnaround. At least 20 degrees and sunny, with a light breeze. I decided I could walk to my car! I drove from the corner of Hazeldean and Eagleson all the time! The Park and Ride was within sight (I squinted…was it?) and it would be faster since I couldn’t see any bus stops from here to there. The walk was fine – in total 2km. The total shocker came when buses started passing me (closely, as I precariously teetered on the edge of the non-existent sidewalk). Like a desert nomad who sees the mirage of an oasis on the horizon, I spotted a bus stop about a hundred meters in front of me! The kicker came when the original 66 that I so hastily jumped off of passed me on its way to the Park and Ride. Yup. Apparently, if I had waited patiently on that bus, it would have looped around after the run throughKanata and hit the Park and Ride.

            There were some factors that worked in my favour before you all begin to laugh at me (and it is laughable, chuckle away, I dare you). I had put on flats that day. My feet were not subjected to walking the 2 kilometres in heels on a soft shoulder. After previous posts mentioning my feet, I think you can begin to appreciate what a boon this was. The weather was spectacular. I even noticed later that evening I had tan lines where my ballet style slippers/shoes ended. My chest was slightly pink (gotta dig out that sunscreen. As a co-worker so gently put it – I am practically fluorescent with my white skin!) and the freckles stood out a little more clearly on my nose. I had also remembered so diligently to charge my iPod before leaving, so I was suitably entertained.

            Throughout this whole comedy of errors, I was still receiving text messages from the friend whose conversation made me take the wrong bus in the first place (are you reading this? I know you’ll have something to say to me about blaming you!). All of them making fun of me. It’s okay. I can take it! I have thick skin when it comes to stuff like this. The kindest one quipped that at “least I didn’t have to go running that night”. It’s true. I had gotten my exercise. So before I start writing posts about my expertise in navigating the public transportation system of Ottawa(and hey, I’m hardly a pro – I do only have to take one bus and look what happened there!) I should learn a little humility and realize that even the best of us make mistakes. Right?

Cooking for one…plus ten.

            Since my soon-ex-husband-to-be and I broke up last January, I’ve been perfecting my culinary skills. I’ve always been a decent cook – I was able to make a nice meal with or without a recipe as a guideline, had a few specialties here and there, and had stolen a lot of my mom’s recipes which she had inherited from her own mother’s stash that were childhood favourites. To be perfectly honest, I can’t fault my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s flair for making a delicious meal. And he did the bulk of the cooking. When we think of the proverbial family cook, we think of a Betty-Crocker type 50’s housewife, complete with apron and a smile pasted on her face, not a hair out of place, whose sole purpose is to satisfy her 2.3 children and toiling husband with a meal that could be a Canadian Living centrefold. The reality, at least for anyone I know, is trying to make everyone as happy as possible, with a budget of both time and money and often failing. “What do you want for supper?” is the popular question. “I don’t know,” comes the answer. And when you finally present a meal, the popular whine, “we’re having that?!”, which coincidentally makes you want to strangle the people you love most in your life out of pure frustration. If you’re anything like me, this is when my ex-husband-to-be started doing the bulk of the cooking. Apparently my extra-sensory perceptiveness was broken. How could I know you had chicken for lunch unless you pick up a phone to tell me?

            So went a long period of supper at odd hours, and even stranger menu choices. Breakfast for supper was popular – pancakes took mere minutes to make, and filled us up. Barbequing was also something fairly easy – I would do the prep work and he would “cook”. Ever since my unfortunate experience of burning my eyebrows off while attempting to fire up the grill as a teenager,  I’ve been in a state of perpetual fear that the BBQ was quickly trying to annihilate me. Besides – to barbeque is a man’s job, and I had no problems with that one bit of male-stereotype that drew a pretty clear line that the woman could prepare and clean up, as well as serve, but the tongs belonged in her man’s hands. Cooking for two was easier than cooking for one, and our child was so young, that the bulk of his food was still coming from jars that needed a 15 second zap in the microwave to prepare. Oh those golden days. So easy to feed and satisfy!

            Another mode of cooking that became a main-stay of our diet was eating crock-pot meals. Beef and Beer? Who wouldn’t be happy combining two of the most delicious things known to man/womankind, slowly cooked and served over pasta/mashed potatoes (depending on who you asked)? A lovely roast slow-cooked with onion soup, all mixed in with carrots and onions…beauty. So, I did occasionally make the effort, but as the relationship started to suffer, my efforts in the kitchen suffered as well. If you’re reading, soon-ex-husband-to-be – my apologies. Thank goodness you loved to cook, and gauging by your waist-line – you did alright!

            Moving back into your parents’ house is never easy, for both parties. We all shuffled around the kitchen, trying to split the task equally. There was the same frustration trying to decide on a meal. Our tastes were drastically different. There were things that I couldn’t eat, or someone else wouldn’t eat. I’m not a picky eater by anyone’s standards. I like to be adventurous, and I bravely clip new recipes from magazines, or scout out the best new alfredo sauces on Google. There are, however, several things you can’t get me to eat no matter what is at stake. Mushrooms – raw with dip, in salads, a wonderful addition to any entrée. Cook them and I won’t touch it with a ten foot pole. Slimy things that overpower almost anything you make with their taste. Why ruin a perfectly good steak with sautéed mushrooms? A sauce with minced Portobello? I’ll have a Peanut butter sandwich instead, thank you. Feta, just doesn’t sit well with my digestion. Pineapple is a lovely fruit – put it on pizza and watch my face fall instantly. On ham? Um…ham is meant to be salty deliciousness. Keep the sweet to yourself.

            Sometimes, I love my mother for her creativeness. She will try a recipe while at a friend’s house for a dinner party and insist on subjecting us to it when she has the energy. Cashew Pork Tenderloin, Chinese Salad, Tarragon Sauce over Prime Rib – some of them are quite tasty. The biggest fail, to date, has to be her Rosemary Maple Chicken. Rosemary Potatoes are lovely. No one loves maple syrup more than me. And being on Atkins, chicken is a staple of my diet. While still in my teens, my mother purchased the necessary ingredients, thrilled that the Maple Syrup was local, the rosemary fresh, and the chicken at that time was still being shipped to us in boxes for our freezer from my uncle who is a butcher. The smell was interesting, and my stomach felt slightly off. Once the concoction came out of the oven, I could barely hold my gorge. One bite, and I was done. Some things are never meant to go together, and to this day, I sometimes get a feeling of slight malaise at the thought of rosemary and chicken…talk about adding maple syrup and I have to do cleansing breaths (which I am effectively doing as I type this).

            No one complained much on my cooking nights. I lived in a house of people who were not fussy eaters, and even when presented with a dish that wasn’t their favourite, still managed to clean their plates and be appreciative of the effort. I have to admit, my creativeness was severely lacking. My recipe books were packed, I was struggling with trying to put things back together in my own life, and was just proud that I managed to cook while keeping Myles entertained and fed. Those were the days when he still fell asleep like a rock once 6pm rolled around, leaving my evenings open and free to start supper while feeding him, and finishing once he was asleep.

            You get used to cooking for four adults (well…three and one almost adult). Recipes and grocery stores all conspire to dole out ingredients and meal plans for the regular family of four or five. Everything was easy to make, with little left-over and no waste. I learned to shop for groceries for these amounts, and everything was overly simplistic. When I made plans to move out on my own, I was eager to keep making the same portions – I could freeze what I didn’t eat and have lunches for the rest of the week! It would be perfect. Except I wasn’t counting on a few extra variables.

            For almost a year, my boxes from the separation sat untouched in my parents’ garage. I assumed that most of the dishes and kitchen supplies (having been graciously donated by my mother) were neatly tucked away in boxes, waiting for me to unpack and wash them and put them away. I moved everything in December, and as I unpacked, the pile of boxes was getting smaller, and all I had located were plastic spoons for Myles, Tim Hortons disposable small paper coffee cups and a cheese grater, nestled inside my slow-cooker. I narrowed my eyes, sat back on my heels for a few minutes and tried to remember exactly what the agreement was regarding my kitchen wares. Frustrated, and angry that I would actually have to call my soon-to-be-ex-husband, I picked up the phone to politely inquire where everything was. Apparently, I lost the kitchen in the divorce. Pots, pans, knives and all. The microwave had been donated to his place of employment without my knowledge or consent (I could have USED that!!!), and everything was still in his brother’s garage, collecting dust. I engaged in a heated verbal debate, insisting that he didn’t need the kitchen supplies – he had plans to move in with his girlfriend in April! I succinctly asked him if he was planning on saving the kitchen boxes for his next divorce. Yep. Not my finest hour, I’ll admit.

            The result of that fight was that my utensils and plates were returned. My mother donated a few other pieces to tide me over, and I was making do. Christmas yielded a few other pieces. I found myself not cooking anymore. I was snacking in the evenings, and only making sure Myles had a proper meal (which given the fact he’s a picky toddler now, was not easy). With my newfound freedom of living on my own, things changed. I found myself to be a social butterfly, making connections with old friends as well as new friends. Nights Myles wasn’t home turned into “Adventure Nights”. Social engagements with friends, running, or working late. Getting home at nine pm was not conducive to cooking a large meal or anything at all nutritious. Something had to change. I was spending a small fortune feeding myself at lunch. It was tasty, but I could be saving lots of money, and my groceries were slowly rotting in my fridge (I was hesitant to open the door, lest the smell of decomposing lettuce escape and stink up my apartment).

            The catalyst to solving my problem was in my newfound social status of all places. I had lots of friends – my female friends were pretty much tied up in serious relationships, but my male friends were largely single, and always looking for a free meal. My apartment became Grand Central Station for visitors – Maddison was curious at all the strangers and in the absence of my large German Shepherd that I had, would dutifully play the role of guard bird – getting off her cage and making sure everyone kept a reasonable distance, and was extremely protective of me. If anything, people seem to be more hesitant about a bird a fraction of the size – that beak is daunting, apparently! I dusted off my recipe book and starting cooking again. Nothing akin to the mere preparation of the banal foods I was creating at my mother’s house, but real food. Roasted chicken with herbed skin, steamed vegetables and basmati rice. Stuffed pork tenderloin and roasted potatoes. Garlic infused roast beef with Yorkshire pudding.

            I renewed my interest in baking. Not that I eat the stuff. Tried my hand at red velvet cupcakes. Homemade loaves of bread, which were given away with pride. I was back, baby! The only sour note in all this was the fact that Myles would not eat any of it. Add my own dietary needs to the mix. I was on Atkins, but regularly making foods laden with carbohydrates. While my intentions were to cook for myself, I ended up feeding many people. Consider it cooking for myself…plus anyone else that was interested. I realized I had a problem with cooking too much food when one co-worker started asking me without fail on Wednesdays what I was planning on bringing into work that Friday.

            I have since toned down the mass production of meals for others. I make enough for myself for suppers and for lunch, and I still have the occasional person over for supper. I enjoyed my stint as “chef” and won’t miss the teasing from some people in my life who wonder why I enjoy torturing myself by cooking food I can’t exactly enjoy. To them I say…. “no more soup for you!” Or something along those lines.

Vanity and how Mornings work against me

 

            Further to my post about riding the bus, I’m an observant human being and I’m commonly known to self-label as an “Information Gatherer”. I like to people watch, and one of the chief reasons I sit out on a patio when grabbing a drink with someone downtown is to see the city walk by and the individuals within it. Ottawa is an interesting city – I lived in Calgary briefly and found that while absolutely stunning, and still remains one of my favourite places in the world I’ve been to date, that the people are generally the same, and there isn’t the amount of variety you see when walking downtown Ottawa. (Although, in retrospect, this may be because I was primarily immersed in the horse show scene and spending weekends inBanff). Each area ofOttawa is vastly different than the one before it. Somerset Street West in Chinatown, Centretown, the Glebe – all have something different to offer in terms of the people who reside there, shop in their stores and dine in their restaurants. Some may argue that the downtown core ofOttawa during the week doesn’t offer much variety at all. The Government and Political staff hit an 8 block radius in force, and therefore suits, ties, heels and skirts are the official garb seen adorning the people that hurry from building to building during business hours. Please remember that my observations are limited to daytime hours – my knowledge ofOttawa’s colourful nightlife has been explored in a very limited, albeit enthusiastic fashion.

            For a girl (excuse me, young woman) who wants to be unique (just like everyone else, mind you) and stand out (but not in a Mohawk-wearing, piercings in my eyeball kind of way), I’ve actually surprised myself by conforming to the “Daytime Downtown Ottawa Dress Code” quite easily. I own nice pants, skirts, dresses, and my coveted two pairs of high heels. For someone with feet as large as I have, finding shoes is an issue. I walk slowly past shoe stores in malls, downtown and feel an empty ache in my heart for all the beautiful size seven shoes displayed in their windows that I can’t wear. High heels in all shapes, colours and textures. Knee-high leather boots for the winter and strappy, smart sandals for summer. Sighing, usually, I take small comfort in the fact that I can at least purchase shoes from Payless. For anyone with size eleven or twelve feet, you can empathize with my situation. At the very end of the aisle, the size eleven and twelve sections are like an after-thought, their selection poor, and for the most part in conservative, guaranteed-to-sell styles and colours. I often leave there, frustrated, and to add insult to injury, walking out the door, I don’t even reach the 5’4” notch on the measuring markers that are beside the door to be able to identify the height of a thief. I feel like a circus clown standing beside a sign that reads, “Must be X Inches tall to ride this ride.”

            In all honesty, I take ribbing quite well. I can usually dole out witty and snappy comebacks just as well as I can take it. I’ve been teased for my diminutive height, fear of spiders, short legs, and even occasionally my choice in dress (when I’m having the proverbial “fat” day and wear clothes that, while workplace appropriate, are far too big for me in order to make me feel more comfortable), but the one thing I take great offense to is people teasing me about my feet. I never wear socks and I think sandals were invented to be worn once the temperature is above five degrees Celsius when the snow is gone. But my poor feet have had a hard go of it. Bone spurs, zero arch (picture cartoon penguins, minus the derogatory waddle that you’re imagining now), wide feet and surgically altered toes (a very long and funny story there, probably blog worthy). So while I may laugh at your jokes about my feet politely, keep in mind, I don’t appreciate your good-natured teasing in the long run. I am not a shopper, or care that much about having the perfect wardrobe, but if there were some new and magical surgery that could shrink my feet and enable me to go shopping at a regular shoe store, my closet would sport a shoe collection that would rival Carrie’s on “Sex and the City” in terms of size and diversity. As an addendum to this paragraph, I must tell you that I’ve only seen one episode of S and the C, but what I took away was her obsession for $1500+ designer shoes.

            My clothing is another matter altogether. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight over the past couple of years and yo-yoed a little bit due to some lingering and unexpected health problems. While in volume it appears I have quite a bit of choice, in reality it’s very difficult to find something to wear on a regular basis. I’ve purchased one item here, one item there, all in different sizes. So I have old jeans with more holes than a cheese grater in case Dave Grohl reverts back to his Nirvana days and Grunge is the new style, the obligatory work pants, some old faded riding breeches complete with hoof oil stains on the seat, short skirts, long skirts and some cute dresses. All in various sizes from “glad I can’t fit into those anymore” and “I wish I could fit into these right now”. Of tops the variety is endless – t-shirts all colours of the rainbow, work shirts, and a collection of cozy sweat shirts and shirts that I only dare to try on and quickly put them back on their hanger, promising myself that one day I would wear them, however low-cut or form fitting or ugly they may be. I have an inherent problem with throwing clothes out. I still have pieces from high school (that I still wear) in my closet, and pants get discarded when the seat rips out of them. Holes in the legs? Pockets? Just wear something underneath them!

            I don’t spend much time thinking about my wardrobe options. I am somewhat aware of the colours I like, or what looks good, and try and dress appropriately for the correct social or professional situation. Sometimes I’m right on the mark, and other times, I am fortunate enough that I work with people and have good enough friends that they will tell me when I’ve made a fashion faux-pas. I wear a lot of jeans and t-shirts with a ball cap on the weekend, or something suitable for some adventures. Underwear? Functional, without being “Bridget Jones’ Diary” granny style embarrassing, or skimpy enough that the woman next to me who picks up the same pair is perusing in order to parade them in front of a bunch of people for her “profession”. A happy medium. Safe, solid colours.

            My one weakness, and something of which I have in abundance and in many styles, is pyjama pants. Cotton, flannel, microfleece, even one linen pair. I. Love. PJs. The first order of business coming home at night, whether I have been working all day, and even if I have a child yelling for chicken or watermelon NOW, the very very first thing I do is change my clothes and put on pj pants. The comfort, the cute patterns and styles are something that no matter if my weight fluctuates 5 pounds, if I have large feet, if I have perfectly coiffed hair or a messy bun, always look and feel wonderful. Bloated? No worries! Loosen the ties. Lost some weight? See previous answer in reverse. Easy to get on, easy to get off. Great for jogging. Great for lounging. Great for cleaning!

            I don’t take this infatuation to a level where I wear them out in public. I don’t care too much what others think of what I’m wearing, but in order to avoid looks of disgust, when I go horseback riding and need to make a post-riding errand to the store, I wear my half-chaps and boots as a visual explanation to the fecund odour that permeates from my clothing. Same thing with pjs. I always thought if I ever went out, I’d need bunny slippers and a terry cloth robe. Maybe a coffee cup!

            I used to feel much the same way about my hair and makeup. Makeup was expensive and took too much time to apply. My hair always grew so fast and was so thick and wavy/curly it was hard to manage. Being the oldest of three girls in my family, I look back and realized that I’ve failed my sisters in setting a proper example for makeup and fashion trends. I wore Birkenstocks in high school and jeans almost exclusively. I’ve been sporting the messy bun look for more than a decade. My idea of makeup was a little blush on a Friday, and I had the habit of biting my nails. My younger-older sister has always known how to apply perfect eye makeup. I’ve always been jealous of her pin-straight hair, cat-like eyes and svelte figure. My younger-younger sister has been the same way – clothes from the trendiest store, hair always perfectly done. It’s a little embarrassing for me to admit that the first time I straightened my hair was in 2010 and my baby sister had to show me how to do it.

            My ability to apply makeup comes from lessons from my younger-older sister, the woman at the Mac Makeup counter and Seventeen magazines left in the basket in the washroom at my mother’s house. I think I do quite well – being blessed with blemish-free skin inherited from both sides of the family, I require very little to look presentable. A little mineral powder, some blush and eyeliner are what I usually wear every day, and if I’m feeling exotic, some lipstain and lipgloss. The most makeup I’ve ever worn is on stage, and the last thing I feel like wearing is a veritable Halloween mask of foundation to keep up with the rest of the stunning women I run into downtown.

            This all being said, anyone who knows me at all, knows that I’m not a morning person. I have the awful habit of being a serial snooze button hitter, and often rushing around in the morning. I’ve perfected getting myself and my child ready for the morning in 34 minutes or less. I jump out of bed, throw some food together for Myles, and hit the shower. If I manage to get up with my alarm, I will straighten my hair. However, for the past two weeks, I’ve been waking up 5 or 6 minutes before the last possible time I must leave. I noticed it seemed to be the days I had Myles, and couldn’t remember hitting that button on my phone to silence the alarm. I can usually remember making that mistake, and I was a little confused as to why Myles was waking me up so late. Until last Wednesday morning. I felt movement beside me. The little guy had snuck into bed with me again sometime through the middle of the night, and he was quietly getting out of bed at 4:30, walking to my cell phone and turning off the alarm. His desire to spend time with me and to sleep in a little later had him learning how to disarm the alarm on my phone so he could get an extra hour of sleep. My almost-three-year-old, who still needed help guiding his arms through sleeves in shirts while dressing in the morning could use my cell phone with the ease of any adult.

            Any mother knows that at some point we trade vanity for functionality. I’ve never been one for particularly caring about the way that I look. My mother, while I was in high school, was fond of saying at least I didn’t care what anyone thought of how I dressed. At the time, I took it as a compliment – I had the confidence to wear what I wanted, and didn’t care to keep up with trends. These days I look back and wonder if she was really insulting me, and thought my wardrobe choices were poor at best. I guess I’ll never know.

            My abilities to go to bed at a decent hour also affect my ability to look and dress like a normal professional in downtownOttawa. Every night when I settle down on my couch with my laptop, I have the best intentions to go to bed before 11pm. Somehow that’s morphed into going to bed before 12:30. Getting less than 5 hours sleep (6 or 7 when Myles resets my alarm), doesn’t do wonders for the bags under my eyes, and usually has me procrastinating in the morning (such dirty words – procrastination, morning…). I have thanked God more than once for coffee, makeup and the time on the bus to regroup. I was told as recently as last night, that I’m an attractive girl, and even look pretty when I take time to put on makeup. A true sign that I’m aging – I’m prettier WITH makeup instead of the regular comment I used to get where I didn’t “need that warpaint”. Ouch.

            So I guess you could say I’m a work in progress. I’ve graduated from the uber-casual Equine Canada days where a dress up day was when I wore something other than jeans, but I haven’t quite attained the morning ritual that ensures I look fabulous (for me) every single day. Maybe I’ll eventually take more of an interest in my appearance and buy a tamper-proof alarm clock. And mount it out of a toddler’s reach.

My last week at work

It’s time to face facts – I am almost done my first government contract. I’ve been putting it out of my mind for some time now, but it’s time to reflect upon the seven months I’ve spent working for and with some of the best people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in quite some time. After taking some time off due to extensive health issues, having Myles, etc etc, I found my job prospects quite dim – people want to see you employed recently, and one of the most commonly asked questions, was why I had not been working. Prospective employees are more attractive if they’ve had a job in two years apparently, and being a mom doesn’t count (what – playing nurse, chauffeur, chef and on-call at the drop of a hat isn’t important?).

Many friends and family members give me a hard go about the amount of time and stock I put into Facebook. There was a time, believe it or not, during my Equine Canada days that I had a serious issue with social networking sites – this was during the MySpace heydays, and Facebook had only been in existence a short time. A few colleagues had accounts and loved how it was easier to find people vs the original Classmates forum to reconnect with people they barely spoke to when they were actually in school. This electronic age has made us all very eager to speak to people that ordinarily we’d ignore or avoid if we ran into them in the grocery store. We duck into another aisle, turn around, or offer a polite hello. But for some reason, we have an urge to add them as “Friends” and let them read the most intimate and personal details of our day to day life (if you post with the frequency that I do). I did go through a fallow period where my posts were sporadic at best. I didn’t have internet for a few of these periods, and struggling with becoming a mom, a failing marriage, I didn’t feel like connecting with anyone, much less myself.

As I re-invented myself, learned who I was again, I found myself discovering music, art and the like and I was drifting back online more and more. I added new people, met with old friends for coffee and summarily deleted people I wasn’t talking to. My friend list ballooned, and then was pared down again, and I learned how to navigate the social networking world. One of these people that remained on my list and who I had fond memories of, was a good friend from high school. We were in the school band, and ran in some of the same social circles, with many mutual Facebook friends. I had been trying for years to break into government employment. They paid well, there was a great pension when you got in permanently and I’d always had an interest in public service. My father had been a public servant for years, and had always enjoyed the people he met and the interesting contracts. When my friend posted that they needed someone for his department, I sent him my CV immediately, not really thinking much about it.

A few months later and going through my security clearance and a short interview, I was an official employee for the agency I’m finishing with now. It wasn’t without it’s challenges. I don’t think I ever told anyone how scared I was that first day! Dressed in professional gear for the first time in almost three years, a pair of heels that after walking a block and a half from the parking garage (yes, I was dumb enough to park downtown in those days) that were destroying my feet, I was literally shaking in my shoes. Starting a new job in a staff meeting is even more daunting. A wonderful forum for meeting the people you work with and learning about what they do (what exactly, IS ATIP and Parl Affairs? ccm What?), I was lost in the conversation, could not add anything constructive and for the first time in history, speechless. Anyone who knows me at all, knows I suffer from a serious case of over-zealousness and have no problem contributing to almost any conversation. My last serious job I was an expert in my field, even from the first day I was able to contribute intelligently to any discussion on virtually any topic. I had no idea in this new world what to say or what to do. The acronyms were frightening, the pace a little dizzying, and I felt a little behind the eight-ball. Here I was, in an office, sitting in front of piles of blue dockets, and files labelled “To Do” and I had no clue how to do my job. I felt like a burden, always asking my ever-patient co-workers exactly how to complete simple tasks. I’m embarrassed these days to admit some of the things that I asked how to do!

I am happy to report that time was my friend. I learned the ins and outs of Ministerial Correspondence and Briefing Materials and still have to explain to my Grandmother that I don’t work at Parliament Hill – my office is close, but not THAT close. I’ve learned that working for my particular unit, you are required to be a jack of all trades, and master of ALL. I’ve gotten the opportunity to perform what we affectionately call “Binder Magic” (although my friend’s skill for it far surpasses mine, and I’m always awed at the things he knows!) , perfect my mediocre French skills by filling in daily in Reception for the Minister of State (Il n’est pas disponible, malheurseusement!) and becoming an expert at finding information at the drop of a hat for Travel and Hospitality on the Treasury Board website. I can use our tracking system with ease, and have even helped the “newbies” find their way around.

Our new office is great too – I get to share our little corner space looking out over the river and museum with two fabulous people. We regularly make fun of each other (which makes one of my colleagues “cross”), have very diverse and sometimes differing tastes in music, and share our “adventures” with each other all the time. I always thought I had plans before working with these folks. Apparently, we have adventures instead. Sometimes with each other, and an adventure can be as simple as an appointment at the bank, or a date. The latter we must share the results with the next morning, once we’ve settled with our coffee/tea/breakfast. These people have become an integral part of my life, and as I find my time drawing to a close, I feel melancholy and wonder who I’ll talk to every morning about the various goings-ons in my world. The people I work with are not only wonderful friends, but wonderful, conscientious employees. I’ve never worked for a unit where people work together so well. We don’t talk behind each others’ backs. We collaborate. When things get busy and we can help pick up the slack we do. We transcend the job description barrier and have helped each other do everything from editing, vetting emails and the menial task of filing with gusto and appreciation. For the first time I understand the cliche “There is no I in team.”

These people and this job has seen me through some big changes in my life. Moving out on my own for the first time. Our receptionist acted as witness to my separation agreement with my soon to be ex-husband. Losing weight, losing a boyfriend, gaining new friends, my foray into running, a surprise birthday party, Christmas, my super-glue adventure…the list goes on. We all have personal lives, and we work to support ourselves, but what a lot of people forget is that most of our waking hours are spent with people we can’t choose – we get hired and are thrust into this professional environment and it’s luck of the draw. The Corporate Secretariat where I work are full of nothing but people had I hand chosen, could not be more pleasurable to work with. Round table at our meetings is fun. The training sessions we partake in are informative and we have a great opportunity to learn. We have celebrated some great milestones and enjoy occasionally, a drink after work. I look forward to work. Overtime was fun – turn up the music, kick off the shoes and get into it.

This is my last week. I know that there will be tears on my end. I know that no matter where I end up, I will remember fondly for years the friends I’ve made and the patience these people have had for me. I will walk a distance to have lunch, or even bus downtown if I’m not local. Things will change, we will all move around. But in case I don’t articulate properly at work this week – you’ve made this experience one I’ll never forget and one that was completely worth it!

Happy Mother’s Day

A short post to celebrate all mothers I know, including mine.  I do not have Myles with me today, but got a wonderful phone call from him where he wanted to do nothing but sing the Alligator song, and I found out he got his hair cut. It’s moments like these that make me realize that my ex-husband-to-be and I are in this together, and there is someone else on this earth that loves my child every bit as much as I do. I appreciate him doing something simple that will make my life a lot easier!

As far as the rest of my day goes – couch surfing, relaxing and spending Mother’s Day as it should be spent – quietly with nothing much to do at all.

To all my friends, my own mother, and family who have children, I want to wish you a wonderful day and hope that someone did something nice for you. This is the most important and fulfilling job in the world, and we are the luckiest people for getting to experience it!

I love you Myles! This is my third mother’s day and I love you more each day, and can’t imagine my life without you!

The Know-it-all Factor

            This post is for anyone who has ever had a child, and for anyone thinking they may want a child. At one point in my life, the main source of my income was teaching horseback riding to children and teenagers. I spent summers organizing summer camps, and the year I was 18 even spent a summer living in a residential camp, where we had at any given time approximately 60 children living on the farm with us, in cute little cabins. The cabins were aptly named after Thoroughbred race horses, however, had shower stalls the size of an Iron Maiden and bunk beds that if you opted to sleep on top, you ended up with perpetual headaches from smacking your head on the ceiling. Thankfully, kids seem to have an affinity for sleeping above ground level, and we could claim our spot underneath and safely awake each morning, sans goose-egg decorated heads.

            Horseback riding is a female dominated sport, especially at the grass-roots level. I have encountered countless little girls who adorn their rooms with posters of ponies and have read every single Saddle Club book that has ever been written. Girls who, would never clean their rooms at home and groan at the prospect of doing chores, but eagerly muck out stalls and spend countless hours picking out hooves and idolizing their instructors. Which made it easy for me to want children myself. The personal gratification and ego boost I got coaching put me in a position where I imagined motherhood to be an easy and satisfying endeavour – full of daily rewards, acquiescence and perfectly behaved children. After all, I could get anyone else’s children to listen to me, for an hour a week. They must have not have the same propensity towards parenthood that I obviously did.

            When we decided to have Myles, it was around the time of our wedding. Mired in wedding plans, and busy with the horses at home, I was naïve and believed that I could do it all. MY baby would be perfect. MY baby would sleep, love horses, be a girl and most importantly I would be a perfect parent. I looked with disdain upon other parents in grocery stores with screaming toddlers and boys with shaggy hair, telling myself that I knew it all. Does this sound familiar? When we hit about 14, we realize our parents are socially backwards, and that their knowledge of how the world works, relationships and what is best for us is something of a mystery to them, and our generation is blessed with a level of intuition and intelligence that far surpasses their education and life experiences that they have amassed collectively in their lifetime. For you want-to-be parents, this is a diatribe that is akin to your teenager know-it-all self attitude. Parenthood is a lesson in humility and patience.

            My dad always quoted George Bernard Shaw, and would fondly say “Youth is wasted on the young”. I’m not old by society’s standards (although, I’ve given up counting my grey hair, noticed that line in my forehead has become permanent and have officially become a “ma’am” to teenagers at the grocery store, bagging my sensible and nutritious goods), but I’ve gained some insight to life thus far, and the most sobering experience to date was becoming a mother. I still have friends who raise their eyebrows (a physical task that I am sad to say, I don’t have the muscular finesse for, which I plan on perfecting by the time my son is a teenager) when Myles screams or utters a defiant “NO” to a simple task, and I can read their thoughts like a cheap carnival fortune teller does to make a quick buck. Their opinions of my parenting style, my son’s behaviour and my choices run across their face, and inwardly, I chuckle. I get it. I know what you’re thinking. I know what you think of Myles throwing himself on the floor of a public venue, or what you must think of his artfully decorated chubby toddler hands, complete with numbers, letters and shapes, in pink pen no less.

            The only predictions I made that have actually came to fruition was the fact that I loved being a mother, and loved my child unconditionally (loved…there are moments when I feel the need to lock myself in the bathroom and count to ten – for HIS protection) and that I had the best infant that I’ve met to date. A lengthy and painful labour, major surgery was the only price I had to pay and it was worth it. My baby slept through the night almost instantly – ate everything that was in front of him for the first year of his life, and was a placid, smiling child. A delight to everyone. Maybe that first year was a reprieve to let me rest and prepare of things yet to come, but at the time it was a gift and one I will remember fondly for the rest of my life.

            I maintain that I’m not a stubborn individual, yet as I age, I find myself describing who I am to new people, and obstinate, stubborn and firm seem to creep their way into my vocabulary. Coupled with my ex-husband-to-be’s personality, the poor child was made of hard stuff indeed. Children have stubborn built into them. They are crafty masters of deception, and will fight to the bitter end for the cause. No does not mean no. No means try harder. If we could carry this sense of purpose and clarity, we would all have what we want. However, society dictates that we can’t roll on the floor and cry and scream at the fiftieth no, no matter how badly we may want to. Us adults are blessed with an inner switch that usually prevents that behaviour. Usually. And Myles unfortunately has genes that scream stubborn all over them.

            When Myles hit his second birthday, I marvelled at the fact that he was not a hard child to manage. I breathed a sigh of relief. “I did it,” I thought to myself proudly, “I have officially made it to what is supposed to be the terrible twos, without physical scars, psychiatric evaluation, or putting my child on eBay to the highest bidder. I’m a model mother.” While officially agnostic, I’ve come to appreciate Woody Allen’s off-the-cuff remark “If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.” Or tempt the powers-that-be with your self-satisfied, smug attitude. Who needed Parent magazine? Obviously I knew better than the experts. (I’ve reverted back to this in a slightly different capacity – I take advice with a grain of salt and go with my gut instincts). The summer was quiet and relaxing, with daily strolls around the block, through the trees, with Myles calmly strapped in a stroller, hands full of flowers and weeds that I picked for him along the way.

            We neared two and a half and things began to change. Food became an obstacle – trying to adequately provide somewhat nutritious meals was becoming a challenge that was increasing with difficulty by the day. My quiet and happy toddler learned how to scream. And that screaming immediately garnered attention to his merriment and delight. Slamming doors, throwing toys and testing the limits of a mother’s love and devotion was commonplace. *Sigh*. We had entered the terrible twos. Every time I believed I was getting a handle on the situation, like a scientific experiment, Myles would add a new variable and we would be back to square one. I spent a whole weekend coated in dust, bruises adorning my legs, searching for my “What to Expect:The Toddler Years” book in the garage, packed away because I was the Perfect Mother. I hoarded Parent magazines, consulted websites, and kept my growing frustration a secret from everyone but my mother. It seemed the only thing that he didn’t do (thank you, thank you Myles for small miracles) was bite or hit (okay…hit HARD). My complete inexperience with little boys became a source of disappointment in myself and my newly minted status as a single mom terrified me. Custody of Myles was changing and he was spending more time with his father. I spent my spare time falling asleep sitting up on my bed, with a laptop on my lap, drool pooling at the corner of my mouth out of sheer exhaustion.

            Lately I’ve been playing within the rules of the toddler game. I always thought as a young child, that my mother was the fount of knowledge and I was completely terrified of her. She had the answers! She had the magical power to take away the things I held most dear. I’ve found myself thinking about how she handled situations when I was young, and I have recently realized that she lost her temper at times. She wasn’t the perfect mother, but she was a real, live, human being with flaws and strengths. Some strengths I continue to draw on is her constant ability to stand her ground on any issue (I think I know where my stubborn streak comes from) and her responsibility for her children. No one could, or still can, make things better like my mom does. I’ve always thought that I must win every single battle and every single fight. Compromise was not an option – to compromise would be to show weakness, and your child is almost like an enemy in battle – show weakness and they will hammer away at that small crack in the foundation and wear you down.

            The reality is very different. There have been nights that baths don’t happen (thank God for baby wipes), when he eats an abundance of yogurt and crackers instead of rice and chicken (hey, protein is protein) and we get through grocery shopping by adding a watermelon to the cart. Watermelon is like toddler-crack, for lack of a better term, and everyday on the way home from his childcare provider, I always get three questions. Number one being, “That way? Donald’s? Chicken FRIES!” and a follow up by singing the theme song to McDonald’s (my heart skips a beat, he is ever so musical, and right on key! Never mind that he somehow knows where every McDonald’s is located in the city ofOttawa. Walmart McDonald’s too). The second is “Grammy’s house?” and indicates with his grubby index finger the exact direction. He has inherited my freak sense of direction – many detours around the block trying to trip him up and make him forget which direction McDonald’s is in have not exactly worked. Like a savant, his ability to act as a human compass means I have a second person in the vehicle that has a “gut” feeling that we may be going the right direction. And coupled with that, he’s just as bad a backseat driver as his mother. The third has become the most viable and popular option. The grocery store.

            My child has yet to learn that he won’t always have the metabolism he does now, and his ability to eat vast quantities of food have been fodder for Facebook status updates and calls to the doctor to ensure that his gluttonous tendencies are in fact temporary. (Why did she laugh so hard when I asked that?) But in order to deter him from cookies, his only junk food addiction, I frequently give into the watermelon craze. Along with the watermelon obsession (and he will eat ALL the watermelon. I have to hide anything that’s left or forget about eating moderately healthy that night!), he’s developed a real taste, a specific taste for music, which includes Kings of Leon, Train, Dio and Iron Maiden as well as Wasp (the metal being an influence purely from his father, much to my horror). And I made the mistake of teaching him the ever popular Girl Guide’s “Alligator” song. And his toddler mind cannot comprehend that no matter how badly he wants it, I can’t put it on the radio for his listening pleasure. According to him, I just don’t know how to turn the dials the right way to produce it on command.

            So, yes, occasionally I may bribe him with Toy Story, feed him an inordinate amount of fruit and sing the Alligator song until I loathe the very thought of singing it ever again. But these small concessions allow me to guide him in the right direction, distract him from evil deeds, and give me a bargaining chip to use in the future. So all of you mothers-to-be out there – your day of reckoning will come. Whether you are like me and have the perfect baby who morphs into a little person who can make noises at decibel levels that are illegal after 11pm at night, or a colicky baby that is the World’s Greatest Toddler, we all encounter difficulties, question our abilities to be a good parent, and learn how to shower under 3 minutes. We omit white from our wardrobes, want to start a petition to nominate the creators of Dora for Capital Punishment no matter how we may feel on that particular issue, live by the three-second rule and realize that we just may not  know everything. Growing up does not stop at 18. I feel like I’ve just begun.

The Bus Confessional.

On April 25th, 2005, I made a vow.  I would never ride OC Transpo, or any other bus ever again. My ex-husband-to-be (then my live-in boyfriend) and I had purchased a car and on that day (consequently the day before my first office job as an adult) I kissed public transit goodbye. My office was 6.8km away from our apartment, and my ex-husband-to-be’s office a mere 5.3km, and I hated the idea of having to balance bus schedules, being subjected to the constant rise in fares, and MOST importantly, being forced to share my personal 3 foot bubble with strangers who sometimes smelled interesting, started random conversations and on one occasion, accused me of trying to steal her grocery bag that was full of coupons, while sitting 2 rows back. I had had a job prior to my new office job which required me to work late shifts, and my ex had insisted (for my safety) on meeting me, which meant a lot of unnecessary bus rides. At least, I deemed them unnecessary.

We were thrilled after 5 months without a vehicle to finally have mobility. Freedom. A ride to and from Costco.

I managed to keep this promise and abstain from riding any sort of bus very easily. We moved to a house in the country which necessitated a vehicle, and we had acclimated ourselves to this completely new life with no difficulty. After all – I grew up in a rural community – I was always able to drive and public transportation meant a school bus, or sharing a ride with your friends in high school.

I have a confession to make. I broke my promise.

2010 was a busy year for me. Major surgery (more than once, actually), a separation from my husband whom I was with for more than 6 years and for the very first time I made preparations to live alone. Unless you count my busy toddler and a loquacious parrot. I had managed to re-enter the workforce after a mandatory 2 year “sabbatical” after a very old friend found me a job in the government. And, like most civil servants in the NCR, I had a job right downtown.

My experiences driving downtown have often been a terrifying ordeal. Seasoned in navigating potholes and washboard country roads, I avoided driving downtown like the plague. Downtown necessitated parallel parking! Cabs! One way streets! Drivers who have no peripheral vision and pedestrians who believed that jaywalking was license to own the road. One summer as a teenager, I drove downtown every afternoon to pick up my father after work. I had the perfect route mapped out – only one turn, right hand turn at that, and the second I reached his office I would eagerly jump into the passenger seat. The reason was two-fold – to avoid driving and making any left hand turns, and my father’s conjecture that I was a terrible driver. He was only half-right. Everyday the same remark. “They call it cycling season, but you aren’t allowed to kill any of them.” Don’t get me wrong. There are many responsible cyclists on the road. Then there are those who consider themselves both vehicle and pedestrian. The latter had me clutching at the steering wheel frantically, poised like a stereotypical geriatric driver, terrified I would hit one any second. Finally, even though I grew up in Ottawa, I had very little knowledge of the downtown core.

I digress.

I was getting used to doing more for myself and after a week of gas and parking costs downtown (to the tune of about $150), not to mention the constant traffic and mounting stress at having to face Kent street every morning, I took a good look at taking the bus again. I was fortunate enough that both the morning and afternoon bus stops were a scant city block (remembering that I’m used to our country “block” that measures roughly 2km all the way around) away from my new office. Without even purchasing a pass that would save me more money, I would be saving over $100 a week, plus the wear and tear on my poor car. Plus, there was the added bonus of expediency getting downtown, and I could read or listen to my iPod.

That first day I made a multitude of errors that make the seasoned bus commuter groan and/or cringe.

I was new to high heels. My very flat size twelve feet were inured to wearing riding boots, flats and most often, nothing at all. I had blisters and open sores that first week decorating my war-torn feet so it appeared that I was suffering from some sort of leprosy. Each night I dutifully soaked them and every morning I squeezed them back into my heels and hobbled to my car. Since I rode the bus during peak hours, most often I wouldn’t get a seat. My balance, while good on a horse, was severely lacking on a moving vehicle. The first day I managed to secure a seat, and breathed deeply, trying to ignore the people tight up against me. The second day was a different story. Pushed on the bus, I ended up in the middle of the aisle, having to hold onto the ominous grey strap hanging from the metal support rods. After making it to Bayshore, the giant curve heading to the Pinecrest stop affected my balance in such a way that I not only stumbled, but fell, knocking 5 poor people over into the seats and the door. I spent the rest of the ride avoiding dirty looks and comments muttered under their breaths.

Two days later, feeling more confident (and adroitly avoiding taking that particular bus where I played human dominoes), I realized that I had forgotten to pick up bus tickets. Rushing in the rain, looking like a lurching beast in dress pants due to the pain in my feet, I grabbed my $5 bill out of my pocket. I was angry for not having change, but became even angrier when I inserted a crisp $20 bill into slot and couldn’t retrieve it. I had a 5 minute argument with the driver who was attempting to merge on the Queensway on why I felt it was pertinent to try and fish it out with the tweezers I had in my purse in case of emergency. Our compromise? 4 transfers.

In the 6 months I’ve been taking the bus, I can now run 8 city blocks in 4 inch heels, navigate downtown without seeming like a tourist, or frightened of the world at large, and I always have bus tickets stashed away somewhere. I can stand in the middle of the aisle without knocking anyone over, and have even made good friends with one of my drivers. So the question – how do I actually feel about taking the bus? On one hand, a completely necessary evil. On the other hand? I can do a sudoku puzzle in under 5 minutes, a crossword puzzle in under six, and have read no less than 11 novels. I still get the occasional smelly individual, and have had to wake people up who consider me their personal pillow for a nap on the way home from work, but all in all, it’s not too bad.

And as I come to the end of my contract at my government agency, all I want to do is have a reason to ride the bus everyday.

Elections, Baileys and Text Messages

Growing up, I was never fully aware of which parties my parents voted for. I can’t recall discussing platforms, or the state of the government. I only knew one thing – we were staunchly Liberal. My parents remembered with great fondness the days of PET, and were witnesses to the Conservative government of the 80′s. Like most middle-class families, the main concern was education, healthcare and how much money the CRA would put back in their pockets in April.

My first foray into the world of politics was when I was living out West in Calgary. The year was 2004, an election was called for June 28th and the Liberals secured a minority government after three solid Liberal majority governments, dating back to 1993.  As with most first-time voters who are interested in democracy at work, I spent much of my spare time reading, watching debates and educating myself on the platforms of the various parties, their leaders and learned what the words fiscal responsibility meant (words I’m convinced that the government has omitted from their vocabulary since P.Martin was Finance Minister for Chretien). Oh those days. I was a dewy-eyed optimist. I made the critical mistake of going dancing in a country western bar, on the outskirts of Calgary and casually mentioned that the only party worth voting for was the Liberal Party. Those were the golden days of Alberta’s Conservative poster boy, Ralph Klein, and my flippant remarks did not go over well. I was hopelessly uneducated on what the platforms were *really* saying and recycling Economists’ and Journalists’ comments that I had heard on both the radio and the news. Have you ever been kicked out of a bar for causing a riot due to political leanings? I have. Sad, I know.

Since 2004, I have voted twice more, in 2006 and 2008. Each time, I get just as riled by the debates, just as excited sitting on my couch watching the results come in, and each election becomes more interactive, and I sit now on the couch with laptop open, Twitter tuned to Kady O’Malley and Facebook furiously running in the background, with a cell phone in my left hand. Conversations among my friends become heated debates about which party they plan on voting for, and which parts of the platforms appeal to them, or will directly affect their lives. It’s surprising – being part of the young generation (the statistical category of 18-35ers), you would expect a fair amount of Liberal voters – Liberals being open to gay rights, abortion and social programs. What was surprising was the amount of my friends that were supporters for the NDP, the Green Party and the Conservatives. Military friends admonished me for my ignorance on the Liberal’s stand on funding for the military, and other friends in a higher income bracket were outraged that I believed in the amount of social assistance the Liberal Party had in their platform that would be taken directly from their paycheques. As a single mom, the Liberal platform made a great deal of sense to me. But the personal debates and discussions were lively, at times heated and I am happy to say we can all meet on the other side of this most recent election and still BE friends.

Excited that I had the night off and PVR dutifully set to record what I would be missing due to previous social obligations, I prepared for what would be a long, but productive evening. Unfortunately the best laid plans, etc, and so forth, blah. I ended up having to pick up Myles from daycare. I decided in order to save gas I would pick up  Myles first, jet home quickly, pick up my voter registration card, and head to the polling station with gusto and introduce my son early to “democracy at work”. Not that he would remember of course. His chief concern was that we weren’t a) going to McDonald’s, and b) that he had run out of coloured circle stickers to paste to his face. So I voted with one hand making my mark and the second with a talon-like grip on his collar to keep him from running away from me. He must have been clairvoyant, and known what the evening was to bring.

So after some light house cleaning (I took out my nervous energy on my kitchen floor and did my weekly cleaning of the bird’s cage) and making chicken for Myles and a light supper for myself (seriously – who could eat at a time like this?) I took a quick shower, put him to bed and settled down with my laptop. When company came and it was clear my son was not going to sleep, I cajoled him into it by rubbing his back and promising things like more Dollar Store circle stickers and Cantaloupe in the morning (important almost-three-year-old things, don’t you know!). My guest for the first half of the evening is not Canadian and does not have the option of voting. I made the egregious error of ruining the evening by arguing my party’s platform and asking how my friend would vote had he been able to. Oh haunting memories of those days in Calgary. Quickly turning the topic of conversation to parenting and other important issues, we began watching as the results began to come in.

At heart, I’m an outgoing, gregarious and social type. I’m given to conversations about music, comedy, arts, television – pretty standard topics. But I think, deep down, the inner-geek shines through on occasion (I can hear friends snorting and laughing behind their monitors, since it’s a widely known fact I spend my alone nights editing Wikipedia articles and posting Schroedinger’s Cat jokes on Facebook).  Last night was one of those occasions. I was like a toddler hopped up on his first taste of sugar. I felt like I was hooked into a direct and effective line of caffeine – and the dose was dangerously high. I flitted from conversation to Twitter update, Facebook update to CBC. I was settled on the couch thoroughly entranced and ensconced by my small world of Canadian Politics at its finest.

By this time the results were coming in and I am pretty sure that my preoccupation and interest in what was happening was putting my friend to sleep – it was either that, or the fact that he was coping with recovery from a long day, a business trip and generally a busy life (lets go with the latter, I like to think I’m an interesting person at the best of times). So he made his exit and I said goodbye – cell phone in hand. My face at this time was slightly ashen and I was starting to realize that my party of choice was losing it’s stronghold in Atlantic Canada. My neighbour, obviously  enchanted with the results and just as interested as I was with what was quickly becoming Canadian Political history in the making, agreed to join me to watch the events unfold, so long as it was tuned to CTV.

I realized that in order to curb the amount of cursing I was doing (and in the process, most likely teaching my large parrot some choice words that she would spout out at an inappropriate time) and to soothe my nerves that a drink was in order. A quick search in my cabinet turned up a bottle of red wine with no label (hm…sketchy at best), half a bottle of Tequila (which actually belonged to said neighbour joining me), and a bottle of olive oil (what was THAT doing there?). Then, remembering that long ago before renouncing carbohydrates I had a bottle of Baileys stashed in the back of my fridge. Eschewing the need for coffee (I did NOT need more caffeine), I poured the rest of the bottle into a juice glass and retreated back to my spot on the couch.

Needless to say the rest of the evening is self-explanatory. Probably the highlight of the evening was a multitude of text messages from friends with similar political leanings (one from out west, the memories, again!) and a phone call which quickly morphed into topics other than politics. Oh, need I mention the resignation of Ignatieff and Duceppe?

So, all in all, finally at 3:30 am I was able to finally fall asleep.

I discovered a few things – politics really hype me up, and the residual effects of the election, alcohol and excitement have kept me in a state of perpetual nervous energy all day. I’m sure the torpor will hit. The question is when, and will I remember to get off the bus.

Facebook is not a blogging site.

I have a confession to make. I’m a Facebook blogger.

I came to this realization not too long ago when sitting around with friends and a (few) bottles of red wine I got the comment that I take the Facebook Post crown. I am forever posting updates, articles, and general fluffy things that I encounter in my day-to-day life.

So, while this first blog entry is short but sweet, it is my introduction into the world of blogging. I find myself gravitating towards friends’ blogs, reading their entries and following their lives as they candidly write about what happens with themselves, their families and the world around them.

Stay tuned. I have now joined the ranks.