It's been a week since Stan was evicted. The hysterectomy operation happened without any major complications, which allowed me to come home the same day. (I don't recommend that. I was roaming the house at 3am, in excruciating pain, nauseous, weak from hunger and wishing there was a nurse call button). I have 3 small incisions that seem to be healing nicely, and I get a bit better every day, unless I overdo it.
This surgery is forcing me to be patient, something that does not come easily to me. I'm used to soldiering on, teeth gritted, shoulders squared, pushing through pain, injury and whatever else my body throws at me. I don't do help. I do things myself. This time, however, my body has quietly and firmly said "no."
This recuperation is also forcing me to accept help. My momma taught me to be self-sufficient. I'm the one who supports everyone else, but I tend, as one of my very astute friends observed, to be "cat-like in pain" retiring and making do. Even coming out of the anasthesia last week, I was saying please and thank you to the nursing staff, and apologizing for bothering them when they had to help me shuffle to the washroom.
My husband has taken over the day to day running of the house. He's competent, he knows how to cook, he's made our daughter's lunches for school and gotten her there on time. He's had a couple of minor snags, like forgetting to send her water and milk one day in her lunch, or buying the frozen meatballs that I can't eat because they have garlic in them, but he's generally managed fine. He doesn't cook like I do, so the kid has been a little stressed, but nothing catastrophic. He's a good man and means well in everything he does. He brought me a coffee and donut in the recovery area at the hospital, because he knows how much I love my java, and reasoned I'd be hungry. He nearly sent the nurse into a cardiac arrest, but no danger, I was too nauseated from the surgery to even contemplate sniffing the coffee, much less inhaling it. I appreciated the gesture and the love behind it.
I've had to get help with things this week, and it's been hard. Have I mentioned I don't do help? I'll help anyone who needs it, but take care of my own affairs, thank you. The first time I had a shower after the surgery, my husband had to skulk in the bathroom with me to make sure I didn't pass out. My shower time is precious to me. I ponder things. I visualize worries and stresses washing down the drain. I find solutions to the niggling bits of writer's block. I find inspiration and subjects to write about when I'm not actively thinking about it. I've let my guard down and sobbed in the shower, only to straighten my shoulders and get on with things when I pull back the curtain. To have someone else in that space, no matter how reasonable and logical it was, was tough to take. What was especially hard, was that I was spent by the end of the shower and needed him to help me step out.
I haven't been able to drive, so my husband had to pick up my medications, my new glasses and drive me to the follow up appointment with the surgeon. I'm used to getting in my car and going. He doesn't mind. I do.
I can't lift anything over 5 lbs, including 2 bags of milk (I tried, to my peril). I can't lift most of the pots in our kitchen, so when my husband returns to work, I'll have to know what we are having for dinner so he can lift the pot out before he leaves. Our freezer normally has things on top of it. They all have to be moved so that I can get food out. I can't lift any of them. And while stubborn and determined are my usual modus operandi, I am not stupid enough to jeopardize my recovery by lifting more than I'm supposed to. Besides, it hurts.
My mother is stubbornly self-sufficient, refusing help and doing things herself. I am my mother's daughter, and that realization is disconcerting. A couple of my friends have brought us soup or casseroles. I am touched that they went to the effort, pleased that I don't have to worry about meal-planning and struggling with the notion that I have to accept help because I'm not quite up to it yet. It's hard when I've often only had myself to rely on. It's hard for me to let my guard down, to be less than super-woman and admit that I am, after all (gulp) only human.
As my brain surfaces from the fog that anasthesia creates, I've been pondering these forced lessons in patience. Why do I have so much trouble accepting help? Is it arrogance-am I so confident that my way is the only way to do things? I suppose there's an element of that. I have a certain way of doing things- folding sweaters, putting the sheets on the bed, placing the dishes in the sink-that makes sense to me. In honesty, though, I suppose it's because I never learned how. My mother took care of everyone else, but takes care of her own affairs.She stopped driving a couple of years ago when her car died and started walking instead. She hates winter, because it means she can't pull her bundle buggy through the graveyard to get her own groceries, and must take a ride instead. Both my and my daughter's birthdays are coming up and she has no way to get our birthday presents without getting a ride, and the source of that ride isn't driving right now.That is vexing her and causing her stress, which in turn causes me stress because I can't fix it right now. I am fundamentally a fixer.
From the time I was small, my mother did it herself. I learned that. It's ingrained. People love to help, for the most part, but don't like to intrude. It's the asking part that I'm still working on. It's hard to let down the guard and admit vulnerability, even to my closest friends. It's hard to be less than self-sufficient.
And so I make do, I ponder and I ask for help through gritted teeth. And now, I have to go, because my small child needs help with something. I'm teaching her that it's okay to ask for help. It's a good lesson to learn.
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Thoughts on Infertility
WARNING-I talk about reproductive systems and menstruation in this post. If you're squeamish-click away. It's okay. I understand.
I'm not often lost for words. Normally, the words flow effortlessly when I've decided on a topic. I'm struggling this time, not so much because of the topic, but because of the delicacy surrounding it.
My name is Lisa and I am infertile. In 24 hours, after the scheduled hysterectomy, the last vestiges of biological fertility will be gone. In truth, they were gone years ago. I never wrote about it. It's time.
I married at 35, and we started trying to have children immediately. We knew we wanted children-plural-and we knew that time was not on our side. I had always been regular as clockwork. My period would arrive on the 30th day, by 11am. Sometimes it went as long as 5pm that day, but I was predictable.
And then I was late. 5 days, 6 days, 8 days...other weird things were happening as well. Women know their own bodies, and we know when something is odd or different. This was not a late period. This was something else. 12 days late, and all of a sudden, I started spotting. I'd never done that before. 3 days of spotting, bright red woosh of blood and the odd feeling went away. This happened 3 times that I recall. Another time, there was cramping, the sudden appearance of a round disc of red the size of a silver dollar and then nothing. Twice, I went to the doctor for a blood test. I registered an HCG of 4, but to be considered "pregnant" HCG had to be 5. Both times, as I was scheduled for a follow-up blood test, spotting, woosh and no more symptoms. Because I had never registered an HCG of 5, my family doctor never considered me pregnant. When I was referred to a gynecologist, he confirmed that I had very likely been pregnant, but that the egg had not implanted. His succinct response "women know."
And then the fun began. We started doing fertility tests-both of us-and I started taking hormone shots to boost the probability of success. Intercourse then became something driven by a positive ovulation indicator rather than passion. After a couple of months, we found out that medical issues existed and that we would not be able to have children naturally.
Infertility feels like a betrayal on the most basic, human level. Women are genetically created to have babies. It's what we do. When I couldn't I felt like a failure on a fundamental level. I remember thinking "I can't even have a baby...what good am I?" It's hard to explain the profound sense of hopelessness and loss unless you've also walked through the tunnel. I have never felt so inadequate and useless as when I received the news that I could not have children.
It's funny the things that all of a sudden come into sharp focus. As I dealt with the blow of infertility, I suddenly noticed all the women with multiple children. It was hard to fight the feelings of resentment for strangers who appeared to have no trouble conceiving children.
We chose to go the adoption route. It was not without its own heartbreak, when the first adoption fell through when the birth mom changed her mind and kept the baby. We have a wonderful little girl, and she is the child that we were meant to have. We have only one, but she is the miracle that we often didn't dare to hope for.
My reproductive system wasn't finished with me yet. About 3 years ago, my like-clockwork periods started going wonky. Some months it was 45 days. Some months 20 days. At first, I passed it off to pending menopoause-I was warned that I would be in full-blown menopause in 3-5 years, and it was right on schedule for that prediction. Then the period didn't stop for a month. It included blood clots the size of marbles, periods that flooded through super tampons, maxi pads, underwear and jeans in an hour, only to do it again an hour later, and drained me of energy. Soaking my pyjamas daily became part of the morning ritual-I became quite efficient at it and soaked them in the shower. I slept on a bath mat when I grew tired of changing the sheets. I was afraid to leave the house when the periods were at their heaviest. I could flood in an hour, and I was left feeling dizzy and almost passed out driving the car one day. This was more than menopause.
Turns out that although my body couldn't nurture a baby, it had no problem growing uterine fibroids. Mine was the approximate size of an orange and was causing all the bleeding and other problems. I named it Stan because anything that big growing inside me needed a name. I also had a cyst on an ovary that accounted for the pain. Once more my body had betrayed me.
Infertility can be very isolating. It's hard for other women to understand unless they have also blinked back tears at the arrival of a period that was late, but definite. It's hard to explain the envy and jealousy we try to ignore when friends and colleagues show off their bundles of joy. Just after our first adoption fell through, a colleague announced that she was having twins. She already had 2 boys, and although I was genuinely happy for her, I struggled with the unfairness. After all, she was going to have 4 babies and all I wanted was one. Being around babies is like ripping a bandage off an open wound continually. It's sorrow on a fundamental, personal level that's hard to fathom. When we give in to the resentment and envy, even for a minute, we feel like a horrible person.
I couldn't talk abotu the miscarriages-for that is what they were, even if they were early on. I couldn't talk about it..
I have long since come to terms with things. I'm looking forward to the surgery tomorrow, as much as one can look forward to major surgery, because it will solve the health issues that have been plaguing me and ruining my quality of life for almost 3 years. The fact that I am losing my ability to have children is a non-issue. I mourned that loss years ago.
To anyone dealing with infertility, I send you a sympathetic hug and a nod of understanding. There are no words, even though people try to make you feel better. People can say very dumb things when they don't know what to say and feel like they should say SOMETHING."I'm so sorry" and a hug covers things nicely. I'm so sorry that you are going through this.
With this post, I bid a not so fond farewell to Stan and turn the page on that chapter of my life. I look forward to the next chapter. Infertile I may be, a failure I am not.
I'm not often lost for words. Normally, the words flow effortlessly when I've decided on a topic. I'm struggling this time, not so much because of the topic, but because of the delicacy surrounding it.
My name is Lisa and I am infertile. In 24 hours, after the scheduled hysterectomy, the last vestiges of biological fertility will be gone. In truth, they were gone years ago. I never wrote about it. It's time.
I married at 35, and we started trying to have children immediately. We knew we wanted children-plural-and we knew that time was not on our side. I had always been regular as clockwork. My period would arrive on the 30th day, by 11am. Sometimes it went as long as 5pm that day, but I was predictable.
And then I was late. 5 days, 6 days, 8 days...other weird things were happening as well. Women know their own bodies, and we know when something is odd or different. This was not a late period. This was something else. 12 days late, and all of a sudden, I started spotting. I'd never done that before. 3 days of spotting, bright red woosh of blood and the odd feeling went away. This happened 3 times that I recall. Another time, there was cramping, the sudden appearance of a round disc of red the size of a silver dollar and then nothing. Twice, I went to the doctor for a blood test. I registered an HCG of 4, but to be considered "pregnant" HCG had to be 5. Both times, as I was scheduled for a follow-up blood test, spotting, woosh and no more symptoms. Because I had never registered an HCG of 5, my family doctor never considered me pregnant. When I was referred to a gynecologist, he confirmed that I had very likely been pregnant, but that the egg had not implanted. His succinct response "women know."
And then the fun began. We started doing fertility tests-both of us-and I started taking hormone shots to boost the probability of success. Intercourse then became something driven by a positive ovulation indicator rather than passion. After a couple of months, we found out that medical issues existed and that we would not be able to have children naturally.
Infertility feels like a betrayal on the most basic, human level. Women are genetically created to have babies. It's what we do. When I couldn't I felt like a failure on a fundamental level. I remember thinking "I can't even have a baby...what good am I?" It's hard to explain the profound sense of hopelessness and loss unless you've also walked through the tunnel. I have never felt so inadequate and useless as when I received the news that I could not have children.
It's funny the things that all of a sudden come into sharp focus. As I dealt with the blow of infertility, I suddenly noticed all the women with multiple children. It was hard to fight the feelings of resentment for strangers who appeared to have no trouble conceiving children.
We chose to go the adoption route. It was not without its own heartbreak, when the first adoption fell through when the birth mom changed her mind and kept the baby. We have a wonderful little girl, and she is the child that we were meant to have. We have only one, but she is the miracle that we often didn't dare to hope for.
My reproductive system wasn't finished with me yet. About 3 years ago, my like-clockwork periods started going wonky. Some months it was 45 days. Some months 20 days. At first, I passed it off to pending menopoause-I was warned that I would be in full-blown menopause in 3-5 years, and it was right on schedule for that prediction. Then the period didn't stop for a month. It included blood clots the size of marbles, periods that flooded through super tampons, maxi pads, underwear and jeans in an hour, only to do it again an hour later, and drained me of energy. Soaking my pyjamas daily became part of the morning ritual-I became quite efficient at it and soaked them in the shower. I slept on a bath mat when I grew tired of changing the sheets. I was afraid to leave the house when the periods were at their heaviest. I could flood in an hour, and I was left feeling dizzy and almost passed out driving the car one day. This was more than menopause.
Turns out that although my body couldn't nurture a baby, it had no problem growing uterine fibroids. Mine was the approximate size of an orange and was causing all the bleeding and other problems. I named it Stan because anything that big growing inside me needed a name. I also had a cyst on an ovary that accounted for the pain. Once more my body had betrayed me.
Infertility can be very isolating. It's hard for other women to understand unless they have also blinked back tears at the arrival of a period that was late, but definite. It's hard to explain the envy and jealousy we try to ignore when friends and colleagues show off their bundles of joy. Just after our first adoption fell through, a colleague announced that she was having twins. She already had 2 boys, and although I was genuinely happy for her, I struggled with the unfairness. After all, she was going to have 4 babies and all I wanted was one. Being around babies is like ripping a bandage off an open wound continually. It's sorrow on a fundamental, personal level that's hard to fathom. When we give in to the resentment and envy, even for a minute, we feel like a horrible person.
I couldn't talk abotu the miscarriages-for that is what they were, even if they were early on. I couldn't talk about it..
I have long since come to terms with things. I'm looking forward to the surgery tomorrow, as much as one can look forward to major surgery, because it will solve the health issues that have been plaguing me and ruining my quality of life for almost 3 years. The fact that I am losing my ability to have children is a non-issue. I mourned that loss years ago.
To anyone dealing with infertility, I send you a sympathetic hug and a nod of understanding. There are no words, even though people try to make you feel better. People can say very dumb things when they don't know what to say and feel like they should say SOMETHING."I'm so sorry" and a hug covers things nicely. I'm so sorry that you are going through this.
With this post, I bid a not so fond farewell to Stan and turn the page on that chapter of my life. I look forward to the next chapter. Infertile I may be, a failure I am not.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Bitchin' About Business Casual
Next to "team building exercise" and "performance review" I don't think any phrase strikes more terror in my corporate heart than "business casual." I have to pack for a conference, and the skuttlebutt is that the dress will be "business casual." Swell.
I've never been a "suits" person. Suits are tricky when you're built like I am, and I've never found jackets are particularly comfortable. I'm much more a twin sets and sweaters girl. Of course, since I work from home now, "business casual" has taken on a whole new meaning. Some days, it means I managed to get dressed. Other days, it means turtleneck and jeans. When I'm stressed, tired, bloated and on deadline, it means fuzzy sweats. I am the funeral cantor at our church, so I do have some "business-y" clothes, but many of the things that I would have reached for when I worked in an office are out of style, or more accurately, out of size range right now.
This conference is causing many of the women some grief, and since we will all be assembling later this week, a great deal of e-mail traffic, tweets and trading of opinions. Interestingly, it's the women who are worried about it. The silence from the male writers has been deafening. Of course, business casual for men is a bit easier-khakis and a nice dress shirt fit the bill.
There are levels of "business casual" for women. When I worked in the insurance industry, crop pants and capris were against the dress code. I don't know whether that still applies, since it's almost impossible to find anything OTHER than that. Skirts and sweaters, or a nice blouse and sweater with dress pants were considered "business casual". Of course, I wore that almost every day because I didn't like suits and denim of any kind was forbidden.
I have an added challenge this time. I broke a bone in my foot a month ago, and I'm still recovering. Right now, my Birks are the only footwear that fit my swollen foot and that I can wear without excruciating pain. I may pack my leopard slides for the banquet, but for the rest of the time, I will be hobbling around in ugly, yet functional sandals with Velcro to accommodate the bruising and swelling. I am still debating whether to tote the cane or not. It would explain the ugly shoes, at least. I have shoe angst, because I am a shoe harlot. I LOVE shoes. Unfortunately, broken foot and hot shoes are mutually exclusive.
I'm dreading it, but I have to go up and play "I wonder what fits in my closet?" to figure out clothes for the conference. I can't afford to buy anything else new, so what there is will have to do. I hope the weather warms up a bit, though. I will be drawing the line at "socks and sandals". A girl has to maintain some shred of fashionista...I know the black capris are okay, maybe the cute denim skirt and those new jeans don't really look like jeans. Then there's the tops, and the sweaters and I haven't the faintest idea what to wear to the banquet...oh hell, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean...
So what constitutes business casual? I want your point of view.
I've never been a "suits" person. Suits are tricky when you're built like I am, and I've never found jackets are particularly comfortable. I'm much more a twin sets and sweaters girl. Of course, since I work from home now, "business casual" has taken on a whole new meaning. Some days, it means I managed to get dressed. Other days, it means turtleneck and jeans. When I'm stressed, tired, bloated and on deadline, it means fuzzy sweats. I am the funeral cantor at our church, so I do have some "business-y" clothes, but many of the things that I would have reached for when I worked in an office are out of style, or more accurately, out of size range right now.
This conference is causing many of the women some grief, and since we will all be assembling later this week, a great deal of e-mail traffic, tweets and trading of opinions. Interestingly, it's the women who are worried about it. The silence from the male writers has been deafening. Of course, business casual for men is a bit easier-khakis and a nice dress shirt fit the bill.
There are levels of "business casual" for women. When I worked in the insurance industry, crop pants and capris were against the dress code. I don't know whether that still applies, since it's almost impossible to find anything OTHER than that. Skirts and sweaters, or a nice blouse and sweater with dress pants were considered "business casual". Of course, I wore that almost every day because I didn't like suits and denim of any kind was forbidden.
I have an added challenge this time. I broke a bone in my foot a month ago, and I'm still recovering. Right now, my Birks are the only footwear that fit my swollen foot and that I can wear without excruciating pain. I may pack my leopard slides for the banquet, but for the rest of the time, I will be hobbling around in ugly, yet functional sandals with Velcro to accommodate the bruising and swelling. I am still debating whether to tote the cane or not. It would explain the ugly shoes, at least. I have shoe angst, because I am a shoe harlot. I LOVE shoes. Unfortunately, broken foot and hot shoes are mutually exclusive.
I'm dreading it, but I have to go up and play "I wonder what fits in my closet?" to figure out clothes for the conference. I can't afford to buy anything else new, so what there is will have to do. I hope the weather warms up a bit, though. I will be drawing the line at "socks and sandals". A girl has to maintain some shred of fashionista...I know the black capris are okay, maybe the cute denim skirt and those new jeans don't really look like jeans. Then there's the tops, and the sweaters and I haven't the faintest idea what to wear to the banquet...oh hell, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean...
So what constitutes business casual? I want your point of view.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Mother's Day Tribute... times 4
This post is all about the mothers in my life. There are 4 of them-2 who play an active and ongoing role, and 2 who are important but often forgotten.
I don't tell my mom, Myrna, often enough, but she inspires me regularly. My mom was 37 when she and dad adopted me, and mom was essentially a single mom for large stretches of time. My dad was a professional fundraiser in the days before the positions were in-house, and he had to be where the campaign was. That meant that dad lived out of hotels in Halifax, Charlottetown, St. John's, Regina and a host of US cities. He would be gone 6-8 weeks at a time, and my job was to spot him at the airport as mom drove slowly by. We would go where he was in the summers, but for the most part, mom was on her own for much of the school year.
When my father lost his job in the era before older workers were valued for their contribution and experience, my mom stepped up to fill the gap. Mom never finished high school, but she is one of the smartest people I know. She took an income tax course and worked at HR Block. She went to work for my uncle, who was a family physician, and when that didn't work out (big ugly story best left in the past) she took a typing course and then ran another doctor's office with military precision until she retired at 67. She kept the ship off the rocks on the home front, and although we were tight for money, it was never obvious.
My mom grew up during the Depression and World War II and that early experience shaped her. She is frugal, thrifty and smart about stretching a dollar. She doesn't particularly like cooking but has signature dishes that are still favorites. No one cooks a turkey like my mom. She is a minimalist, and she doesn't like the feel of new clothes-probably because she always wore her sister Helen's hand me downs. It's hard to convince mom to wear new clothes-she's always "saving" them. She never had much, so she made do.
My mom had strong ideas about how her daughter should be raised, and although I resented it at the time, I'm modelling it now with my daughter. I was sat down at the end of the kitchen table as soon as I could hold a crayon to write thank you notes; it's second nature now. I was taught respect for others and for myself. I was taught right and wrong and was marched back into a store when I was child after I'd helped myself to a gumball. The storekeeper was much more understanding than my mom was. I went to church weekly when I was a child, but mom was smart enough to give me space to decide for myself. She dropped me off at church by myself when I was 13 or 14 and with a parting "see what God tells you to do" she drove away. I took her advice and I still go to church weekly. If she'd forced me, I would have left. My mom and dad taught me about the need to take care of others, and although we didn't have much money, there was always something found for the less fortunate. We supported charities, food banks and other social agencies. We donate used clothes to the Salvation Army because there was some good left in it and throwing it out would be wasteful. Teenage girls had curfews, and there were certain places that I was not allowed to hang out at, and it didn't matter a fig whether all my friends were doing it or not. School was important and homework came before play. I juggled part-time work from the time I was 15, and successfully completed a double-honours degree with a A- average. My mom taught me the work ethic that still guides me.
My figure did not fit teen fashions. I was curvy (putting it mildly) and "the girls" did not fit junior fashion. My mom was sympathetic but insistent that my clothes fit-PROPERLY-and were classic and tasteful. We tramped many hours through many stores to find a prom dress or t-shirts and tank tops that was stylish and age-appropriate. While my sense of style has evolved, and is still evolving as I'm still learning to embrace and accept my curves rather than hide them, the basics that my mom taught me still power my decisions.
My mom has become my close friend as I've aged. She's my sounding board, my grounding, my cheering squad and I was so glad that I was able to give her a grandchild to brighten her days. We talk 2-3 times every day about current events, politics, my daughter, my work, our family. My mom rocks.
I lucked out when I married, because my in-laws are pretty great people. My mother in law raised her boys to be self-sufficient and respectful and they treat their momma (and their wives) well. My mother in law is a loving person and she's scrupulously fair. She's added a bar of chocolate to a Christmas gift to make sure that the value is exactly the same. She loves good food, and she remembers trips by what she ate along the way. I tease her that she was a southern belle in another life; she likes nice things and a life of leisure. My father in law worked many hours and she kept things humming at home; she's earned the right to a cup of tea and her television shows. She's been completely supportive of my erratic, work from home writing career and she likes nothing better than to buy books for my daughter. She buys practical things for her grandchildren that still take into account their individual tastes and likes. She has yet to miss with clothes that she's bought for our daughter-a little bit of bling or butterfly goes a long way.
There are 2 other mothers in my life. They stay in the background, but neither I nor my mother would be mothers without them. I am talking about my and my daughter's birth mothers.
I was adopted at a time when information was minimal and contact was non-existent. My mom said that she couldn't even talk to the foster mom to find out what I liked to eat or what comforted me-I was handed to her and that was it. (In QC in those days, the baby stayed in foster care until the adoption was final to spare the adoptive parents the pain if the adoption wasn't finalized) My birth mom made a loving and courageous decision to make an adoption plan. She knew that the life I would have with her would not be as good as the life I would have with someone else. Until I became an adoptive mom myself, after the pain of infertility, I never understood fully what that sacrifice meant.
My daughter is adopted. I was fortunate to be able to meet my daughter's birth mom, and we have pictures. She was a smart and funny person who had more than her share of challenges and tough breaks. She named my daughter Serenity, because that is what my daughter represented to her, and we kept that name as part of my daughter's go-forward name. I will never forget the look on my daughter's birth mom's face as we pulled away with her child in our car. I can tell my daughter without a shadow of a doubt that her birth mom loved her.
So here's to the amazing and inspirational mothers in my life. Without the courage and love of two young women a few decades apart, neither my mom nor I would celebrate Mother's Day. My mom and my mother in law inspire me, support me and teach me to be a better person, day after day, and give me great parenting models to raise my own daughter. Moms rule.
I don't tell my mom, Myrna, often enough, but she inspires me regularly. My mom was 37 when she and dad adopted me, and mom was essentially a single mom for large stretches of time. My dad was a professional fundraiser in the days before the positions were in-house, and he had to be where the campaign was. That meant that dad lived out of hotels in Halifax, Charlottetown, St. John's, Regina and a host of US cities. He would be gone 6-8 weeks at a time, and my job was to spot him at the airport as mom drove slowly by. We would go where he was in the summers, but for the most part, mom was on her own for much of the school year.
When my father lost his job in the era before older workers were valued for their contribution and experience, my mom stepped up to fill the gap. Mom never finished high school, but she is one of the smartest people I know. She took an income tax course and worked at HR Block. She went to work for my uncle, who was a family physician, and when that didn't work out (big ugly story best left in the past) she took a typing course and then ran another doctor's office with military precision until she retired at 67. She kept the ship off the rocks on the home front, and although we were tight for money, it was never obvious.
My mom grew up during the Depression and World War II and that early experience shaped her. She is frugal, thrifty and smart about stretching a dollar. She doesn't particularly like cooking but has signature dishes that are still favorites. No one cooks a turkey like my mom. She is a minimalist, and she doesn't like the feel of new clothes-probably because she always wore her sister Helen's hand me downs. It's hard to convince mom to wear new clothes-she's always "saving" them. She never had much, so she made do.
My mom had strong ideas about how her daughter should be raised, and although I resented it at the time, I'm modelling it now with my daughter. I was sat down at the end of the kitchen table as soon as I could hold a crayon to write thank you notes; it's second nature now. I was taught respect for others and for myself. I was taught right and wrong and was marched back into a store when I was child after I'd helped myself to a gumball. The storekeeper was much more understanding than my mom was. I went to church weekly when I was a child, but mom was smart enough to give me space to decide for myself. She dropped me off at church by myself when I was 13 or 14 and with a parting "see what God tells you to do" she drove away. I took her advice and I still go to church weekly. If she'd forced me, I would have left. My mom and dad taught me about the need to take care of others, and although we didn't have much money, there was always something found for the less fortunate. We supported charities, food banks and other social agencies. We donate used clothes to the Salvation Army because there was some good left in it and throwing it out would be wasteful. Teenage girls had curfews, and there were certain places that I was not allowed to hang out at, and it didn't matter a fig whether all my friends were doing it or not. School was important and homework came before play. I juggled part-time work from the time I was 15, and successfully completed a double-honours degree with a A- average. My mom taught me the work ethic that still guides me.
My figure did not fit teen fashions. I was curvy (putting it mildly) and "the girls" did not fit junior fashion. My mom was sympathetic but insistent that my clothes fit-PROPERLY-and were classic and tasteful. We tramped many hours through many stores to find a prom dress or t-shirts and tank tops that was stylish and age-appropriate. While my sense of style has evolved, and is still evolving as I'm still learning to embrace and accept my curves rather than hide them, the basics that my mom taught me still power my decisions.
My mom has become my close friend as I've aged. She's my sounding board, my grounding, my cheering squad and I was so glad that I was able to give her a grandchild to brighten her days. We talk 2-3 times every day about current events, politics, my daughter, my work, our family. My mom rocks.
I lucked out when I married, because my in-laws are pretty great people. My mother in law raised her boys to be self-sufficient and respectful and they treat their momma (and their wives) well. My mother in law is a loving person and she's scrupulously fair. She's added a bar of chocolate to a Christmas gift to make sure that the value is exactly the same. She loves good food, and she remembers trips by what she ate along the way. I tease her that she was a southern belle in another life; she likes nice things and a life of leisure. My father in law worked many hours and she kept things humming at home; she's earned the right to a cup of tea and her television shows. She's been completely supportive of my erratic, work from home writing career and she likes nothing better than to buy books for my daughter. She buys practical things for her grandchildren that still take into account their individual tastes and likes. She has yet to miss with clothes that she's bought for our daughter-a little bit of bling or butterfly goes a long way.
There are 2 other mothers in my life. They stay in the background, but neither I nor my mother would be mothers without them. I am talking about my and my daughter's birth mothers.
I was adopted at a time when information was minimal and contact was non-existent. My mom said that she couldn't even talk to the foster mom to find out what I liked to eat or what comforted me-I was handed to her and that was it. (In QC in those days, the baby stayed in foster care until the adoption was final to spare the adoptive parents the pain if the adoption wasn't finalized) My birth mom made a loving and courageous decision to make an adoption plan. She knew that the life I would have with her would not be as good as the life I would have with someone else. Until I became an adoptive mom myself, after the pain of infertility, I never understood fully what that sacrifice meant.
My daughter is adopted. I was fortunate to be able to meet my daughter's birth mom, and we have pictures. She was a smart and funny person who had more than her share of challenges and tough breaks. She named my daughter Serenity, because that is what my daughter represented to her, and we kept that name as part of my daughter's go-forward name. I will never forget the look on my daughter's birth mom's face as we pulled away with her child in our car. I can tell my daughter without a shadow of a doubt that her birth mom loved her.
So here's to the amazing and inspirational mothers in my life. Without the courage and love of two young women a few decades apart, neither my mom nor I would celebrate Mother's Day. My mom and my mother in law inspire me, support me and teach me to be a better person, day after day, and give me great parenting models to raise my own daughter. Moms rule.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
My turn
I read Megan's post this morning, and looked like a bobblehead (as opposed to a bubblehead, which I've felt like lately) I was nodding so vigourously in agreement.http://atlanticwriter.blogspot.com/2009/03/sandwiched.html
Ive spent the last year taking care of everyone else, powering through health challenges that at times have left me dizzy and weak. I'm probably going to need surgery in the not too distant future. My immune system has taken a beating, and I've pushed my limit. Normally, I keep going with a not insignificant amount of stubborn and determined. I was raised to suck it up and keep going, to not complain about your "ailments" and to make the best of things.
Moms don't get sick days, and freelance writers don't get paid if no one knows you have a great story idea. My pre-school daughter still needs to be taken care of, taken to pre-school and played with and nurtured. Meals refuse to make themselves and the dishes and laundry will not wash themselves, no matter how powerfully I visualize it. My husband works hard and is tired when he comes home. The dust bunnies in our house have staged a coup and have taken over. We're in a ceasefire right now that is holding.
My mom is 82, and thankfully, in good health. She doesn't drive anymore, though, and she walks everywhere. No matter how stubborn and determined she is (notice a pattern) she cannot pull her grocery cart through snow banks and had to (reluctantly and grumpily) accept rides to the grocery store this winter. Dave's parents are in good health, but I still check in with them on a regular basis.
I'm an emotional eater, and if truth be told, I'm an emotional baker as well. I've been doing a great deal of baking lately. It's one of those jobs that is satisfying to do because of the end result. (I also like to iron. It's relaxing to me.) I'm justifying it by saying that I'm being economical by baking the bread, muffins, scones and cookies rather than buying them, and I'm developing low fat versions as I go along. In truth, I'm using it as therapy.
Often, the stress I feel is self-imposed. I'm a snob when it comes to baking-it has to be scratch. Baking has been my refuge since I was a teenager and I discovered that the ability to make scrumptious things was a good talent to have. It's the "ooh, ah" factor that only homebaked goodies can envoke, especially when you pair it with "yes, I made it from scratch." Of course, once you establish the reputation, you must uphold it. I stood baking biscotti recently for my husband to take to work...on a weekend that had begun with a five hour stint in the hospital emergency room...because the company expects treats on birthdays, and I wouldn't let him take timbits.
It all came to a screeching halt a few weeks ago, when I developed a chest infection that flattened me. I pushed on, taking care of everyone, meeting most of my commitments, until I developed what I thought was pneumonia. Everything stopped dead because I couldn't walk 5 steps without gasping for air and getting dizzy. Turns out, my asthma had had enough and pitched a hissy fit that was eventually resolved with a 5 hour visit to the ER, a masking and a 5 day course of prednisone. I missed 3 straight weeks of Grand Philharmonic Choir and didn't fret about it (much). Even so, I finished and filed a story for Readers' Digest (before deadline) and THEN went to the hospital...on the day that my husband works a split shift and was available to watch our daughter for the afternoon.
When I got home from the hospital on Friday evening, I told my husband and child that I was going to bed until Monday...and did. The cats loved it. I did get up periodically to feed the hordes (and bake the aforementioned biscotti) but for the most part, I stayed in bed and took care of me. By the end of the weekend I was starting to feel human again, I could breathe and I could function again.
It was a good wakeup call for me...and my family. I learned the hard way (again) that my body and I have an adversarial relationship, and if I don't listen to the gentle reminders to take better care of myself, it will fold me like a deckchair. It was a good lesson for my family, and a precursor to the recovery from the surgery that is coming that will require from 2 weeks to 6 weeks recovery depending on whether they can simply poke a couple of holes or gut me like a mackerel.
Women, and especially moms, need to be selfish once in awhile and put ourselves first. It goes against how we are raised, but it makes for a better family dynamic. Mommy is not a fun person to be around when she's too tired or sick. When mommy isn't happy...no one is.
Ive spent the last year taking care of everyone else, powering through health challenges that at times have left me dizzy and weak. I'm probably going to need surgery in the not too distant future. My immune system has taken a beating, and I've pushed my limit. Normally, I keep going with a not insignificant amount of stubborn and determined. I was raised to suck it up and keep going, to not complain about your "ailments" and to make the best of things.
Moms don't get sick days, and freelance writers don't get paid if no one knows you have a great story idea. My pre-school daughter still needs to be taken care of, taken to pre-school and played with and nurtured. Meals refuse to make themselves and the dishes and laundry will not wash themselves, no matter how powerfully I visualize it. My husband works hard and is tired when he comes home. The dust bunnies in our house have staged a coup and have taken over. We're in a ceasefire right now that is holding.
My mom is 82, and thankfully, in good health. She doesn't drive anymore, though, and she walks everywhere. No matter how stubborn and determined she is (notice a pattern) she cannot pull her grocery cart through snow banks and had to (reluctantly and grumpily) accept rides to the grocery store this winter. Dave's parents are in good health, but I still check in with them on a regular basis.
I'm an emotional eater, and if truth be told, I'm an emotional baker as well. I've been doing a great deal of baking lately. It's one of those jobs that is satisfying to do because of the end result. (I also like to iron. It's relaxing to me.) I'm justifying it by saying that I'm being economical by baking the bread, muffins, scones and cookies rather than buying them, and I'm developing low fat versions as I go along. In truth, I'm using it as therapy.
Often, the stress I feel is self-imposed. I'm a snob when it comes to baking-it has to be scratch. Baking has been my refuge since I was a teenager and I discovered that the ability to make scrumptious things was a good talent to have. It's the "ooh, ah" factor that only homebaked goodies can envoke, especially when you pair it with "yes, I made it from scratch." Of course, once you establish the reputation, you must uphold it. I stood baking biscotti recently for my husband to take to work...on a weekend that had begun with a five hour stint in the hospital emergency room...because the company expects treats on birthdays, and I wouldn't let him take timbits.
It all came to a screeching halt a few weeks ago, when I developed a chest infection that flattened me. I pushed on, taking care of everyone, meeting most of my commitments, until I developed what I thought was pneumonia. Everything stopped dead because I couldn't walk 5 steps without gasping for air and getting dizzy. Turns out, my asthma had had enough and pitched a hissy fit that was eventually resolved with a 5 hour visit to the ER, a masking and a 5 day course of prednisone. I missed 3 straight weeks of Grand Philharmonic Choir and didn't fret about it (much). Even so, I finished and filed a story for Readers' Digest (before deadline) and THEN went to the hospital...on the day that my husband works a split shift and was available to watch our daughter for the afternoon.
When I got home from the hospital on Friday evening, I told my husband and child that I was going to bed until Monday...and did. The cats loved it. I did get up periodically to feed the hordes (and bake the aforementioned biscotti) but for the most part, I stayed in bed and took care of me. By the end of the weekend I was starting to feel human again, I could breathe and I could function again.
It was a good wakeup call for me...and my family. I learned the hard way (again) that my body and I have an adversarial relationship, and if I don't listen to the gentle reminders to take better care of myself, it will fold me like a deckchair. It was a good lesson for my family, and a precursor to the recovery from the surgery that is coming that will require from 2 weeks to 6 weeks recovery depending on whether they can simply poke a couple of holes or gut me like a mackerel.
Women, and especially moms, need to be selfish once in awhile and put ourselves first. It goes against how we are raised, but it makes for a better family dynamic. Mommy is not a fun person to be around when she's too tired or sick. When mommy isn't happy...no one is.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Mars and Venus and Sick Time
Why are men and women so different when it comes to illness? Why are big, burly, manly men felled like trees when a cold or flu hits, and women seem to be able to cope better? Why is it that most men turn into children when they're sick and women keep going?
I think women can be too independent. I know that I have pushed past my limit often, powered only by stubborn and determined. My body and I have an adversarial relationship, and it will often flatten me when I take inadequate care of myself. I'm teetering on the edge right now with the evil twins of anemia and pneumonia...but I'm still on deadline, I'm still a work from home mom...and the pancakes for tonight's dinner will not cook themselves and despite my best visualization, the dishes are not washing themselves. So I will make another pot of tea, take a break to play a game with my daughter, try to go to bed early and soldier on. As Helen Reddy said, "I am Strong. I am Invincible. I am Woman." (and I'm tired...)
- Women are trained from an early age to nurture and take care of others...often to the exclusion of ourselves. I'm going to be having surgery later this year for "woman" issues, which may include a 6 week recovery period. My mother is already reminding me that the day she returned from hospital after having the same surgery, she walked down a big hill with me to take me to the park. Now, in my defense I was about 3-4...and this was back in the day when she had already spent a week in hospital, instead of the 2-3 days that I'll be there.
- Women have to tough out a variety of things monthly, from bloating to mood swings to cramps that can double you over. We learn in our teens to suck it up and keep going, because it comes back month after month...It wasn't until I had a cycle that lasted over a month and featured passing blood clots the size of marbles that I went to the doctor about it...and only because I was going broke buying feminine products and had become anemic from loss of blood.
- If momma doesn't do it, it often doesn't get done. That includes dishes, laundry, getting the kids to and from school, daycare, activities, and food preparation. It's often easier for us to do it than to re-do it later. Moms don't get sick days.
- Most women have a higher tolerance for pain...otherwise there would be no child born in this world...and certainly no siblings to the first one.
I think women can be too independent. I know that I have pushed past my limit often, powered only by stubborn and determined. My body and I have an adversarial relationship, and it will often flatten me when I take inadequate care of myself. I'm teetering on the edge right now with the evil twins of anemia and pneumonia...but I'm still on deadline, I'm still a work from home mom...and the pancakes for tonight's dinner will not cook themselves and despite my best visualization, the dishes are not washing themselves. So I will make another pot of tea, take a break to play a game with my daughter, try to go to bed early and soldier on. As Helen Reddy said, "I am Strong. I am Invincible. I am Woman." (and I'm tired...)
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Late Bloomers...
Michelle Obama, the soon-to-be First Lady of the United States turned 46 yesterday. That means she's a handful of days older than I am. I will be 46 in, well, a handful of days.. She is a lawyer, social advocate, working mother, and about to be co-pilot of the United States (sorry VP-elect Biden...). I am...um...a wife and working mother. I'm a late bloomer.
According to Wikepedia, a late bloomer is:
This little foray into introspection was triggered, not by Ms. Obama, but by a blast from my very distant past in the form of a fellow Wilder Penfield-ite who had found my website and contacted me. Gary e-mailed me this week. He's been a busy lad since we were classmates at Wilder Penfield in the 1970s. (since I just confessed my real age, there's no point in being coy about when I was in grade school, is there. ) He is now a math prof at the University of Ottawa, publishing papers on topics that baffle me...and cause me to break out in a sweat and hives at the mere thought of formulae...I remembered him immediately, have a vague recollection of a fairly significant crush on him and will now be making a trip to my mom's to look at my old school things that she still has, including class pictures. No, I will not be posting them, unless to prove my assertion that I have always been a geek, I just dress better now.
I am a late bloomer. I started Grade school in grade 1 rather than kindergarten because we moved. Friendships are built in Kindergarten, and my mom, who is very private and still has only a handful of friends she's had since her teens, was not very good at encouraging her painfully shy, introverted, bookloving, solitary and insecure daughter to make friends. I loved school because I loved to learn...but the social aspects of school were torment for me. I especially dreaded that quintessentially female rite of passage...the sleepover...because I was inevitably the kid who fell asleep early (confession time...I didn't fall asleep, I pretended to, and how does that adage go...eavesdroppers hear no good of them...) and was ridiculed and picked on by the other little girls. Little girls can be heartless and cruel. Little boys settle things with fisticuffs; girls use emotional and psychological warfare....calming breath, calming breath...I didn't know how to cope and spent a great deal of time wandering the schoolyard alone, unless I happened to be the girl with the skipping rope...and then I was popular until recess ended.
I started high school in Grade 1o rather than grade 9 because we moved...and I was smart. I attended a private Catholic girls' school in Dorval, QC for grade 7-8 (which is first and second year of high school in QC, because grade 7-11 is high school, and then there is 2 years of CEGEP before university) Queen of Angels Academy was an academic school, an entrance exam was required and the school only accepted 50 young ladies a year...competition for top marks was fierce. I maintained an average in the high 80s. We were exempted writing a final exam in any course that we had over 85% in, and I wrote one final exam (math) in 2 years...and I think even then my average for that subject was in the low 80s. To this day, I remember walking into that class for the final and hearing "Lisa is writing a FINAL?" like I had just posed nude, ran naked through the chapel AND gotten a tatoo. I only had 1 close friend at QAA. I remember walking the corridors at recess and lunch alone...a lot.
When we arrived in Kitchener, I was supposed to start Grade 9. One look at my academic transcript, and the principal bumped me into Grade 10, and Grade 11 for French. The only things that St. Marys and QAA had in common were uniforms, girls-only (then) and Catholic. They were diametrical opposites. It was okay to be smart at QAA-in fact, it was expected. At St. Mary's, the emphasis was more on sports and school involvement, or so it seemed to me. It was not okay to be smart. The all-boys school, St. Jeromes, was across the street, and the schools did silly things like allow the boys to buy flowers on Valentine's Day...and have them delivered to home room. In reality, maybe only 2-3 girls actually got flowers...and 28 of us felt like lowlife scum. (I never got a flower...)I remember my friend Clare got 2 flowers one year...I bet she doesn't remember...but I do.As the words to the song "AT 17" by Janis Ian (1975) so eloquently stated:
"To those of us who knew the pain of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called when choosing sides for basketball..."
I survived high school...barely. I was suicidal by the end of it. My only salvation was my twin discoveries of theatre and music. I hung out with the "theatre crowd", mainly boys. We were smart, we read (and understood) Thoreau for fun, listened to Springsteen, and didn't really fit in at either school, except with each other. A number of that group are still my close friends.
I found myself in university. I completed my undergrad in French and Political Science (double honours) (and a few years later, my MA in Poli Sci) and found out, especially in Poli Sci, that it was okay to be smart again. Many of my classmates have gone on to become professors, lawyers, successful businesspeople, Hollywood screenwriters etc Poli Sci is not a discipline for the faint of heart, because the future lawyers like to debate...everything. Being able to hold your own in an intellectual debate (although I still make it a point never to get into a battle of wits with an unarmed person...) was essential, and a quick wit and sarcastic take on the world stood me in good stead.
Since university, I have been a customs inspector, French supply teacher, grad student, teaching assistant, manager of a call centre, administrative assistant, collections officer (aka debt collector), customer service representative, legislation analyst, compliance consultant and a writer and editor. If I had been paying attention, I could have skipped straight to the "writer" part, because I started writing when I was about 10 years old, after reading "Anne of Green Gables" and deciding if she could write, so could I. I also remember saying in QAA days that I wanted to be a writer.
Late blooming applies to all aspects of my life. I didn't marry until I was 35, and became a parent at 42, at a time when some of my friends are becoming grandparents. Many of my friends are sending their offspring to university; I'm getting ready to register mine for junior kindergarten. I didn't really learn how to make friends until my 40s. I'm still working on that, and I'm only now accepting the person I am and my unique strengths and abilities.
I can own the label of late bloomer. I am not a lawyer, or first lady or university professor, although in the case of lawyer and professor, it is by choice rather than ability. I had the smarts; I didn't have the inclination. I am a fiercely loyal friend, a daughter, a daughter in law, a wife, a mother, a writer and an editor. I am a singer, a choir member, a crafter, a reader and a creator of books and poems. Maybe it's taken me this long to be comfortable with who I am and to build on it rather than tear it down. If late blooming means that I can use all of that "experience" to write great novels, (and I'm being pulled to write YA novels-all that unresolved teen angst) then so be it. I may bloom late...but bloom I will.
According to Wikepedia, a late bloomer is:
The term late bloomer has several distinct but related meanings:
- The term is used metaphorically to describe a child or adolescent who develops more slowly than others in their age group, but eventually catches up and in some cases overtakes their peers, or an adult whose talent or genius in a particular field only appears later in life than is normal - in some cases only in old age.
This little foray into introspection was triggered, not by Ms. Obama, but by a blast from my very distant past in the form of a fellow Wilder Penfield-ite who had found my website and contacted me. Gary e-mailed me this week. He's been a busy lad since we were classmates at Wilder Penfield in the 1970s. (since I just confessed my real age, there's no point in being coy about when I was in grade school, is there. ) He is now a math prof at the University of Ottawa, publishing papers on topics that baffle me...and cause me to break out in a sweat and hives at the mere thought of formulae...I remembered him immediately, have a vague recollection of a fairly significant crush on him and will now be making a trip to my mom's to look at my old school things that she still has, including class pictures. No, I will not be posting them, unless to prove my assertion that I have always been a geek, I just dress better now.
I am a late bloomer. I started Grade school in grade 1 rather than kindergarten because we moved. Friendships are built in Kindergarten, and my mom, who is very private and still has only a handful of friends she's had since her teens, was not very good at encouraging her painfully shy, introverted, bookloving, solitary and insecure daughter to make friends. I loved school because I loved to learn...but the social aspects of school were torment for me. I especially dreaded that quintessentially female rite of passage...the sleepover...because I was inevitably the kid who fell asleep early (confession time...I didn't fall asleep, I pretended to, and how does that adage go...eavesdroppers hear no good of them...) and was ridiculed and picked on by the other little girls. Little girls can be heartless and cruel. Little boys settle things with fisticuffs; girls use emotional and psychological warfare....calming breath, calming breath...I didn't know how to cope and spent a great deal of time wandering the schoolyard alone, unless I happened to be the girl with the skipping rope...and then I was popular until recess ended.
I started high school in Grade 1o rather than grade 9 because we moved...and I was smart. I attended a private Catholic girls' school in Dorval, QC for grade 7-8 (which is first and second year of high school in QC, because grade 7-11 is high school, and then there is 2 years of CEGEP before university) Queen of Angels Academy was an academic school, an entrance exam was required and the school only accepted 50 young ladies a year...competition for top marks was fierce. I maintained an average in the high 80s. We were exempted writing a final exam in any course that we had over 85% in, and I wrote one final exam (math) in 2 years...and I think even then my average for that subject was in the low 80s. To this day, I remember walking into that class for the final and hearing "Lisa is writing a FINAL?" like I had just posed nude, ran naked through the chapel AND gotten a tatoo. I only had 1 close friend at QAA. I remember walking the corridors at recess and lunch alone...a lot.
When we arrived in Kitchener, I was supposed to start Grade 9. One look at my academic transcript, and the principal bumped me into Grade 10, and Grade 11 for French. The only things that St. Marys and QAA had in common were uniforms, girls-only (then) and Catholic. They were diametrical opposites. It was okay to be smart at QAA-in fact, it was expected. At St. Mary's, the emphasis was more on sports and school involvement, or so it seemed to me. It was not okay to be smart. The all-boys school, St. Jeromes, was across the street, and the schools did silly things like allow the boys to buy flowers on Valentine's Day...and have them delivered to home room. In reality, maybe only 2-3 girls actually got flowers...and 28 of us felt like lowlife scum. (I never got a flower...)I remember my friend Clare got 2 flowers one year...I bet she doesn't remember...but I do.As the words to the song "AT 17" by Janis Ian (1975) so eloquently stated:
"To those of us who knew the pain of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called when choosing sides for basketball..."
I survived high school...barely. I was suicidal by the end of it. My only salvation was my twin discoveries of theatre and music. I hung out with the "theatre crowd", mainly boys. We were smart, we read (and understood) Thoreau for fun, listened to Springsteen, and didn't really fit in at either school, except with each other. A number of that group are still my close friends.
I found myself in university. I completed my undergrad in French and Political Science (double honours) (and a few years later, my MA in Poli Sci) and found out, especially in Poli Sci, that it was okay to be smart again. Many of my classmates have gone on to become professors, lawyers, successful businesspeople, Hollywood screenwriters etc Poli Sci is not a discipline for the faint of heart, because the future lawyers like to debate...everything. Being able to hold your own in an intellectual debate (although I still make it a point never to get into a battle of wits with an unarmed person...) was essential, and a quick wit and sarcastic take on the world stood me in good stead.
Since university, I have been a customs inspector, French supply teacher, grad student, teaching assistant, manager of a call centre, administrative assistant, collections officer (aka debt collector), customer service representative, legislation analyst, compliance consultant and a writer and editor. If I had been paying attention, I could have skipped straight to the "writer" part, because I started writing when I was about 10 years old, after reading "Anne of Green Gables" and deciding if she could write, so could I. I also remember saying in QAA days that I wanted to be a writer.
Late blooming applies to all aspects of my life. I didn't marry until I was 35, and became a parent at 42, at a time when some of my friends are becoming grandparents. Many of my friends are sending their offspring to university; I'm getting ready to register mine for junior kindergarten. I didn't really learn how to make friends until my 40s. I'm still working on that, and I'm only now accepting the person I am and my unique strengths and abilities.
I can own the label of late bloomer. I am not a lawyer, or first lady or university professor, although in the case of lawyer and professor, it is by choice rather than ability. I had the smarts; I didn't have the inclination. I am a fiercely loyal friend, a daughter, a daughter in law, a wife, a mother, a writer and an editor. I am a singer, a choir member, a crafter, a reader and a creator of books and poems. Maybe it's taken me this long to be comfortable with who I am and to build on it rather than tear it down. If late blooming means that I can use all of that "experience" to write great novels, (and I'm being pulled to write YA novels-all that unresolved teen angst) then so be it. I may bloom late...but bloom I will.
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