Day 77 Sing It, Sarah!
Brian, our marriage counselor, once told us very firmly that we were to make sure we had a date night once every week, and an overnight or weekend trip every couple of months. “There’s no reason you can’t do this!” he emphasized.
No reason, maybe, but lots of excuses, especially in the last few years.
Nevermind all that, though; tonight, it’s Date Night! Dear Husband bought us tickets for the Sarah McLachlan concert tonight, third row seats. And I don’t know about men and dates (well I do actually… hm, nevermind that, too) but in my world, a date always has to involve one thing: food. So we’re going out for dinner first.
In Western union money transfer honour of the event I have donned clothing other than yoga wear and – wait for it – applied cosmetics. True story.
Brian would be so proud.
Day 71 Don’t Be an “I’m-Sorry-Butt”
The Vancouver Sun ran a piece by columnist Susan Schwartz this morning with the header “Apologies Often Remedy the Situation but Timing is Crucial.” A thought-provoking story as I’ve often mourned the demise of apology, blaming it on our increasingly-litigious culture. Politicians and CEOs are famous for this strategy: “Don’t apologize, don’t explain,” in order to avoid an expensive ruling against them. (Now maybe this makes good business and/or political sense. I wouldn’t know. Maybe it’s a male thing. Again, out of my experience pool.)
And thus what should be a simple “I’m sorry” gets mangled into the weasely “Mistakes were made,” or the pompous “I regret that such-and-such occurred” sort of dodging.
Translation: “Mistakes were made… but not by me,” and “I regret that such-and-such didn’t occur on your head sooner… and from the cloaca of a low-flying gull.”
People screw up, it’s a fact. And, except for the sociopaths among us, we feel uncomfortable when we screw up. Lower on the totem-pole of worthiness. Naturally, we want to get rid of the discomfort asap, so our immediate reaction is to pull up the defenses and pour on the effort to deny, deny, deny, as if “I didn’t do it” could magically turn back time.
Of course, if you’re Mennonite, or a woman, or worst of all, a Mennonite woman, you might be prone to saying “I’m sorry” as a matter of course, whether you’ve done a bad thing or not, which swings the pendulum of accountability in the opposite direction, but with no better results.
An insightful therapist once pointed out to me that that phrase “I’m sorry” is completely focused on the offender. Taken to the full Menno-Monty, it goes something like this: “I’m sorry, I’m such a loser, I’m the worst person ever, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I try and I try but I …” (dissolve into racking, mucous-filled tears).
In this Menno-Monty martyrdom scenario, the offender slyly regains power by making themselves appear long-suffering victims of their own baseness and how mean are you to point this out! When in fact they’ve learned to rather enjoy the toasty flames tickling their toes.
In fact, Mennos aside, all the offended parties need is some recognition of their own experience. E.g. “It must have been unpleasant for you when I farted into the oscillating fan just as it swung your way. I’m sorry. I’ll aim away next time.” The offender accepts responsibility, while acknowledging the offended party’s feelings and thereby if he/she is very lucky, avoids being booted out of bed.
Maintaining relationship equilibrium is about balance. Party A takes, Party B gives. Next time around Party B takes and Party A gives. One person offends, acknowledges, apologizes. The other calls foul, accepts apology, forgives. No “you owe me,” or tucking it away in that secret bad-deeds bank account we all have.
It’s the golden rule of screw-ups: apologize unto others as you’d have them apologize unto you, because sooner or later, what hits the fan will originate with you. Politicos and CEOs who can apologize? Gems among men. (Okay, or women, but let’s be real.)
Admitting and forgiving, that’s grown-up work.
No need for lawyers at all.
Day 69 & 70 Ahead of My Time
When I was about 16, a friend of mine told me that I’d make a great grandma one day. This person was petite, blonde, vivacious and popular, everything I was not, and her comment did not exactly boost my self-esteem. I’d have been thrilled to have a boyfriend, or at least boobs, and there she was, leapfrogging me over all the fun stuff, straight to cardigans and support-hose.
But it’s okay, I heard she ended up teaching in a one-room schoolhouse in black-fly country somewhere. Karma’s a boomerang.
However, 30-odd years later, I think I’ve grown into the sentiment. I can see how having another baby – one that’s mine but not mine, if you understand what I mean – could be pretty nifty. And my brother and his wife have just thoughtfully provided me with a second baby niece, as of last week. Sophie, sister to Isabel, and I can’t wait until they’re all closer than Taiwan. Grandma might be a ways off for me yet, but I’m rather enjoying being Cool Auntie Roxanne.
Yesterday, we had Easter dinner with all three of our daughters, plus assorted friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, and for good measure, our nephews and my husband’s sister, too. My nephews are handsome, strapping young men, who seem to genuinely enjoy our company and who are a pure joy to cook for. The food, if I say it myself, was spectacular. BBQ ribs, beer-can-chicken, vegetarian lasagna, my husband’s famous Greek salad, bread, cheesecake… sorry, South Beach people. Too bad for you.
It felt so good, so right, to have a houseful of young people, all eating and laughing and happy to be with us. (Liam, we missed you. Steven, especially. I think he cried a little. On the inside.)
Now, I’m no Martha Stewart, and I couldn’t feng shui my way out of a bag. Plus, you know that whole clean-house-weak-immune-system theory? Not a problem here. In fact, keep your shoes on, just to be safe.
But it seems that despite the inevitable dust and cat hair, our house can be welcoming and comfortable. I’ll never be a Dresden-china sort of person and there will probably always be four-legged creatures claiming the best seats but as long as my children feel good about bringing their friends around, it’s good enough for me.
And if, perchance, someone happens to bring a baby around, nudge, nudge, I’ll even wash the floor. I promise.