Day 35 Dead by 9:30 am
I’m sitting in my car in the Surrey Guildford parking lot, enjoying an Americano misto and some sushi, re-reading Rhoda Janzen’s Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. I promised to take my youngest daughter and her friend shopping, the capper to a girls’ weekend, and their stamina is about two hours longer than mine, and the Starbucks seats are darned uncomfortable.
Besides, it’s kind of fun watching cars come and go in the spots beside me. People jump, startled and a bit embarrassed when they notice me sitting motionless next to them, staring behind my sunglasses. Apparently not a lot of people sit in their cars in parking lots.
Anyway, due to the shopping trip, I did an early class today. Normally, I’m militant about not getting up early on Sundays, having spent, like Rhoda Janzen, much of my childhood in church. Enough that I figure I’ve earned lazy Sunday mornings for the rest of my life.
But today, I got up early. And the universe punished me for it.
Perhaps I was cocky yesterday. Maybe I got overly confident, flexing my yogic karma too much, so that it had to spring back, like a rubber band. Whatever it was, there was nothing rubber-like about my hamstrings; more like cold saltwater taffy, ready to shatter instead of pull.
The girls were chomping at the bit to go as soon as I staggered into the house, so I hustled in and out of the shower, knowing I’d have time to relax once they were set loose on the mall. My second-born daughter, with whom I suffered in the hot room this morning, asked me with sympathy, “Won’t it be great when you don’t have to drive kids around anymore?”
The truth is, I don’t really mind. My kids are so appreciative, I enjoy doing things for them. This is part of my problem these days – there’s less and less for me to do for them, and with them. And I miss it. (Not always, mind you, but we’re talking trends.) I enjoy their company and they seem comfortable in mine. They listen to my stories, they laugh at my jokes, they tell me about their lives, they ask me questions. And it’s not like they’re looking at their watches or texting someone while they’re doing it. They’re with me entirely, and I am cognizant of the rare treasure that this is.
I know how lucky I am.
And I’m so dreading the days when this easy camaraderie is over. I miss my oldest daughter so much some days, yet I wouldn’t hold her back from all her experiences in the past years at UBC for anything. I’m so happy for how she’s grown and changed, how much fun she’s having. But I still miss her.
I hope I’m not holding on too tightly, but I probably am. I know my girls worry about me, their crazy mother who feels everything so deeply, who’s compelled to obsess and analyze everything to death. It’s my job to worry about them, not the other way around. And I’m not that crazy.
So no, I don’t mind sitting in a mall parking lot. It’s perfectly comfortable – at least with the windows cracked to diffuse the faint but persistent yoga fug.
And after that, there’s spearmint and eucalyptus epsom salts for me at home, and an evening of Chuck with my youngest, who’s stuck here with me for at least another year, ha-ha!
And I’m going to enjoy it all thoroughly. While I can.
Day 33 Do I Feel Lucky?
No, not today.
The universe, it seems, was conspiring against me making the 3:30 yoga class today, all because I tried to fit a trip to Chapters in first. I left three hours. Plenty, right? Half-hour there, half-hour back, an hour to browse, an hour to spare, no problem, right?
Wrong.
Every single road we tried was undergoing construction, maintenance, repair work, painting, or what could only be flag-person training exercises. On one bypass, I swear they’d closed a lane just because they had traffic cones they weren’t using. But we squeaked back into town with just barely enough time, I figured I could still make it.
Then there was a train. My husband wheeled the car around in a decisive move, determined to do his part. Okay, I still had a chance.
We got home, I whipped my gear together, screamed back down the mountain. Barring parking problems, I might get there before they got started. I could see the studio! Two more lights and I’d be there! My favourite parking spot was empty! Then, a timid left-turner in front of me screwed up my plan. I sat through the red, hearing the seconds tick down. Screeched into the coveted space, dashed to the door, pushed and… it was locked.
Missed it. By that much.
Fine, I can take a hint, I’ll go to the 5:30 class. And in the meantime, I’ll pass on a site I discovered yesterday. It’s called Fatherhood Channel and it’s run by something called the “PAIRS Foundation, Redefining Relationships.” In light of my posting on intimacy yesterday, I thought it was appropos.
It seems to be a mash-up of pop culture gossip and pop psychology with a slant towards celebrity marriages that are trying to be real, instead of, well, celebrity marriages. At least, that’s my first impression. (Caveat emptor: if it turns out to be a cult recruiting ring or something, well… oops.)
But what caught my eye was a list of questions they posted. Even the most seemingly stable relationships go through rough patches and this list is designed to illuminate trouble spots. Be warned; these aren’t easy questions. But I think they’re worth asking, if only of yourself.
- What do I want that I am not getting?
- What am I getting that I don’t want?
- What am I giving that I don’t want to give?
- What would I like to give to you if only things were better between us?
- What am I getting that I do want?
Tough stuff, huh? What do you think would happen if you sat down with your significant other and talked about this? I mean, really talked. And really listened.
I think we could change our lives. So you’ve got to ask yourself one question: do I have the guts? (Well, do ya, punk?)
I’d love to hear about it.
Moving a Mountain
- At March 19, 2010
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Roxanne Writes On
- 0
Moving a Mountain
Do you want to see what I’ve been working on this past year? Actually, it’s been more like seven years, which is how long we’ve been in this house, but I only got serious about it a year ago. We have a large yard, but it’s built into a rocky slope, covered with loose fill that is the perfect medium for thistle and blackberry brambles. After I discovered that the coyotes had actually made themselves a blind amongst the weeds, from which to stalk our pets, I said THAT’S IT. Time to landscape.
See? Even the snow can’t cover the weeds. It’s very private, and jam-packed with potential… mostly unrealized. My husband estimated that it would cost somewhere between 30 and 60 K to do what we want. (It used to be that any project I wanted to do would cost $700. He just pulls numbers out of his, um, hat, mostly to shut me up.) So I kept imagining how awesome it could look… and quit talking about it.
Until last fall, when I lost it and attacked it myself. With a pick-ax.
Hubby had been largely AWOL, finishing his MBA, and I needed to destroy something. Can’t spend the money to landscape the yard? Fine. I’ll do it myself. Stand back, MBA guy. I’ve got tools and I’m not afraid to use ’em.
I started digging, just far enough to a) realize what a herculean task I’d undertaken and b) make it look actually worse than before, forcing me to finish the job.
Frank, the gentleman who’s helping me reach the finish line, is a Rock Star. See all those large, nicely cut hunks of stone? He hauled them all up there by hand. He cut the beautiful stone steps into the slope and he built the rock wall just below the first evergreen. So now I’m into the incredibly fun part – arranging the plants. Well, I’ve got a lot of grunt-work left; rocks to arrange, landscape fabric to cover, bark mulch to haul and spread… but it’ll be worth it.
What does moving a mountain have to do with writing? Besides the obvious benefit of creative procrastination?
Anyone who’s ever tried to write a book will understand the metaphor immediately. It’s so hard, and once you get to a certain point, you simply have to do the grunt-work to get it done. You can’t believe you started something that is so obviously past your ability to complete. You’re embarrassed because so many people keep asking how it’s going and you have to lie and say you’re almost done, just a few more revisions now, just a tweak here and there and it’ll be ready for submission. Or you start into a hideous, self-deprecating explanation of how your self-esteem has been in the toilet and you doubt the idea was any good in the first place, and your shoulders are seized up so you can’t type, and your publishing house went bankrupt, and your editor is a mean, mean man who doesn’t understand you and THAT’S why the book isn’t done yet.
Or you keep all that stuff for your journal, write the damn book, then go outside and work on your dirt farm.
I’ll let you know when the book comes out. I’m almost done, just the final scene to write, some character layering, a few plot points to fix…
Until then, doesn’t my yard look GREAT??