Duck And Rabbit

I don’t have time to look in the mirror. - My friend, K.

About a month ago, I was out for dinner with a couple of friends, and we were commiserating over the general dearth of unallocated time in all of our lives. Although, really, God knows what I have to complain about, they’ve both got demanding jobs in addition to the houses and the kids to manage. I’m just at home with a toddler. Oh wait, the toddler bit evens things out. Just kidding. Maybe.

Last weekend, Craig flew to New York for a quick visit with his brother. He left bragging about the fact that he’d only packed a T-shirt and a pair of undies in his backpack. I think he brought a toothbrush too. He is a big fan of travelling light.

I also am a big fan of travelling, but sometimes have difficulty with the light part. Despite the many items that I may accumulate in my luggage on any given trip, for me one of the best aspects of extended travel is taking an extended break from one’s possessions. You move from place to place with all your worldly goods in little contained units, and it becomes pretty easy to forget about all the other crap that you own elsewhere in the world, like your basement, or even worse, your parents’ basement.

When I was about 10 years old, this kind-of-epic event occurred in our family. My parents went away for around four days, and my grandmother flew in from Toronto to watch me and my two hellion siblings for that half-week, as we lived in New York state at the time. She cared for us well, and we all survived, despite the fact that she almost drove our enormous, 80’s, maroon station-wagon off of the road on a couple of occasions.

I want hockey stick – Lark, 420 times a day

No, my daughter doesn’t have dreams of playing in the NHL. She just has a charming habit of pronouncing her “p’s” like “h’s” some of the time. Hence, pillows comes out more like hellos, and hockey stick is actually code for Pocky. (stick.)

You may be asking yourself, “What is Pocky? That sounds vaguely familiar but I’m not sure what you are talking about.” This is Pocky:

The early bird gets the worm – Time-honoured cliché

I am not an early bird. For the majority of my life, I’ve most definitely been in the night owl camp. People who claim to love the mornings have always filled me with vague suspicion. Surely they don’t naturally spring out of bed in the morning, full of zip, like that guy from Jerry Maguire? Aren’t their duvets snuggly and comfortable? Don’t they have alarm clocks which somehow fail to go off or mysteriously get snoozed?

When people find out that my husband is originally from Australia, I usually end up fielding a few questions about it. How’d you meet, Is his family still there, Does he like it here, and the inevitable: WHY did you choose to live in Toronto and not Sydney? (Subtext: Are you crazy?)

Yeah, it’s a hard one. On February days, when it’s a grey -22 degrees, and everything is covered in salt, and my car just got stuck on an ice bank whilst trying to park, and the inside of my nostrils is frozen, I ask myself the same question. These are problems that just don’t exist in Australia. In truth, I adore life down under, but being there doesn’t make sense for us right now. Life is pretty great in Canada most of the time, so we continue our day-to-day in The 6ix.

If Hollywood has taught me anything, it’s that it takes 28 days to change addictive behaviours. You know the scene: Loveable F!ck-Up has cleaned up his act after a stint in rehab, and is being seen off into the sunset by his warm and fuzzy mentor, to live a happy life free of booze/drugs/sex/whatever.

It’s not my intention to make light of struggles that can be devastatingly real, but I’m pondering addiction today as I’m trying to kick my own sweet habit. Yes, I’m an addict. Admitting it is the first step, right? I’m fully addicted to a substance that society not only sanctions but throws in our faces with almost every bite of packaged food we take. That substance is SUGAR.

Self-care.

It’s one of those irritating Internet buzzwords that’s been making the rounds in the world of health and wellness for the last few years. Every time I read another article encouraging me to make time for me, I end in feeling ever-so-slightly down, as I contemplate how I’m possibly not only failing my children and family in the care department, but clearly, I’m also disappointing myself, by never getting going on that daily yoga practice. (Apparently, I’m not the only one who feels this way.)

Here’s a story:

Long ago when we were wild young things, my husband and I went travelling in Peru. One evening, we were eating dinner in a restaurant on the shores of Lake Titicaca. It sounds rather more exotic than it was. We were with a group of travellers that we’d fallen in with. We ordered the fish, as almost everyone did, with the promise that it was fresh-caught daily. We were all served identical-looking plates, with a breaded slice of something on it. Craig took a bite of his food and a weird look flitted across his face.“Taste this,” he said. So I did. It tasted like chicken.“Is that chicken?” he said. I said I thought it was. He grimaced and put down his knife and fork.

They come crying into the world, little and helpless. Human babies are amongst the most helpless newborns of all animals living, unable even to lift up their own heads, relying on their parents for all the basic necessities of life. The newborn period is often terrifying to newly-hatched parents, most of whom, these days, have little experience with the neonate. You mean, we gasp, we are expected to keep this little being alive all by ourselves? Are you sure we don’t require any further supervision?