The Professor and the Budgerigar

Now, I recall being asked to edit College Days--basically, a professor's memoirs.

Arthur Cridland sent me a sample chapter of his work, and I quickly agreed to edit his book. After all, his writing flowed and was filled with nostalgic images. I thought back fondly to Dr. Black at the University of Calgary who would stand in front of the classroom reciting entire passages he'd memorized--Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope. I remembered being floored in Chris Wiseman's Poetry 354 class when he read John Berryman, Anne Sexton, and Randall Jarrell, beautiful words that have never left me.

So thus began the editing process, in part during a road trip with Lisa Wind down the Oregan Coast. (Ah, dear Lisa. I think of you often. I saw a child the other day that reminded me of your little orphan Capsuinita.)

I quickly discovered how much I liked this Arthur Cridland character. The man's prose covered more than pastoral images: he clearly had an appreciation for the female form and for a good prank. I recall, many years later, his story of a dead cow in an elevator.

Fortunately, my favourite people are quirky, and I knew I'd found a gem when I listened to Professor Cridland's answering machine message--a violent rant against telemarketers. [I tend to be gentler when receiving unwanted calls. The trick is to hand the phone over to the nearest child with the instruction to imitate the sounds of wind breaking. The child is entertained, and the telemarketer inevitably gives up.]

Now I soon got to the chapter about the professor's budgie bird. Budgies are a chatty, personable folk--I have two of my own. I have never connected with them  . . . well  . . . romantically. It never occurred to me that that could even be a possibility--not that it would have made a difference in my courtship behaviours. So imagine my shock to read of the professor on a hot summer evening going to bed without his nighttime attire and tearing the sheet off himself during a restless sleep. Imagine reading about an innocent little budgie flying to the nearest perch she could locate.

I shall stop at this point: this is a family blog, after all, and I am feeling most uncomfortable--somehow soiled like the bottom of a birdcage. But if you could stomach the contents of the previous paragraph, I would very much recommend this fun, rollicking memoir. All the best to you, Professor Cridland. And do please stay away from my birds.

Adventures in Editing

When I mention to people that I'm an editor, their first instinct is to choke, and to fidget, and to finally confess, "I hope you're not judging me. I never did well in high school English."

As if I would condemn those who scraped through English 30! Math 31 gave me a good dose of humility--nearly kicked the daylights out of me. I have nightmares of having failed to complete high school math (thereby destroying my entire career and worth as a human being). I can empathize with those who fear words, for I fear numbers. Even now, when I attempt to visualize basic addition in my mind, the numbers, mischievous imps, conspire against me by jumping around. [As a small grade schooler, I was shocked that I'd even be asked to, say, add three to ten. Three is a surly number, and ten is such an optimist: what sort of masochist would pair these two at all? No, leave three with five (who is fairly even-tempered and can handle three's mood swings), and they will mate to produce a healthy, spirited number eight.]

When it comes to grammar, the truth is that I'm not judging people. Though when I've edited too much, I tend to punctuate their sentences in my mind as they speak. It's a rather irritating quirk, much like my tendency to occasionally dream in fluent German (which I do not speak, but learned enough of in University to recognize fluency!), or to have every action I make in my dreams narrated.

Another assumption people pass when they discover that I edit is that the work is drudgery. Can grammar be riveting? Why, yes, certainly. I think so. However, what is truly fascinating in my line of work is the opportunity to work with those creatures called "authors." Even more intriguing are those who aspire to be authors.

I've edited all sorts of books written by all sorts of people--from a crime novel written by an inmate at the Kingston Penitentiary to a children's book written by an author in Oman. I've worked with tech-savvy professionals, and clever academics, and with one older gentleman who click-click-clacked out his entire novel on a typewriter, undoubtedly with two fingers. A surprising number of people say that they feel God has led them to me--that I am destined to edit their work. (In one case, God plumb forgot that I was nine months pregnant and bursting at the seams.)

I have appreciated all (or most) of these experiences, and I've decided to feature a few of my favourite authors in the weeks to come. So, if you like books, and if you'd like to know what it's actually like to work with those who write them, pull up a chair and read along. I'll never judge you.

The Ramblings of Our Subconscious Minds

My brother once told me of a friend who had a most eerie pursuit dream...

Chasing dreams (where the dreamer struggles to escape from a persistent foe) are nothing out of the ordinary. That said, I'm not convinced my chase dreams are, in fact, typical. Usually I'm being pursued in the mall and try as I might to fly through the skylight or automatic doors, I fail to find an exit. In another familiar sequence, I'm doing quite well outside a different mall entirely--until I encounter the electrical wires. Frantically, I flap my arms as I try to decide whether to cross over or under. These pesky electrical wires have ruined many a fine flight.

However, as my brother Brent told me with a mixture of awe and trepidation, his friend had a dream that occurred once every year, one that continued wherever it left off. Every year a new, brief episode. Every year a new cliff hanger. Every year the same series of uneasy questions: What is the significance of this dream? How is it possible that a dream sequence could unwind bit by bit? And what, pray tell, happens when I reach the end? Is it . . . gulp . . . the end?

Who knows what our minds are capable of. On one occasion, I found myself (in a dream) at the back door of my parents' house. Something was amiss; I was nearly knocked over with a sense of loss that permeated the darkness around me. Then my father came to me in a transparent form and said, "Your mother and I were just in a terrible car accident. I wanted to tell you and to say good bye."

I woke up with a sense of dread. My parents were traveling at the time, and I hoped this was not a premonition. But I shook off the uncomfortable feelings and went about my daily life routine. When I spoke with my father a day or two later, he casually mentioned how close he and my mother had come to being involved in a head-on highway collision.

I kind of knew that already, I thought. But I am not going to ponder this matter...no thank you.

While we're on the subject of dreams, one dream pattern I have is more irritating than eerie. Deep in sleep, I come to the awareness that I am, in fact, dreaming. It's a little like being caught in that catchy Queensryche tune (the "heavy metal" 90s band that ripped off Pink Floyd). This dream, however, is going nowhere fast: I can feel a nightmare approaching. So I decide to break free, to go through the struggle of propelling myself out of REM sleep and back into the safer confines of my bedroom. The process feels much like being a swimmer struggling to reach the surface. Unfortunately, though I am conscious that I am dreaming, I am unable grasp that the characters in my dream are not real and not in mortal danger. Their existence--if it can be called that--is dependent on my mind. And yet I apologize to them profusely, begging them to forgive me for abandoning them, for waking up when that option is unavailable to them.

Good grief, the stress.

Perhaps the worst dreams of all involve excessive housework. I will sometimes waste a perfectly good dream canvas by spending my time cleaning the brushes rather than actually painting. In other words, I'll have a lengthy dream in which I clean the house, or go through the mundane routines of self care needed to get ready for the day. Many times I will pack a suitcase to nowhere, ensuring that the correct items are tucked away. And then I wake up . . . and realize that I have not, in fact, packed, or cleaned, or showered. Then I go through the process a second time, feeling thoroughly cheated.

But alas, who is to blame? I can't really point a finger at my own subconscious mind, can I?

[Feel free, dear reader, to share your quirkier dream experiences.]

A Tribute to Dirt in Unexpected Places

We are not an especially tidy family. It's difficult maintaining a spotless home when small children  and even smaller pets move about at will. Our mantises and frogs and perpetually pregnant guppy and rabbits and guinea pig and budgies all work together to give our home a cheery albeit somewhat disorganized feel.

I am baffled by those women who, in the midst of birthing infants and rearing toddlers and managing the complex lives of grade schoolers, have pristine floors and sorted toy bins in cheery colours. My hairdresser, God bless her, washes her floors on a daily basis, so fearful is she of a speck of dirt. I can't imagine running such a tight ship. And I'm sure she'd find my decision to allow my daughter to bring a dozen isopods into the house at a time for the purpose of feeding a frog incomprehensible. (Personally, I find those dear little wood lice a pleasant addition to the family and gently pick them up whenever I discover an escapee.)

Indeed, I feel much more secure around mothers whose sippy cups runneth over and whose laundry is frozen in various stages of sorting. I feel especially good around those women who simply dump all of their unsorted clothing into baskets from which their children must draw their daily outfits. I love the mother of three who admitted that, whenever she cleans, she must put up with her daughter's puzzled questions. "Who's coming over, Mommy?" her daughter will inevitably say. "You're tidying up."

I recently discovered that my eldest daughter was conducting yet another set of science experiments (unbeknownst to me). In the past D. has made balls from toilet paper she has painstakingly coloured with markers and then soaked. She has made concoctions from berries and leaves and dirt and flour stolen from the kitchen, sweetening the mess by adding sticky hard candy, the remnants of Halloween. Like any good absent-minded inventor, she moves on to the next question, the next project, leaving me with a puzzling collection of bacteria to discover under the bed. Her latest idea was to clean rainwater by using a pot of dirt (of all things) as a filter, followed by rocks, and then paper. D. conducted her experiment in the bathroom, and I'll admit I nearly lost my temper upon encountering a random and seemingly pointless mess.

Fortunately, she was able to explain this project to me, and to beg me to take her to a thrift store so that she could purchase her very own funnel. Her bright enthusiasm warmed my heart. I thought back to my own childhood. My mother, for brief window of time, attempted to put the household in order--to raise children who would put things in their places. Fortunately for me, she quickly realized that she was raising a family of inventors, and dabblers, and hobbyists, and avid animal collectors, and messy painters of enormous canvases, and she decided that living was more important than cleaning. And so we children discovered our worlds, and ourselves, within a happy and disorderly environment.

So, while I strive to keep the frog in its enclosure, and the piles of dirt in the outside world, I savour these moments with children who invent, and discover, and misplace, and forget, and grow bigger all the while.

An Ode to Señora Mantissa (a.k.a. "Maria")

Every day, pajama-clad or otherwise, I walk out onto my balcony, a white net in hand. If observed, I might appear to be a lunatic.

The assumption might very well be correct, and it wouldn't be the first time. (I recall going rabbit hunting in a back alley a couple of years back. My daughter was carrying a fishing net and wearing some bizarre assortment of clothing--a bicycle helmet, perhaps, with shorts and a raincoat and her favourite green goggles. My choice of clothing wasn't much better.)

This time, however, my quarry is not rodent. It is the common house fly.

Thanks to a science-loving neighbour, our household is currently raising four praying mantises. And they are making me terribly nostalgic: I lovingly reared a mantis into adulthood when I was a young teenager in a room lined with snake tanks and salamanders, turtles, and fish. That summer, my little brother and I spent much of our time in the washrooms of family camp and various campgrounds catching dozens of flies to feed to our dear pets. Mine thrived; his was left in the hot sun by a mantis-sitter whose mother didn't want an insect in the house. (Poor Brent has never forgotten this betrayal.)

Mantises are voracious predators (though harmless to humans). What draws me in even today is how their savagery is combined with seemingly impeccable manners. They say "grace," as my little daughter observed. They eat blue bottles like corn on the cob, often stopping to casually groom one arm even as their half-eaten meal struggles in the other. They eat slowly, and with relish. Just yesterday a mantis began his meal by delicately eating the foot off a fly, much like a human might pick at the choicest bit of meat.

Unfortunately (and where humans might grow queasy), their prey is alive. These insects are not known for their empathy. And at the end of the meal, the bottom of the jar is lined with discarded wings and legs.

But really, how different is that from chicken wings at the local pub?

These unusual pets have brought great joy to our household. "Maria" is the favourite by far. She is the most voracious mantis, staring longingly through the glass into the vase containing the flies of the more ambivalent "James" (formerly known as "Gary"). She repeatedly jumped onto the camera when I attempted to photograph her and loves walking across my children's faces, to their delight.


 

"Maria," hoping in vain for a fly

Laid-back "James" (a.k.a. "Gary") just hanging out 



"Lola" and "Anna" (formerly known as "Lily" and "Billy" respectively) like to swivel their heads and stare at us. They're more cautious, more dainty, more willing to pick at the wingless fruit flies we offer than to attempt to wrestle down the blue bottles that Maria tackles.

 

Maria's impeccable table manners

Mantises, I will confess, are highly addictive. They are much like video games: you must feed them to get to the next "level" or molt. (See Molting Mantis) And they're a lot like kids: they grow up so fast. One day they're nymphs, and the next they're the length of your hand and free to wander the house, picking flies off windows like teenagers popping potato chips into their mouths.

 

I still recall the day my childhood mantis passed. She was drooping, and when she refused to eat even a single fly, I knew something was terribly wrong. I left her on the fence that day, at one with nature. She died a few hours later. My science teacher, amazed by her impressive size, preserved the body in a jar of formaldehyde.

 

Call me eccentric, but I love sharing this passion with my children. And I have passed three additional mantises over to my delighted brothers. (How touching that whereas a neighbour once murdered an innocent mantis due to her belief that a mantis is not fit to live among humans, an entirely different neighbour is now spreading the mantis love, blessing her community with over a hundred voracious souls!)

 

One of the mantises I transported to Edmonton is now living among doctors in an undoubtedly expensive vase lined with the best mulch and branch that money can buy. The other two, forbidden to enter the house of my little brother due to the good sense of his wife, are now living at the Edmonton Journal, most likely providing great insight into the crime beat. 

 

How We Beat the Heat: A Musical Tribute to My Brother

The band's name was Lex Rex. And apparently they killed devils--in a rather gruesome fashion.

Let me explain. Growing up, my little brother and I were huge music fans. That in itself was a miracle, as our genetics gave us little to work with. Our dear mother could not hold a tune to save her life, and our father played the Gaither Trio and Nana Mouskouri in the car. Family vacations were almost unbearable. We children were left to pick up the pieces of a traumatic musical childhood.

Now, I remember being a pious elementary school student who (despite lapses which included tying the teacher's shoelaces together on one occasion during carpet reading time) tried to live a moral life, in part by listening to wholesome music. Amy Grant was my primary musical diet for a time, though I didn't embrace her with the zeal of my friend Jennifer Braun, who actually clasped Amy Grant's hand during a concert and refused to let go (to the consternation of the puffy-haired singer).

One day I heard my older brother Rob's cassette tape blasting from his room.

"Listen to this," he said, coming over to my room with the cassette in hand.

"What's this?" I said, somewhat guarded.

"It's a band called Survivor. And it's Christian."

I listened. And, partly out of awe of my older, "cooler" brother who wore a leather jacket, admitted to him that "Eye of the Tiger" was indeed a fine song.

"Aaaah haaaa haaa!" he shouted, victorious. "Carmen liked a song that isn't Christian! Carmen likes secular music."

My face burned. I had been tricked. And yet . . . could I think outside the safe confines of the Christian musical box?

Thus began my moral demise, a slippery slope that would quickly turn into a landslide.

When the puberty fairy granted my wish to be transformed into a pimply-faced, awkward "woman" with a larger thigh mass, I went wild with music. Though I remained loyal to Johnny Deep, I felt some stirrings of love for Sting and Bono. They had the sort of manliness that Amy Grant was lacking. Then I discovered Led Zeppelin and backmasking, and my Amy Grant cassettes were sacrificed, one by one, as I deciphered intriguing messages recorded backwards for the sole purpose of infiltrating teenagers' subconscious minds.

I was still a Christian, mind you. When I discovered Pink Floyd, I dutifully prayed for Roger Waters every day. Dear cynical Roger. If he didn't go to Heaven, I feared I might never meet him to discuss The Wall.

Then came Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains, and Mother Love Bone, and Faith No More. (I wasn't sure if Faith No More really had any faith to begin with, as most of their songs pertained to other typically benign subject matter.) Ugly Kid Joe came out with their hatred of "Everything About You," and my adolescence was somehow defined. Music made me feel free, and intense, and alive.

My dear mother, now concerned about my musical habits, asked to listen to some of my music. She thought the Black Crowes sounded suspicious and with eyes a-rolling, I passed the cassette lyrics over to her. One shouldn't judge a band by its name, I thought. The results were less than dramatic: though one song alluded to what may have been an illicit relationship, my mother had to concede that the content was indeed acceptable. But she still didn't like the name: it sounded dark. Ominous. Like a shadow passing over a sidewalk upon which children played.

Re-enter my little brother, whose spirit was less rebellious and whose tastes were more refined. One of the greatest pleasures he and I had was receiving a newsletter from Focus on the Family that rated current music albums. We would rip open Bob DeMoss's letter when it came in the mail. Every CD was ranked and typically described as a "mixed bag," and we would pore through the assessments. I was so outraged at one point that I wrote a scathing letter to Mr. DeMoss. How could he so grossly misinterpret Pearl Jam's album "Ten"? Was it really necessary to condemn a song that "might" allude to suicide? Good grief . . . was poetic contemplation of societal ills really that dangerous to developing minds? Were teenagers incapable of grappling with such issues? Oh, how my brother and I loved the controversy--our flexible adolescent minds pitted against closed adults ones.

We were not allowed to watch Video Hits, the only source of current music videos we had in our home of Peasant Vision. And so we would eat small pieces of the forbidden fruit, nervously, flying to turn off the television the moment a member of the parental unit arrived home. A dear friend of mine lived in the much richer land of MTV access, and she would tape songs at my request (which were carefully labelled "Disney movies" and stashed in the tiled ceiling at church). Alas! I still cringe at the dangerous moral ground upon which we tread.

Like good teenagers, we fought our musical restrictions. I wrote an ironic letter to the Herald in which I described being mortified by the indecency in my father's music, targeting Roger Whittaker specifically. My mom was not happy to see that letter published. [I will try to locate it for you, dear reader.]

And then came the triumph of our youth--the infamous Lex Rex incident.

Our dear mother, upon going shopping with one Carol McCaslin, purchased a Christian CD entitled "Beat the Heat." Our mother loves a bargain, and Carol purchased the CD for her children as well. Perhaps music could be both moral and a little edgy.

Brent and I were intrigued. Then we were absolutely delighted. The lyrics were abominable, and the music sounded like an extraordinarily cheesy combination of Iron Maiden and Van Halen. [Have a nice little listen for yourself: I Kill Devils.]

Ooooh, we blasted that tune. Then we sang the lyrics aloud (since they were Christian and approved of by our good parents).

"I kill devils--I like to hear 'em scream! I hope they choke to death suckin' on nicotine!"

We were not nice children, I'm afraid.

Shortly after, the greatest moment of our childhood took place. Our father, enraged by the loud music and the excruciating lyrics, broke the CD in half. I don't blame him one bit.

"But it's Christian," we protested.

And then our whole family laughed and laughed. It was a moment of bonding, parents and children united against a common foe--unbearably corny music.

Now, I'll admit that these days I can't bear to have my little girls hear any objectionable lyrics. The tables have turned, and the family van booms with the sounds of "Mrs. McFritter" and "Ollie May the Octopus." Whenever I put adult music on, the children complain bitterly, and I am pleased.

Because I now know how wise my parents actually were. We were too busy analyzing lyrics, and creating logical arguments in defense of our musical freedom, and reading Focus on the Family newsletters, and penning letters to the editor, to actually get into much real trouble. And somewhere along the way, Brent and I both became writers.

Thank you, parents. And thank you, Lex Rex.

Young Brent: The Early Years

Sibling. The google online dictionary defines "sibling" as "each of two or more children or offspring having one or both parents in common; a brother or sister."

This definition truly encapsulates what Brent is to me: a brother or sister (though I prefer to think of him as a brother.) Furthermore, we have one or both parents in common (hopefully both) . . . and, oh, so much more.

My youngest sibling, dear Brent, was an outgoing, cute kid with a head of nearly bleach blonde hair. I recall the primary passion of his youth: collections. He collected bottles for recycling, a collection that grew rapidly because he was an outgoing, cute kid with a head of nearly bleach blonde hair. (Incidentally, that same fair hair made him question his lineage, to assume that he was one of the foster children because Rob, our other sibling, and I were so dark.) Brent collected Transformers, and Star Wars figures. He collected hockey cards, outwitting his friends in negotiations (and later returning cards in an act of penitence). He collected friends who shared his passions and who played street hockey at every opportunity (I can still see, in my mind's eye, fiery-tempered Evan being restrained by his much larger comrades).

Brent's burgeoning extroversion and keen business sense came in handy for me. I hated approaching clerks in stores--loathed the stilted conversion that came with purchasing petty items with my allowance. I got my bold brother to complete the necessary transactions, to utter the words necessary to human interaction. And then there were those hideous chocolate sales, the hell of being torn between the motivation prizes (sell 5,000 boxes to receive a bracelet, and the more significant honour of outperforming one's classmates!) and the torment of going door-to-door to boost sales. Here, my little brother came in most handy. He was charming, and he sold my chocolates while I waited, nervous and restless, on the sidewalk.

Yes, it was a tad exploitative.

But I returned the favour by being Brent's moral compass. When he fed Mookie, the next-door-neighbour's fence-climbing dog, a chicken bone, Brent was reprimanded by the neighbour's adult son. I took his moral development a step further, marching him right back to the neighbour's front door to apologize a second time. Brent has never fed a chicken bone to an animal again, and I'd like to take credit for that.

I also taught him basic survival skills. For example, I knew that the best way to avoid being stung by a wasp was to remain motionless. And so when Brent stepped on that wasp's nest at the cabin at five, and was covered in enraged insects, I called encouragement from the sidelines.

"Doooon't move!" I yelled. "They won't sting you if you hooooold still."

Poor Brent. I didn't quite have a grasp of context yet, and my little brother listened to me even as our father hurtled towards him, scooping his son up in his arms and running into the bushes.

One of our favourite pastimes in the tender years of our youth included singing, "Let There Be Peace on Earth." The key to that song, in our opinion, was to harmonize slightly off-key. The result (which may still exist since we always had a tape player handy) was impressive. Few singers could let a note fall flat like we did, or combine dramatic singing with spoken lyrics in a way that was simultaneously powerful (in our minds) and corny. Few singers could convey such an important message in such an irritating way.

Our greatest pleasure, however, was designed to alleviate the boredom of clothing shopping with our mother. The Bay provided many a wonderful opportunity for mischief. The clothing racks had a knob on the end of each metal bar to prevent hangers from slipping off onto the floor. As luck would have it, there was always enough room for at least one hanger to sit beyond the metal knob, and most racks had four knobs. We would place items on the end of each bar throughout the floor as our mother browsed. And alas! When an unsuspecting victim brushed against the strategically placed hangers, clothing fell everywhere. If said victim panicked, she might knock several outfits off at a time, to our great amusement. This was an art and a science, and we were masters of both.

Brent made me proud many times in these early years and the years to follow. He earned my respect when he pelted parked cars with water balloons from the church roof in the middle of winter (creating an impenetrable layer of ice upon each windshield). He made me proud when he conspired with me to "trap" our older, surlier sibling in the loathed middle back seat of the car (which took considerable skill and a few dekes), or to pinch the loose skin on my mother's elbows as she sat in the front passenger seat. He earned the title of brother when he helped me put pepe, a brutally hot spice I brought home from Africa, on the Barbeque chips our elderly grandmother would soon consume, and to decorate this same grandmother with tinsel each Christmas as she dozed in what became a beautiful Christmas tradition.

Yes, Brent. There was peace on the piece of earth we called our home. But it did not begin with me. It began with us. Siblings, walking in perfect harmony.

Baring It All (A Tribute to my "Wobbly Bits")

I'll spare you the photo (I'm too comfortable to run and get my camera), but ever since I've had babies, I've become a little more "well-rounded." I'm not talking only about my blossoming skill sets, which now include removing nail polish from any surface (thanks to an independent three-year-old who loves fancy toes) or using hand cream to remove said child's arm from a metal steering wheel in a mall play area (in the presence of some very concerned security guards). No, I'm talking about my belly.

What was once flat now has some personality.

And I'm perfectly fine with that. In the process of giving birth, I gained a whole new level of respect for my body. I suddenly had a sense of a much larger picture--an appreciation for what being a woman entails. My body is a baby-making marvel, and I can produce milk like no one's business.

In fact, I made gains where I once felt flawed. During a rather unpleasant break-up in my twenties, a boyfriend uttered the last words he would ever say to me: "I'm glad that you decided to end things because you were too flat for me." Little did he know that in the process of becoming a mother, I would have to squeeze into a double-D cup. (Of course, the milk that would shoot a metre or so would certainly have removed some of the sex appeal of my newfound and hard-won cleavage.)

Before I provide too much information about my triumphant body, I will say that I was profoundly disturbed today upon reading about the "Thinspiration" movement. A recent CBC article talks about anorexics and bulimics finding support through online communities (See Pro-anorexia Communities). This "support" doesn't come in the form of encouragement as they strive to maintain a healthy weight or deal with the emotional issues underlying their condition. Rather, weight-loss "achievements" are posted and applauded by others, and "inspiring" photos are posted to keep viewers "on track."

I've posted some of the more troubling "inspirational" photos posted on the Proanalifestyleforever page (See proanalifestyleforever.wordpress.com).

One girl writing on the comments page of this site muses, "I like most of the pictures. There isn’t a single one of these women (or any woman or girl) who isn’t beautiful. I’d like to be thin. Right now, I’m in the normal range for my weight and BMI...All the girls here look healthy and thin...Thinspiration is definitely a great source of inspiration for both women and men to stay motivated and keep to their goals."


I can see setting fitness goals, certainly. And yes, women and men should be motivated and goal-oriented. But to spend your precious moments of your life fixated on cutting down that last calorie is to squander your life, your talents, the work you were put on this earth to do. It's heartbreaking.

"Starting today, only water," one girl writes.

Another writes, "I need to loose [sic] weight. Badly. I used to carve words into my wrists: disgusting, fat, ugly etc. But its not motivating me any more. I haven`t eating in days, but i don`t seem to loose [sic] any weight….. Help? remember, emptiness is pure, starvation is the cure!"

Perhaps the most troubling is the comment from "Desiree," who writes, "I am this thin, but i want to be thinner. I am currently 7 stone 4. I want to get down to 5 stone 3. It sounds stupid and dangerous but i think i will be happy when i am at that weight. Look at these girls, their bones dont show enough."

I am terrified about the criticism my daughters may one day face, that my beautiful three-year-old may stop boasting about how much she has grown--how "big" she is getting. I am worried that my six-year-old, who has a lean, muscular build, will poke at the flesh of her calves and fail to ask me, "What the heck are these flaps for?" (Incidentally, she did ask, at which point I talked about the function of fat. Chuckling, she hugged herself and said, "I love my body!")

I despise what our media culture is doing to girls. I hate the message that becoming an empty, vacuous vessel is what being a female is all about. I hate how we are being shortchanged, and sidetracked, and set on a futile journey.

And that's why, when my daughters poke at my belly and chuckle, I join in and poke fun at my  "wobbly bits." I declare that I love my body, am proud of my beautiful, strong, healthy self, a self that changed when I gave birth. And as I cuddle my girls on the couch, I let them know that with these changes came profound gifts--the best of which are now nestled against me.

And a Farewell to You, Mr. Briscoe

Recently, I randomly googled an old friend, Jason Briscoe. I can't even recall where my friends Kathryn and Rebecca (a.k.a. "Trucky") and I discovered him when we were twenty and he was an ancient twenty-eight. In those days, we collected all sorts of peculiar friends. I suspect that we came upon this one at the Republik, our favourite haunt.

I was surprised, during my google search, to discover that Jason had passed away from cancer in his forties. We had lost touch years ago, but I'd assumed that while I hunkered down to a career, and a marriage, and to a life filled with small folk with dripping noses, mismatched socks, and peanut butter fingertips, he would continue his perpetually charmed life of coffee shops, music, cigarettes, and Mass.

What surprised us most about Jason was that we couldn't surprise him. Our exceedingly (and wonderfully) eccentric friend Rebecca could surprise most anyone. She once lit a fire on the dance floor. She actually tossed an ice cube into a cluster of attractive men and went crawling in amongst their ankles and Doc Martins to retrieve it, much to their astonishment. And yes, on one occasion she dropped into the fetal position and started rocking when a young gentleman put his arm around her in an attempt to woo her. (I suspect he is still in therapy.)

Typically, while Rebecca pulled off the impression of being completely unstable, Kathy and I would play the "nice" role: wholesome, sweet girls with a bright future ahead. The key was to appear normal and completely oblivious to the fact that our friend's antics were, well, insane. Young gentlemen who wished to court us would end up being completely baffled, to our great amusement. [I recall one man actually jumping out of our car while Rebecca was still driving, so scared was he. He started to get nervous when she carefully parallel parked right up against the window of a fast food joint, apparently failing to notice that she was on the lawn. A few minutes later, fully unnerved, he made a dash for it while the vehicle was still in motion.]

But back to Jason . . .

When we met Jason for the second time, he was unperturbed when Rebecca informed him that he appeared too healthy and then proceeded to apply some green eye shadow to his cheeks and forehead. Though he had known her for a total of one hour, he calmly accepted the vampirish makeover. Our friendship was sealed: we had found a companion as crazy as we, and that was intriguing.

Jason, at this point in our friendship, was the sort of man who could appear exceedingly cool and fashionably indifferent one moment, and then melt over the sight of a cute kitten the next. He was at once worldly and innocent. I fondly recall a time when he was living at his mother's and slowly working his way through all of her canned goods (she was elsewhere at the time). He called his mother's portly cat into the house, rummaged through the cupboards, and pulled out a can of oysters, which he generously forked into a bowl and placed on the floor. The cat ate with great pleasure.

I discovered soon after that neither Jason nor his mother owned a cat. A few weeks later, the neighbours would complain, asking him to please stop feeding their already corpulent feline.

Jason was probably the coolest wannabe priest you'd ever meet. He loved women, once telling me that if I wouldn't date him, the least I could do was walk around with him in public. That way, he explained, other women would label him "safe" and he would have a much better chance of dating somebody. He loved his music--Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Orange Juice--and he spoke of living in Europe, modeling and riding his motorcycle along cobbled streets. He referred to Jann Arden as his "friend." Still, he aspired to join the Franciscans and spoke passionately of the Children of Medjugorje. He legally added "Mary" to his name. He loved angels and longed for visions.

Unfortunately, visions were a reality for Jason in his ongoing struggle with schizophrenia. He despised his medication and, like so many others, immediately stopped taking it when his mental condition improved. And so once, in the basement of his mother's house, he heard mocking, sinister voices singing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus. And his delusions led to his hospitalization on at least two occasions, and his arrest on another. He even crashed my birthday party one time, only to accuse my mother of trying to poison him by putting alcohol in my cake.

Through the years, our paths would converge again and again. At one point, when Jason was living in Vancouver and the rest of us in Calgary, Kathy and I took a road trip to B.C. Thinking we could save a few dollars, we contacted Jason and asked to pitch our tent in his backyard. Always amiable, he agreed.

We discovered, upon our arrival at his residence, that he lived with other men. These men were not priests, we quickly ascertained. Something was a little off. Nor was Jason his normal self: he had grown comparatively plump and moved slowly, as if underwater. Eventually we figured out that we had pitched our tents in the yard of a halfway house and that Jason's normally animated spirit was being subdued by medications. We did not sleep well that night, especially when one of the household residents opened the flap of our tent and said what sounded to us like a sinister, "Good night!" It is likely not a coincidence that I discovered, in that very tent, the first white hair ever to appear on Kathy's head.

When in a good frame of mind, Jason was always a reliable source of entertainment. We attended my first cat show, and visited a Great Dane farm where puppies as big as ponies frolicked through the fields, flecks of spit flying. He took me to see Father Black, a priest who came dangerously close to slaying me in the Spirit when he concluded that a ring I'd picked up in Hawaii somehow resembled a serpent. [I wasn't about to have any of that, of course. There were places I intended to slay him should he touch me.] We went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, where I saw the most beautiful and broken people share their stories.

Jason always had a way of making himself present even in his absence. During a trip I took to Seattle with my friend Julie (to see Mr. Nick Cave live), a city bus passed us by.

"There's my friend Jason!" I said. He wasn't on the bus: rather, his grinning image was sprawled across the entire side of the bus. Julie snapped a photo of the advertisement for pajamas. Jason would later chuckle when I mentioned the ad, pointing out that his belly wasn't as flat as it used to be (for he was now in his thirties), and that you could certainly tell in that photo.

Just today, Jason popped into view once again while I was trying to rescue treasures from my parents' crawlspace (my dad is on a cleaning tear). I found a fisherman's cap he had given me many years back, my last memento of him.

Jason is undoubtedly looking down at Kathy, Rebecca, and me right now. He probably wants his hat back. He will no doubt want me to write a blog in his honour. And he will certainly saunter off once I have, perhaps to bum a cigarette off of the nearest angel or to feed some saint's poor cat a can of celestial oysters.

Good bye, Jason. I will never forget you.

The Best Kids' Books Ever (According to My Kids)

Be warned. My children are quirky.

The other night D. was furious with me because I couldn't tell her what the edge of the universe might look like (if the universe actually has boundaries). She said that she understood that it was infinite, but gosh darn it, had anyone actually confirmed that? Certainly someone would have had the decency to get on a rocket ship, and to have a baby on the rocket ship, who in turn would have a baby, who would birth another baby, and so on, all the while hurtling through space. Surely one of these human guinea pigs would eventually come to the edge of the universe, if there was one. And they would have sent back a report to Earth, wouldn't they?

D. was spitting mad by the end of that conversation. "I don't know, honey," is not an acceptable answer in our household. "No honey, I can't explain the fifth dimension. I don't really understand it myself."

L. is a little more down to earth, though equally precocious in ways. At the age of three, she informed me that my new dress was unacceptable and could I please change before we left on our "date" (a muffin at Chapters). On occasion she'll look me up and down, and I just know . . . my choice of clothing is unacceptable. "I don't really like that sweater very much," she said the other day, disappointed that I would have made the effort of purchasing it. She has an eye for the aesthetic, and apparently didn't inherit this eye from me.

Needless to say, our interests aren't standard. I'll admit that we've researched conjoined twins and a variety of congenital defects with a keen interest (purely scientific and always empathetic). We've played a rousing game of "congenital triplets" to better understand the obstacles faced by fictional others. We've collected isopods and built homes for worms and left an unfinished tuna fish sandwich outside on purpose to watch the wasps carry it off bit by bit from the safety of our closed glass kitchen door.

We're weird. And we read obsessively . . . on every topic we can get our little peanut-butter covered hands on.

With that out in the open, I would like to share with you some of my quirky children's all-time favourite books. These are books that are magic, for whatever reason. They are listed in no particular order, and I might have stuck one of my own favourites in.

1. "The Bear Dance," by Chris Riddell (1990)

Katya is a little girl who lives in the forest, sleeps in a tree, and spends her days with her best friend
--a bumbly bear called "Brown." Every evening the two dine on an old tree stump, and then dance. Their favourite dance, of course, is the "stomping, shouting, growling, thumping, stamping, jumping-in-the-air Bear Dance."

One day, Jack Frost enters the forest that has only known summer, and threatens the little girl and her paradise. But little Katya is not easily deterred, and engages Jack Frost in a dance so wild that he is defeated. Utterly vanquished. Take that, Jack, you icy abomination.

It's easy to see the appeal in Mr. Riddell's fine book. Who wouldn't want to own a forest and dine with a bear? Who wouldn't want a nightly dance party (we have them all the time, in fact)? Even now, though D. is a little afraid of the illustrations of Jack Frost, she marvels that a small child is able to easily outwit the cold brute.


2. "The Silly Book," by Stoo Hample (2004 edition, though originally published in 1961)

We have been reading this book for YEARS. Many mind-numbing years. I may go to an early grave because of this book. But my daughters will inevitably choose it if it's available. Something about it is irresistible.

The main character is "Boodleheimer" (seen on the cover). The jokes go something like this:

Boodleheimer to a snake: "I'm Boodleheimer."

The snake, in response: "I'm Mother Goose."

L. thinks this is beyond hilarious, and if I don't laugh, she explains the silly joke to me. Again and again. So I've learned to fake it.

Seriously, though, this is a book I don't mind reading again and again, just because my daughters never fail to be amused.


3. "The Quiltmaker's Gift," by Jeff Brumbeau and Gail de Marcken (2000)

This book should be in every home. It's lavishly illustrated, moral and spiritual, and it conveys a simple yet profound message. It makes me tear up the way "The Happy Prince" did when I was a child (okay . . . I still get teary when I read "The Happy Prince"). D. was equally moved.

The quiltmaker is an ancient woman who lives "in the blue misty mountains up high." Her quilts are exquisite, and yet she refuses to sell them, instead giving them to the poorest of the poor on the darkest and coldest of nights.

Enter the greedy king. Like an overindulged child, he collects everything he sees, to the point of owning "almost all of the prettiest things in the world." He is deeply unhappy.

Believing that one more possession will bring him joy, the king tries to force the quiltmaker to give him a quilt. She thwarts his efforts, instead promising to give him his prize only once he has given away all of the wealth he has accumulated.

The king relents at last, and then discovers the joy of helping others. At last, virtually penniless, he declares himself the "richest man I know," and receives the quilt specially made for him. He then spends many a night joyfully giving the quiltmaker's gifts to those who need them the most.   

Few books can inspire generosity, and empathy, like this one. Simply put, it's beautiful.

4. "May I Stay?", by Harry Allard and F.A. Fitzgerald (1977)

This book begins with the simple line, "Once upon a time a man went on a journey." [Be warned: once your child journeys through this book once, you will accompany him or her at least a hundred times.]

The man comes upon a large home and encounters an old man chopping wood. He asks if he can stay the night. He is told that the man is not the boss--that he should speak to the man's father. The man enters the house, and things get very strange indeed.

I love this book. It's an adaptation of an old German fairy tale (and those Germans can write!). The writing is eloquent, the plot is clever, and the illustrations engaging. The most fun part of it is seeing your children's minds as they process the absurdity of what the poor traveler encounters.

5. "When the World Sleeps," by Cliff Wright (1989)

L. loves this book about a little boy who witnesses the moon dropping from the sky. The appeal of seeing the moon up close--helpless and distraught--and finding a way to cast it back into the sky, draws her attention again and again. There are no words.

Almost equally loved, and quite similar, are "The Midnight Adventures of Kelly, Dot, and Esmeralda," and "Where's the Cake?"

Go buy these books. (But please don't blame me if you drop a few IQ points after reading "The Silly Book.") Your kids are worth it. 

Baby . . . I Definitely Thought It Over

So, we were given the opportunity to borrow a "Baby Think It Over" doll. It's not often a person gets to play with a $500 doll, one that cries like a human baby, has to be held in a few specific positions, and whose temperament you get to choose (unlike babies who arrive the traditional way).

My daughter D. was giddy with excitement. She has been asking me to provide her with a new baby sister. Since my belly is not growing any larger (except around Christmas), she has repeatedly asked that we become a foster family, emphasizing that she will be the sole caregiver of our little charges.

"Baby Think It Over" was the next best thing.

D. was dismayed to discover that her new Baby had a penis--strike one. She was puzzled to find that he was clearly of an Asian heritage. But she adopted him with gusto nonetheless, and agonized over his name. She decided, at long last, on "Loren," because the name would allow her to pretend he was a "Lauren," without insulting his gender. All of my suggested names were quashed.

My daughter wanted a sensitive baby, but being an experienced mother I decided on a "normal" temperament. No tomato allergies for us. Colic? No way. We set the controls that would enable him to cry every 90 to 270 minutes, locked the tamper-proof panel, and thus gave Baby Loren a consciousness of sorts.

Unfortunately, he was in a two-hour sleep cycle, and D. soon grew weary of holding a motionless baby with the creepy ability to sleep with his eyes open.

Two hours later, Baby Loren started wailing, and faithful D. raced to his side and clutched her beloved. He stopped crying. D. had succeeded as a mother: she had calmed him within the sixty second timeframe allotted before he would go into a one-minute distress cycle (that would be recorded as a "neglect" event in his circuitry).

Of course, D. had gymnastics that day and could not bear the thought of leaving Baby Loren at home. I felt a little awkward being a grandmother at my age, but agreed to take care of my beautiful grandson with "Auntie L's" assistance.

Though I did garner a few curious stares, Baby Loren was brilliant . . . during the first half of gymnastics. One mother gasped when she saw him sitting alone on the table and said, "I thought he was real!" I explained the situation. A little girl then asked to hold him, which was fine with me--though I received a tongue-lashing from my daughter later for allowing a stranger (a child, of all things!) to hold her infant.

Then, sure enough, all hell broke loose. Baby Loren started to fuss, and people's looks went from curious to baffled.

"He's just hungry!" I said, grasping for the care key which would enable me to "feed" him.

He wasn't hungry, though. Drat. And apparently I had neglected him because he wouldn't calm down. I jammed the care key in, but had to hold it in an exact position to keep that Baby quiet.

Shortly after, gymnastics ended, and I needed to herd my children out of the building, not to mention collect my possessions. A new set of parents were arriving, and my preschooler escaped my grasp in the crowd as she sought out her boots and coat. I couldn't hold the care key in place and take care of my living, breathing, moving children.

And so Baby Loren screeched, loud, mournful laments. Wailing of an incompetent grandmother. Wailing on behalf of Think It Over babies in incompetent hands everywhere. I knew that within his neural circuitry an abuse incident was being recorded, and my stomach dropped.

D. stared at me in dismay as I ran to the window (away from the crowd) and struggled to end the crying . . . by removing Baby's Control panel and extracting the batteries.

"Don't kill my baby!" she cried. "That's not fair."

I couldn't get the circuitry box open in my panic, and then at last it worked, and I ended Baby Loren's brief existence on this planet. A little plastic soul flew up into the sky.

Driving home that evening with a scowling daughter in tow, I thought it over. I thought that no matter how much I yearned for another baby, we just couldn't keep Baby Loren.

And so we now resurrect a different baby every day. There's no way I'm getting up at 2:00 a.m. to care for a plastic model when sleep is scarce enough as it is.

And that's okay. I thought it over, and made a series of unethical decisions, and despite my record of neglect, I feel just fine. Welcome to Motherhood.