Fear Itself

Geneva is not afraid of much. When I read her Grimm fairytales (wherein someone usually gets cut up or otherwise horribly mutilated) she listens calmly and often corrects me if I try to edit out the gorier parts. She identifies with predators and always wants the Big Bad Wolf to win. Lately she has taken to declaring that she is a barracuda, at which point the rest of the world is expected to react with the appropriate amount of fear and awe. Even illustrations that legitimately give me the heebie-jeebies are nothing more than interesting for Geneva the Brave. Here are just a couple of examples:

So imagine my surprise when, as she was flipping through one of her books, she suddenly jumped up and ran from the room with tears in her eyes, shouting "I'm afraid!" What horror could she have possibly discovered? What ghastly image was I about to encounter as I approached the book lying open on Geneva's bedroom floor? Here's what I saw. Brace yourselves.

So apparently even Geneva's bravery knows some limits after all. She has nothing to fear but fear itself... and, you know, startled rabbits.

Hear Me Roar

As a woman planning a homebirth during a season when most people's windows are open, and in a very quiet neighborhood, I'm wondering how much apology/explanation will be necessary when labor rolls around for realsies. Should I buy everyone on the block a nice Starbuck's giftcard to make up for awakening them, possibly in the wee hours of the morning, with the banshee cry that can only be brought on by a crowning baby? Should I hire a landscaper to come and cut the grass when the contractions really start to hurt, thereby muffling the sounds of labor and diverting everyone's ire from me to "that damn lawnmower"? Should I just have the baby and trust that everyone will be cool with this rare and miraculous event, loud though it may be?

Even on a street populated (mostly) with exceptionally cool people, it somehow seems too much to ask.



And yes, I am a writhing blob of hormone-fueled neuroses right now, thank you for asking!

Pardon the Mess...

I'm kind of wigging out. This week I will be looking after a three-year-old boy while his parents, who are artists, teach classes at The Seasons Performance Hall. Fun? You betcha! I'm absolutely looking forward to the experience with nothing but excited anticipation. No no, the reason I'm wigging out is that the parents, these highly successful, detail-oriented strangers are going to see my house. And it is a mess.

What is it with me? This is a continual battle I fight: anxiety over what others will think of my home maintenance skills. The weird thing is, I am not a fastidious person. I like things clean-- as in, scum-free-- and I like things to have a place, but when it's just me and the Girlie I am generally satisfied with a state of controlled chaos. Without anyone watching I think I strike a healthy balance between extremes. I do not spend all of my time whisking away evidence of human habitation, nor do I actively create a pig-sty environment (which, by the way, was my teenage rebellion form of choice. You're welcome, Mom. Seriously. It could have been so much worse). But oh, when visitors arrive on the doorstep... Sigh. I am suddenly caught in the iron grip of this crushing fear that-- that-- honestly, I don't know what I think is going to happen. Maybe that they'll take pictures of my laundry room and report me to CPS or something.

With a one-year-old in the house it's kind of ridiculous anyway. Children accelerate the process of entropy: it's a scientific fact. Look it up. Toys become one with the floor. Food becomes one with the tablecloth. The organizational structures of your drawers disintegrate and decay and fall apart until you find yourself looking for the can opener in the refrigerator. Who can conquer the forces of domestic collapse? Some people. Not me. But domestic collapse and I have an understanding. We're cool.

So you know what, highly successful, detail-oriented strangers? Come on over! I'll invite you in and say, in the words of Roseanne, "Pardon the mess, but we live here." I'll assume that you're not judging me, and you can assume that I mop occasionally. Just don't report me to CPS. And don't look in the laundry room.

Passionate Loafer

I have boundless admiration for people who work hard at whatever they do, whether it's a career or a hobby or an art. I've always wanted to be one of those people who never seemed to sit still, who blaze through the house like a tornado in reverse and leave a trail of organization and creative genius in their wake. My personality seems to fit the role-- I'm passionate to an extreme degree, I see my home as my own personal blank canvas, and I like waking up fairly early. But you know what, folks?

I am lazy.

There, after two decades of being in denial, I'm finally committing it to print. Laugh if you like; this is not easy. Seriously. At every turn in my life, I try to make the choice that a hardworking person would make, and I've been telling myself that this means I'm a hard worker, too. I've been hauling around two decades' worth of guilt over silly things that it turns out I really enjoy doing:

staring out of the window and watching the neighbors
taking two hours to finish a cup of tea
extending my shower by a good ten minutes after I've finished washing
poking around on the internet and reading cheesy advice columns
looking at my own photo albums ad nauseum
hemming and hawing about what shoes to wear
eating food because I'm bored

Without getting too introspective, here's the conclusion I've reached: somewhere along the line I seem to have decided that lazy activities have less value than hardworking activities, when in truth I think I need a good helping of both in my life. I'll still try my very best to be an industrious person, but I have decided to stop flagellating myself for those moments when I realize I've just been blissfully spacing out. With those moments occurring less and less frequently anyway, I'll chalk it up to a quality of life issue and just enjoy it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to ignore the laundry while eating ice cream and staring at the TV.

Home Alone

Sometimes I wonder what I missed out on by never having lived alone. It seems like something every adult should do at some point, but then again I've never been one of those people who needs a lot of "alone time" so the experience might be more miserable than beneficial for me. Anyway, I get to thinking about the subject when I find myself home alone. Avery is at a conference in Vancouver this week so it's just me, the cat and the bump, fending for ourselves. Today I went to Kiki's for dinner and read an entire National Geographic magazine from cover to cover as I slowly enjoyed my hot and sour soup. On Wednesday I worked for eleven hours straight. Tonight I'm watching a movie Avery doesn't particularly enjoy, but that I really like. I'm enoying these little moments, and the flexibility of choosing my own insomnia-driven schedule, but in the spaces between I'm lonely. I miss my husband. I am also finding that without someone to laugh with, it's much easier to cry over things like my outrageously puffy feet. Living by my own rules is nice, but nice in the same way as going on a trip somewhere: it's new, it's fun, and no matter what it's just not home.

P.S. Jen, oh my gosh!!! Congratulations!!! I've been rooting for more St. Hilaire babies, so YAY :)