Generation Exhausted

On Sabbatical

Taking a break - see you in a week or so!

The one where I tell you why I'm a buyer, not a borrower

I am shocked. Completely and totally shocked at today's turn of events. Never in a million years could I have imagined what I found out today.

And no, it's got nothing to do with Cabinet Minister Barbie.

Tonight, at the dinner table, my teen accidentally revealed a deep, dark secret. She's been harbouring this secret for months, apparently, and tonight she let the cat out of the bag. And it turns out that her sister has the same secret. They've been aided and abetted by the hubby and my mother, a grand conspiracy they've all been keeping quiet about.

They've both got a valid library card.

I got my first library card when I was six.  A piece of cardstock, my name lettered across it, my mother’s signature below.  My admission to the world of literature.  I was in heaven.

I’d stand among the stacks, surrounded by worlds I was anxious to know.  Adventure, mystery, humor.  I could check out as many books as it would take to satisfy my hunger, and at the end of the week bring them back and borrow more.

There was a hitch. The books had to be returned on a certain day.  If the due date passed, then the books became OVERDUE.

Reading them all before the due date wasn’t the problem.  My borrowed books were read within hours of arriving in my home.  I devoured the stories at a fantastic rate, snuggling in my bed, riding in the car, or sitting in the backyard.

As the due date approached, the books had been read, re-read, and then shoved aside.  I couldn’t remember to return them.

If the books were overdue a few days, I’d sheepishly return them, and start all over again.  If two weeks had passed, the library would mail a note, earning me a lecture about responsibility.  Occasionally, a book would be lost, and I’d have to cough up my allowance.

I was unbiased in my irresponsibility.  Each year, the school would withhold my report card until I had returned all their library books.  Every library I’d ever visited knew me by name, and ultimately my borrowing privileges were cancelled.

It is cruel and unusual punishment to forbid a voracious reader like myself from borrowing books.  I would send friends to borrow on my behalf.  When I was desperate for a library fix, I’d go, sit and read for hours, and then return the book to the shelf.

And then I got married, and my name changed.

A brand new start!  New library card, and a mature, adult approach to book borrowing.  I did well, for a while.  Then, several years ago, our local library decided to reinstate the system of overdue fines.  I took it personally.

Now my irresponsibility was costing me.  At times, it would have been cheaper to buy books.

I got library cards for the children, and passed my habits on to them.  We tried weekly trips, a designated spot for library books, but nothing worked.  I earned Mother Of The Yearrrrr status the day the Kindergarten visited the library, and my middle daughter was denied the right to borrow because her card was in hock.  I hung my head in shame.

Five years ago, the city declared an amnesty on all delinquent borrowers, and mailed out new library cards. They promised to forgive outstanding fines, and previous history.  Like shopaholics with a new MasterCard, we ran to the library.  Another fresh start!

Which, of course, didn't last, and I ran up HUGE overdue fines, and they froze my card again. And then, because I used the kids' cards, they froze those too. I'd be surprised if the wallpaper on the librarian's computer didn't have a picture of me on it with the instructions DO NOT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, ALLOW THIS WOMAN TO BUY BOOKS.

When I heard the news at dinner - which they've been able to hide from me for MONTHS - my heart started to race, my eyes glazed over, and I searched frantically around the room to see if the contraband cards were in sight. My kids can borrow books! Maybe they can score for me!

Alas, a stern look from hubby and a threat from the middle kid of "If you even try it, I'll tell Grandma" restored me to some semblance of reasonable. I'll just pretend I never found out, k?

Although, if I don't actually go into the library MYSELF, and the kid brings me home a book I want to read, that's okay, right? Because I'm their mother, and they should want me to read, right? RIGHT?

So this is how it starts

That novel I started a while back? I'm about 1600 words in, haven't done much since that first burst, but I'm mapping in my head, getting to know my characters, etc. I feel good about what's to come -it will be challenging, but I think I'm excited about trying something new-to-me.

Although I'm not a HUGE fan of posting excerpts of my unfinished material, I thought I'd give regular readers in these parts a taste of what the story looks like. Here's the first page or so - probably won't share a lot more in this space, but you never know.

When Meryl saw the crumpled body lying on the slick pavement, grey curls tumbling over the victim’s face, her first thought was, “Mother.”

But of course, this wasn’t Mother. The unfortunate woman’s pale legs stuck crookedly out from beneath the hem of a gaudy flowered housedress, and Mother would never have worn something like that. Meryl’s partner pulled equipment out of the ambulance, while Meryl urged curious onlookers to step out of the way. It was the grey curls that had triggered the thought, she realized. But Mother had never worn her hair that long, preferring a sensible short cut instead.

Besides, Mother had died six months ago.

Meryl focused on the scene in front of her. The victim was breathing – low groans could be heard in spite of the chattering onlookers, and the wail of further sirens in the distance. Somewhere, probably in the crowd on the sidewalk, a dog was barking. The light drizzle increased suddenly, turning blood into pale pink rivers that trickled away from the body, spreading onto the surrounding pavement. This wasn’t going to be an easy one then.

She still had a hard time with the calls that involved a lot of blood. Sometimes, they were lucky, and an entire shift went by without any accident calls. Those were the easy days, eight hours of transferring patients from hospital to nursing home, or responding to heart attacks and strokes. But there weren’t very many of those days.

“Why on earth would you become an ambulance attendant?” Mother had wondered at the time. “You get queasy just watching E.R. on TV! Honestly Meryl, this is the most ridiculous idea you’ve had yet.”

“I have to do something,” Meryl had insisted. “Social services says they’ll cut off my checks if I don’t start some kind of program. I can’t feed these kids on a WalMart job, and I haven’t seen a child support payment since Dave disappeared last year. They’ll pay for all the training. Besides, I like to help people – maybe this is something I can be good at.”

Mother had shaken her head again, and made clicking sounds with her tongue. “I just don’t know Meryl,” she’d repeated. “You know, if you’d listened to me in the first place…”

Then you wouldn’t have had any grandchildren at all, Meryl had finished silently, seething at the familiar refrain. It had been ten years since she’d gotten pregnant at sixteen and dropped out of high school to marry Dave. How long was she going to have to pay for that first mistake, and for the ones that came later? Dave had been a good dad, for a while, and they’d both tried hard to do all the right things. But four years later, he’d had enough, and gone back home to his mama, leaving her with two babies and a third one on the way.

Meryl forced herself back into the present, where a squad car had joined the melee.

“Do we need the backboard?” she called to Ken, her partner, who was examining the woman.

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “She’s lost consciousness though, so let’s get her loaded fast. I’ve done what I can for now.”

Meryl helped Ken gently lift the battered form onto a stretcher, and covered the victim with a warm blanket. The rain was really pounding now, and in the few seconds it took to lift the stretcher into the ambulance, the blankets were soaked. Meryl wondered absently if the victim had been carrying an umbrella, and looked around. There it was – still open, it was rolling gently back and forth near the curb, waiting patiently for its owner to fetch it.

Comments and honest constructive criticism are always welcome - un-necessary snarkiness I can get from my teenager.

Tag was never my game

It appears that the lovely and talented Kira has "tagged" me. Therefore, I submit for your reading pleasure the completion of five of the following sentences:

If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a psychologist
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an inn-keeper
If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer
If I could be a llama-rider
If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be an astronaut
If I could be a world famous blogger
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world
If I could be married to any current famous political figure

Here goes!

If I could be a psychologist, I would study the teenage brain. Does a child who just spent three days on crutches really need to ask WHY I won't let her hobble down to the park for some batting practice? (yeah, it's been one of THOSE weeks)

If I could be a librarian, I would close the library early every day, lock the doors and just READ, all by myself.

If I could be a farmer, I would donate part of every year's harvest to local schools for them to provide fresh veggies to their students. (that's been happening here and it's working out WONDERFULLY)

If I could be a scientist, I would invent a self-propelled laundry folding machine.

If I could be a writer, I would write novels and articles and essays...oh wait, that sounds familiar - I think I've done that!

And now, according to the rules of the game - I have to tag three other people. So Average Mom, Danigirl, and Sheryl, you're it!

Calling Canadian kids!

I don't usually use the blog for this purpose, but hey, there's a first time for everything.

For an article I'm working on, I need to ask Canadian kids aged 3 to 13: What bugs you about your mom or dad? What's the one thing you wish they wouldn't do?

If your child is interested in being interviewed please let me know by emailing me.

Thanks!

The tires will do nicely, thank you

Because of the Colorado adventure coming up for the middle one and I, money has been more than tight around here - it's non existent. Oh, we're not going hungry, and the bills are paid (more or less) but when the third child in a week showed me toes poking through the ends of running shoes, and the teenager proved that she does, indeed, have NO SUMMER CLOTHES THAT FIT MOM, I put my head down on the desk and had myself a little cry. And Little League season has started, and one needed a helmet, and on and on.

So a day or so ago, hubby was fretting a bit over the fact that he hadn't been Mother's Day shopping yet.  I assured him that it was okay, and that he shouldn't worry about it, since, you know, Colorado, and all that. And then when we went to do a Tim Horton's run between Little League games today, and found a nail in my tire, and discovered that my tires were almost certainly likely to cause me terrible tragedy any minute now, which ended up meaning two new tires for the minivan.

And so I said, "There, I got tires for Mother's Day."

And Opening Day at Little League finally ended, and we got home this evening, and the kids said, "Oh no! We haven't shopped for Mother's Day!" And I said, "It's okay."

And I meant it. Ten dollars at the dollar store cannot compare with the gifts my children have given me in recent weeks and months. Here are just a few:

The note my teenager scrawled on a napkin one morning before she left for school: Sorry 'bout not making the Leacock Short List! Better luck next year. P.S. You are definitely better than Miss Smithers. (apologies to Susan Juby, but she is MY kid)

The cup of coffee one of the kids brought to me before I'd even gotten out of bed.

The Career Day at school, when my third grader stood up in class and said, "That's MY mom!"

The day we went to the OM Provincials, when my teenager, who WASN'T going with us, got up early just to make sure I did.

When the little one said, "I want to have my picture taken with my mom."

When the middle one said, "Let's ask my mom. She'll know what to do."

They show me, day by day, in so many ways, that they appreciate me. And I don't often see those moments - I'm more likely to focus on the unfolded laundry, the unmade beds, the arguments, the seemingly total self-absorption on their parts sometimes. But those moments are there, and for Mother's Day at least, I'm going to remember them. I don't need dishtowels, or new pens, to know they love me.

Although washing my car for me would be a real nice gesture too.

Brought to you by the letter X

Why, oh why, couldn't they have had one of these five years ago?

Random House TwentySomething Essays by TwentySomething Writers contest. Prize: $20,000

Not interested in reading about twenty-somethings? Then how about thirty stories for thirty-somethings? Also known as Generation Xhausted. Why not check it out?

A beginning

Since the day I decided "I am a writer" I've soaked up every piece of advice I could get my hands on, a veritable sponge for any insight that other writers might be able to provide. Some of it I've discarded quickly, determining that it's not for me. Other advice, I've absorbed into my very core, remembering it, keeping it in mind, even when I'm not using it.

One of those "keepers" is this: Do Not Ignore The Voices.

The Voices tell you stories in your head, usually when it's least convenient, like in the shower, or driving, or trying to fall asleep at night. Sometimes, they tell entire epics and sagas - sometimes they speak in shorthand, throwing out names, a plot twist, a simple phrase, or maybe just a title. They're unpredictable - they may speak every day, or maybe just once a year. I'm convinced they're part of the reason that most writers turn to drink, or drugs, or go quietly insane.

Wouldn't you be tempted to go 'round the bend if you were minding your own business, watching a kids' soccer game, and your mind suddenly said, "It's about a boy who turns out to be a wizard, and there's a train with an invisible platform, and oh yeah, these jellybeans that taste like lint."?

When the Voices begin to tell their tale, you are supposed to record their stories immediately, lest they vanish forever before you finally make your way to your desk. This may involve jotting notes on napkins, pulling over and demanding that innocent passers-by give you a pen, using the soap to write on the shower wall, hell, carving it into your arm with a nail file if necessary.

Whatever it takes. The Voices aren't the only thing that gets the muse moving, of course, but many a brilliant tome has remained unwritten because the writer ignored them.

Last night, I found myself unable to sleep, and suddenly, after many, many years of silence, the Voices spoke. And like all good writers, I tried to bend the rules.

I knew - oh, how I knew - that ignoring them meant risking their lapse into slience.  The "I'll jot it down in the morning" is useless - by morning, all is forgotten, a distant dream. But it was cold, and the bed was warm. So I attempted to talk back, and as I questioned the Voices, the ideas grew, and the story mapped, and I began to seriously wonder if not getting out of bed was going to turn out to be the most foolish thing I'd ever done. But I gambled, and stayed tucked in for the night.

I got lucky. 'Cause it was all still there this morning, although a little fuzzy.

I still didn't jot. And then tonight, arriving at the T-ball game, the Voices began suddenly to shout at me, which is why I found myself, hunched in a chair beside the baseball diamond, trying to hold a pen in my mittened hands and scribble things on Post-it notes.

All of which is my roundabout way of saying that I am now, officially, 900 words into my next novel, which is nothing like the novel I'd planned to write next. It's not chick lit, and it probably won't be funny. But it will be good, and moving, and powerful, and thought-provoking.

The Voices told me so.

Herding cats

Spent the day at the school, supervising the taking of the Yearbook photos (what? You hadn't heard that I volunteered to do the Yearbook this year? It's not like I was busy or anything) Anyhow, learned some valuable lessons today.

First:

The ideal age for group photos is Grade Two. They stay, more or less, where you put them, they take direction surprisingly well, and when they don't, they're still small enough that a gentle nudge, or even a boost, is enough to get them into place.

The Kindergarten age is tough. By the time the front row is in place, the back row has gotten bored with standing in one spot for FIVE WHOLE SECONDS, and has wriggled away. There is always one kid who is touching/brushing/picking his nose. If you say, "Hey, kid in the blue shirt, move over here" a whole group of them, EVEN IF THEY'RE NOT WEARING BLUE SHIRTS, moves. The only saving grace is that they're small enough that you can move them yourself if they're not taking direction well.

By the time they hit double digits, it's like herding cats. They have their own agenda, and it doesn't include standing shoulder to shoulder with ANYONE. They move around more than the Kindergarten kids do, and they're too big to move yourself. Duct tape is tempting, but I'm pretty sure using it would violate about nine different laws/school board policies.

Second:

I don't want to be in charge of a school, EVER. Scheduling photos for the least amount of disruption is akin to planning the invasion of a small country. There are the kids' schedules, the teachers' schedules, the field trip schedules, the schedule of who's using the gym/library/anywhere else you might to take a picture. Plus recess. It's insane.

And at least five times I called a kid by name - their older sibling's name. It seriously affected my coolness factor.

Long, long day. And baseball season is underway, so there are busy days ahead. Unless the games get "snowed out." Welcome to spring in the Great White North.

I keep saying I'm never doing this again

Why, why, WHY do I wait until the last possible MINUTE to focus on my income tax? WHY? I've spent the better part of the day sorting through piles of files and paper and remembering my vow last year to be better organized.

The one bright spot was finding a $20 bill in among some papers. God only knows how that got there. However, it's not enough to compensate for the fact that I am a terrible, terrible person for being such an organizational mess.

Never again. Starting this week - THIS WEEK - one hour a week will be paperwork time.

Pinky swear.