Generation Exhausted

It's my baby and I'll cry if I want to

I experienced 29 hours of labour for this child. Years of sleepless nights, thousands of diaper changes. Mother guilt. Self-doubt.

I cleaned skinned knees, and sat on dirty chairs in emergency rooms at midnight. Held her hand through vaccinations and stitches. Seperated her lights from her darks and Shout-ed at ketchup stains.

I refereed arguments between her and her siblings. I sat through hours of school assemblies even if she only had one line in the class production. Did I mention I never missed a parent-teacher interview?

I've driven miles to baseball games, and swimming lessons and Brownie meetings. Volunteered for hot dog days and class trips and car washes.

I've sat in the passenger seat and handed over the keys. I've proof-read English papers and been the audience for monologue rehearsals.

I have spent almost half my life (I did the math) as her Mother.

So if looking at the little booklet that informs me of tomorrow's sitting for her high school graduation pictures makes me cry, I don't think anyone should be allowed to make fun of me for that.

It seemed like a good place to start

How do you know when your kid is growing up?

When you buy them an expandable file and say, "Here, this is for that growing pile of  important papers that survived the flood and has since doubled in size."

College apps, scholarship apps, receipts for fees, pay stubs - these are the trappings of an almost-adult. I knew the file was necessary when I said, "Go through your drawer full of paper and throw out the garbage."

Ten minutes later I found an envelpe on top of the trash. Inside was the immunization record the Health Unit had sent last spring to prove she'd been vaccinated against mumps. Which we'd had to request because I'd lost the record from when she was little.

Like mother, like daughter.

I'm off to a good start on my own conquer-the-paperwork journey. I bought a package of bankers boxes, and will tackle the first pile tomorrow.

I never said I was perfect

I was waiting for a colleague to show up for a meeting yesterday. About five minutes after the pre-determined time, she called me on her cell phone.

Her: I forgot to pack <insert 11-year-old's name here>! So I'm bringing McDonald's to the school and I'll meet you as soon as I'm done.

Me: No biggie. See you soon.

Her: I can't believe I did that!

Me: Seriously, is this the first time you've ever done that?

Her: YES.

Me: Well, don't be so hard on yourself. I forgot to pick Oldest up at Brownies when she was eight. Two different times.

Her: Well, I don't feel so bad now.

I thought about it afterward. This mom - not only a colleague of mine, but something of a friend - was seriously upset about this. Ready to give herself a beating with the Guilt Stick for something as simple as forgetting to pack a kid's lunch ONCE in twelve years of parenting.

I shared the story with Oldest, who is now almost an adult. "I remember when you forgot me at Brownies," she said. "I wrote a poem about it for English class awhile ago. Got an 'A' too."

Mothers are human. We mess up sometimes. And those mistakes need to be put into perspective. It's not like I left her on a street corner. The Brownie leader drove her home. If the worst thing my kid ever has to say about me is that, amidst the chaos of parenting three kids,  I forgot the pre-arranged plan once or twice- well, maybe I didn't do so bad.

I think that's why it's important to share our mistakes with each other. So that other moms know that they aren't the only ones in the world who experience small screw-ups every now and then. That forgetting a lunch isn't the end of the world. The Mom Police aren't going to come along and arrest you. It takes a lot more than that to get your name into the annals of Parents Behaving Badly.

Of course, irony struck with a vengeance. Later last night, Oldest called me at 11:10 p.m to see where I was. I was supposed to pick her up at work at 11 and it had slipped my mind.

I'm not perfect, but I mean well.

Maybe it's because this year has a "7" in it?

The brakes are not going to bankrupt me.

Back in August, I had the rear brakes done, and it turns out there was a bad part, allowing the brake fluid to seep out. The "Mom"-mobile is in the shop as we speak, having the bad parts replaced with good ones, free of charge.

Why did it take from August until now for the problem to show itself? Well, there's a bit of irony for you. As it happens, in spite of the fact that there are days when I run hither and thither, I actually rack up an extra-ordinarily low amount of mileage in five months. Who knew?

I knew, actually.  Let's face it, I work from home, and it's not baseball season.

Let's all keep our fingers crossed that this lucky streak continues, shall we?

Sure, I can keep going and going, but can I stop?

The Chrysler Make-Money Light came on in the minivan briefly yesterday, then again today. I was inclined to ignore it, as it's the brake light, and any vehicle I've ever driven before has only flashed the brake light when the parking brake on. Since my parking brake clearly wasn't on, I chalked it up to "car's just messing with my head".

But tonight, it was niggling at the back of my brain, so I looked it up. Turns out, I could be low on brake fluid. COULD. The light isn't staying on, just flashing when I hit a pothole, which are legion this time of year.

So tomorrow, I'm off to the mechanic for servicing, (maybe Mary and Betty will be there) whereby I will plead with him to actually look at the brakes instead of hooking it up to The Computer. Because, as history has shown, The Computer has a habit of saying, "I have no idea, that'll be $100 please." Far cheaper to check the brakes first, in my un-professional opinion. Until then, it's a good excuse to not have to drive anyone anywhere.

For those of you in the Great White North, check out the print edition of the February 2007 issue of Readers Digest Canada, page 37. That's the first picture of me I've ever been happy with, not counting the one of me at age 3, with my auburn curls that were never the same after I fell (FELL, not "jumped") in the bucket of motor oil.

You know the story about the motor oil, right?

I should maybe put a light on the car and install a meter

Working from home, you'd think I'd be glad of the chance to get out and tour this fair city once in a while. After all, there are days when I don't even put shoes on (take that Flylady!) Many, many days.

Today? Not one of those days. In the space of 2 hours, I drove more than 50 kilometres, and was never more than 10 minutes from home. This is what it looked like:

Pick up Grandma and drive her to the lab. Finish at lab and realize I'm running behind. Swing by house, pick up brother, then drive to pick up niece at school. Go from niece's school to high school and pick up teenagers. Swing by house so Oldest can run in and see if "fat envelope" from Laurier is acceptance. Drive Oldest to work. Drop off brother and niece at brother's house. Bring Grandma (who, bless her heart, has found herself along for a ride she hadn't planned on) home. Drive home.

But that was only the first wave. Later in the evening...

Brother arrives. Brother, Middle and myself pile into the minivan and proceed to retrieve Oldest from work, stop at Shoppers to make photocopies, drop Middle at baseball practice, return home to drop off Oldest, load desk into minivan, deliver Brother and desk to Brother's house, return home.

And then, of course, Middle ultimately had to be retrieved from baseball practice.

And did I mention that there was a nice sort of half-rain-drizzle happening for most of this?

So, what did you do with your day?

Every last one

Liz wanted to know what I meant by ALL the Turtles.

I love Turtles. So well is this known in my family that every Christmas I get four or five boxes as gifts, and then I eat them all by shortly after New Year's.

All by myself. No sharing. The kids don't complain, it's just one of those things - leave Mom's Turtles alone.

A couple of years ago, they changed the packaging for Turtles and it's just stupid. First of all, I'm pretty sure there are now fewer Turtles in a standard box, and they almost never go on sale for less than six bucks a box now. Secondly, it really slows me down having to unwrap each one individually. It was much easier when I could just pop the lid off a box, eat the first layer, then save the second layer for later.

And by later, I mean a few hours after I ate the first layer. But that two layer box allowed me to gauge my progress through the box, because each Turtle gone left an empty space. Now there's just a pile of empty wrappers, and since I try to throw each wrapper in the garbage immediately, it's hard to keep track of how many I've eaten.

Or whether someone has been snitching Turtles from my box.

Anyway, I gained nine pounds this December. Which is not a bad thing. And I'm sure the New Year's Eve feast contributed as well. But the Turtles are gone, and since I never, ever buy them in between Christmases, I'm not apologizing for my holiday gluttony.

But yes, Liz, I ate ALL the Turtles. Four or five boxes' worth. Every last one.

P.S. Thanks to all who de-lurked, it was nice to see ya! Now the trick is to discard your shyness permanently and make your presence known more often!

Oh, the nagging

In much the same way that I constantly remind her to "clean your room", Oldest has taken to remarking, "It's been three days since you blogged."

And then the peanut gallery chimes in.

So in return, I'll do some nagging of my own. Brainchild of the wonderful Sheryl over at PaperNapkin, once again it's De-Lurking Week, and it's my obligation as a good blogger to remind you - Delurking is DeLovely! So, when you're done reading the drivel fascinating prose I've put here for your enjoyment, please, leave a comment to let me know you exist. Generation Xhausted gets more than 100 hits a day, and I'm almost positive that no more than fifty of them are me.

I'm still in some kind of post-holiday, gradual ramping-up mode. The Christmas tree is down and stored away, I've eaten all the Turtles (five boxes!) and I've worn all my new underwear and pajamas at least once. But the holiday residue still lurks - every day at supper time, when we clear off the dining room table, I shift the pile of Christmas cards/letters received into a temporary holding place. What am I supposed to do with them? I don't want to throw them out, but to keep them would only give me one more thing to shake my head sadly at if the basement ever floods again.

We've already established that I'm not crafty, so I won't use them for scrapbooking. (Scrapbook materials being something that I buy constantly but never use). And I'm so grateful that so many wonderful friends and family consider me holiday greeting-worthy; how can I dispose of those well wishes as soon as the Epiphany has passed?

On the up side, the kids are back to school, and even though it's not the true halfway mark, there's a definite feeling of being on the other side of the school year, the place where we start counting down to the end instead of up from the beginning. Homework is coming fast and furious, it's Speech Season again, and the phrase "where does the time go?" is on the tip of my tongue. Even baseball registration is coming up.

So.

Onward, upward and forward. That's the direction I'm moving in, here in the early days of 2007. Just as soon as I figure out what to do with these Christmas cards.

And don't forget:

Stuff that makes me think

Some of my best friends are journalists. Some of my best writers have studied, or are now studying to be journalists. Oldest Daughter is currently applying to journalism programs. And even though I've rarely referred to myself as a journalist - believing that the simple term "freelance writer" is a more accurate description for the various types of non-fiction writing I do - I have a high degree of respect for the profession and subscribe to a set of ethics that closely, if not exactly, mimic those one would expect from those who present their writing as fact rather than fiction.

So this particular post at the Canadian Magazines blog caught my eye.  I followed the link to the article in Maisonneuve and read, with a sense of fascinated horror, the tale told by an anonymous former journalism student of how she routinely substituted fiction for fact for her Journalism 101 assignments.

Hmm.

As Canadian Magazines points out, it's hard to know if this is a true confession. A discussion and dissection of the available facts is just beginning over there, and I hope it continues, as I'm interested in others' opinions. But let's assume for a moment that it is, in fact, fact.

As an editor, it reminds me once again that I can't assume my sense of ethics is shared by everyone I encounter in this business (though I'm sure  - though I hope fervently - that it is shared by the majority). It leaves me with that fifth-grade feeling of "it's not fair."  The relationship between writer and professor, writer and editor, writer and reader is based on an assumption that we all understand the rule. And the rule is simple  - don't make stuff up.

As a writer, it makes me want to hang a sign around my neck that says, "I tell the truth." I've never been afraid of fact-checking - I believe that it's done to avoid mistakes, not because magazines should be afraid that I'm trying to pass off fiction as fact. I go into the relationship as a writer the same way I do as an editor, clear on one thing above all others - don't make stuff up.

It shouldn't be like a game of Monopoly, where you have to clarify what rules you'll play by before you start a game. The rule is the same - each and every time: Don't make stuff up.

Does that make me naive?

The author says she hopes her tale won't be used to caution journalism students, (though I'm not sure what she would be cautioning them against, as the tone of the piece seems more defensive than penitent) but I think it could spark valuable discussion amongst all who are in the business of writing non-fiction. Rather than believe that journalism has lost its authority, "Kate Jackson's" story makes me want to work to meet the expectations of the reader even more - to prove that most of us not only understand the rules, but that we play by them too. The game's just better that way.

See how quickly things happen when you make a decision?

This is going to be a GREAT year.**

Today was the first work day of 2007. By noon, I'd been contacted by a national offering me an assignment. Around 4, I was asked to repeat a workshop that I gave a year ago here in town.

It's true - once you tell the universe you're ready, it just happens.

**Permission granted to remind me of my optimism when I experience the writer's emotional roller coaster at some point in the future.