he's perfect

This has been sitting in my drafts for a while ... because I know what a private man my boy is. But this month I've had friend after friend after friend proudly exclaiming over their graduates, sharing their pictures on facebook, anticipating their departure for whatever's next. And I just wanted my turn.

You see, he's perfect - he was when he was born. Smooth skinned. Unwrinkled. Smiling. None of that redskinned miss-shapened head mess. He slept, until we got him home at least. And he spent much of his childhood trying to make sure his brother was safe, that I was okay. When I was in grad school, he asked if he could help by making dinner for us all ... as in the best lasagna I've ever eaten. He's still the most helpful person I know. He cares for everyone and everything. And he has the biggest heart in the world.

Some things have happened to my stunning golden boy. Some things that even a hard heart would struggle to forget. Things that a tender heart spends hours working out, swimming, hiking, running, to be stronger than. And he is stronger. He is stronger than all those things he should never have had to endure. And smarter. And most of all he's gentle and funny and intelligent. And as loving as ever.

I don't think he has any idea how brilliant he is. He knows that we talk about things other families don't. That we read more than many other people do. But I don't think he knows that he's actually brilliant - shining. Starlike. He makes things make sense to me that I otherwise struggle with. He has an amazing grasp of the abstract, and an incredible sense of perspective.

Despite years and years of fighting to succeed in a system that didn't work for him. Despite teachers that lied and worse, neglected. Despite loving learning and knowledge and having plans to share that. He quit. He tried to make it work, and one day, one teacher's idiotic comment was the last straw. He walked out in the middle of class and never went back.

He hasn't walked across a stage in a rented tux. He hasn't worn a cap and gown. He hasn't danced awkwardly with me to a song that made us both giggle. That's not a memory we share. But we do share something that to me is even more special.

This January, while he was alone at his grandparents' house, he got himself up and out the door early on a Saturday morning. He spend 8 hours writing 6 exams. And then he walked himself back home.

A month later we got the results. He did not just pass. He excelled. Every mark was outstanding. We hugged. And then we went out for BBQ. We ate an insane amount of pork to celebrate. Just the two of us. Just a quiet evening. It was perfect, and very him.

I ache when I think how little he knows how special he is. How amazing it is for someone to be brilliant and attractive and empathic and to care as fully as he does about other people and the earth. I don't know what I can do to help him learn to believe in himself. And in the meantime, I just want you all to know. He's perfect. Tuxless. And perfect.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo: Review

I finished The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo a while ago, but life being life I somehow didn't get around to the review. One of the things about being a bit of a book snob is that sometimes I resist reading really popular books. But, Dad recommended this one and I can't remember Dad ever steering me wrong in 43 years. He often recommends books I wouldn't normally read, but I've enjoyed every one. Of course my delay in reviewing means I've read a couple other books in the meantime and my opinions are not all that fresh or sharp. But, here we go ... 

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First off, I got thoroughly wrapped up in the tension and drama of this story - more the old guy (Mikael) than the girl (Lisbeth). It started slow, and then built and built. In fact, I am not sure that naming the series for Lisbeth is an accurate reflection of the stories, but maybe that balance changes in the further books. 

And, I didn't believe their relationship. In fact, I didn't believe a lot of the relationships in this story. The family was too cold, the lovers too dispassionate. I spent a lot of time pulled out by that - wondering if it was a 'Danish' thing, or a 'male writer' thing, or if something got lost in the translation. 

I do not read a lot of books in translation - and it took a bit of an adjustment to get into the flow of Larsson's style. I'm going to guess that Danish writers are more verbose than the average English writer. More verbose, and more fond of passive and complex sentences. Even so, the tension and action were taut. 

There are some scenes in this book that it was bad timing for me to read. I had to stop and pull myself away from certain plot points that were too close to home. I finally just skipped a couple pages as I didn't know how else to get through it. I can't say I've ever done that before, but the story was better than a single scene and worth the work around. 

I'm excited to finish the trilogy. I have The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest waiting on my shelf, and just need to remember to pick up The Girl Who Played with Fire the next time I'm at Russell Books. And, I'm looking forward to seeing the movies, but not until I'm finished the trilogy. 

Handle with Care: Review

A couple weeks ago while I was having a girl getaway with UberCoach in Ladysmith I finished Jodi Picoult's Handle With Care. Part of me is disappointed with myself for not having the units of self-respect required to put down something that was so unredeemingly sentimental and made-for-tv movie predictable. 

I have an embarrassing love-hate relationship with Jodi Picoult, based solely on the two novels of hers I've read so far - My Sister's Keeper and now the ridiculously similar Handle with Care. What really bugs me is that I find these books completely un-put-downable - I expect better of myself! I have gasped and wept and laughed out loud with the characters. I've longed for the husband to reach out to the besieged wife. I've raged at the doctors and lawyers. And I've hated myself for being sucked into a puddle of treacle. 

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Handle With Care is about an average family - former single mom and older daughter whose lives have now happily merged with the upstanding and ridiculously good looking police officer. The much wanted younger daughter arrives - suddenly they are dealing with an extraordinary circumstance. The baby has osteogenesis imperfecta. Brittle bone disease. And the trite title suddenly comes into focus. 

Based on reading the back cover of the novel I could have timelined every major plot point in the rest of the story. Breaks and heartbreaks. Stress on the marriage. A law suit. Betrayals real and imagined. The older sister disappears while the family worries about the baby. Etc. 

And then I got to the last page. And read the final three paragraphs. And as I put the book down I thought 'Holy Shit! I didn't see that coming' ... I'm not being crass. That's exactly what I thought. 

And yet here I am, highly recommending that you read this book. Even though I felt manipulated. Even though it's unrelentingly predictably. Even though it's written so that you can actually picture the TV movie version (that cop is SO Kyle Chandler in uniform, and who wouldn't want to see that?). Even though there's not one thing about it that will require any heavy mental lifting. 

Read the book. Maybe just visit your dentist afterwards. 

at what cost?

I completed an interesting questionnaire this evening ... one that sparked some relatively deep and not entirely comfortable thoughts. The questionnaire began obviously enough given the topic (what would it take to live a life of passion), with exploring what my dreams are - something I've only recently again been able to even consider. 

It moved on to something that seemed, at first, only parenthetically related - "what does success look like to me?" I suppose that this answer was fairly firmly rooted in the world of dreams given that at this particular point, as good as life is, I don't really feel all that successful. 

Success, for me, isn't a balance book or a spreadsheet, or some framed parchments or even a really pretty office. The things that define my success - the things I actually truly care about and always hoped the other bits would help me get to - are not quite within reach yet. But at least I am able to identify what they are - freedom to write, the ability to contribute to others, happy successful children, a growing and mutually supportive relationship. A home that welcomes and rejuvenates guests. A body that reflects a level of self-care and balance. 

And then the came the kicker: What am I willing to give up in order to make my dreams a reality?

Wow. That's a biggie.

She'd always been a dreamer.
She just forgot, once in a while.

It had honestly never occurred to me that bringing my dreams to fruition might take something resembling sacrifice. A little hard work perhaps, but the actual giving up of something? Wow. 

The longer I looked, the more I realised that the answer was not one of mere time or money, though those might be part of the equation. 

To birth my dreams, I'd have to give up some things that I hold so closely they are almost a part of me - my fear of failing, for one. My need to know how it will all turn out. My lack of confidence. I'd have to give up being a teacher and allow someone to teach me. And most of all I'd have to give up the security of what is to get what might be.

If I could have my dreams for $10,000 and a month-long training - the 'sacrifices' of time and money - I'd likely hold them fairly cheaply. But, if in acquiring my dreams I also had to shave away the parts of myself that hold me back, how dear and worthwhile would they then be?

I hope we get the chance to find out.

our everyday best

I has a lovely unscheduled conversation this morning. My friend and I were meant to be going to yoga, but somehow got the schedule wrong and ended up going for tea and snacks and sunshine instead. Not a bad trade, if you ask me. In the course of the conversation we started talking about parenting ... for both of us what works - or not - about our parents, and for me what I know - or not - as a parent. When I heard her talking about wanting something more with her dad, and their struggle moving from both wanting that to actually figuring out what 'that' would be, a few things really clicked for me. 

You see, I've met this friend's dad and seen them interact. And for anyone to think that her dad is anything less than enthralled with my friend just isn't consistent with how much he adores her. So I wondered, what's really missing. Clearly love is present. Clearly they have fun and have at least some common interests. I certainly don't mean to diminish my friend's experience in any way, and there are some things that need work with her dad, but focusing on that diminishes the good and suddenly love, fun, and connection aren't enough. But can't all children say that of their parents? 

Which of course got me thinking - and talking - about my parents. To many people, said friend included, my family looks like something of an ideal. I've always had both parents in my life, and actively, unitedly so. We speak and visit pretty regularly. There are no major unspoken issues, no big hidden secrets. A few habits that may not lead to openness (we're not overly big on talking about what's wrong, for instance, until it's REALLY wrong), but generally we are the picture perfect family. And yet, for much of my life, interacting with my family has left me wondering if I wasn't switched at birth. And sometimes the look on my parents' faces makes me think maybe they think the same thing. As much as my parents love me. As much as they are the epitome of support for both me and my BBs ... sometimes I want something ... well ... not more but somehow different. It's ungrateful, to be sure, but it's sometimes true. 

My BBs look far too much like me for anyone to ever believe they were switched at birth, but I don't imagine that's kept them from wondering/wishing/thiking they were at times. Their experience of being parented is clearly different than mine. They have not always had two loving, present parents - and I'm not pointing fingers at their father here. I've sometimes been so wrapped up in my struggle and my dreams that they've settled for leftovers of energy and attention. As their struggles have become more serious, I've blamed myself more, which also basically just takes energy away from supporting them. I fall down slippery slopes - I didn't love them enough. I didn't protect them enough. I was too laissez faire to set boundaries that would keep them safe. I trusted them before they were ready to stand on their own. And on and on. 

But I'm reminded, frequently lately, of a story my counselor told me the first day I went to see him ... I'll share the rest of it in another post but the punch line was that every day I've done my best. Whether some days that best was chipped, or fractured, or the wrong colour - every day I did my best. And I'm doing it still. 

I like to believe, since hearing the story, that the every day best is true of all parents. Some parents are undeserving of the term - neglectful, and even dangerous to their children, yes. But, for the most part, they are all doing their everyday best. And isn't that all we can ask of anyone ... even ourselves?