Becoming Beaver

Well, it finally happened. I've up and left Big Green for well, greener pastures...and I seem to have landed smack dab in the middle of the fashion industry. I'm working with a company creating a truly unique platform for modelling. I won't go into it in detail here, but I feel like a fish out of water with all these glamorous fashion types. 

I've been asked, no doubt due to my lack of fashion know how to blog about my journey into fashion.

That blog, 'Fashion on a Tangent' can be found here .

Below was my intro post, discussing my experiences with my younger sister in the fashion world.

Part two to follow.

Becoming

I never saw myself as working in the fashion industry. Hell, I never saw myself as fashionable; that was my sister’s ‘thing’. From the time we were little girls, I was always the ‘smart one’ and she was always ‘the pretty one’. Certainly, there were worse labels to have and I certainly never tried to fight the one my parents had assigned me. I did well in school, and she did not. She modelled and excelled at each and every trend that blew into town; I did not.

In many ways these labels would shape who we became. As the years wore on, I was still the smart one, but I felt the need to wage a personal war on fashion. I dyed my hair, first black, and then pink. Tattoos and piercings came next, followed by dark, studded clothes and combat boots. Going to my sister’s photo shoots I would read Nietzsche and scowl while she was dressed from head to toe in everything from chiffon to Christmas tree lights. I told myself fashion didn’t matter; that I was above it. In private moments I wondered why fate had made me short and round, and her tall and slim.

But the years went on and the changes began to happen…little things at first, hair colour, tanning, and then bigger things. The first nose job at sixteen. Breast Augmentation at seventeen.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Have you ever felt like you had to watch your every move?  Not like in a teen aged, 'Mother knows best' kind of way, but more of a 'We see you and know what you're up to' kind of way?

I work for a high security company; I try my hardest not to talk about it and it's weird and wily ways. But sometimes everything in my world just comes crashing together in an epic smashing of crap. They now count our rolls of paper towel; each bathroom is only allowed one a day...keep in mind there are 1300 people in my office.

They've also decided to cut down on energy costs so all blinds must be closed all the time...there are signs posted everywhere in case we forget. So now on top of working in cubicle Hell, we have to work in a no natural light cubicle Hell.

I've worked there for nearly ten years...I've seen alot of things...keystroke programs we sign waivers for...bosses who like to count how often we go to the bathroom...it's fair to say my tolerance for crap [or perceived crap] is fairly high.

So understand me when I say, sometimes I just feel like pulling out my hair at the sheer volume of bullshit that occasionally comes spewing out of the various facets of the fandom.

Good grief. It feels like a soap opera...a really bad one, where the heroes are insipid, vapid liars, and the villains are people just trying to go about their Sunday afternoons in peace. Being vilified for questioning things that needed clarification is not a redeeming feature for anyone; don't ask me to set aside my intelligence just to further your agenda. Donating to causes is great, but the motivation behind the act matters as well.

I'm old. I try really, really hard not to rock the boat. But I do like to poke the bear once in a while...sue me, a girl's gotta have some fun.

An Apple a Day...or Maybe Not

Do we ever really leave high school? I mean, I'd like to think we do...I hated high school and you couldn't make me go back not matter what you paid me.

But some people seem to be in a state of perpetual high school. The cliques, the drama, the endless secrets, the backstabbing.
I honestly thought I had reached a point where I didn't have to worry about it anymore...apparently I was wrong. Or there wouldn't be a post for you to read right now.

I don't really want to get into specifics or name names [because, like I said, Not high school!] so I suppose this is going to seem rather vague.

Have you ever found the perfect apple? You know the one, shiny, flawless skin, glowing a perfect red [or green or yellow if you prefer]. Now, you've bought apples before, so you know they aren't usually so brilliant, but you wonder if this, this apple is special. So you buy the apple and take it home, wash it, and set it in the bowl on your dinning room table. It shines there and you just like to look at it. You're proud that you bought it and made it part of your life; it makes you happy having it around. Your life is crazy and miserable and sometimes insane, but it bothers you less because of the apple. People make fun of you for liking your apple so much, but you don't care, because you love it and it becomes part of who you are.

Then one day, you decide you're going to cut your apple in half, because surely, if a whole apple is good, two parts of an apple will be twice as good.

Only, when you cut into the apple, you realise that under the shiny outer layer, and the nice apple-y goodness, there are worms...lots of them. All writhing together. Twisting and turning, each trying to out twist the other. Each one willing to do whatever it takes to be the better, stronger worm. No matter what you do, even if you put the two pieces back together, you can't forget those moments when you saw what was on the inside. So now, you can't see the apple without seeing the worms.

So you wonder if the apple is spoiled for you forever.

Below the Line Reflections

So the Wog and I just finished our last day of 'Below the Line', with our charity of choice being UNICEF.

$1.75 is the Canadian equivalent of the extreme poverty line. Living on so little gave us a glimpse into the challenges faced by the 1.4 billion people who have no choice but to live below the line every day – for everything - food, medical care, transport, education, everything.

Our Below the Line Page

It was definitely an affair to remember. When I first broached the subject with him a few weeks ago, he was very hesitant; he felt it might negatively impact our kids. Thankfully, I think having them present [though not participating] enriched the experience.

Living on less than two dollars a day is a lot harder than it seems on paper; that was the first lesson we learnt. Just grocery shopping turned into an epic journey of frustration and compromise.
He wanted hot dogs [ew] and I wanted eggs...I conceded but only if I didn't have to eat the oatmeal.

As a side note, anyone who has read earlier posts in this blog knows that last year we nearly lost our house; it's not something I like to talk about, but it did happen, and during that period of time I was a master of the family budget. Trying to stretch things became a matter of pride for me; it didn't matter if half our food was coming from Dollarama...we were eating and that was the important thing.

It did hurt my heart a little when Goose asked 'Momma, did Daddy lose his job again?' when we sat down to our first dinner. Thankfully, after a careful explanation both he and Roux relaxed and came to enjoy that they were eating a variation of our meals.

All in all it was a learning experience, and a valuable one; it helped us remind us how close we came to losing everything we had...but it also helped us see how far we'd come.

Dance with My Father Again

No, this is not to be a 'Below the Line' post, because I'm waiting until the end of the week to gather my thoughts.

Here's what I do want to write about. I've been mulling this over in my head for days, trying to decide if I wanted to put it out there or not, and this post will be the result...if it manages to come out slightly more coherently than it sounds in my head. Probably not.

Our relationships with our parents are complicated ones. As children they seem perfect to us, untouchable, never doubted. As we become teenagers they are the opposite; disparaged, mocked and ridiculed.  I won't even touch on what manifests as we reach adulthood. No, I'm not passing judgement on anybody else's relationship with their parents...this is my blog and I'm talking about me.

My childhood with my Daddy was a love story. He was my everything, and I always thought he could do no wrong. In a way he only disappointed me once. Only once.

On May 2nd 1993 my Daddy died, in the garage of our home, alone. I found him there. I called the ambulance. I did everything they said. I screamed to God, the neighbours, and anyone who would listen; but he died anyways. It was five days before my fifteenth birthday.

The problem with this, is that in those twenty odd minutes while I waited for the ambulance, I lost nearly all the good memories I had. They were buried beneath anger, betrayal and death.

Like any good girl I've had therapy; years of it. So I built my memory palace [mine is more of a cottage but still] and I filled it with information, facts...stuff. I have a 'Daddy' room; over the years I've cataloged  and filed away every image, story detail, sense memory, everything. I have it all. It fills rows of books, all colours, textures, scents. If you were to come into the room it would seem like a shrine. It is in many ways.

Except one. There's one memory that doesn't stay on any shelf I put it one. Visually it's a box, not a book and if you made the mistake of opening it, its' howls and screeches knock everything else down.
I hate that damn box. I only open it one night a year. Thursday will be that night.

But this year, the twentieth year he's been gone from me I have an unexpected weapon. Three days ago I received a very unexpected gift from a childhood friend. Her father had been digitising their home movies and she sent me one so I could see how young we all were. It was filmed in 1988 and the quality wasn't the best, but suddenly, as I was halfheartedly watching, there was my father. In all his stupid fisherman's hat, too short shorts glory. I HEARD HIS VOICE. I hadn't heard that voice in twenty years. Twenty years.

East Hill Farm 1988

This girl has no idea how precious those three seconds were to me. To hear a voice that I had long forgotten, that I never expected to hear again. Just wow.

Oh My Daddy. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you and wonder, 'What if?'

Thank you for reading my long and rambling post. So sorry if I offended or upset anyone.

Bicycles and Blah

You know, when I first started writing this blog, I swore up and down it wouldn't be a MommyBlog; not that there is anything remotely wrong with MommyBlogs, I had just been there and done that. This was supposed to be a random, perverted something-or-rather...

But, as art [not particularly good art] tends to imitate life [not particularly interesting life] this blog is slowly becoming me and my life at its [not so] finest.

This past Sunday Goose learnt to ride his bike without training wheels. To most, this is a normal right of passage that occurs with little angst. Not so in the Mommy Mab household.

Goose, being Goose, had long had a longstanding love/hate relationship with his bicycle...he was still using his tricycle at five, and was only barely coaxed off that, when his Grandma bought him a bike for his sixth birthday. Wog and I never fought it; it didn't bother us what he rode, so long as he was having a good time.
Everything changed on Sunday though; Goose attended a classmates birthday where though he won the bowling [given that I've never taken him bowling I thought that was an accomplishment], he was upset when everyone was riding and he couldn't.

When I arrived to pick him up he was sitting morosely on the curb while all the other kids biked around. He was happy enough to explain the mathematics of bowling to me, over and over, but I noticed he kept looking at the other kids.
'
Would you like Mommy to go and get your bike?' I asked
He shook his head,
'It has four wheels; I don't want them to see'.
This broke my heart, because I've never, ever said anything like that to him.

So I asked the Super!Dad running the party to help us out...and it worked! Within half an hour Goose was zipping [well, and zagging] around with the others.

Moral of the story: Our kids will always surprise us...no matter what!

And now to share two gorgeous pictures of my Littles by Kelly Meagan Photography...

 Photos by Kelly Meagan
https://www.facebook.com/kellymeaganphoto?fref=ts

Mommy Moments and Letters to Loki

Today I had one of those Mommy!Moments.

Things have been utterly wretchedly crazy at work the past few weeks and I admit I've been kinda snarky on the home front. I always swore I'd never let work get in the way of me enjoying time with my Littles, but at the end of the day, I admit that their daycare teachers see them more than I do. It breaks my heart, but that's the way it is, and unless I win the lottery [which would mean I'd have to play the lottery], they have to stay in daycare. I know they love their teachers, but I always worry I'm missing out on key moments in their lives.

At any rate, today I arrived late to pick up Goose [which by proxy meant I was going to be late to pick up Roux as well] so I came flying into the school, when the director asked to speak with me. Heart sinking, I thought I was up for another lecture about a) My lateness, b) Goose acting out, or c) Both.

My Goose is a special boy, and I try to avoid labels when talking about him or writing about him, because I want people to get to know him, for him, and not pity him because of some label concocted by another [myself included]. But I digress...

When we got into her office she pulled out what I recognised as Goose's big notepad; he struggles a lot with printing so he likes to practise on this, where he can write as big as he likes. I immediately thought I was in for a repeat of last year's notepad incident which involved older boys and four letter words, but instead she opened it and handed it to me.

Here is what it was:

 In Case you don't speak Goose I'll translate:

Dear My Mum's Favorite Actor Loki,
Please come to her birthday party.
She will be very happy and buy me toys. And make you cake. Love, Goose.
*Please note the lovely illustrations where Loki is twice the size of Thor*

Turns out she was concerned that I had let him watch Thor and The Avengers; I haven't, but he doesn't live under a rock...and I admit I buy early reader Avengers books to try to tempt his reading. I assured her that I would not be inviting any Frost Giants to my birthday in May, tempting though it may be.

I may be the mother of one of the sweetest Gooses in the history of Geese. My beautiful boy.