The Art of knowing when to refuel - PART I

And I'm not talking about a car.

According to my stepmom, my 85 year old father has taken to pushing those boundaries by driving his car as close to empty as possible before hitting the gas station.

He's missed the mark twice now, but I digress...

I'm talking about what every soul needs to function properly - nature.

Given the events of the last month (son #2's move to Toronto, son #3's move into my apartment - with all his stuff - then out again, and son #1 shooting his first film short), I've been oh... busier than Tim Horton's coffee shop during final exams.

Don't get me wrong. I love being there for them and not because I have to - I don't do guilt - but because I genuinely like them as human beings. They're so worth it.

BUT, even though I knew I was going to miss my kid like crazy when he left, somewhere near the end of his life-in-Winnipeg-as-he-knew-it, I HAD to take a break.

Given we were closing in on the final days however, I was hesitant.

I mean what kind of a mother ditches her kid for two days when he's only got 5 days left and is stressing (and rightly so) over the monumental changes he is about to incur?

Answer: The kind who knows she needs to refuel and if she doesn't, risks doing more harm than good because everyone will be running around like chickens with their heads cut off at which time her maternal cue to perform "damage control" will kick in.

And that had disaster written ALL OVER IT.

So I buggered off.

The way I had it figured, I would come back and the worst would be over, ( worst being a relative term).

That would leave me with 3 glorious days of hanging out with him post-trauma before his one way flight to his new life.

Back in June I had planned a short, 4 day trip to a friend's cabin after my son's projected date of departure. But when that date was pushed back, I was left with a difficult decision:

Do I stay and help him move? Hang around, providing moral support, soup and my incessant motherly advice?

Or do I pretend he's an adult and trust he'll be fine with the support he already has, knowing I'll come back emotionally rejuvenated and thus better prepared to absorb the magnitude of this change in my own existence?

It was a no-brainer.

And whatever minor hesitation I had initially experienced was sated the moment I saw him upon my return:

Him: Be happy you weren't here. It was awful!

Me: I know. Why do you think I left?

Him: You should have seen the sketchy characters from the moving company take our stuff! They even made me sign a waiver that they weren't responsible for any damage, loss, fire, theft or ACT OF GOD that might occur between here and Toronto!

Me: (smiling calmly)

Him: I wouldn't be surprised if our stuff showed up on Ebay.

Me: (smiling calmly)

Him: By the way, you look great... I'm glad you went.

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Next: The art of knowing when to refuel PART II - ahhhh, Mother Nature

The Art of working through your s***

My place looks like a half-way house. (According to my daughter-in-law).

And I can't argue her to the contrary because I don't think I've ever been in a half-way house. I think it looks more like a storage facility packed by a dyslexic bunch with no concept of order.

But then again, it's not every day you see a table on its side, blocking two TV's, in front of a coffee table behind 3 couches, a queen size mattress, three desks, multiple plants with no access to sunlight, a hallway blocked by boxes and a few empty bookshelves randomly scattered throughout.

And that's just the living room.

The items of two and a half apartments have been stuffed into one - mine.

Until today.

Son #3 is moving into his new apartment as we speak and son #2 moved to Toronto this morning with his girlfriend.

It's been a helluva couple of months.

I have to admit, just yesterday, I couldn't take the dark curtains drawn anymore (it's been blistering hot) and I ripped everything open, heat be damned!

There was so much 'stuff' I was claustrophobic beyond.

But in a way I can hardly explain, it was loads of fun.

Maybe it's because I've never done the college dorm thing. Or maybe it's because when I was still a single parent I was scrambling to understand who I was and what had happened to me and missed out on 'just watching' the comaraderie between my boys.

Either way, I was privy to observing an unparalleled warmth between people - 3 boys and their 3 girlfriends - amid the mess, and it was a stellar experience.

I'm not saying they never fight. Or never swear for that matter. They can make an angry truck-driver sound like a good mennonite boy.

And trust me, when they're pissed at each other, everybody knows it.

All of a sudden, it's not "my brother this, my brother that", it's "your son is an asshole, you know that don't you?" to which I reply, "you mean your brother?" to which they reply, "not right now he's not!"

But they've learned an invaluable lesson that some people take a lifetime to figure out and others never do.

You can't be mad forever. It's EXHAUSTING.

It used to be when I heard the words, "Your son is a dick, I'm NEVER talking to him again, I MEAN IT!" I used to sweat bullets thinking my boys would split off from each other emotionally and it would leave a big gaping hole in my heart FOREVER.

But it always passes. It took me a long time to realize this because with some people, it never passes. Like my mom. That's what I was used to.

Every fight, every form of resentment was layered. My mom was like the bricklayer of personified hate.

But my kids have had so many fights over the years, and gotten to know each other so well, they just KNOW things always come right again. It's like an unwritten rule or something.

But it also requires work.

You have to want those relationships in your life. So you make it a priority to speak your mind and make it work. No matter what. The boys have learned to talk through all of their issues as they come up so there's very little build up.

So now, when they can have a wicked argument they can say (on the spot):

"I'll talk to you in a few days when I'm over it but right now I think you're a complete dick."

Meanwhile, I still have to work through my fear that they won't speak to each other EVER AGAIN. It's my first reaction. And I have to ask myself: Why?

And then it hit me. I think about my mom and how she handles conflict.

The difference between how she handles conflict (or anger) and how the boys do is like night and day.

They know they'll get over it and that anger is a temporary feeling.

She doesn't.

They know that love is where it's at and nothing in life is worth hating for an extended period of time because it sucks the life out of you. (And the joy out of your existence).

She feeds off it.

They forgive.

That word is not in her vocabulary.

They will take responsibility when they've done something wrong and actually admit it. Ie; each party apologizes for their part in the argument.

I have never heard my mom take responsibility for any of her actions.

Not once.

And she has never apologized. (Unless you count the time she called me from a psych ward in Germany after a ten year absence and in a creepy voice, said; I'm going to hell Nicole... for all the bad things I've done, I'm going to hell...) [her shaky voice trailing off]

And finally, before the boys let anything get out of hand in their minds (or let their imagination run wild), they clear the air.

Sure, some of those arguments aren't pretty, but they never last. It's all out in the open and whoever is wrong will listen to the reasoning of the other and if warranted, is prepared to admit their part in it.

And usually they discover, it takes two.

My mom has never done either; Not clear the air, nor has she ever admitted being wrong.

No sirree. Not her. She stews and sits in it (whatever it is) until it festers like a pussing wound and she's on the verge of exploding green crap or that yellow bile stuff.

And that's usually when she writes... A LETTER.

The last one came a week ago. Just a few weeks after I saw her. She didn't send it to me as she doesn't know where I live. (There's a reason I maintain address anonymity).

Unfortunately she sent it to son #3 to "pass along to your mother".

Fortunately, he had the good sense to read the first paragraph and realize it was another hate mail letter and threw it out without reading further.

And stuffed in the middle of this 'novella' (as my son referred to it) was a card I had sent her, torn in half. I can imagine the frenzied state she was in to do such a thing.

Then again, maybe I don't want to.

Part of me was mildly curious as to the contents of that letter. (I do somewhat possess a morbid curiosity as to why and for what reason she despises me so venomously).

The other part was grateful my son had the good sense to throw it out and by so doing, disengage in the drama.

The only reason he told me about the letter in the first place is because I had expressed to him that in spite of her 'digs' I thought my "visit with Grandma" had gone relatively well and I was contemplating when I should see her again.

He convinced me otherwise.

Smart kid.

So over the last month, when I looked around at the nuclear fallout of clothes and neverending 'stuff' around me, and witnessed 3 young men work through the emotions associated with being split up geographically (amid all the last minute stress) I thought to myself;

It's time I stop worrying about whether they are going to never talk to each other again after a big fight.

It's time I remind myself that my mother's approach to conflict is not theirs and NOT the norm.

It's time to remember that I am not my mother and that my life in no way, shape or form, either reflects her philosophies nor patterns itself on her way of being.

Not anymore...

The Art of Dealing with Mother Issues, Part II: getting over a pundit

It only took a few days to get over my visit with mom.

Not bad considering the collateral damage she tends to inflict in the course of a single conversation (and this was no exception).

She's like a wasp that leaves its stinger inside your skin. You swear you're okay after the attack because you can't find any blood, but it's still releasing poison into your system for days afterwards.

By the time you figure out where that stinger is embedded (and use Gestalt therapy to pull it out), it's already caused nerve damage.

And my nerves were shot.

Early in our conversation, she asked me what I would be teaching in the fall.

I said: Grade 3.

Her reply?

Why so low?

Gee thanks. But I get it.

The woman is a pundit and always has been. I should be used to it.

pundit def: a person who makes comments or judgments, esp. in an authoritative manner; critic or commentator.

Unfortunately, that was just the beginning.

She started asking me questions about my ex because she was "concerned for his well-being".

When I replied that I knew little about his current condition and did not know his whereabouts, she proceeded to berate me for not visiting him (as he is now bed-ridden due to MS). Then she pulled out a book of quotes from Mother Theresa, found a spot that was highlighted and read:

"Of all the illnesses and poverty I've seen, loneliness is still the worst thing of all".

You see, no one visits him anymore. And no one visits her.

Both are mentally twisted, both believe in revenge and holding grudges for all of eternity, both possess a superiority complex that makes the Nazi movement pale in comparison (no pun intended). As a result, both have successfully alienated everyone who loved them over the years with their words and actions.

And I mean everyone.

It's one thing to be mentally ill, but add insidious cruelty and you have a winning combination sure to discourage even the most resilient of visitors.

And both are equally capable of heinous violence. The only difference is that I experienced it first hand with my ex. And most of it was directed towards me. With my mother, it's all in her eyes. They're cold enough to send a shiver up the spine of the Abominable Snowman.

But my mom was adamant about how I should be more understanding. She raised an eyebrow and warned me that "God only accepts the merciful" and sealed my fate with authority as the personal pundit of Yahweh.

I smiled politely and patiently and said (only slightly sardonically I might add):

"I hear ya mom, and you know I don't wish him badly or anything, but I wasn't a big fan of taking those hits, so..."

To which she quickly replied,

"SO WHAT if he hit you?!"

...and proceeded to defend his honor.

That's right. My own biological mother chose my abusive ex over her own daughter.

Now at this point, I must make something clear. Some people have redeeming qualities but not my ex. There was absolutely nothing honorable about him. And to this day, there is nothing about him worth defending. It's that simple. And it's a fact.

He never worked, he never saw a doctor for his psychosis and to this day, he still feels justified and thinks his behaviour was normal, considers himself superior to the plebians in his midst and thinks everyone else missed the mark.

But there is beauty in all of this.

Now I finally understand why I got involved with him in the first place.

He's the male counterpart of my mother.

I could never fix my own mother so she could be a real mom because I was just a kid. But as an 18 year old girl, I figured I could fix someone who showed all the early signs of what she must have been like at his age - energetic, smart, full of big ideas and attractive, but arrogant and lazy.

You know, fixable potential.

There are still things I admire about my mom. The same as there always were. She's sharp (even if illogical), she reads with a vengeance and she's tough as nails. She won't let go of old stuff even if it kills her. Which is really too bad, because if she could she might stop hating everyone so much and that would improve the overall quality of her life.

But then again, it's probably what's kept her alive through three suicide attempts, years of alcohol abuse, pill popping, and that plastic surgery she had at the age of 72.

She's one helluva character.

When I finally looked at her with eyes wide open and realized that she was only defending my ex because she was sticking up for herself, I finally let something go...

I forgave myself for getting involved with a man who was beyond horrible and decided that I didn't need to beat myself up for that choice anymore.

It was over.

Another layer shed. Another shadow faced. Another riddle solved.

So when she kept at it, insisting that she needed his address so she could visit him, I finally said:

"Do you want me to take you to see him? Would that would make you happy?"

And when she nodded yes, I said, "I'll see what I can do" and smiled the genuine smile of someone who was finally released of the heavy burden associated with fixing the impossible.

Then I hugged her, told her I loved her and that it was time for me to go.

She gave me a necklace of black pearls from Tahiti as a parting gift, and walked me out, smugly thinking that she had just convinced me to be a better person and then rewarded me for it.

Little did she know, the gift she gave me was far greater than that...

Thanks mom...

The Art of dealing with Mother Issues - Part I - what's the big deal anyway?

I want to create a lengthy, detailed, no-holds-barred bucket list, spend my life checking off as many items as humanly possible then when I'm 95, turn to my partner (whoever that may be) and say:

"Goddamnit that was fun! Wanna do it again?" with a wink and a wicked smile.

Then I'll keep my fingers crossed at the prospect of another life so I can finish up what I started in this one.

But first, I have to deal with...

mother issues

Ah yes, those lovely, debilitating, mom issues.

Because if I don't remove the old emotional blocks that hamper my progress (in all areas of my life from career to relationships) then I have to factor in the extra time I will require for therapy with friends (over beer n' nachos) when I'd rather be spending that time talking about boys (and ordering good wine and fresh oysters).

It's as simple as that.

Because those darn childhood/parent issues have a habit of impeding the energetic flow you need to make your dreams come true. ie; They get in the way.

I'm not saying you need a cohesive nuclear family to make it work. But it sure makes it a lot easier if your mom (or any primary caregiver) loved and wanted you.

But mothers are people too. And not all of them are white-picket-fence/Martha-Stewart/stay-at-home-moms-or-career-women who fiercely love their children. I for one, have many faults, (not the least of which were my motherhood techniques), but mess with my offspring and I'll kill ya. And my kids know it. (At least they've got that).

Some people just never wanted to be mothers. It's not that they hate you (not really), it's just that without you around, they would have liked their life way better and they don't do much to hide that fact from you.

Sometimes, they even tell you.

Ouch.

So to make up for it you spend your life trying to be worthy enough for someone to love you but there's no end to it because you've only got one mom and if you miss the boat on that one... well... that can get you into a whole whack o' trouble because if you're starting at the bottom (ie; your mom doesn't want you) then you don't exactly have to reach very high to raise the bar now do you?

Get my drift?

But the good news is, there is an end to it.

At some point you have to accept, you have to forgive, and you have to find ways to love yourself the way your mother never could.

And the tricky part is, that validation can't come from anybody else but you. In a way, you have to be your own mother.

You have to do for you, what she couldn't.

It's a good thing I like beer n' nachos...

The Art of the Bucket List

We've been doing the Bucket List project at school this week. 100 things to do before you die.

Nice way to wrap things up. Or so I thought. You know, get my walking hormone pack to think about something besides bikinis, six-packs and beaches.

I thought I was making progress with them until someone asked me if "Sleep with Drake" was an appropriate goal.

I looked up quizically and squinted my eyes at her as if that would improve my hearing or change what she said and finally realized with some dismay that she was dead serious.

"Take a wild guess" I said dryly.

"Uh, no"?

"Good guess".

Wait a minute, I thought, Who's Drake?

So I asked her.

"Who's Drake"?

"A rapper", She replied casually.

That figures, I thought as I shrugged my shoulders and she crossed him off her list.

But apart from those kinds of responses and the predictable "win the lottery", (ie; I'm too lazy to think this through) as time went by, most kids began to take the list more seriously. And watching that happen was very cool.

100 things to do before you die.

It can be pretty daunting.

Once you hit about 30 things, it gets tougher unless your goal is to visit every city in the world and then all you have to do is get an Atlas and you're golden.

But that's cheating. (There's honor in writing the list).

Making a list however, becomes more manageable if you break it up into the seven categories I've mentioned before based on Canfield's Principles of Success;

personal relationships, finances, career, health and fitness, self-improvement, relationships, and contribution to society.

And the idea is not to overwhelm yourself with so many damn goals at once that suddenly you feel like you won't do any of them.

That would be like a writer giving themselves a deadline of 2000 words a day (ahem) knowing the pressure to do so would probably force them to clean their bathroon instead so they could avoid it entirely.

And we've all been there.

A good bucket list takes a long time to make. Not just one afternoon, or even one day. You have to stew on it. It has to simmer in the slow-cooker of your mind until all the flavors come together and the gravy starts to look like gravy instead of a cornucopia of veggies, meat and stock.

And what feels like individual pieces of an incomplete puzzle begins to come together and resemble a docket of your life.

And the things that excite you are the very things that begin to define who you are.

As you write the list, you get to know yourself. That's one of the subtler benefits.

You get to know what your priorities are, whether you're a risk-taker or more conservative, whether you choose security over freedom, whether you embrace a white picket fence or the gypsy within.

You start to feel the extent of your comfort zone or even the self-imposed boundaries of your existence.

And the list becomes an entity that grows into more specifics as your vision expands. And you expand with it because self-understanding is one of the keys to experiencing the richness of life and somewhere along the way, you figure that out.

Somewhere along the way, you become more specific about what you want.

You go from writing "I want to go to Europe" to:

"I want to say 10 'Hail Mary's' while kneeling in the first pew of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris after first sipping an espresso in a neighborhood cafe".

But these things take time.

That's why these lists must be reviewed periodically. As you change so do the things on your list. Some things are crossed off because either you've done them, or they no longer serve you, or they just don't make sense anymore.

It's all about self-discovery.

But everybody's gotta start somewhere - even if that somewhere is, "Sleep with Drake".

In the words of Margaret Young:

You must first be who you really are, then do what you need to do, in order to have what you want.