Only Two of Us Pay Rent

Over the summer we moved into a house that could probably fit inside the borders of a postage stamp. Two adults, two young children, and three cats. We left a house with three bedrooms and an enormous playroom for a tiny two-bedroom house. Why would we do such a thing? Because the old house was evil and this one is not. We rented the old house (unseen) when we first moved here from Canada and it was dirty, falling apart, and in a neighborhood with the personality of moldy cardboard. It was surrounded by highways, making it impossible to walk anywhere at all. Dirty and isolated? What a dream home for a family with an eight-month-old baby!

I'm sharing these details of evil house in order to give you some idea that when I complain about the tiny dimensions of our current house, I do so with a big smile on my face. We rent this little place from the university and it is well maintained. It also has a wonderful backyard and is minutes to campus and the ever-important library and coffee shops. We can walk down the road for ice cream, the paper, or just to walk. I love it. A lot.

That being said, we struggle with the space. When Matt and I first moved in together we lived in a one-room attic apartment in Toronto. First it was just me and Matt, then Pomegranate joined us, followed shortly by Hille. It was a tight squeeze for sure, but there was still space on the floor between the furniture. Oh, how I miss that space between furniture! Because now every inch of that space is filled with children and their stuff. Books, blocks, works of art, dollies, monsters, tiny chairs, and stickers are everywhere. We tidy the house at least twice a day and then we blink and this happens:

At times it feels a little out of hand, and I can feel Matt's skin start to crawl. We both start brainstorming about how we can fix all this chaos, imagining wonderful storage solutions and innovative ways to somehow make the cats clean it all up, but I actually don't mind it. Don't get me wrong, I would love the opportunity to walk through the living room without stepping on Dora and I am very attached to the grown-up space of our bedroom (no Alyce, you can't play in there). But I love how the girls have changed the geography of our living space. If Alyce didn't have the freedom to play around the house, the world would be robbed of my favourite treats:

There was a time when you couldn't enter a room without finding at least one of Alyce's babies, usually freshly diapered. Sometimes I would pick a blanket off the floor only to find that yet another monster was fast asleep in a nap, again, usually freshly diapered. Then there is my second favourite: the fridge door chaos. There are usually so many papers, paintings, and letters on the fridge that opening the door inevitably leads to 65 percent of the paper falling on the ground. This is usually followed by quiet cursing and a desperate search for the magnet that rolled under the fridge. But it makes me smile in a way that I don't think a single, neatly presented drawing would do. I can't wait to frame and hang a few important pieces in our house over the years, but I hope the artwork tornado stays on the fridge for a little while longer.

How has your house changed for the better since having children?

I hope everyone is having a good weekend!

Six months

Happy six months, little Shira.

Shame and other feelings

Having come to this place where I am finally ready to admit that I am not going to finish my PhD has involved some pretty severe navel-gazing. How could it not? Part of what has stood in the way of my admitting that I want to leave academia is Denial. I denied my feelings in favour of what I thought were better, prettier feelings, and I hoped these new feelings would lead me right into a completed dissertation. If I had actually gazed at my navel (which wouldn't have been too hard to do since I was pregnant twice in the last three years) I could never have tricked myself with those so-called feelings.

What I really felt was shame. At first I thought it was run-of-the-mill guilt for not completing something I had started. For the tuition money borrowed in my undergraduate and Master's degree. For stressing out my mum those times I crumbled under the pressure of my abusive Sanskrit professor. Mostly for the money (sorry, Matt). But I've recently realized that my guilt over student loans didn't cause that dark, panicky, sweaty feeling I got everything I considered leaving school. Sure, I wonder how loans will get paid, but deep down I know that it really doesn't matter. Somehow, even if it takes decades, I will repay those loans. After all, it's only money.

No, I was ashamed. I had spent years defending my decision to pursue advanced degrees in the humanities, and now it turns out that I was wrong. All those times that I justified staying in school yet another year was for nothing. If I could hold a PhD in my hand, and point to a list of publications and job offers, then I could show everyone (mostly my family) that I had been right all along. But since I'm being honest here, it was much more than proving people wrong. I was much more invested in proving people right. I had such supporters in all my corners who wanted me to succeed, even if they didn't always understand my reasons for still being in school while they were working actual jobs. They put aside their doubts to help me through years of struggling with another late paper or conference presentation or listen to me complain about not having enough money, all while having no real idea what I was researching. They even asked questions as though it was interesting! I have such great friends.

And let's not forget pride. All the hard work was going to be worth it because I would be Dr. Professor. I would have my fancy degree that would get me a job at a beautiful university (where it would always be fall and I'd wear an adorable, yet professional wool jacket), and I would teach fantastic students and publish books. And now I'm not going to do that. My plan didn't work. And I'm ashamed that I was wrong.

I've been reading Brene Brown's new book, The Gifts of Imperfection, where she writes about the relationship between shame, vulnerability, joy, and most importantly, feeling worthy of being loved and supported for exactly who you are. She could have called the book "It's Really OK to Quit your PhD." Of course she doesn't care about my (lack of) PhD, but she's so spot on about the trouble that comes from trying to be perfect. I've tended to run in the other direction when I see squishy self-improvement books, but when I finished it I finally took a second to realize that I was feeling ashamed just because I was wrong. That's right, ashamed because I wasn't perfect. I had messed up by thinking that academia was what I wanted, when it turns out it isn't.

Yes, Matt, the trouble these last few years was all because I don't like being wrong. Surprised? I didn't think so.

Watch Brown here to get some idea of what she means by shame, imperfection and courage. Until now I've never given a second thought to courage, but now I'm convinced that needs changing.

p.s. Sometimes I can be such a cheesehead (and I don't mean the good kind of cheese, like goat's milk or pecorino). I was just reading the end of my last post, and while it's true, I am excited to explore this new start, less cheese is probably the better way to go. But here I am, less than perfect. See, I'm learning!

It's not Wednesday

I'm back in Delaware, home to the world's best airport greeting ever. I don't know what Matt promised her, but Alyce made my year with the hugs and big smile and shouting "Mama, you're home!" It helped make the blow of stopping over in Detroit a little softer.* I wish I could bottle up that feeling and carry it with me through the day. I would keep in tucked in my pocket and enjoy my secret stash.

Canada. I had six days with my family while the rest of reality took place far off in the distance (I heard something about an election. Anyone?). As usual, I was sustained by my mum's delicious food (this trip's highlights were lasagna and birthday carrot cake). I consider it a successful week in eating because I gained back the five pounds I had lost in the weeks prior to my trip. I don't hold a grudge against those five pounds. They were worth it.

I was also sustained by good family. Of course I spent the most time with mum, as I always seem to do, because I just enjoy her company so much. I didn't see enough of my grandmother, and hunting season made it impossible to see my grandfather. And the reason for this visit was to spend some time with my other grandpa and father, who traveled from Spain and Vancouver, respectively. It had been two years since seeing my grandpa and one since seeing my dad, so this was a long overdue visit. There was a lovely mood about this weekend and I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.

Did I mention Noah, my just-turned-seven-on-Halloween-year-old brother? (Yes, I know. There is quite an age difference between us. It just gives me even more years of experience from which draw my sage advice, from how to get permission to go to concerts before you're really old enough to surviving grades seven, eight, and second-year at college). This weekend I just sat back and watched him be a grown-up kid. As is our tradition, we enjoyed a birthday movie out on the town:

Capturing our smiles after Megamind.

But now I am home, and reality has returned. I feel a bit disoriented, between the flu and the travel. I have struggled all day to remember if it is Monday or Wednesday (turns out it is Tuesday). Of course this is normal after such a week, but I think my confusion is in part a result of feeling such a wash of relief/freedom/grief/elation after telling my parents and family about leaving my PhD. I'll post more this week about the details, but let me tell you this: they didn't care. Well, they cared in the sense that they love me and want me to be happy and healthy, but none of them seemed at all interested in telling me that I was making the wrong choice. While there is tiny part of me still waiting for them to really tell me how they feel, I think I can probably rest assured that they really don't care.

I feel as though I have returned home to a different life, and I'm excited to explore.

*Detroit, I have nothing against you personally, only against taking two planes in one afternoon with a five month old baby. Just so we're clear.

Breaking News: Finally

As in, finally, I told my mum. I said, "Mum, I'm not finishing my PhD." And then my insides threw up.

My mum was just lovely. I could tell she was a bit sad for me, but mostly because she could see how much I upset I was to tell her. She knows how hard I can be on myself and she's very understanding. After 33 years, she's got that part down.

I'm in the middle of a busy day of visiting family so I'll write more later. But I wanted to show off a bit about how much I've matured. See?!

Thank you, flu shot

I had plans. Big plans. And then the flu knocked the wind out of me. Tuesday morning, around 4:30, the flu announced its presence in our house and we've not been the same since. The stomach flu kicked our butts. Except for Shira, that is. While she was a bit sick on Saturday, by Tuesday she was all support-team. She spent hours and hours in bed with me on Tuesday, cheering me through the pain. Thanks again, Shira.

Then I did what everyone recovering from the stomach flu should do: I flew to Canada to visit my mum. And yes, I'm going to tell her.

So to all four of you, my apologies for all the quiet over here! But we're feeling much better now. And for those of you in Toronto area, enjoy the beautiful rainy skies!

p.s. Oh, and I'm not really mad at the flu shot. I usually have very good luck with these sorts of things. But I'm not feeling that generous this week.

Almost Three

Have you ever had one of those weekends where you feel like a very different person by Sunday night? On Friday I was the mother of a two year old and by Sunday she was almost three.

Delighted by her new fairy princess costume.

As I mentioned yesterday, Matt had to go out of town for the weekend at the last minute. Since we don't have any family around it was just me and the girls for most of it. It’s often just the three of us, though rarely am I a single parent from the moment Alyce wakes up before six until long after bedtime. I was both looking forward to the time spent at home with them on a lovely fall weekend and dreading those inevitable moments during the day when my patience would wear thin. Fortunately, at five months, Shira is still easy-peasy (that is, until she started projectile vomiting while the three of us are out for dinner. That was a good time). The only Shira-related dilemma that comes up for me sometimes is breastfeeding with Alyce around. Shira is reaching that point in our nursing relationship when the conditions must be JUST SO in order for nursing success. We must be on the bed, snuggling, and I must not be reading (a new development I'm not thrilled about). There must not be any other human or cat around to distract her, and never, not ever Alyce. How could she possibly be expected to nurse when the coolest, most fantastic big sister is right there?

The culprit

On the other hand, Alyce is, shall we say, more energetic? There is a lot of running and skipping, insistence on doing everything by herself, and then of course, the ongoing potty training. She’s two, after all.

Not so fast. Alyce has always been a chatty kid, so it isn’t a spike in vocabulary that made her seem older to me this weekend, as is often the case. It’s the way she is speaking that made the little hairs stand up on my arms, and making it hard to deny that her third birthday is just around the corner. All of a sudden she’s become thoughtful, deliberate and careful (sort of). She has become very aware of other people’s feelings, and while she has always been the nurturing sort with her various dollies and monsters, now she’s looking after us too. I’ve really noticed her looking after Shira when she’s upset, or telling me that’s is ok if I’m having a bad day ("It's o.k. Mama, you can just go to bed and have nap!" If only it were so easy some days).

I'm also seeing it in the way she's taking on new tasks so carefully now. It's not just about keeping her distracted while I'm trying to get something done around the house. Now I have an assistant who watches for a few minutes and then jumps in, directing traffic and bossing me around. You see, she's now a professional laundry folder, leaf cleaner-upper, and baby whisperer. I could see a new depth of pride in her accomplishments as she helped me this weekend.

But I enjoyed my almost-three year old most when she quietly asked me if she could dress up as a fairy princess for trick-or-treating. She was all set to be another scary spider, but I had noticed all week that she was lingering a bit longer on princess stories and accessories. All of a sudden she wasn't this tiny human I could dress up--she was a tiny person who understood what it means to make-believe and what she really wanted was to spend the day as a fairy princess.

So a princess she was.

Photo courtesy of Alyce, who seems determined to learn how to do everything all in one weekend.