Sympathy is a Two Way Street

I think I may realize now why it seems that I have a hard time connecting to the group of people who are intended to be my "community" in this crazy whirl wind journey across this glorious country of ours. Well, one of the reasons. I'll own my own weirdness but that's not my problem, that clearly is the problem of other people.


We don't have children. Let me rephrase. We do not have the inclination to produce children. We have nothing against children, we love and cherish those family members who's interests are more about bugs and mud puddles than bills and mortgages. Actually, we strongly identify with that group, even at a distance. Mud puddles have pan-Canadian appeal.


This choice has, however, left us on the outside of a conversation that seems to continue, across Canada.


"We haven't found a decent sitter yet, they all have boobs or discovered boobs over the summer."
"The hockey program here is so competitive but we just know that with extra ice time our 2 year old will finally make the starting line up this season."
"Do you have a family doctor yet? We need to find one for little Chlamydia, she has extra special inhaler needs and we're hoping she's gluten intolerant." 


I'm pretty sure I must have misheard that last one, I'm sure no one wants Chlamydia to be gluten intolerant.


Honestly, I do my best to be a genuine and sympathetic listener but there never seems to be any reciprocity. I can frown and nod encouragingly as the trials and tribulations of moving a family of more than two from province to province are laid bare to me at every Welcome Barbecue. It's hard. I understand.


Then comes my turn.
 
I don't get commiseration when I share my worries about finding a decent hair stylist or good sushi. I feel as though my concerns about the proximity of good bike trails to a reasonable diner or café go unheard. No one touches my shoulder with a gentle hand and nods when I speak of the difficulty connecting with the underground poetry movement. My lamentations for a decent flat white coffee fall on cynical ears.


Husband and I are pretty good at moving, we've mastered the art of getting to new places. That's skill number one. Skill number two is more complicated. It's just as difficult for a family of two to be in a new place. Perhaps even more difficult, as we do not share the commonest denominator, to whit: family members who don't shed. As such, we don't share circumstance, daily rhythms, interests, free time, budget, or seemingly a language.


I do need to point out that several very dear friends have come from this group of bechildrened bodies, friends without whom my life would be far less rich. These folks have recognized that we have much in common despite our reproductive differences, and also the tact not to tell me that "moving with just the two of you must be so easy, you don't have a family."


In my quiet moments I almost feel a certain melancholy in this regard, not for choosing the life I have, which is filled with love and laughter and sweetness, but for the distance this seems to create between myself and all my new Neighbour Ladies.


It almost makes me want to put down my latte and forget about my plans to spend all afternoon in the antique market and art gallery at the Forks.

Drug Store Lies

You said you were gentle
You promised softness, simplicity


Grace and beauty, a simple swipe away

So explain to me why I am curled in a ball
On my bathroom floor,
Weeping into my shower mat


And my eyebrows are in the sink

Trippy

There are many things which Husband and I do well together, which is rather the point, really. I mean, he is Husband, after all and not Strangely Chatty Bus Stranger. Of course there are some things we should probably not do together anymore, for the sake of the marriage and Meeker's delicate sensibilities. I'm referring of course to moving the sectional, which might actually go better if we just hired two strangers off the bus to do it next time.


My point is that Husband and I have figured out what works, and what works the best is long car trips. It is always our favourite adventure. We walk the dogs in farmer's fields. We stop for picnic lunches and games of fetch. We sing. We take turns driving while the other plays the ukulele. We burp the alphabet and play Bull Moose and One Up. We watch the sunrise in our rear-view and count the lonely geese who flew north a month too soon. I cry when I see buffalo and Husband always, always lets me have first nap.


We are fortunate to live in an incredibly huge, beautiful, diverse, vast, glorious, enormous, fascinating, really big country and are doubly blessed by living smack in the middle of it at this current time. This means if we want to go almost anywhere else in Canada we are, to choose a random sample, pretty much equidistant from all surfable coasts as well as the closest Noodle Box and St. Hubert's.


Oh, and family. Obviously.


Husband and I drove 14 hours to Calgary last weekend to visit Mother-In-Law, who was as delightful as ever, even though I think she may be on to the fact that we play You People with her. Calgary, like all great cities in Canada, has lots to recommend itself, parks, trails, sights, a little tower thingie that's not quite as impressive as The Official Canadian Tower Thingie but is really sweet, all the same. It has weird little movie theatres in the university district, and a train that runs the length of the city. By prairie standards, there is slightly less sketchy sushi and also slightly sketchier sushi, if that's what you're into. It has everything, really. As destinations go, it's as good as any you could hope for and it still wasn't the best part of the trip.


The best part, after Mother-In-Law's hugs and tea, was the 28 hours of round trip road time, complete with plans for the next one and new Prairie Edition rules for One Up. Many people prefer plane rides to exotic locations like Thailand or Minnesota, but with so much country to see, I can't understand why anyone would ever chose France over The World's Largest Things Tour of the Trans-Canada Highway, while Husband sings Foo Fighters with uke accompaniment.

Cookie Lay-Away

No matter how often I check
(And I check often)
There never seems to be any cookies in my cookie jar.
Which begs the question,
"Hey...where did this cookie jar come from?"
And I have to think,
Maybe my personal cadre of Keeblers
Is working on an installment plan.