* not with ink

It's the week after Christmas. NYE. The chaos has (mostly) died down, and we're all recuperating, right? This year, Christmas Day was quiet for us; gifts don't take long when there are only two of you. I made cinnamon buns, and then butternut squash soup. We missed (and then watched) the Queen's Christmas message, and a fascinating episode of The Nature of Things  about Stonehenge and its neolithic history. And then after dinner, I cried. Despite the near perfection of the day, especially its lack of busy-ness, I felt overwhelmed by life, by the reality of family expectations, by life change, and by my inability to pinpoint exactly what I "want" in life - especially in light of my nearly-complete Master's degree. "It just doesn't end," I cried, "I feel like it's all too much. Is this what the next 30 years will be like??" The next day I sat chatting with two quite delightful moms of young kids. Both readily admitt...

Once upon a time, I got into a very big fight with a friend. The kind of fight where bad words are said, and voices are raised, and tears are shed. We lived several provinces apart at the time, and since it was our only option, we skyped to try and resolve things. The first conversation ended in a stalemate, and we agreed to connect again in a week. At the beginning of the second call, we established something important; although her friends thought I was being a (w)itch and my friends thought she was being a baby, we were not willing to give up on our friendship. So we talked. Through the entire Super Bowl. And at the end, we still hadn't sorted things out.  I remember walking into the kitchen a little later, praying, "Jesus, if there is something I need to say or do that I haven't, show me what it is. Because I honestly don't know how to fix it." Then it hit me. So I sat down and emailed her. And she emailed me back. And it was over. The ne...

On Fridays, I don't go to school. And I don't go to work. I stay home. I still have work to do, but I do it at a desk in front of a big window, with a dog sleeping beside me. I listen to music (like Great Good Fine Ok ), I might bake, and I do laundry. Loads and loads of laundry. Sometimes I nap. I hang out with my housemates (dog and husband). This afternoon, we might go see a movie. Maybe we'll bike to the Distillery. Or grab lunch somewhere. Maybe we'll go watch the game at a pub, or maybe we'll stay home and try to survive the stress together. Any way I look at it, today is a gift. I have a full week next week, and this past one was full of job stress. I have had a cold for approximately 7 weeks (I am not even kidding you, folks). But today the sun is shining, and I'm allowed to say no to the things that are adding stress, and a resounding yes to the people and activities I love. Fridays are a gift, and sometimes they're a gift I turn down, l...

Earlier this month, I found an unpublished blog draft that is one line long. It reads: I give up my right to understanding . I don't know why I wrote it. I don't know what prompted it, or what it was that I thought I deserved to understand. But it struck me as still profoundly applicable to my life today. I want to understand everything. If it doesn't make sense, I don't accept it. If I can't wrap my head around it, I'm not okay with it. But what if. What if I gave up the assumption that I need to understand everything? What does it mean to trust something (or someone) I don't understand? What does it look like to stop demanding that explanations must fit my brain's way of working? --- Marriage is teaching me a bit about this. I'm often confused by this other person, the way they do things, their logic for decision-making, their assumptions and presuppositions. Sometimes, trying to understand him goes a long way in bridging whateve...

Throughout this series, I've been thinking about my friends who feel their families are in some way "incomplete." That is, the family they long for or once had or almost had is not their current reality. There's a loss, a lack, an absence that stays with them. This is true for almost all of us, in one way or another. Maybe an adult parent or sibling has died. Maybe there is estrangement that can't be overcome. Maybe we've experienced a miscarriage, stillbirth, or very early death. Maybe a divorce, or a widowing. Maybe there is simply the lack of a partner. We live in a world of loss, imperfection, and incompletion. We long for what we do not have. We grieve what we once held. This is not something we can remedy. But it is something we can give space for, something we can recognize and maybe assume, and treat gently.  -- I've loved the conversations that I have had both on and offline because of this series. Thank you all, once again, for particip...

When I wrote about the possibility of infertility, many of you said I was courageous for sharing my story. I'm grateful, and, as always, encouraged by your responses and kind words. But can I be honest? This topic is way more scary to me. It's scary because my fertility is something I have no control over - there is no shame for me in that, no regrets or if-onlys. But my choices about career-building are exactly that - choices. I have agency in these decisions, and that agency opens me up to errors, fear, judgment, and so much more. And where I stand - not quite a year into marriage, with two terms left in my masters degree, it's all a tangled bundle of thoughts and feelings and desires and uncertainty, and internal pressure, and offhand comments, and impossibility. It's impossible to do it perfectly. It's impossible to have everything I want. It's impossible to defend my decisions to the world. This creates a great deal of inner turmoil for me...

This post has taken me longer to write than I expected. I started, but it very quickly became a rant. It rambled; it griped; it wasn't something I was proud of. So I scrapped it and waited a few days, and here's what I've got now: I don't have a recipe for building the perfect family. I don't believe in how-to guides for life, or one-size-fits-all solutions. I'm quite opposed to the idea that such a thing could or  should  be possible. There are simply too many variables. There are too many stories. It's as simple as that. Build your family in the way that makes sense, fits your life. Invest in them. Love them. I know many of you are doing this, in a myriad of ways.... So. Based on the overwhelming kind response to my last post, and this firm belief that sharing our stories is one of the best ways we can help each other learn, I'd like to invite you to send me your stories around family, family-building, child-bearing, not-child-bearing, o...