Growing Little Artists (or Black Hawk Down)

There is a space in time parents create to get things done. It's usually about 3 minutes. It's that time when the kids seem fine. They're taking care of themselves. Oh, how loving they're being with each other, I'm sure I can go upstairs and use the washroom. I'm sure I'll hear if anything changes.

I've actually learned that silence is the first sign of creative expression.

The first major "incident" in the 3-minute gap was early in my days as a stay-at-home-dad. Everything seemed under control. Baby sleeping, girls gently playing. I can send that email! The gap begins... Just enough time for both daughters to create their own stealth hair salon, in the same room! I turned around to notice a large beautiful pile of blond hair, next to a large beautiful pile of red hair on the kids' breakfast table. And two wide eyed kids looking up, each holding a pair of scissors, smiling. "Look Poppa, I layered Khona's hair just like Andrew does." As a parent, I've learned that this moment requires a certain kind of response: stopping, pausing, smiling, and then taking a picture.

I've begun to document this gap, or really the effect of the gap, that end of that moment in time between kids being totally fine, to complete Lord of the Flies. Just today, there were three of us looking after three kids. Pretty good: one to one ratio. Suddenly I can hear "Driipppy... Driipppy... Driipppy" being chanted from the deck like "Piiggy...Piiggy", and I look out to find Sanoah & Sikhona putting little sister Nella through a frosh week water hazing. Nella is performing a self-defense downward dog, and madly trying to crawl away from the island.

The other night, Mary-Kate left Rowan & Sikhona in the basement to go upstairs and hang the laundry: the gap begins. When she returned, she found them standing naked in plastic Ikea drawers completely covered in blue paint, beginning to hand paint anything they could touch stretching out from their perch ... floor, walls, shelves ... "Miiike, I neeeed hellllp !!!" I grabbed the camera. A Smurf like bath ensued with much scraping of skin and crying.

Last week, in the heat, the girls somehow got into the fine art of peeing in various places and containers. One evening, we discovered Rowan and Sikhona each squatting over their own ice cube tray, saying "I did it! I did it! I got it in." "No, I got more..." OK girls, nice work, I notice you're developing a skill. How about we work on the Olympic sport of peeing in a potty.

Recently, before bed one night, we left both girls to burn off some energy by doing some Playmobile, jumping on the bed, running around. Oh, they're so good at entertaining themselves. Mary-Kate and I slumped downstairs in the couch, each enjoying a brief wine respite. As we enjoyed the quiet moment, we looked at each other, and realized it really was awfully quiet. When we went back upstairs, we peeked around the corner to discover both girls squatting on their own bed, peeing. We both stood there, hands on our hips, jaws dropped, as they then began to jump over their pee marks, saying, "Hey, mine looks like an H". "Look at me. I jumped right over it!"We looked at each other with total exasperation, open mouthed, pointing, as if miming to each other "what the f--- do we ... ?" So we just turned and left, walked back downstairs and drank our wine. Ah, the joys of parenting when the helicopter crashes in the ocean.

I later went back upstairs to check on the carnage. Rowan had passed out on the floor of the laundry room, and Sikhona was standing, arms out, in front of a fan, with thumbs up, and a smile, as if everything's all good up here Poppa. And everything was for these beautiful little provocative artists. Everything was.

Residue

One minute.
Of simplicity.
Typing.
Kids typing.
Type writer.
What is that?
That thing that captures letters, words as we tap them, hit them, ink into paper, touching, feeling the keys, hearing the tick, click, jam, one letter is off, imperfect, human, can't be corrected, easily, there is no undo. No delete. Ideas spill out, and the words are there, physically there. Jam. Pull the wire arms back, and hit, tap, click, connection with physical, the touch, language, not digital, made up, on a screen, a shadow of itself, pretending it is there. As we are, pretending, there is us underneath. We are all typewriters, real, physical, human, imprfect. What are we typing in this world? What is our story? What are is our residual? The thing that's left behind when we are no longer here.  In memory. Our residue. Ink on a page. Stories of who we were. That is all that we have.

Sex in a Jar

The call came in at 5pm. I answered the phone, "Are you ovulating?" "Yes!", she said, "we'll be there at 9. Put it in a dry, glass jar." Got it. "We're on honey." And so it begins. The letter came 5 months ago, asking so beautifully if I would have another baby, not with Mary-Kate, but as a donor to a wonderful lesbian couple. Close friends, but not too close. Connected, yet not. Similar communities, but not overlapped. I was honoured, touched, moved. A privilege. Indeed. To be asked to offer something so personal, so powerful, life-giving, and yet, so easy. Easy? Is it really? What do we hold close. Give away. Hold on to. Let go. What is us. Not us. Me. Not me. We pass on our genes. Is that us? A part of us. And why not give it away. To honour. To cherish. To love. To give joy. Passion. Sadness. Grief. Pride. All of it. Why not give it away. And so we did. I say we, as Mary-Kate and I made a decision in that moment. That we would offer this together. We would make this together. This would connect us. We would be a donation team. And what a great reason to have sex! The lesbians have called. We need to do the thing honey. Put the kids to bed. They're here at 9. They arrived at 8. Kids eating snack. And screaming. The phone ringing, a deep, slow voice on the answering machine. A friend in the kitchen talking about baby chicks. The dog barking. The door opens. "Hello!" Ah, the tranquility. "We lost your phone #, so here we are! We'll be at our friends' around the corner, waiting for the call." Got it. Launch the kids to bed routine. Teeth. Last pee. Jumping on bed. Read books. Jumping on bed. Last last pee. Stack of books on bed for each kid. And sleep. And duty calls. So the jar. This dry glass jar. Apparently, any drops of water in the jar confuse the sperm. Water them down. Slow them. And we do not want to slow these sperm. They've got a long journey ahead. "So the jar is supposed to be at body temperature when doing the passover," I say. "You can't put your stuff into a cold jar, and then warm it up. It's got to be AT body temperature," says Mary-Kate. OK, so I tuck the jar under my arm, and we go to it. But I can't really use my left arm. So I'm falling, kind of, squeezing the jar. Keeping it warm. Like those penguins in the movie with their eggs. Falling again. Then the jar squeezes out. We laugh. Jar goes back into the pit. And we get to the moment. The moment where we got to get the stuff into the damn jar. And it's a small jar. So there's all these angles, and pointing things, pushing, and whoah this, whoah that. And bingo, sperm is in the dry jar. Tuck it directly under the armpit, and make the call. "Donation is ready. Go team." So, we gather our clothing, and walk downstairs, and they're at the door. Fast. Yes. Well this part is very important. The armpit passover. We open the door. There's that awkward, funny air in the space. Pause. "Well, here it is." And we pass the jar from armpit to armpit. We say good luck with the turkey basting part! I was joking, but she calls back, "yes, it's actually called the turkey basting!" We close the door. And smile. Mission accomplished. Self passed on. Selves passed on. Life given over. We'll see if those little critters can swim.

Drought

Writer's block. What is this thing. We call it a thing, as if it's there. Something to muscle out of the way. Burst through. Smash, pound, eliminate. But what is it really. I have about 15 blog posts backlogged in my mind right now... "Slings and Savages", "Sex in a jar", "Enlightenment & my sleeping foot"... waiting, waiting, waiting for what? For someone to make me write them. For the brilliant post, that perfect one, the funny one, the one that everybody talks about.  And then the fear envelopes. What if? What if it's not good? What if it's not... insert 1000 different things here. And so they all bounce around in my head, pinballs, oh they're brilliant, I say, ooh, that's a good story, that one, oooh, that one really says something. And yet, they fade, they begin to fade, without sunlight, without water, stuck inside, rattling around, the part that's bursting to get out, is now limp, a plant in drought. Water. Water? And I look at it, and know how beautiful it once was. Water it. Water it? Or just write. Just start. Write what I am experiencing right now. Right now. Write now. Experience. We experience something, and then it changes. It is forever changed. We talk about it. We tell the story. And then it changes it again. And we tell the story again. And it changes. And we call it true. This is what happened. This is what Actually happened. Or is it? What if our experience of something is the closest we can come to the Truth of it. What if we were to stop and be with our partner. Our kids. Our friends. Really stop. Even for 2 minutes. Just stop. And be with them. I can guess that's what we will remember. In the end, when we look back, it is those brief moments of connection, of being part of something bigger, of being open. Letting in.

Lotto six-forty-swine

We have arrived in Flin Flon, Manitoba, by mini-van, an ode to Chevy Chase and his station wagon roadtrips. Flin Flon is at the end of a road that must have been the inspiration for that rocks and trees song, trees and rocks, so many rocks and trees. Luckily we had a GPS unit. The GPS lady helpfully guided us all the way here: "Turn right and follow highway 6 for 723 kilometres." OK, we can put her away and drive, despite our 2 and 4 yr-old throwing various stuffed animals, water bottles, power bars, and bananas randomly at the front windscreen. Last week, our 4-yr old Rowan says, "Dad, where are we going to put the pig?". "Uh, I don't remember the pig part of our trip," I reply. "Mom said we were getting a pig. Are we going to put it in the mini-van?" she says. "I really can't remember anything about a pig Row. You'll have to ask your mother." Rowan waited the rest of the day, pacing and patiently ready to pounce on her prey. "Mommmmmm!!!! Where are we putting the pig?" "What pig?", Mom says. "You said that on our trip to Flin Flon, we win a pig." Pause. "Can you say that again?" "You said that on our way to Flin Flon, we were going to win a pig! I wanna know where it goes." Pause. "Aha, yes, I get it honey. We are going to Winapig, but we aren't going to put it anywhere. It's too big for the mini-van. But it's a pretty great little city. You're gonna love it."

The Suits

Mary-Kate and I walked into a new cafe in downtown Guelph the other week. I noticed two men sitting down for lunch, each in nicely pressed business suits, removing their trench coats, chatting away, as if they had the world in their hands, had it all together. Successful. Our suits say, "we've made it." "We're here." "This is it." And I wondered, as I start my own business, whether I needed to buy one of those fancy pressed suits so I can walk around being successful. Looking like I've made it. There. And talk to other pressed suits to share our success. Is that me? Who am I if not teacher. Who am I as entrepreneur. Creative. Father. An idea factory. Generating me. I am my own factory manufacturing myself. Each day. Every day. I create who I am. Who I can be. Photographer. Writer. Storyteller. Each day is a new slate. A blank canvass. Spiderman who connects. Superman who flies the impossible. I am superhero.

When I mentioned my suit envy to Mary-Kate, she said, "Yeah, I saw those suits, and thought, thank god I don't have to wear those every day."

The resistance

What is that part of us that sabotages? That sees a perfectly crisp sunny day as sadness. That lives in the world of doom, the next catastrophe that looms around the corner, just waiting for it, expecting it, even pulling for it. Causing it. Causing it? Yes, I live into doom in order to be RIGHT. To be right that things will fall apart. That we will not have enough money. That we will not be successful. And when it happens, I will be right. And I can celebrate in my own dungeon with candles and a cake, a rightness celebration, cheering on the proof that. Here it is. See. I am in the darkness of things not working out, see, I am right, it did go that way. And god that feels good to be right. To make someone else wrong. And I will live into doom to avoid being responsible. Dwell in the sadness, the dysfunctional nothing matters place, I can't do it, what's the point anyway, if I do anything, I will be rejected, laughed at, ridiculed for being stupid, not enough, NOT enough, never enough. What is enough? What is it to be enough. To be content, happy, to find joy. I can see that world behind this cloud. This world of fear, of anxiety. Let it be so I can be. Let it be. Sit with the fear. Let the anxiety burn itself out. Do not push it away, or it will hide and bleed up. Let it be. Sit in discomfort. Move towards discomfort. AAAAAHHHHH. Is RIGHT and avoidance worth this? Really? I do not want to let him go, this character, this constipated absent professor. Add moping. Add doomsday. Poor me. It seems so thin when I write it down. So pathetic, as if that's me. Really? Why hold on. A sadness in death, in letting go, a loss of familiarity. Someone I have been, have held close my whole life, what if I were to let him be, let him go. What would turn up? Who would turn up?

Clark Kent

I just got something. Superior me. I am better than you. That part of me that holds on to control by sitting higher. A pedestal above. I know and you don't. AND I will fix you. I know the answers and can solve you. And when I do, I will be known as the fixer, the guy who solved you, the one to see to become un-broken. As a teacher, I used this to manage, to control, to keep the peace, to keep things in place, to maintain order. And yet, what if I give up this holy role, this looking down? Who am i if I am not better, not in control? Out of control. Out of reach, tailspinning, free fall. Or not. Grounded in who I am, who I can be outside of that control. Empowered to ask questions from a different place, a place of knowing and not knowing, a place of wonder and possibility, a space for creativity, for creating and exploring without judgement and assessment. As of course, you are not broken. There is no fixing. You are not a leaking tap to be maintained. I am not a handyman for your soul. I get it. And I am sad. Sad as if a friend is leaving. That part of me wilting, disappearing, losing its hold, its power. Sad in change, in my relationship to change, to loss, of who I thought I was, who was me. Who am I now?

Banjo Dave

Carrying baby River in a sling, I walked past a guy downtown today playing his banjo. Noticed him. Sunglasses. Unshaven. Ignored him. Avoided him. Was slightly scared of him. And then I remembered fifty conversations. Here is a conversation. An opening. Walked over to him. He started talking and I listened. He talked for 30 minutes. "I died last month," he said. OK. I definitely had a conversation here. He died for four minutes. His second heart attack. He had been working for a delivery company 60 hour weeks, and filling in the rest of his time doing his own reno business. "I never saw my kids. Didn't have the time." And now, he's recovering at home and sees his kids all the time. Sees them growing up. He's with them. And they don't know him. They avoid him. Don't want to spend time. They play video games and watch TV. Dad is annoying. "Why are you around so much now, Dad?" He missed them growing up, is missing them now. And yet he is alive. He is really alive, appreciative of living, of time. He plays his banjo downtown, makes a little busking change. Is happy. Part of his heart is dead. Waiting for an operation, to be fixed, made whole, a broken heart to be mended. His dream is to buy a farm, bring his kids out there, and grow up with them with the straw bales of his own childhood. Doing stuff outside. Sitting by the fire. Talking with each other. Being together.

Why 50?

Why fifty conversations? When I mentioned I was going through a major life transition, it was suggested by a teacher of mine to commit to having a # of conversations in a limited amount of time. It gets you out of your head and into dialogue. So I picked 50 in two weeks. It was crazy, fantastic, exhausting, exhilarating, painful, uncomfortable, inspiring. Because I had to cram in the conversations, I found myself chatting with the guy I bought my second-hand washer, the farmer we buy our raw food for our dog. Suddenly I was open to the possibility of what someone could offer, anyone, everyone. And it gathered it's own momentum, so that conversations just kept flowing, happening, in all kinds of places, some super short, some lengthy. All about what I'm going to do with my life. I've been teaching high school for 14 years now, and the decision was, do I go back? Or do I create a life here in Guelph, allow something to emerge out of this life, avoid the commute, start our own business? Write children's books? Something to do with backyard chickens? Selling stuff? Teaching? Providing experiences, what experiences. Who am I as not-teacher. Entrepreneur. Attached to what. To whom. Separate self from work. Integrate work and family. How to balance? Aha, the next 50 conversations is this question. I commit to having 50 conversations by the end of March on how to balance life and income. Cool.