Since September I’ve been on a health kick. For once, I enrolled myself in activities while I did registrations for the kids. It is time for some overdue self-care. And like my dear Grandmother would have said – if I don’t have an hour a few times a week to take care of my body, then my life is out of whack. Balancing yoga, barre and Zumba classes have been a delight instead of a chore, and I have been feeling stronger, more toned, and best of all – more positive. Grandmothers are always right.
Cultures collide and legend is brought to life in Mulan the Musical. Lucky for Vancouverites, the show will be showcased for one day only on Saturday, October 15, 2016 in an exclusive matinee and evening performance at Vancouver’s Queen Elizabeth Theatre. The iconic, ancient tale dates back over 1,600 years and tells the story of brave Mulan through a spectacular combination of Chinese drum music, traditional kung fu and dance. And we have a chance for you to win Vancouver Mulan Tickets!
She is beautiful. She doesn’t know it, not yet—but she is starting to become self-aware. When I looked into her face, she wouldn’t meet my eyes as she allocuted and apologized, in that soft voice. I absently noted that her eyebrows were growing in, heavy and awkward. The arch seemed wrong. I realized that it was something she had done herself, probably from a video on YouTube, or one of the many sites she visits on her phone and her tablet. She doesn’t have limits on her screen time, she never has.
What I was eleven years old, I went to the bathroom and discovered that my underwear had blood in it. I called my Mom, who opened the bathroom door, looked at what happened, and then asked, “Did that come from YOU?”
(I’m not sure where else she thought that would come from.)
My daughter just started preschool and all I can think about is how fast time flies. As parents, I guess we don’t really see the time passing us by until the day we watch our babies walk…out the door for their first day of university.
“Wait..what do you mean you don’t need your blankie anymore?!”
But enough projecting, sometimes it’s all we can do to keep up with their learning pace, so when my three and a half year old started correcting me in our dialogue, I realized that it might be time to get her into preschool.
So much has changed in the school system since my time, and (as a writer and a self-proclaimed anglophile/English history fanatic) I was really sad to hear about the phasing out of cursive writing in schools. Handwriting is an art, perhaps, but it also serves a very basic and necessary function: communication. Once cursive is gone, it won’t be long before the almighty type will begin to chip away at all the options for putting pen to paper. But I will be here to set the example for my child—when she’s ready, she’ll learn it from me.
I don’t know about you—but my body is definitely not the same since I gave birth. Sparing the gory details, let’s just say that some parts are not where they once were. So, for that reason (among many others), I was blown away by watching the Olympic champions competing in Rio de Janeiro this year…who also happen to be moms.
“How do they do it?” I ask myself. These moms prove that women aren’t past their prime after producing life, instead they highlight how powerful moms are by competing and excelling in the Olympic games. I figure, perhaps it’s because of how powerful we have to be every single day. I mean, let’s be real: women who can withstand childbirth can break records in any endeavour we set our minds to. We can achieve all of our goals and make our dreams come true, because we’ve already faced the greatest challenge: kids.
Well, hello there.
I have to say, it’s thrilling to finally meet you. More to the point: it’s thrilling to finally narrate one of these stories! I’m lucky to be getting away with it, I suppose, but then, Anastasia’s been busy lately, hasn’t she? What with the kids and the marital demands – and I do mean demands – there isn’t much time to pay attention to her once-ubiquitous Inner Goddess. Not that I’ve been bothered by my newfound freedom. On the contrary, I’ve enjoyed it quite a bit. You could say I’ve come into my own.
Summer is almost over. If I didn’t know by the calendar, I would know by the feel of the air—the mornings stay cooler a little longer, and there is a heaviness that makes me anxious. In a few days my boy will begin seventh grade and my daughter, fourth.
I think this is more traumatic for me than it is for them. I get melancholy every fall, because I know these days aren’t mine to keep. This year my son has no interest in being near me and my daughter is pushing back against anything that she thinks threatens her autonomy.
The long, slow days of summer, the moments we have together, they’re growing shorter. I have the end of summer blues.
“I want your phone,” declares my two-year-old after breakfast.
“No,” I respond.
“I want your phone,” she reiterates. Again, she’s met with a resounding no. She decides to move on.
“I want your tablet,” she counters, hoping to get a rise out of me. Even more so, she asks hoping that I give her something to stop her requests.
Smartphones, tablets, game consoles, and other expensive toys have dominated our children’s lives in the past few years and the anticipated costs of raising children will continue to rise as their “toys” become increasingly luxurious.
But how do you make the children more responsible? How do you help them understand the value of their (and your) things?
You make them pay.
When I was fifteen years old I met my future husband at band camp. We were married five years later and as we approach our 20th anniversary (yes—you mommy math whizzes—that makes me 40), and I prepare to send my own kids to camp, I find myself reminiscing about that momentous summer. And being pretty freaked out about what my kids are about to do.