Anxiety . Cleaning . Frasier and Niles
A Room of One’s Own
On April 9, 2022 by Speranza
I have been redecorating my office. Disturbingly, this is something that has not happened for 27 years. I found myself looking at the inside of a door etched with the frantic nail scratching of a sweet dog, long since passed, who was frightened by thunder; paintable ‘Anaglypta‘ wallpaper now stiffly rippling with age, rising up like Japanese Wave Art across one wall; loopy, repulsive carpet when peeled back, reveals an ancient spotty underpad that always reminds me of Pimiento Loaf. (You know the one: a beige deli ‘meat’ with festive coloured bits sprinkled throughout. Spoiler: Those bits will not be maraschinos …)
Beneath the underpad is random, dirty flooring comprised of a variety of planks that likely originated from the garage of some drunken uncles who installed many years before …
There was much for me to do.
Being A Mum . Cooking . Frasier and Niles . Getting Older . Retirement
As Time Goes By
On October 23, 2021 by Speranza
Strange, isn’t it, that you can do something for years and then suddenly, for some reason it’s no longer relevant, no longer a part of your everyday life or no longer palatable and it stops. You no longer drive someone every Wednesday for choir or basketball for example or a tutor becomes redundant and then the entire experience floats away and quietly gets tucked in with the other bits of irrelevant mind jetsam.
And what of The Other Parents who were co-existing with me at this time in this weirdly middle class, parallel universe? Where are they now after sharing this peculiar bond? Why should I even care? But I sat beside them, making awkward small talk, warming my hands around a Tim Horton’s coffee I no longer wanted to drink, too self conscious (was this rude?) to read the book I had brought with me. We sat huddled together like this on rigid chairs that pinched my legs for years, watching our children tumble onto a mat (Aikido) all of us learning to count in Japanese as the Sensei shouted in loud piercing syllables: Ichi! San! Shi!
Then a rapid scurry for coats and shoes, the polite veneer of interest in one another falling quickly away and an obligatory: See you next week shouted over one shoulder.
Being A Mum . Frasier and Niles . Getting Older . Nostalgia
Sonny Days
On June 9, 2021 by Speranza
I’ve noticed recently that both Frasier and Niles have pulled back a bit in their communications with me; they would both immediately deny this, and yet it is true. For them, time is rushing past and they are totally absorbed in their partners, jobs and friends – and rightly so.
I understand this and well remember that the Starter Husband only communicated with his own parents at 3 pm every-few-dozen-Sundays when the flickering guilt refused to be tamped down any longer. (And to be fair, they made sure to call us weekly. But I do not envy the quality of those conversations either which basically involved asking: “How are you getting on at work?” in varying ways).
For Frasier and Niles, weekends are festive but necessarily marked by the stocking up of food, the cleaning of bathrooms and hopefully, spectacular afternoons spent in bed, followed by an ÜberEats delivery. But, because I am now getting older, not only does this lack of contact make me feel irrelevant, the whole thing is such a tired, grasping cliché. I always felt certain that someone of my own extreme coolness might be spared from such things – unlike that poor wretch Harry Chapin.
Frasier and Niles . Love . The General
Happy Valentine’s Day
On February 13, 2021 by Speranza
I remember telling both of my sons that while large breasts were a very nice attribute in a girlfriend, the more pressing question should be, as the relationship began to deepen: “Would this person make you soup when you are sick?”
Being A Mum . Frasier and Niles . Teenagers
Joy of Text
On August 4, 2019 by Speranza
Like a fool, I believed that if I survived my sons’ teen years I would be assured of a (relatively) worry-free life which I might congratulate myself for later and bask in the afterglow of getting something right.
I now know this basking-thing will never happen.
There is not going to be a time when I do not worry.
Like other hip parents, as I foam quietly at the mouth with anxiety I have become the master of the mock-casual 3 am text:
ME: Hey, what’s up? Haven’t heard from you in a bit.
SON 1 or 2 (eventually, often days later) Right? How are you?
Which as any savvy parent knows is one of those generated, easily spotted responses (intended for those who are just way TOO busy to think of a word) and conveys slightly less than nothing.