My "Perfect" Life - part 8

'DISTANT' COUSINS

I've been chatting about my family as a means to disclose my own journey through childhood.

Today I'm going to digress slightly, and launch ahead to recent encounters with relatives I never knew before last week as a testament to the value of all of our 'intimate' relationships... I'm so glad I've discovered them.

I value family, though growing up in my own nuclear family I felt pretty isolated most of the time. A week ago I went to visit my first cousin whom I'd met only once before. Last week I met his family too. Though his wife describes their family as 'pure soap opera', I'd like to focus on the operative word: PURE.

What a motley crew my first cousin has! First, he's 2+ decades older than I am, which means his children are my age. Add together the fact that he had his children in his twenties and I in my forties, and we get his four generations of family to my two. My son played with my cousin's great grandchildren who are his peers. How bazaar is that? 

It must be neat to be a great grandparent; to watch your children's children have children must be awesome, though unfortunately the contemporary world has brought about family pain through broken relationships and an absence of marriage that has affected the third generation in my cousins family just like it has so many others across the Western world. Nevertheless, this family is bonded. For me it was positively charming to see the love and appreciation they showed toward each other -- and they had plenty extra that spilled over onto my own family. These are honest folk, striving to keep afloat in this economically uncertain time and who are venturing to make their own unique way in the world. I would sum up this family in a word: united.

For some of us, the word family conjures up thoughts of joy, for others frustration, and for still others, pain and heartache. To me, family is meant to represent acceptance, love, and safety. This is what I observed and experienced in my visit to my cousin's last week. 

We are not our family nor our past. Everything we experience forms and shapes our lives, and family - good, not-so-good or indifferent doesn't make us. Sometimes we fit right into our biological family and sometimes we don't. We don't have to. But we do all need a sense of family to give us a sense of connection and relationship. Sometimes family is biological, but often it isn't. From where do you most experience your sense of family?

Social networking provides a sense of family, when we share blog posts; sometimes these conversations are more intimate than face encounters. Church communities share a common bond. Friendships begun in childhood and carried throughout the stages of life are relationships that are familial in nature. These are not substitutes for family but are versions of it.

I have been blessed with a healthy and happy family now that is shaped by where my husband and I have come from. I trust that in two generations of time, the marks of love, acceptance, safety and unity that we share will still be hallmarks in future off-spring. It was wonderful to observe in my cousin's nuclear family the transparency and love for one another. And an affirmation for me that my own family is on the right track.

My "Perfect" Life - part 5

One of the earliest memories I have

Snow: merely a memory in the month of June (northern hemisphere)

is a snowy winter day when I was 5. For better or worse, I'm actually quite proud of this one. Picture winter in Northern Ontario with snowbanks high on every street corner,  snow-covered lawns, prints of brave feet having trudged through deep snow everywhere.

Then picture a motley band of children trudging home in their bulky outdoor clothes after a typical school day... back in the days when I was a child we were not bussed 3 blocks but we walked...  children of all ages from 5 to 13 were slip-sliding their way home through a neighbourhood of cold and snow.

As I walked up the hill from my school, there was a nasty boy in grade six one block ahead of me, instructing small children to jump into a yard that was on such a slope that surely meant the children would be snow-logged as they scrambled back to the sidewalk, and damp and chilled by the time they got home.

I steeled myself to engage with this guy it seems...

"Go into that snowbank!" he commanded me when it was my turn to be shouted at.

"You can't tell me what to do," I retorted and continued my march up the hill toward home.

He did not stop me.

Perhaps this boy had a strange sense of humour, and didn't actually intend to be bullying the small children. Or perhaps my comeback shocked him. Or maybe he took more interest in the next passing child. But I did not have a soggy walk home that day, and to this day I remember that moment clearly. In fact, that is a moment that assures me I had oodles of confidence when I was small.

Now, I've got a fair bit of confidence too, which I talk about in my book about building self-esteem (FREE TO BE) . However, in my life it seems there was a huge gap between the childhood confidence I once had and the acquired confidence I had to work to develop. This lovely memory has been useful to hold onto. And particularly at times when I have sought to discover my identity and develop my character through the difficult teen and twenties years, I've found it comforting to recall the boldness I was born with.

Are there moments that you have to 'hold onto' when you doubt yourself or your ability? Is there something in your past that guides you to understand your character? What do you remember most about those early years that gives you confidence in yourself?

I'd love to hear from you.

Until next Thursday...

My "Perfect" Life - Part 3

My mother had issues with pride. Growing up I never realized that her barbs and jibes came from her own need for affirmation. As a kid, I didn't understand her boasting about attending private boarding school was an attempt to cover up for being lonely, or that her insistence on good manners was to raise her middle class status to that of a woman of culture and elegance. I didn't recognize that when she compared her attractive legs to my stubby thighs, she was seeking compensation for her insecurity.

According to my mother, she was a beautiful young woman, an excellent tennis player and golfer, and had a large group of friends with whom there was mutual admiration. A wealthy businessman who owned a formidable department store chain proposed to her, but she turned him down. "Never go with someone whom you like more than he likes you," she advised me. That didn't speak too well of my dad, I remember thinking. I must have been pretty miserable at home because I remember wondering if life might be better if this other man had been my father, not because he was wealthy -- I've never cared much about money -- but because maybe he would have been nicer to me than my dad was. But misery is a funny thing. If it's your normal emotional state you don't really notice it as such, because you've got nothing to compare it to. No, if you've got low self-esteem you don't put it down to the way you are treated but to something unworthy within. And so in this, my mother was quite successful in raising her own status by lowering that of her children.

In my mother's pride, my brainy sister never quite measured up in terms of good manners or poise. I fared better. Though from me my family had to endure frequent emotional outbursts springing from emotional immaturity, the public face I presented seemed to satisfy my mom. But this prideful idiosyncrasy of my mother's badly marred my growth, and probably my sister's, because values were not discussed on the basis of principles which needed to be practiced but on the basis of how others would perceive us. Integrity was a value my mother professed to admire, but her concern for what people thought weighed far more heavily upon her. She was quite the hypocrite.

It seems ironic then, that she valued my father's integrity so much. Or perhaps she didn't see how lacking in that area she was personally. Isn't that the way with most of us? We don't see our own shortcomings nearly as well as we see those of others.

In my case, however, I didn't see any of my mom's shortcomings. She was my mom and weren't all mothers the same? Although for example, she never had much in the way of physical affection for me, I didn't know it was normal to want it, so I just thought she was the norm and my craving was a mismatch to the rest of the family.

I wonder why, when thinking of her, I lapse into self-reflection? It is likely because we were so emotionally intertwined while I was growing up that, when reflecting on those times, it is impossible to separate her from myself. Or perhaps I'm simply an egotistic (or just plain bad) writer!

What is the overwhelming aspect to my mother's personality which best defines her I think, is what I've already alluded to: the fear of what people would think. It was a mantra as we were growing up. What we wore, how we behaved, what we said -- all these things were a reflection on her. It wasn't so much that she was concerned for our welfare as how others would perceive her. Oh, she didn't say it was about her, but looking back, clearly it was. The most poignant memory I have that crystallizes this is the week before my sister's confirmation. My sister didn't think she believed the words one is supposed to profess at confirmation so she really didn't want to go through with it. My mother's first strategy was to make light of my sister's doubts. "Oh, you'll believe it in time," I heard her say. But my sister, light years apart from me in personality style, quietly and with a rare display of tears, stood on her conviction and said she didn't believe it now and so now she couldn't say the words. My mother grew more and more anxious and 'concerned' about how others would perceive my sister if she didn't go through with it. All was arranged. It was expected. It was what should be done....

How my mother managed to get my sister to go through with it is beyond me. I wouldn't have done it. (But I was the difficult one, my sister the older and more cooperative one.) So out of guilt or fear or perhaps just feeling worn down, my sister went through with the ceremony. She cooperated. My mother was proud (irony and insult totally intended). The day passed without incident as far as I know.

But did my mother ever grieve that her eldest daughter didn't believe in God? Did she ever regret insisting my sister claim something she didn't believe? Did she recognize the irony in bragging about her husband of great integrity and pervert my sister to lies?

It must have been hell to be in her shoes. It certainly wasn't heaven living in my own.

But the thing about childhood is that it molds us and shapes us into the adults we become. I had compassion for my sister and really felt she was right. Sadly, I didn't have the vocabulary or emotional equipment, nor a close bond with my sister to say anything to her or to my mother in my sister's defense. But now I firmly hold to what I believe is truth and encourage others to do the same.

Whatever our parents offer us, be it good, bad, right or wrong, shapes our lives. We are woven from the cloth we've lived and experience brings us to the place we are now. The steps and the people that lead us through our childhood help to shape us.

Was my mother selfish and prideful. Indeed, I think she was. Did she act out of spite. I don't think so. I think she was trapped in fear and did the best she could within her cell. It's sad but true. The best thing I can do with that is to overcome and to treat others, my child in particular, very differently. The best any of us can do with what we've experienced, is to overcome and encourage others to do likewise.

That's the purpose behind my writing.

Until next Thursday, I'll say 'bye bye' and wish you a good week ahead.

My "Perfect" Life

Imagine a perfect world in which to grow up: it is an idyllic world where your physical needs are provided. You never go hungry, have attractive clothes to wear and your mother and father are married and seem to love each other. You know from an early age that education is important and that whatever post secondary education you will desire will be made available. The country is Canada, where the true north is indeed 'strong and free'. Your world encourages freedom of speech, religion and politics.

Now imagine such a world where there is no sense of being loved, of belonging, or of being taken seriously. Suddenly, you are in the world in which I grew up. Children are to be seen and not heard, integrity is only expected in the adult world, and behavior is criticized but never corrected.

I loved my parents, now both deceased. I loved them enough never to have composed the stream of thought I'll compose here because it would have angered them. Interesting I don't say 'it would hurt them.' I would not write if it would hurt them either, but I'm not sure it is possible I ever hurt them. I'm not sure they liked me enough to be hurt. Rather, they disliked me enough to get angry with me.

In my head are many random stories. Each of them are true. How do I compile a series of vignettes that will best encapsulate my family history? And why do I do it? These are the questions I must ask myself as a writer.

As this is a blog, I think I'll provide one story at a time, randomly at first. Perhaps something will begin to take shape and from that I'll design a more structured approach.

As to why I do it? It seems fitting to write about my life given I've entitled this blog "A Life Examined". I'm aware as I write now that my tone is a bit clipped and my mood remote. Perhaps I'm a bit nervous about writing to the world; perhaps I'm a bit anxious I'll fail. I know I'm not angry with my parents or my sister. I'm just wary of what I'm about to do... to share my journey in order to capture another's interest.


The first story has just two characters, my mother and me. It isn't even a story really, but a moment in time. It begins with my mother raising her hand to me and stopping. I was about 9. I remember I'd done something wrong - I don't know what but I'm certain I knew at the time - and she was really cross. She raised her hand and our eyes met. I was scared she was going to hit me and that fear must have been written all over my face. She looked at me, her hand suspended in the air and said, "Some day I'm going to hit you." (she never had up to that point, that I can remember, nor ever did)

The moment passed. I guess she walked away. There was no hit, but no hug either. No physical contact of any kind.

I was not punished for whatever I'd done. I expect she showed compassion, or tried to, by not spanking me. But she didn't teach me, correct me or help me to learn from whatever I'd done that I shouldn't have done it. Interesting that I remember the moment of eye contact and fear, but not what I'd done to cause her anger. Was it good for me as a child, to live in a house where my mother never spanked me? Certainly to have no consequence for bad behaviour was not ideal.

It was the '60's and Dr Spock and such teaching was that you should not spank a child and a child will work things out for themselves. Well, I didn't. Perhaps others did.

It's stories like this that I'll write about. It's stories like this that make me feel sad about how I grew up: completely disjointed from my mother, who lacked confidence, and from my father, who was emotionally shut down.

I grew up in one of the biggest houses on the street, with educated parents and a very brainy sister. I had music lessons and at 6, when I had trouble with reading, my mom helped me until I could read. But inside myself I was alone, lonely and torn between over confidence and under confidence, because I felt no love.

I have love now in my own family. I'm very blessed. And I'm grateful for my history, because it's made me who I am now. But every little experience as a child has the potential to bear significant impact on life as a whole. Perhaps I'm writing to help you to tap into your memories, to see how they've impacted you - for better or worse - and to help you to grow beyond them. Perhaps I'm writing to parents who struggle with parenting, or to siblings who struggle with sibling relationships. Perhaps I'm writing to daughters and sons who have parents who are aging and there is unsettled business between them. Whoever I'm writing to, I'm hoping my words will be read, and the words will help to make our relationships better, while we are still on the earth. I shall write again next Thursday. (Is it Thursday's child that's full of woe??)

me, sitting in my back garden