Ian: Wow. That doesn’t seem like you at all.

I seriously don’t realize what a weird kid I was until I try to tell Ian stories about my childhood.

Hannah looked back at her and played along. “MY blankie!” she said, though with better humour than Rachel. And so it began, back and forth. “My baby.” “My blankie.” “MY baby.” “My blankie.” “MY BABY!!”

The adult in the car tends to wonder what is the point of this argument of circular non-sequiters, but Hannah only knew she was playing along with the pattern and Rachel was trying really hard to turn it into a proper fight by escalating her tone and punctuating her expostulations with pouty gestures.

Finally, Hannah, still naively cheerful, tried to end it. “My blankie!” “MY baby!” “…Well, it is my blankie. And that’s YOUR baby, okay?”

And Rachel? She responded, still, “MY BABY.”

Hannah said placatingly, “okay. I’m just gonna ask mum. … Mum, this is my blankie right?” And I said, “of course it is Hannah.”

A moment later, Hannah said, “Mum-Mum-Mum HEY MUM! This is my friend, Rachel.” SO cute.

And Rachel said darkly, “I’m not your friend, Hannah.”

And Hannah said in her thoughtful two-year-old way, “Well, okay. But I am your friend.”

“I don’t care,” Rachel told her.

“Mum cares!” Hannah said brightly.

And I laughed. “I totally do, Hannah. I care very much.”

*   *   *

I was going to post this story as soon as we got home, but when I got home, we had no internet. I restarted the computer, modem & router just in case, but the problem seemed to be something outside the house. I decided to put my attentions to making supper instead of hanging around on hold with our internet provider. I figured I could do that after supper. Or I could delegate the delightful task to Ian.

So, after supper, while I was feeding Hannah, Ian got on the phone. Once he’d spoken to someone, and gone over the issue and they’d called up our account, the guy said, “oh that’s weird.” And put him on hold. When he came back, he asked to talk to me (as I am, evidently, the primary contact for the account).

So, the support guy started explaining to me in a slow, saccharine voice about how “the uh… information that you upload and download every month exceeded the maximum amount of information that you’re allowed to upload or download.” And went on to let me know by how many Gigabytes we had exceeded our “maximum information”.

Totally wanted to put on a Marilyn Monroe voice and reply, “A Gigabyte? Is that a kind of a diamond?”

Ian thought it was funny that he asked to speak to me about it when he clearly didn’t think I was capable of understanding it.

I totally picture Ian whispering into the phone. “Oh, yes, I see.  Of course you cut us off. See my wife has a bit of a torrent problem, she doesn’t understand these things. Could you talk to her sternly and explain to her why it’s wrong?”

*   *   *

I am taking drumming lessons. My drumming instructor is pretty fantastic. He was raised in India. Early in our lessons, he commented on how, when you grow up in a country that has this rich musical history and culture, all you want to do is get away and play western music. But then he came here, and after getting into western music, finally began studying world rhythms. I think he’s primarily into Cuban drumming, but I explained to him that I wanted to do middle eastern drumming and he said that, yes, he had a darbukah and while he wasn’t familiar with all the patterns and variations in that style, he could give me a foundation in technique that I would be able to apply to the rhythms I do know.

It’s been fantastic. Though mostly I think I spend our lessons scowling at him and making skeptical faces whenever he asks me to do something. And, to be honest, most of what he asks me to do is beyond me. But it’s good. I need to be pushed. There has never been a lesson where I haven’t run home and then sat and drummed for two hours, trying to get the hang of this new thing before it leaves my head.

At the beginning, he said that he and his wife might be moving east this summer. But he thought we could accomplish a lot in six months. I don’t care, six months is six months more instruction than I had before. I’ll take whatever I can get. So my life has been pretty hectic lately. And I keep finding myself thinking, “oh man. I have to give up something. I have to wake up and simplify. I can’t keep going like this.” And then it seems like drumming is the obvious thing to give up, because I can’t, can’t, can’t give up dance and it wouldn’t be fair to pare back the kids’ lives first. But then I remember that it’s this six months or nothing until the next time I can find a likely world/arabic rhythms instructor in Saskatoon. And I figure I can keep on at this pace for six months, then, anyway.

So, at our last lesson, he was saying how overwhelmed he is. How spread-too-thin. He thinks he’s going to have to get out of doing lessons this spring, maybe in May. He’s found himself encouraging people who are even slightly considering quitting their lessons to just go, and then not filling the time slot. And I was like, “is he hinting at something here?” But I said, “I perfectly understand. I’m spread too thin in taking lessons, myself. And I’ve considered giving up the drumming lessons - but then, you said you were probably done this summer. So I’m sticking with it to get whatever I can as long as I can, until you make me quit.” And he said, “good. I like teaching you. I can tell you’re passionate about it.”

That was the point of the story. Because I liked having someone say it, but I stared at him skeptically and said, “uh. You can?” Cause I don’t act passionate about the things I’m passionate about. Even as we were having the conversation, I was pretty tempted to be all, “what? EFF that, I can take it or leave it.” But he said, “of course I can tell. It’s written all over your face.”

I do love it. But I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I seriously spend every lesson scowling suspiciously at him and first refusing to try and then trying but not managing to do whatever he tells me to do. Probably he’s figured out I’m passionate about it because no one could spend 30 minutes every week acting that pained and put upon, and then keep coming back if they didn’t love something fiercely.

When I woke up, I couldn’t remember if it was just a dream or not. And I couldn’t remember where I thought I felt this lump. So, whatever. I just had a physical a couple months ago. That part doesn’t really matter to the story, it’s just how it begins - with a dream.

Anyhow, a couple days later, I noticed a spot just near my armpit. But it was a tiny little mark and I didn’t find any lump near it. Probably just a pimple, or a spot where my underwire rubs or something. So whatever.

A couple weeks later, it’s still there. And there’s something under it. Like, not a lump. Not even what I’d call a bump. Just…ahh… a different consistency. Half a bump,  maybe. Like, totally nothing.

I was like, “ah well I suppose I better get it checked out.” And, “though of course it’s nothing.” And everyone I’ve talked to is like, “Oh well of course it’s nothing. But you should get it checked out.”

Anyhow, I have an appointment to have it checked out.

When I called, what I really wanted to say was, “I need an appointment to have the doctor look at this, even though I already know it’s nothing.”

I mean, I’m not just saying that to be optimistic. Honestly, I know it’s nothing. And I’m having the damnedest time with the idea of going to the doctor over something that I know is going to turn out to be inconsequential. I keep wondering how I establish to her before I go that I know it’s nothing. Like, “heeeeeey. Just so you know, when you tell me this is nothing, you aren’t proving anything. I already knew.”

This should surprise no-one. I have heavy periods, I’ve never really eaten red meat and I’ve cut it out of my diet entirely for the last two months. My doctor told me to take iron supplements last year, but I ran out last summer and never got around to buying more.

And yet, ridiculously low heart-rate. What does that mean? I just took my resting heart-rate and it was 58. Am I wrong in thinking that’s scary-low for someone who’s not terribly athletic? Also I’m pretty sure if I’m anemic, my heart’s supposed to be working harder to keep up.

Blech. I’m totally guilty of using the internet as my medical opinion. And mostly when I do that I find people asking questions at Yahoo, and the best answer is always, “WTF are you doing trying to get medical advice on the internet. You should see your damn doctor.”

Kinda reminds me of when I went into labour with Hannah. I got up in the morning, timed a few contractions, broke the news to Ian as we were heading out the door to drop the kids off at daycare. Then we went to the hospital and I was like, “let’s just get a coffee and sit down for a bit first.” And he was like, “uh. Let’s check you in.” And I was like, “no. I just want to be sure.” “Cause god forbid you went to the hospital and said you thought you were in labour and turned out to be wrong.”

I damn hate when I give the medical profession more reason than it already has to treat me like a hypochondriac.

So here is the silk. I might actually have had too much light when I tried to photograph it, but you can at least see that it’s a nice off-white. The colour is actually what I would call a warm taupe. It’s like what most people call champagne, but darker and with a tiny hint of red in it.

Because I tried to dye 5 yards at once and clearly didn’t have a big enough vessel for that endeavour, the colour is mottled and significantly lighter on some pieces. Some time when I have more time I will educate myself more thoroughly on silk-dying techniques so I will be able to get the mottled and crinkled look when I choose and not do so when I don’t choose. But for now, I’m satisfied with the results for this project.

Here is a swatch with some copper and red beads (colours I intend to use when I embellish it). This picture is slightly closer to representing the colour… maybe…? But once it’s on your monitor, who even knows? WhatEVER. Warm taupe. Slightly gold in some lights. Very pretty (trust me).

I have done most of piecing and basting the bodice. I even tried it on once, and have now re-basted to let out the side seams by an inch or so. But now I’m scared to move it or try it on ever again because the threads that fray off the edges of pieces are so ridiculously fine that it’s like stepping into a giant spider web and then trying to get out without wrecking it. And afterward, these fine strands stretch out for like 3 or 4 feet and hover, improbably, in mid-air due only to their ridiculous fineness and a tiny bit of static electricity.

I pause after every little step and sit back to second-guess everything. Hm. Will I wish that I had planned for french seams to prevent fraying and so the seams in the back won’t show through the thin fabric? Or would I rather use a bit of a zigzag to keep the stretch in the angled seams? But those would be bulky seams. But I will probably need that stretch. Am I really planning on dancing in this dress? What if I sweat? Should I line it with something? Oh, but then I’ll for sure sweat.

Here’s something my aunt said in the comments:

Remember Naomi Wolf in (I think) Promiscuities talking about her wedding dress? How she bought it off a discount rack (or something) and it was a bit tattered or yellowed or something, but how those very qualities reflected best her relationship (or something). (Now I shall have to go find that passage so I can remember it properly.) Seems to me that is what you are doing here too.

I was puzzling over this, trying to figure out in what way this dress might represent the marriage I’m building. There is that it’s handmade, and Ian and I are do-it-yourselfers - but that’s hardly deep. That just makes this another project in a line of projects. There is no parallel, really, in how we approach the relationship. In fact, we are a little distressingly typical in the building and maintenance of the relationship.

But during my sixteenth bout of sitting back and staring critically at the dress today, I had a realization that by the time I wear this dress I will know it literally inside and out. I will have examined every minute detail, critically and unforgivingly. I wondered if, after four months of staring at its faults, I would even want to look at it, let alone wear it when it’s ready. And I knew that absolutely I would. And it will be because I know all its faults. Because that makes it more mine, I have its story and that makes my love of it more honest.

And then, of course, I thought, “Oh well that is where my approach to this dress exactly mirrors my approach to this relationship. By the time I actually get married, I will have picked apart everything about Ian, about how he and I interact, about relationships in general, marriages in general, risks, rewards, constraining factors, oh my god.

This metaphor works on many levels. Ian is the first relationship I’ve had where I didn’t feel like, “Oh if we could get past this issue then I’d know we could make it.” I’m intimately acquainted with his flaws and shortcomings, but they are all those kind of flaws that you can at least smile at, even if you are totally irritated with how he totally interrupts you in this pedantic tone all the time, gawd.

On a marriage level in general, too, I talk a lot about the things that don’t sit right with me about marriage. But I feel like when I can name all the things that are wrong with marriage in general, then at least I know what I’m trading away and what I gain. And I can go into it with an honest acknowledgment of what my issues are. Which is way better than trying to pretend they’re negligible issues. (And cognitive dissonance makes me physically ill, these days.)

Anyhow, after I came down from my indulgence of nit-picking and over-thinking everything, I also reminded myself, “hey, the whole reason for a handmade dress wasn’t to make yourself miserable, it was to set a relaxed tone.” The point was that if I’m getting married in a hand-made belly-dance-styled wedding dress, I can’t possibly take myself too seriously. The point is to be dressed in a way that is authentic to who I am (creative, unorthodox, slightly obsessive) so that I will remember to not waste time and energy on my wedding day in trying to play a part. And that, also, is pretty representative of the attitudes in my relationship.

So I will close with pretty much the best sympathetic wisdom that I got through this whole week. It was Thursday, when I first got and dyed this silk, that I had my crisis of self-assurance. That night I went to my belly dance class and was repeating to my BDFF (belly dance friend forever) how I had been all “OHMAHGAHD. Only 4.5 months! What did I get myself into?” And she said, “Well…You’ve lived together for four years? you have a house and a kid together?… this isn’t going to change your life.”

Then she paused and looked back at me and said, “Oh! What am I saying?! Of course it’s going to change your life. You’re going to have a beautiful dress that you can wear for belly dance performances ever after!”

Though also, I’ve already begun cutting it up and will, I hope, have more cut by this afternoon.

So I am sewing it myself and I am sewing it without a pattern - because I have a very specific vision of what I want and I haven’t found any patterns that I could even use as a foundation. Or there were some, but I didn’t feel that their distant relation to my vision justified their expense.

Anyhow, I cut out the front panel, last night, and began pinning it to my dressform. And then I flopped into my papasan with a cup of tea and surveyed that lone panel for a long time. And then I said to Ian, “you know when you start a project that you’ve been planning for a really long time, how you’ll have gone back and forth over its theory in your head. And you say, ‘Oh I can handle that. And that part’s just plain logic.’ But then, do you ever open up the whatever you were about to fix or modify and look at the reality and try to match it to the theory and say to yourself, ‘what made me think I could do this?’”

He said, “Oh, I do that every time.”

I find that reassuring. He’s a very capable man. And it’s pretty much against his religion to ever pay a professional to do something. And I can’t count the number of times he’s refused to call a professional for some repair, insisting that it’s no big deal, and then somewhere in the process I will ask, “so how often have you done this before” to be told, “uh, this, precisely? Never.”

He totally runs into snags that he couldn’t have foreseen because he doesn’t have the experience, but then he figures it out and it gets done anyway.

I feel all intimidated because this is a wedding dress and they’re supposed to be polished, but already the hand-dying process has given it a hand-made character (which is what I wanted, but it’s easy to get caught in the trap of what it’s supposed to look like). And because in my first five minutes, I found a number of errors in my theoretical plans. But I’ve revised my plans and have renewed faith in them. And I need to remember that it’s not that I’ve never sewn without a pattern before - every belly dance costume I make is without a pattern. It’s just this pattern, precisely that I’ve never done before.

So I better get at that.

No matter. The silk is now dyed and laid out across some chairs in front of the fire drying. It’s goooooorgeous. Maybe pictures later? Or maybe I’ll be too busy sewing up a storm to make up for lost time.

I realized today that this theoretical wedding is only 4.5 months away. Then I panicked a little, and sternly asked myself, “what the hell were you thinking?” a little. Living in sin is going so smoothly, you know. I’m not sure why I would want to go and eff that up. Except that I do like tasteful parties. Maybe we’ll have a tasteful party and let the Justice of the Peace know that she doesn’t have to come.

Boo to commitment phobias. Boo, also, to institutions of the patriarchy. And by that I probably mean ‘boo to everything’. Ha.

Anyhow, evening of dance classes tonight, so I have to run get myself ready and pick up my children. (Boo to having less time for frenzied sewing and boo to not having time for a proper update.)

Dudes, I am seriously content. Well, for me, anyhow. Content enough that many nights, sitting around the house with Ian after the kids are in bed, I’ll be all, “Ian, guess what?! I’m happy!”

Definitely a big part of it is my relationship to the creative clutter. You know, partly it’s that we’ve moved into this house that seems more us. And even though it’s just as full of things that we intend to do but haven’t yet (and probably won’t for years, if ever) it just feels so much homier and nicer to be surrounded by the things we aren’t doing here. At Franklin, there were all these bare walls, white and reminiscent of hotel rooms. Our beige couch looked extra beige against the mushroom livingroom walls. And I always felt like, “well, if we’d only get around to putting up some crown molding, to getting some reasonable curtains, to painting these walls… then it would be a decent house.” Here, the projects aren’t that different, we’d like to repaint some of the rooms, put down hardwood upstairs, replace a lot of old hardware. But the bones of this house are just nice. you know? While we’re not getting around to home improvement, I’m loving what we have.

And I’m being a little more forgiving about my environment. I’ve let go of the idea that I will someday whip this house into shape and it will look like a magazine and then we will work hard to keep it that way and keep it clean. Instead I just put little oases of loveliness wherever I have the space and the inclination. We’ve moved an antique chest out to the livingroom to serve as a coffee-table, and placed one of my pretty trays on it so that it’s allowed to collect clutter because the clutter can be easily cleared away if we need to open the chest. I have pretty pashminas that get draped wherever they were last used - the door of the computer armoire, the couch or my papasan. I’ve tucked my birthday hyacinth inside a copper kettle and have it sitting on my kitchen counter next to a blue and white vase and some festive napkins that I also got for my birthday.

I’m in the middle of crocheting a beaded bag. And I know it will take distressingly long to finish. So when I’m not working on it, I make sure to leave it out somewhere that I can admire it when I pass by. And getting to admire it more often means I’m more likely to sit down and give it a few minutes.

Sometimes when I’ve been practicing my drumming, I deliberately don’t put my drum away so that I can admire the copper etching on it for the next day or so.

I have been dying silk veils and fringed shawls to use in belly dance. And, right now, the sun-room is littered with veils and shawls that have yet to be ironed and put away. Years ago I would look at them every time I walked by and mourn the clutter, mourn the project that I didn’t finish in one sitting and therefore clearly never would. Now I look at the jumble of burgundy and dusky mauve and ivory silks and I smile at how pretty they are. I think the entire difference is in my perception of myself. Years ago I would be saying, “you see how messy and lazy you are? One more project you never finished and probably never will and now your house is just messier.” Now I say, “look how lovely the project is, even half-finished. Look at the beautiful things that can be done in the smallest of opportunities.”

The night before my birthday, Ian was doing last minute laundry. And he put a load on right before we went to bed, saying he’d have to set his alarm for the middle of the night so he could get up and move it along so it would be dry for when I got up. He does this frequently, I told him he didn’t need to and I could find something to wear, but he figured he needed clothes in there for the kids in the morning too. I didn’t think anything further of it.

He got up around 4:00 and as he was on his way back to bed, Hannah woke up crying. So I got up with her, gave her a cuddle and a glass of water and settled her back in around 4:30. But then I never managed to get back to sleep before my alarm went off. So, prickly-eyed, I got up and stumbled my way through my morning ritual. Came downstairs and took my pills and started making lunches without turning more lights on than I had to. So when I turned around to face the dining room, I was very confused that a) the table was clean and b) there was a shadowy figure of a plant on it, which I clearly didn’t remember from the night before. I turned on the light and Ian had left me a pretty wooden tray with a hyacinth on it and a scattering of cherry-cordial-kisses. And I was like, “oh wow. I better run upstairs to kiss him goodbye and say thank you” because I only come back to the bedroom for kisses goodbye about half the time, because it seems cruel to wake him before 6:30 unnecessarily. So by the time I was halfway up the stairs I was sniffling with emotion because the whole thing was such a surprise. Seriously. I don’t even know when he made it to the store. I’ve been at work too much for him to get out to do anything, he’s always stuck at home with the kids. I suppose he might have taken them with him to shop for me. That’s a whole new level of virtue, right there.

Other than that it was a quiet, ordinary day. Except that my phone would buzz every so often to let me know that someone had left me another FaceBook birthday wish (Thanks FB  birthday wishers! I know there are a couple of you who read this. And I meant to come around to everyone’s wall and say thanks, but I was so exhausted at the end of the day from having got up at 4, that it didn’t happen.)

And the other thing that made me sniffly was my little cousin’s birthday present, which was this post.

For the record, I was vegetarian for longer than a month, thanks. She also should have mentioned that I taught her how to fake-burp. Good life skill. Also probably why she went into acting. (You’re welcome.)

But a little more seriously, do you know how hard it is to grow up in such a creative family. And especially when you’re a repressed, left-brain-dominant person who always thinks there just has to be a “right” way to do everything. Like, it’s not that I’m not creative. It’s just that I’ve always held my creativity firmly in check with perfectionism and a refusal to take risks. Also, I spent my early years getting married and having babies and then struggling to support those babies. So I didn’t do much about a creative lifestyle.

Now that I have the time (hahaha. I mean, okay well, some time) and space to be a little more creative with my life, I feel like I’m so behind my whole family. Everything I do, I feel like I’m clearly just mimicking, lagging behind the talented people in my family who have been in touch with their creative selves from way back. “Oh, my mother would have chosen those colours.” “I’m going to sew a sundress, like Meredith would do, only probably not as good.” “I’m going to settle into my house and decorate it, only with less warmth and creativity than Judith would because I don’t have the time for creativity, and with less elegance than Alison would because I don’t have the confidence to take my own decorating direction.” And don’t even get me started on writing. No matter what I’m trying to do with my life, I feel lost in the shadows of my talented family, who have seemed to be in touch with their creativity for so long. When one of them says they look up to me, I’m left marveling, a little.

Yeah, okay, whoops. Choked up now.

Anyhow, that’s all. My birthday had just little things. A hyacinth, cherry cupcakes, a home-cooked supper, an early bedtime. But also, warmth and emotion and the chance to reflect on how ridiculously my family makes me feel loved and how I love my family ridiculously much, even if they are always showing me up. GAHD.

Aw, I try not to whine too hard on the internet. But I am so, so, goddamn burnt out.

I’d tell you cute kid stories, but, you know, I haven’t really seen my kids a lot lately.

I’d tell you cogent thoughts I’ve been thinking, but I haven’t had time to think anything lately.

Oh, here’s something.

‘Kay, you know when you have an occasion in your life, about which you might have some expectations. And then that occasion comes around, something about it disappoints you. And it seems pretty minor, and there will be more of that occasion. So you brush it off and move on. You figure it’ll be better next time, and there’s lots of next times, so it’s not a big deal. But then, you know, a couple more of these occasions pass, and they just seem to disappoint more often than not. And with each time it happens, the issue becomes worse. It’s the fault of the damned optimism. Because if you weren’t so busy being optimistic that next time will make up for it, you’d have said something to people or taken steps to make sure it was going to be a good experience. At some point the optimism has faded and the disappointment has solidified into an expectation, and since it’s an expectation you finally figure you should take responsibility for nipping this trend in the bud, then that disappointment wells up inside you so that you don’t even know how you could go about making your feelings known without it being a mess of pouting. And pouting certainly won’t make you enjoy the next occasion. You can’t really disentangle how much of the disappointment is because that’s just what you expect and so it takes so very little for you to say, “Oh, well, you see? That’s how it goes” and how much of it is because with each disappointment, your hopes for a better next one get a little more inflated until they’re not really realistic.

Okay, well, that’s what my birthday has become. I’ve had some really good birthdays, because some years I have been lucky enough to be a part of a group of friends who were really good about taking care of each other. And some years, it was totally just dumb luck that everyone I wanted to see could make it out. And I’m lucky enough to have a family who cares and one really good friend who has been there for me on every birthday for as long as I’ve known her. But many years the dumb luck goes the other way and I end up having very low key birthdays and pretending that that is what I wanted - which, actually, is easier, because mostly I am very, very, depressed around my birthdays, so even if someone (for example) spends the entire day making me a triple-chocolate-mousse cake, I am moping because that is the only person out of ten who even showed up, even though a number of people RSVPed that they were coming and even though I spent the last two days doing stupid things like making party favours (because I’m ridiculous like that).

So anyhow, that’s why this is going to be the last year that I celebrate it. From now on, I only celebrate rebirthday - which takes place June 15th, and where I am allowed to make a big fuss because in addition to celebrating me, I will be also celebrating all my friends’ rebirthdays (even if they don’t know about rebirthday). It will be like mini-Christmas-in-June and it will be fabulous.

And I guess I’m kind of clinging to the thought of how great rebirthday is going to be, because I am just realizing how down I do get about this and because I’m probably going to be a serious bear until this stupid birthday is over.