s a r a h c a s m

I’ve always had a bittersweet relationship with food.  Heavy on the bitter, which is really too bad because I love sweet.  Generally, I am not one to savour food or enjoy the process of eating.  Eating is a means to an end.  If I could get everything I needed in a little pill, I would.

I am particular about what I will eat, especially when it comes to meat.  Anyone who has had the misfortune of accompanying me to a restaurant I’ve never been to can attest to that.  I am not adventurous and if there is not something I’ve eaten before, I struggle and usually just order a salad.

My eating habits have been unhealthy throughout my adolescent and adult life.  Eating has been a chore.  After a meal, I would feel relieved because I knew I had a few hours before I had to worry about choking something down again.  At one point in my life, I bought things close to the expiry date and let them go bad so I didn’t have to eat them.  I would let produce rot in my fridge so I could throw it away.  I relied on baby food, meal supplements, and crackers to get me through the day.

That all changed when I got pregnant.  I was referred to a dietitian who monitored what I ate to make sure I was feeding Q.  I took it seriously and ate enough for both of us.  I even made up for lost time, gaining 55 pounds.  Since then, I’ve been good about feeding myself.  I ate well because I was nursing and then it became habit when Q started eating solids.  I kept regular eating patterns, but I didn’t enjoy it; it was still a chore.

A few months ago I decided to take more control over what I was eating and what I was feeding my family.  I researched local farms and markets in search of fresh meat and produce.  They were easy to find once I opened my eyes to them.

The other day I finally went to the farmers’ market in my town.  Q and I walked from one stall to another picking up cucumbers, peppers, peaches, lettuce, and grass-fed beef.  He chatted with the vendors who gave him free cherries and convinced me to buy him a sugar cookie on a stick.

Last night as I scrubbed the dirt off my fresh potatoes, I felt connected to my food for the first time.  I imagined it in the ground, growing imperfectly.  As I cut those potatoes, I thought of the person who had tended them, anticipating their growth.  Suddenly, I appreciated food in a way that I never had before, recognizing its worth and inherent value.  I actually enjoyed the process of preparing a meal for my family.

I am not sure if I will ever surrender myself to the pleasure of food, but at least I can now understand why people do.  The prospect of welcoming food into my life and my routine is exciting. Today is market day and I can’t wait!

I am a sneaker kind of girl, but I have my fair share of high heels. Recently, they have been getting more use from Q than from me. He digs them out of the closet, puts them on and taps around the house in them. He has them mastered. It is quite impressive, actually. I don’t know why he likes my heels – maybe it’s the height, or the sound, or the fact that they are mine. I don’t know and I don’t ask him; it doesn’t matter.

Six weeks ago, while Q was tapping around the house, I tweeted this:

The one response I got was “Oh, I’m sure his high school mates will just love that!” I was put off for a number of reasons, but it stuck with me and got me thinking.

Between then and now, I have read this post by Loukia at Loulou’s Views, this post by Carrie Anne at Another Day, Another Thought or Two, this post by Jana at An Attitude Adjustment, and this post by Jen at Everything Mom. I decided that it is time for me to weigh in and share my perspective more cohesively than I can in a blog comment or in 140 characters on Twitter.

My son plays with dolls. He wears pink shirts. One of his favourite things to do is push his baby around in a doll stroller or rock him in mini swing. He wears my heels. And, the other day he picked out pink shoes at the store (which I did not buy because there were none in his size, but his request made me pause).

I consider myself a conscious parent. I am mindful of the choices and decisions I make on Q’s behalf. I constantly evaluate and manage my expectations of him and of myself. I deliberately check my ego and make a concerted effort to not engage in power struggles for the sake of maintaining or asserting power over him. I do my best to acknowledge his individuality and honour his agency.

It is work. It is constant. But I believe that it is important.

When it comes to gender identity, I have no expectations of Q. No gender identity is better than another. For all I know, he will identify as a trans woman. Fine with me. Whoever he is, he is. What matters to me is that he feel free to express that identity without fear of rejection and judgment from me and Mr. T. If there is anywhere he needs to feel free to express himself, it’s in his home.

That said, society will judge him. He will be judged regardless, but especially harshly if he defies societal expectations and norms. In this world, binary gender designations are met with little question. Boy or girl. Man or woman. The reality, though, is that it is not that simple. Gender identity is complex and runs deeper than gendered toys and clothes. Intersex and transgender [pdf] identities exist and are more common than many are willing to accept.

In all honestly, I was relieved when there were no pink shoes in Q’s size because I probably would have bought them for him and I knew that he and I would be judged.

Am I willing to appease people I don’t know or don’t like at the expense of my son’s free will and desire to express himself? As Dr. Seuss said: those who mind don’t matter and those that matter don’t mind. However, at what point do I intervene in an effort to protect him? And, will I really be protecting him in the long run?

Is there a point at which we defer and encourage our children to conform? My heart says no, but I am torn. I want Q to feel free to express his true self, but I don’t want him to suffer at the hands of those high school mates.

What do you think?
How do you foster a sense of identity in your children?
Do you allow your children to express themselves freely through their clothing and toys?
Are we protecting our children by encouraging them to conform to gender stereotypes and social expectations?

For the record, I don’t believe that toys and clothing determine sexual orientation, nor do I have any preference for Q’s sexual orientation.

Phone calls, texts, Facebook and Skype
Feeling like I’m always on call
The expectation of an immediate response
The problem of always being connected

We humans have come so far
From telegraph, pony express, snail mail
Is it too much? Binding us.
The problem of always being connected

Can’t leave the house without cell
Same message on cell and home
Why didn’t you answer your phone?
The problem of always being connected.

No moments I can’t be reached
Feeling attached, connected, bound, on call
Should leave my cell at home
The problem of always being connected

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This is a Six Word Friday post. The topic this week is feeling.

After reading Hand Wash Cold by Karen Maezen Miller, quite a few passages stuck with me. I have written about one of them before in Even monkeys can raise their young! In that post, I promised that I would dedicate more than one post to the book – posts by topic instead of one post about the book as a whole. This is the second installment.

The Kitchen: To Study Oneself Is to Forget Oneself, without a doubt, was the section of the book that inspired me the most. It gave me much needed perspective of my life and how I assign worth.

I literally stopped reading and just sat thinking for a long time after I came across this in chapter 14:

Each day I do the dirty work, the effort that attracts no notice but my own, and in this very place I find ordinary ingredients for genuine fulfillment.

It starts the moment my eyes open, as I rise with the sun to sort and stack the dishes, appreciating this simple task as the essential start to a healthy day. Chopping the blemished fruit for breakfast, savouring the taste of my own usefulness. Emptying full hampers without resentment or commentary.

I needed to find my way to that perspective. Domestic tasks have always been chores to me. I have always avoided doing dishes, doing laundry, vacuuming, dusting… cooking! I have dreaded doing all those things and haven’t found joy or fulfillment in any of them. Although I valued having a healthy home for myself and my family, I did not assign worth to the process. Quite the opposite. I resented it.

I have always been a fiercely independent woman. To a fault. I think a lot of women of my generation make that claim. We feel the need to assert our independence and prove our worth in this world. We have been taught that we don’t need someone else, especially a man, to take care of us. With that, I think that we have been conditioned to resent being expected to take care of a partner.

I had been clinging to my resentment believing that it empowered me – believing that it protected me from falling into antiquated gender roles and surrendering to social expectations. It did none of those things. The truth is that it owned me. It rendered me powerless and governed not only the state of my house, but the dynamics of my household. It was powerful.

By releasing my resentment, I allow myself the freedom to find pleasure in nourishing my family and providing a healthy environment for us. With the resentment gone, I can assign worth to the process and I can acknowledge the value and the power of my self.

I can now focus on savoring the taste of my usefulness and enjoying doing for those in my family – not only for their sakes, but for mine.

June 12 is Loving Day in the United States.  It celebrates the anniversary of the day that the US Supreme Court ruled that banning interracial* marriage was unconstitutional.  This year marked the 43rd anniversary.  That means that less than a decade before I was born, marriages were illegal between black people and white people in the US.

Until 2 days ago, I had no idea that this day existed or that Mildred and Richard Loving fought for their love and life together.  I learned about Loving Day on Twitter and it doesn’t really surprise me that I had been unaware of it.  One obvious reason is that I am Canadian and US laws and Supreme Court rulings don’t apply.

After a quick internet scan, I was unable to find any information about similar laws that existed in Canada.  That is not to say they didn’t exist, though.  The Indian Act, for example, laid out specific implications for First Nations people (specifically women) who married anyone without status.

Part 2/3 Part 3/3

Even as a Canadian, I deeply appreciate what this couple went through, fought for, and sacrificed for their right to be together.  Couples like them have paved the way for my family – for my relationship with Mr. T.

I am very glad to have learned of this story and to share it with you.

*I am not a fan of this word for a number of reasons but am using it for lack of a suitable alternative

This post was inspired by this post by Rebecca at Drama for Mama.  I learned a lot about Rebecca and I hope to give you a little insight into who I am.  Here are little snippets of me.

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A cool breeze on a summer’s night.  Worn-in sneakers.  A faded hoodie.  Rolling waves.  Chunky jewellery.  Silver.  Weeds and wildflowers.  Photos.  Clean lines.  A good book.  Lattes.  Countryside drives.  Good beats.  Dance battles.  Swings.  Contrast.  Thunder and heavy rain.  Bright colours.  Denim.  Lyrics.  City vibes.  Stick-shifts.  Afternoon naps.  Moonlight.

This is me.

What words describe you?

Let me tell you a little something about myself.

I suffer from ichthyophobia.

You guessed it… a fear of fish (if you really did guess that, wow!)

So, yes; I am afraid of fish.  Big fish.  Little fish (yes, minnows).  Good fish.  Bad fish.

All fish.

Feel free to laugh.  Really.  It’s pretty irrational.  It’s real, though.  It evokes a visceral reaction.  To be honest, my heart races just thinking about them.

In 1990, my family took a trip to Australia (awesome!), specifically the east coast.  While we were there, we visited the Great Barrier Reef.  I was 13.  Fear of fish firmly established.  We got on a boat and went out to a pontoon in the middle of the ocean, which was really cool ’cause I loooove boats.  Part of the deal was that we “got” to go snorkeling over the reef and see all the colourful fish.  Wonderful.  I was ecstatic (not in the least).

I can’t even swim in a lake if a see a minnow.  I am not exaggerating.  So, here I was poised to face my fear. At 13.  My parents urged me, saying that if I didn’t snorkel at the reef, I might regret it.  Fair enough.  If you’re gonna face the fish, where better than the Great Barrier Reef?  Right?  Wrong.

In order to get in the water, we had to step in little cage-like things that were immersed in the water.  Little cages.  Perfect for catching fish.  Awesome.  I waited until there was not a single fish in the cage-thing as the guide-dude grew increasingly impatient.  I am sure he was wondering what I planned on doing in the open water.  So was I.

My dad swam with me the short distance to the reef. I put my face in and FREAKED out! Not going to happen. Not on his life. Not on mine.  No way.  Not wanting to ruin his opportunity (I was so giving, even then), I offered to wait on a raft where people sat to take breaks from swimming.

It was fine – I was out of the water and soaking in the sun in the middle of the vastness of ocean.  Until.  Until, three huge men (read: average-size teenagers) speaking a language I didn’t understand jumped on the raft, upturned it, and CATAPULTED me into the water.  CATAPULTED.  As expected, I freaked right out.  They tried to help me. I didn’t understand them.  They tried to put me back on the raft-thing, but it was upside-down and full of barnacles and slime.  Everything intensified and I was a lost cause, floundering in the sea (luckily, I can hold my own in water, so that wasn’t an issue).

My dad rescued me pretty quickly and we swam back to the pontoon.  He swam over the reef.  I swam over the endless abyss of nothingness that is the deep sea.  Yes.  I was less afraid of that than fish.

I dried off, got dressed and watched the rest from the safety of the underwater observation window.

So, the moral of this story is… ichthyophobia, though irrational, is real.  Fish in the grocery store.  Fish in tanks.  Dead fish.  Live fish.  Any fish.  Fear of fish.

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This post is dedicated to the fish that Mr. T convinced me would be nice for Q to have.  Almost a year later, they have all passed.  I hope they find peace in their rest because I sure do.

What is real? What is illusion?

The other day, I was having a conversation with friend about dreams.  My dreams are usually very vivid and I mentioned that my dreams from the previous night had felt so real that all day I kept confusing what was real with what I had dreamed.

My friend said that it is all a dream and I countered that maybe, it’s all real…

I’m not sure what the answer is and, honestly, I don’t need to know.  It does makes me wonder, though.  What really exists and how do we know if/when something does?  Does anything really exist?

I am of the mind that everything is an illusion.  That what we perceive is of our own creation.  That our brains register what fits within the realm of possibility as defined by our beliefs and filter everything else out.

In his book, Why We Believe What We Believe: Uncovering out Biological Need for Meaning, Spirituality, and Truth, Dr. Andrew Newburg writes:

Although we have neural receptors for various colours, including those that respond to “blackness” and “whiteness,” there is no neural receptor that distinguishes any gradation of gray. No one knows for sure where the experience of gray occurs, but one theory suggests that it is a concept fabricated in another part of the brain when both the blackness and the whiteness receptors are turned off. Gray, like many other colors we can imagine, is a belief construction within the brain – a form of understanding, a thought.

What does that mean?

Why do we see grey?  The above passage suggests that we see it because we believe it is there.  I was told what grey was and I believed it to be true.  Now when I see it, I identify it as such. Grey.

Grey exists because we believe it exists. Really?

This makes sense to me on some level; I don’t believe in absolutes, which means anything is possible.  However, if grey only exists because we believe it exists, then what else only exists in our thoughts?

I think about this kind of stuff all the time.  If it wasn’t so fascinating, it would be exhausting.  I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour of my thought process (and that you are now as confused and awe-struck as I am).

Does anyone else think of this kind of stuff?
So, who has answers?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

For the past 24 hours, I’ve been on a mission.  I decided that I would flash a smile at every person I made eye contact with.  Everyone.  Wherever I went.

I learned a few things:

1. It isn’t easy
2. A lot of people don’t make eye contact
3. People are not used to having strangers smile at them for no apparent reason

I am not going to lie; it was awkward.  Some people did a double-take before smiling back – and some people didn’t smile back at all (though, they were few).

Mostly, people smiled back at me and seemed to genuinely appreciate that I had acknowledged them.  I exchanged a few hellos and how are yous and it felt really good to connect with complete strangers whom I will likely never see again (or remember).

It was an amazing experiment.  It felt good to smile for 24 hours.  It felt good to make other people smile.  It felt good to connect.  I recommend it.  I will probably do it again tomorrow… and the next day.  Maybe not everyone, but everyday!

Smile!

At this very moment, I am sitting beside an open window while the rain pelts down.  I take in the smell the rain-soaked concrete and watch the patterns the drops leave on the glass, which is angled perfectly to catch them.

Lovely.

Life.  Falling from the sky.  The grass will be greener and the birds better fed.