I write this on the early morn of publication day, in my nightie, waiting for my turn in the shower, bleary from a Saturday that ended with a jaunt to Mississauga to fluff my brother-in-laws condo. Congratulations on your new place, Aaron! Now it’s move time with the rookie real estate agent by his side. Non-stop activities, chores, work and a to-do list that never seems to get shorter, now dominate our lives.
Meanwhile our proudest achievement is checking tasks off his to-do list in rapid succession: two bottom teeth, check; two wee chicklettes poking through swollen upper gums, check; taking supported steps forward, check; rolling towards the stairs, check; eating meat, fish, peanut butter, eggs and anything he can shove in his face (swallowing optional), check; high fives, clapping and waving, check, check and check.
Facing a daunting mountain of life’s responsibilities, I find I can’t stop thinking about my mother. She raised three children (one of whom was me! Eeek) with a loving husband who was often travelling, working or playing squash in the evenings. No cleaning lady, no childcare and a quarter the conveniences of our modern life. Granted, a car seat consisted of either a sturdy box, or an arm that swung out across your chest (sometimes face), during sudden stops—so loading the family was less of a headache. But vacations consisted of camping! I have nothing against camping, but if I was Joanne Bond and my husband suggested we all climb in the Ford coupe, hook up the fold-out trailer laden with a canoe, sailboat and inane plywood storage box (painted to match the car), I would tell him to have fun, I’ll be in Florida (as retirement in that case would seem appropriate at age 30).
So this posting is dedicated to my mother, Joanne Bond, who may or may not read her dedication, but is (finally) understood as the maternal martyr (indentured servant was my first thought…). I’m sure she complained, but we were having too much fun in the canoe to hear. Love you, Mom!