children // equivocality

parent time

When Karen’s at yoga, Aaron and I take turns cooking dinner and playing with Ryan and Ruby (read: keeping them occupied and out of trouble). Then we gingerly convince them to eat what they can (good days involve utensils), make sure they’re bathed, and put into bed with a story if they’ve been good. Everything is manageable as one but easier with two, especially when the simple act of getting rice into a child’s mouth can turn into an ordeal.

This is when I get to experience the joys of having children in manageable doses. That means not having to deal with diaper changes, and reading the same 30-word book only four times instead of 400.

The new laptops were presents from Nana and Papa at Christmas. Now they can send/receive e-mails, and blog about the awesome poop they just took.

Ryan used to be particularly excited to see his Uncle Jeff, leaving Aaron and Karen to wonder what got into him when I was around. Now that he’s a bit older, his face doesn’t carry the same glow when I arrive anymore, and he’s happier to see the marbles I brought. But Ruby is beginning that phase of enamour, and constantly clambering into my lap to involve herself in what I’m doing. Recently she started asking me to carry her (which I’m told means membership in an exclusive club consisting of her parents and me), even though she’s just learned to manage stairs by herself.

They seem to grow by inches every week, and they’ll soon be old enough to take care of themselves. I’ve learned to appreciate the little chances I have to be truly part of a family like this, especially after deciding last year against ever having kids of my own. And I don’t feel the need for children anymore cause this will always be enough.

Baby talk

One summer in my teenage years, I volunteered at a kinder camp¹, and that filled a gap in my knowledge about anyone under 10. Unfortunately, that gap only spanned children between 3 and 5, and aside from that range, I knew nothing about kids.

So interacting with children who’ve yet learned to speak I found especially awkward. I never understood how to talk to someone who didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. It was like talking to a stuffed animal, which I’m pretty sure can’t be done by any sane person without feeling creepy.

Not to mention how phony it sounds. Why do people raise their voices, as if a child trusts them more if they sound like them²? They don’t normally talk like that.

Then I realized that I do kitty talk, with the boospy, and the schmoopsy, and the pokey of the belly. I talk to my cat all the time, a habit I’ve probably picked up from living by myself for the last three years, combined with the fact that I’m an extreme introvert and stay in my house for the majority of my time.

Which is strange because Dolly doesn’t understand anything I’m saying (though I’m sure cats are intelligent enough to evolve to talk if they believed anything a human had to say could be important). And this is after I wrote an entry seven years ago, specifically about how awkward I found it to talking to cats.

Maybe I’m comfortable enough with cats now to hold a conversation with one. Or maybe I’m going crazy.

I’m getting more comfortable with kids too. Not just talking to them, but the idea of having them myself, maybe because my friends are getting married and giving birth and I’m spending more time with a few adorable boys and girls. I can talk to them even though they only respond in monosyllables.

Jodie Foster once described having children as the most creative thing she’s ever done, and I completely understand that now. I can’t think of anything more creative than nurturing growth, curiosity, imagination, and ideas in another human being. One day, I’d like to experience it for myself.

Cause I had nothing better to do. Seriously. [↩]
Though it worked for Owen Meany. [↩]

sunshine on road trips

The three of us, plus boy.

Like old times — camping, weekends at the farm, studying in the comp sci lounge — with a twist.

One of us is expecting, one of us just bought a house, and one of us has been thinking about kids of his own some day.

One of Trolley’s shots.

Ryan's First Birthday

A video I shot as a Christmas present for Aaron and Karen. This was the first day I tried my “poor man’s steadycam”, and aside from a few shaky shots from fiddling around while trying to capture everything, the panning works very well.

I was thinking about saving the video for when Ryan gets married, but figured I may be dead before that happens, so I decided to give it to them now. There are so many notes in the production of the video that I feel like I need a 10-minute directors commentary to cover all the details. Alas, I’ll leave the insight up to the viewer.

How can so many people love one little boy? It seems almost impossible.

Chip Off The Old Block

I don’t know what’s worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream
I don’t know why I instigate
And say what I don’t mean
I don’t know how I got this way
I’ll never be alright
So I’m breaking the habit
I’m breaking the habit tonight

—Linkin Park, Breaking The Habit

Studies have shown that kids with divorced parents are much more likely to end up being divorced themselves. As role models, we take the way their parents treat each other and use this as a model for our own relationships. And eventually, our kids end up treating their kids the same way because that’s all they know¹.

I used to take my girlfriends for granted. It could have been a way for me to distance myself to prevent getting hurt (as therapy has shown), or it may have just been what I thought relationships were like.

I can recall my parents doing the same thing to each other. They didn’t marry out of love, they married because it was the thing to do when you reached a certain age. Eventually, they merely inhabited the same house, not even sleeping in the same bed or room.

It’s a cycle, a trap. But that’s not an excuse for me.

I refuse to be like them. I refuse to end up like they did. I’m going to do my best to change that about myself.

And I will break the cycle.

At least, that’s the excuse my mom uses. [↩]

Canada Day '09

(This is how behind I am on posting my pictures.)

Canada Day is always a way for us to catch up with each other once a year (for those from out of town), to see how everyone is doing over some barbecue and baked goods. There are always new faces, familiar faces, and this time, it was a little different, with three babies that weren’t there last year. My friends are starting to have kids.

Sometimes it’s strange to see Aaron with a baby. He’s what we consider an adult now, a grown-up, a father. Yet he’s still the same Aaron (which is a good thing), with the same stylish clothes, the same interests, the same ebullient attitude, except he’s holding a piece of himself.

AND DID YOU SEE THE LITTLE PECK AT THE END? AAHHHHHHH SO CUTE¹.

Video taken with my iPhone, with no colour correction or filters. Not bad for a camera phone. [↩]

Defining Myself Through Others, Revisited

A deeper look at an old topic

Some time when I was a child, I asked my mother if she loved her nails more than she loved me. She had this kit full of nail tools — clippers, files made of metal and emery, toe separators, fake nails separated in little boxes, even a small hand-held, battery-operated dremel with different attachments used to grind, sand, and polish — that she would carry with her around the house. When I asked her this question, she picked me up in her arms, and vehemently denied it. I didn’t believe her though, not in my heart. She had always paid more attention to her nails than to me.

My dad was no better. One time I googled his name to find his work number, and came across an audio/visual site where he had written a small paragraph as a review on a projector he had. I was crushed. It was more effort than he had ever put into my life, sitting in a couple of short sentences in front of me. It would have been okay if he had been so uninterested in everything, but he wasn’t. He loved his car, he loved his home theatre, he loved his karaoke, but me he had no interest in.

So, before I had become a teenager, I started to look for some kind of approval from other people. At that point, it was Andrew and Alex. They were my best friends in grade 3 and 4, but I changed schools in grade 5. Even after this, I tried to hang out with them but they seemed to be more interested in school, and we lost touch.

Pretty soon, I realized that I wasn’t anyone’s “best friend”. I cried and I cried and I cried. I felt like I needed this to define myself. I needed be a priority to someone because I certainly wasn’t a priority to my parents. Without being someone’s best friend, I was worthless.

As an adult, you may feel insecure about certain aspects of your life. You lack self-confidence in areas where you feel vulnerable — intimate relationships, social situations, or work. Within your vulnerable areas, you feel inferior to other people. You are hypersensitive to criticism or rejection.

I still feel this way now. The problem is that the need isn’t being met. Everyone puts other people first, and the one foundation I believed I had in my life has crumbled. I’m never important enough.

Two things keep me from killing myself.

The thought that one day, I may mean something to someone. Or the thought that one day, I’ll be able to stop defining myself through others, and simply be content with who I am.

Either way, something’s gotta give.