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Look At The Bridge!

March 27, 2011 By

We had a nice George-vs-Autism moment this afternoon while we were driving down the highway. The four of us were on our way to the tuxedo place to get Gerard’s measurements taken.

George was unusually calm: usually when we are out in the car, he insists on McDonalds, Tim Hortons, Wendy’s, or whatever fast food place happens to be closest to where we are. One thing that he definitely has no issues with is his memory – he only has to pass through a neighbourhood once for the locations of stores and restaurants to be indelibly stamped in his mind. As a result, our drives are accompanied by a running commentary. “I want McDonalds chicken burger, please, yes. I want Tim Hortons cheese bagel, please, yes. I want Baby Burger, please yes.” As we drive past a place, taking it out of the running, he starts targeting whatever place will come next.

Today, though, he was silent but alert. He was quietly observing the world as we whizzed by it, and as we approached a bridge going over the highway, he suddenly and animatedly said, “Look at the bridge! Look at the bridge!”

Parents of neurotypicals who have never been exposed to autism are probably reading this and saying, “Yeah? And?”

This is a big huge holy-crap-that’s-phenomenal deal. A completely spontaneous utterance, appropriate to the situation, made for the purposes of social communication.

It was a beautiful moment indeed.

Funny, the things that have power to bring tears to my eyes.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ell-r-brown/3815822976)

Filed Under: autism, life Tagged With: , , , ,
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Arrivals

March 26, 2011 By

Kibbutz Yakum, Israel. In my tree.

This post is a continuation of the story of my time in Israel in the early 1990’s…

Moments after I had finally fallen into a fitful, uncomfortable sleep, I was jolted awake by the sound of a man speaking in a language I did not understand. By the time my exhausted mind had registered where I was, the Hebrew had morphed into accented English: We’re on final approach to Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv. Return to your seats, fasten your seatbelts, etc. etc.

This was it. The beginning of what would probably not be an entirely new life, but it would at least be a temporary escape from my regular life. I was more than a little anxious. Here I was, a shy, socially awkward person with recent trauma under my belt, in a strange new land with strange new people. What was I thinking? I didn’t know how to interact with other people at the best of times. I had a sudden fear that I would be way out of my depth here. I wanted to turn around and run back onto the plane I had just left.

There were about fifteen of us going into the Kibbutz program. We made a somewhat motley group, standing on the sidewalk outside the airport with our luggage, waiting for our transportation. Our huddle was thrown into disconcerted disarray when a pair of Israeli men who were walking down the sidewalk didn’t make efforts to circumvent our little group, instead marching straight through the middle of us, talking animatedly to each other and offering us loud, lively, incomprehensible greetings. Somehow their exuberant friendliness negated any sense of rudeness or intrusion. Our coordinator explained to us that this is just the way many Israeli people are.

After what seemed like an interminable wait in the cold and the rain, six of us were bundled into a minivan along with our luggage. Our coordinator said goodbye and wished us luck, and then the van door slammed shut and we were flying down the road. About an hour later we arrived at the place that would be home for the next several months: Kibbutz Yakum, near the coastal town of Netanya, about an hour’s drive north of Tel Aviv.

Once we had arrived at Yakum, we were divided into pairs and given rooms in the volunteer village. Lesley, a woman who ate scary quantities of food and yet remained impossibly skinny, was paired with Antoinette, whose claim to fame was that she was a distant relative of former South African president F. W. De Klerk. My roommate was tall Loren, with whom I struck up an immediate and lasting friendship. The only two men in our group were placed together: Alex, a gentle, kind-hearted soul with obvious developmental delays, and Wayne, who had sat beside me on the plane.

Once we had dumped our luggage in our rooms, one of the other volunteers, a Swiss man by the name of Ollie, fetched us and took us to the dining hall. He led us to a table occupied by an ancient woman called Nurit, who turned out to be the volunteer coordinator. It was her job to schedule and post the volunteers’ working rosters. Most of the jobs were rotated weekly, but if a volunteer liked a particular job, he or she could request to be permanently assigned to it.

By the time Nurit had told us how everything worked and given us a tour of the place, it was dinnertime. At that point we were so exhausted that we barely registered anything about the food or the people who were sharing the table with us. We had all planned to have dinner and then go straight to bed for some much-needed sleep, but our fellow volunteers had other ideas. They took us to the clubhouse, where they had set up a welcome party in our honour.

It would have been rude to refuse. Despite the fact that we started the party feeling ill from exhaustion, we wound up having a fantastic time. We stayed up late, drinking and talking and laughing with our new friends until the small hours of the morning.

Thus began our new life as Kibbutz Yakum volunteers.

Filed Under: Israel, Travel Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Dumb-Mockracy In Action

March 25, 2011 By

I got my first exposure to Canadian politics two days after I arrived here, when I saw a news report about an attack on the then Prime Minister, Jean Chretien. A man claiming to represent victimized people in Canadian society broke security ranks and hit Chretien in the face – with a pie. I wasn’t too clear on what message this action was supposed to convey. Did the pie represent something? Was this an example of the Canadian reputation for politeness (“Sorry, Mr. Prime Minister, but I really don’t agree with the way you are running the country, but I’m way too nice to actually hurt you, so here’s a pie instead.”)

Having grown up in South Africa during the last days and the ultimate fall of Apartheid, and having been present at such auspicious occasions as the release of Nelson Mandela and South Africa’s first democratic election, I was used to political volatility. But still, I found the whole pie thing distinctly… odd.

Since living here, I have always found Canadian politics to be somewhat tame and boring. I do not mean that in a negative way. Tame and boring is good. It means that you are dealing with issues like employment, the economy, healthcare – the kind of stuff that governments should worry about on a day-to-day basis. You are not having to spend all of your time thinking about international sanctions that are completely choking your country, a crime rate so high that a murder barely gets a mention in the middle pages of a community newspaper, a police force that is so badly paid that officers resort to taking financial bribes just to make ends meet (not that I’m justifying bribery and corruption, but c’mon, if you’re expecting someone to risk their life, at least pay them a living wage), and many other crisis points that governments should only have to think about once in a blue moon.

By the time I had been here for three years or so, I had developed a theory. It goes like this:
Theory: Politicians have to argue, even if they don’t have anything to argue about. 
Corollary: A great way to really add to the excitement is by bringing down the government and holding a federal election.

After Jean Chretien decided to call it quits ( can’t blame him – the dude was getting a bit long in the tooth, chronologically speaking), he passed the reins to Paul Martin. When election time rolled around the following year, Paul Martin held onto his post but only won a minority government. This meant that at any time, the opposition parties could band together and pass a motion of no-confidence, triggering an election. This is exactly what happened, which is how we wound up with Stephen Harper, the current Head Honcho.

Stephen Harper won a minority government as well. Two years later the opposition parties brought down his government, but he kept his Prime Minister seat in the resulting election (another minority government).

Two years after that, the opposition parties brought down his government again, but he kept his Prime Minister seat in the resulting election (and another minority government).

Now, about three years later, Stephen Harper’s government is on the verge of falling yet again. On this very afternoon, the opposition parties are almost certainly going to defeat the government on the basis of the federal budget, and an election will be held in the Spring.

The only difference (from my perspective anyway) between this occasion and the previous ones is that this time, I will get to vote and thereby earn the right to complain. I have a long-held belief that people do not have any place complaining about a government if they were not bothered to go out and put an “X” on a piece of cardboard. This time, however, I will be eligible to vote.

Which of course means that I will have to decide who to vote for.

For the benefit of those living outside of Canada, I should explain that Canadians do not actually vote directly for the Prime Minister. They vote for a local Member of Parliament (MP), who is usually affiliated with one of the major political parties. The head of the party that winds up with the most MP’s gets to be the Prime Minister.

In an ideal world, this would work fine. In an ideal world, you just know that the MP’s of a political party are united in what they stand for.

In the real world, however, this system of voting can pose quite a dilemma.

Here’s the scenario: You really, really like the guy who’s running locally for your preferred political party. You feel that he has a keen grasp of the issues that are important, and you believe that he will represent your best interests at federal level. However, you cannot stand the head of that political party. You would rather set your face on fire than have him as Prime Minister. You don’t trust him and you believe that the only thing he cares about is his own personal agenda.

On the other hand, the MP candidate for the other political party, the party you would not normally support, is not someone you would typically vote for. But the head of that political party would, you believe, make a better Prime Minister than his opponent. He may not represent all of your beliefs, and he may not have the same priorities you might like, but you think that he does at least have some integrity. You think that he has Canadian interests at heart, whereas the other guy absolutely doesn’t.

So how do you cast your ballot? Do you vote for the local guy you like, knowing that this would also represent a vote for someone you cannot stand? Or do you vote for the other guy in support of your preferred Prime Ministerial candidate, knowing that you are also voting for an MP who does not represent your priorities and beliefs?

Update: breaking news is that the Canadian government has indeed been defeated on a no-confidence motion. A federal election will be held in May.
Disclaimer: the hypothetical scenarios described above are not a statement of actual circumstances, nor are they a reflection of my political leanings. They are hypothetical questions only.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kahtava/241834777)

Filed Under: Politics Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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Do Cats Go To Dog Heaven?

March 24, 2011 By

My first-ever dog, who had the somewhat regal name of Judge, was what we refer to in South Africa as a “pavement special”. He was a mixed-breed, and I have no idea what his lineage was. His mother, Kentucky, was a mixed bag herself, and we don’t even know who the father was. This doesn’t speak volumes for Kentucky’s moral values, but I guess this is less of a problem when you’re a dog.

Judge was about the height of a lab retriever but had the relative proportions of a bulldog. His facial features resembled those of Clifford The Big Red Dog, except that Judge was a couple of shades lighter than chocolate brown. He had enormous feet that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a St. Bernard. It was as if God, when He was done creating dogs, assembled all of the leftover dog bits and used them to make Judge.

I was young when we got Judge. So young that I have no memory of him coming into our family. To me, he was always there. According to my parents, however, he and I instantly took a shine to each other and we became inseparable. He was a big dog, especially from my toddler perspective, but he was unfailingly gentle. Although my parents were always vigilant, they never had to worry about whether I was safe with Judge.

My relationship with Judge had to be temporarily put on hold when I six. My Dad’s employers sent him on a three-year secondment to the United States, and we all went with him. We were able to bring our two fox terriers with us, along with our two cats, but Judge and Kentucky had to stay home as long-term residents of a local kennel. It seemed patently unfair to me that I had to leave my dog behind while my brother got to bring his dog, a fox terrier named Bianca, who was affectionately referred to as the Bionic Watermelon. I took some solace from the fact that my Siamese cat, Megan, accompanied us.

Three years later, we returned to South Africa. Me and my brother, our parents, the two dogs, one of the original cats, a new cat named Sarah who had been acquired to help me get over the loss of Megan during our stay, and a stray ginger cat named Ginger Peasley who had adopted us (Ginger Peasley was mean to everybody except my Dad, upon whom he lavished unending affection).

On our return to South Africa, we went to the kennels to claim Judge and Kentucky. I don’t remember much about the reunion, but I do recall that in very short order, Judge and I were best of friends again. My fears that he had forgotten me during our three-year separation were totally unfounded, and Judge and I frolicked happily together for several more years.

One day, shortly after the next-door neighbour’s dog had been run over and killed by the milkman (deliberately, we’re sure of it), Judge got sick. He was fine when he woke up in the morning, but by mid-afternoon he was lying helplessly on his side, breathing shallowly and too weak to even lift his head. By dinnertime, my beloved dog was dead.

We don’t know for sure what happened. We suspect the milkman, who by all appearances, had a toxic hatred for dogs. There was no way to prove anything, of course, but we did stop having our milk delivered after that.

Over the years, we have said goodbye to many dogs and cats. A few have died of old age; most have been euthanazed due to illness. My cat Sarah, who we brought back with us from America, lived to a ripe old age before her hips gave in. Mean old Ginger Peasley had heart trouble, although he did attain a good age. Bianca the Bionic Watermelon developed kidney problems.Kentucky, Judge’s mother, outlived all of the animals of her generation. She lived to a very respectable age and then simply didn’t wake up one morning.

Every time one of these four-legged friends has died, many tears have been shed. Today, one more was added to their number as my Mom made the heartbreaking decision to have her old dog Bella put to sleep. Bella lived a good life, but her body was failing bit by bit and it was clear that her time was up. It is a sad day for my Mom, whose dogs and cats are her companions.

I’d be willing to bet, though, that Bella and Judge and all the rest of them are having a hoot in Dog Heaven. It must be complete chaos there.

My only question is this: Do cats go to Dog Heaven?

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/beeldenzeggenmeer/297619009)

Filed Under: Animal Loss, Animals, Cats, Dogs Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Open Letter To A Fellow Passenger On The Toronto Transit Commission

March 23, 2011 By

Dear fellow T.T.C. passenger,

This morning I had the commute from hell, along with many other T.T.C. passengers. My bus ride to the subway station, which usually takes twenty minutes on a bad day, took an hour and a half. I got to work 45 minutes late, and from the sounds of your constant loud complaining that everyone on the bus had to listen to for an hour, you were late too.

Yes, I know it is frustrating. Yes, I know that the T.T.C. has its share of problems, like aging signal equipment and less than ideal public announcement systems. But it seems unfair to blame the bus driver for a traffic accident that happened while he was way over on the other end of the city picking you up so he could listen to your insults. We were ALL uncomfortable. We were ALL late, and we were ALL frustrated. But you know, sometimes crap just happens and we have to live with it.

The bus driver was just doing his job, and he was doing it well. He remained cheerful and polite despite the fact that you referred to him as an asshole who was making you late. He was trying to keep all of us informed as to what was going on, but he cannot pass on information that he doesn’t have. Give the poor guy a break. Imagine how frustrated he must have felt, knowing that he would be letting us off at the subway station and then driving back through the traffic mess.

I had the misfortune to end up in the same section of the subway train as you. This time I had to listen to you bitch and moan about the fact that the train was so crowded. Just further evidence, in your eyes, of the abhorrent state of the T.T.C. You got a decent seat, so what were you complaining about? Other people had to stand, having just stood for well over an hour in the bus. I didn’t hear them throwing their toys out of the cot.

While we’re on the subject of your seat, I feel obligated to point out that the elderly gentleman you gave dirty looks to had more right than your bag to sit in the seat beside you. Other people put their bags on the floor in front of them. What’s wrong with you doing the same? It’s not like your bag is better than anyone else’s.

Thank God you got off the train two stops before I did. Dealing with you while I was transferring from one crowded subway line to the other might have been a bit much.

I found you, fellow T.T.C. passenger, to be rude, insulting, and selfish. But because I am a forgiving type who gives people the benefit of the doubt (or maybe I’m just a pushover), I am open to the possibility that you are generally a nice person who is going through a really bad time.

And I wish you a lovely day.

Yours faithfully,
The woman you pushed past so roughly that she spilled coffee all over her coat

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/stevenharris/3986106972)

Filed Under: Public Transit, Toronto Transit Commission Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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It’s My Blog And I’ll Cry If I Want To

March 22, 2011 By

Yesterday I received an email that was very upsetting. It was not upsetting in an earth-shattering kind of way, but it was one of those messages that creates an uncomfortable feeling. The email was fraught with emotion and drama that I found unwarranted for the circumstances. The tone was angry and the message was negative.

I simmered. After I had simmered for a while, I responded to the email. I would describe the tone of my response as “controlled anger”. I felt that I needed to let my correspondent know that I was angry and why, but I did not want to be insulting or rude. Having re-read both the original email and my reply, I believe that my response was reasonable.

Later in the day, a  mutual friend told me that the email had been sent to me in response to a remark I had made in yesterday’s blog post.

I confess that I was, and still am, mystified. I did not say anything derogatory or inflammatory, I did not say anything that this person did not already know, and I did not even refer to this person, either by name or by reference. I made a passing reference to something the individual had quoted me on for my wedding. I did not say anything bad about the quote. I did not even mention the quote.

My comment was, at worst, an oblique reference that drew one hell of a knee-jerk reaction. I am absolutely clear that there was nothing insulting in there. And again, I did not say anything that the person was not already aware of.

I was bothered by all of this, but to be fair, I was bothered by a number of things yesterday. This was just one stressor of many. I mentioned the incident to a friend last night during a Skype chat, and she suggested that maybe I should be careful about the wedding-related stuff I post in my blog, just in case someone involved in the wedding planning reads it and gets offended.

I value the opinions of my friends, but I have to respectfully disagree with that one. For a start, I am always aware of what I am posting. I try my utmost to never post anything that could be construed as offensive, malicious, derogatory or discriminatory. I’m just not that kind of person. I am, however, human, and I do remember one occasion on which I posted something that offended someone. I could see why the person might get offended, even though that was not my intent, and I apologized. The following day I posted a clarification and an apology. Both were accepted. No harm done.

This isn’t the same, though. I do not feel that any apology is in order. I did not say anything bad about any individual, group of individuals, profession, race, religion, anything. I made a passing reference while I was venting about the stress of wedding planning.

I feel completely OK about the fact that I was venting. I am using my God-given right, as a bride who is less than six weeks away from her wedding, to be stressed.

If I want to vent here on my blog, I will. I am not going to start walking on egg-shells on the off-chance that someone might blow a fuse at a general reference that is not insulting and does not even refer to them.

If, by chance, I do say something that offends you, please let me know nicely. If I feel that I have wronged someone, even without meaning to, I am completely fine with making a public apology. I’m a big girl. I can take responsibility for the things I say.

All I ask is that you be nice.

Filed Under: Conflict, Email, Wedding Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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It’s My Blog And I’ll Cry If I Want To

March 22, 2011 By

Yesterday I received an email that was very upsetting. It was not upsetting in an earth-shattering kind of way, but it was one of those messages that creates an uncomfortable feeling. The email was fraught with emotion and drama that I found unwarranted for the circumstances. The tone was angry and the message was negative.

I simmered. After I had simmered for a while, I responded to the email. I would describe the tone of my response as “controlled anger”. I felt that I needed to let my correspondent know that I was angry and why, but I did not want to be insulting or rude. Having re-read both the original email and my reply, I believe that my response was reasonable.

Later in the day, a  mutual friend told me that the email had been sent to me in response to a remark I had made in yesterday’s blog post.

I confess that I was, and still am, mystified. I did not say anything derogatory or inflammatory, I did not say anything that this person did not already know, and I did not even refer to this person, either by name or by reference. I made a passing reference to something the individual had quoted me on for my wedding. I did not say anything bad about the quote. I did not even mention the quote.

My comment was, at worst, an oblique reference that drew one hell of a knee-jerk reaction. I am absolutely clear that there was nothing insulting in there. And again, I did not say anything that the person was not already aware of.

I was bothered by all of this, but to be fair, I was bothered by a number of things yesterday. This was just one stressor of many. I mentioned the incident to a friend last night during a Skype chat, and she suggested that maybe I should be careful about the wedding-related stuff I post in my blog, just in case someone involved in the wedding planning reads it and gets offended.

I value the opinions of my friends, but I have to respectfully disagree with that one. For a start, I am always aware of what I am posting. I try my utmost to never post anything that could be construed as offensive, malicious, derogatory or discriminatory. I’m just not that kind of person. I am, however, human, and I do remember one occasion on which I posted something that offended someone. I could see why the person might get offended, even though that was not my intent, and I apologized. The following day I posted a clarification and an apology. Both were accepted. No harm done.

This isn’t the same, though. I do not feel that any apology is in order. I did not say anything bad about any individual, group of individuals, profession, race, religion, anything. I made a passing reference while I was venting about the stress of wedding planning.

I feel completely OK about the fact that I was venting. I am using my God-given right, as a bride who is less than six weeks away from her wedding, to be stressed.

If I want to vent here on my blog, I will. I am not going to start walking on egg-shells on the off-chance that someone might blow a fuse at a general reference that is not insulting and does not even refer to them.

If, by chance, I do say something that offends you, please let me know nicely. If I feel that I have wronged someone, even without meaning to, I am completely fine with making a public apology. I’m a big girl. I can take responsibility for the things I say.

All I ask is that you be nice.

Filed Under: Conflict, Email, Wedding Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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In Six Weeks It Won’t Matter

March 21, 2011 By

Yesterday – horror of horrors – I did not post to my blog. That’s right folks, I missed a day in my post-a-day challenge. But fear not – I have enough extra posts racked up to provide me with a buffer for those days when I just have too much going on. But still, going for a day with no posts does not sit well with me. It makes me feel uncomfortable and ill at ease, like when someone has moved my running shoes from their spot by the front door.

Most of my time yesterday was taken up by wedding planning. I had arranged for my maid-of-honour Michelle to come by for a makeup trial. Due to a combination of circumstances, my makeup lady was unable to come as arranged, but she had visited the previous day and left me with some samples. I considered telling Michelle that she didn’t need to come, but changed my mind because I still needed her to look at the samples, and I just wanted to see her and hang out with her for a while.

She arrived right on schedule, bearing gifts of coffee and donuts. I showed her the samples and we decided on makeup colours, and then we went through my never-ending checklist of stuff that needs to be done.

We celebrated the fact that everyone’s clothing has been sorted out, bar the fittings and measurements. We lamented the fact that my potential hairdresser had not yet responded to my messages.

We were happy about the fact that we have a confirmed DJ, and we’re pretty confident about the photography and videography. We stressed about the fact that we don’t have our transportation for the day sorted out.

We have a makeup artist for the day, but for cost reasons, I have to revisit the question of the cake.

The church and hall and booked and confirmed, but we have yet to think about flowers and decor.

For everything that’s been done, there seems to be something that’s still outstanding.

Who knew that wedding planning could be so involved?

It’s all very stressful.

To relieve some of the stress, I went for a run after Michelle had left. It was a tough run at a brisk pace, and included a big fat hill right at the end. By the time I got home I was so exhausted, and my legs were protesting so much, that I forgot all about the stress of wedding planning.

It is so strange to think that six weeks from now it will all be over, and none of this stress will matter anymore.

As long as great memories are made, it will all be worthwhile.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shelleyp/833463719)

Filed Under: running, Wedding Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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In Six Weeks It Won’t Matter

March 21, 2011 By

Yesterday – horror of horrors – I did not post to my blog. That’s right folks, I missed a day in my post-a-day challenge. But fear not – I have enough extra posts racked up to provide me with a buffer for those days when I just have too much going on. But still, going for a day with no posts does not sit well with me. It makes me feel uncomfortable and ill at ease, like when someone has moved my running shoes from their spot by the front door.

Most of my time yesterday was taken up by wedding planning. I had arranged for my maid-of-honour Michelle to come by for a makeup trial. Due to a combination of circumstances, my makeup lady was unable to come as arranged, but she had visited the previous day and left me with some samples. I considered telling Michelle that she didn’t need to come, but changed my mind because I still needed her to look at the samples, and I just wanted to see her and hang out with her for a while.

She arrived right on schedule, bearing gifts of coffee and donuts. I showed her the samples and we decided on makeup colours, and then we went through my never-ending checklist of stuff that needs to be done.

We celebrated the fact that everyone’s clothing has been sorted out, bar the fittings and measurements. We lamented the fact that my potential hairdresser had not yet responded to my messages.

We were happy about the fact that we have a confirmed DJ, and we’re pretty confident about the photography and videography. We stressed about the fact that we don’t have our transportation for the day sorted out.

We have a makeup artist for the day, but for cost reasons, I have to revisit the question of the cake.

The church and hall and booked and confirmed, but we have yet to think about flowers and decor.

For everything that’s been done, there seems to be something that’s still outstanding.

Who knew that wedding planning could be so involved?

It’s all very stressful.

To relieve some of the stress, I went for a run after Michelle had left. It was a tough run at a brisk pace, and included a big fat hill right at the end. By the time I got home I was so exhausted, and my legs were protesting so much, that I forgot all about the stress of wedding planning.

It is so strange to think that six weeks from now it will all be over, and none of this stress will matter anymore.

As long as great memories are made, it will all be worthwhile.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shelleyp/833463719)

Filed Under: running, Wedding Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Wedding Planning Worries

March 19, 2011 By

I have discovered an odd parallel between wedding planning and parenting. With both, you always have something to worry about, but the particular worries change and evolve depending on what stage you are in.

For instance, I look back on the day I first brought George home from the hospital. There I was, a new Mom with this ridiculously small human being who looked so fragile. I was terrified that I’d break him, that something bad would happen just because I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

When it became apparent that I actually had the ability to keep him alive, I started worrying about different things. Was he sleeping enough? Was I feeding him the right stuff? What did that rash on his face mean? How did I know whether or not to worry about a fever?

Then James came along and brought with him a whole new set of worries. Now, I worry about stuff like sibling relationships, whether the boys are happy at school, and how to keep up with the fact that they seem to outgrow their shoes within the first ten minutes of owning them.

A year from now, I will no doubt be stressing about something else.

It’s been much the same with my wedding planning.

Right in the beginning, I was focused on getting the reception hall booked. I figured that as long as we had a place to party, nothing else would really matter. It took us a long time to commit to a hall, and throughout the whole selection process I was stressed to the hilt and being pulled in different directions by different people who wanted different things.

The moment we paid the deposit on the hall, a weight lifted from my mind. But soon another one settled there: the weight regarding my dress. A long story, the dress was. It involved a promise from my soon-to-be mother-in-law to make it, a retraction of said promise, and an argument before the promise was reinstated. There were discussions about whether or not I would wear a veil, and these discussions were more heated than one might expect.  Eventually, my wishes prevailed (and why shouldn’t they?) and it is now known by all concerned that I will not be wearing a veil.

Then I started to panic about the shoes. I had to go on several shoe-shopping trips, and I hated every one of them, because – well, I hate shoe-shopping. Just as I was starting to think that I would have to wear my battered running shoes to my wedding, I found a pair of shoes that I love.

Okay. Deep, soothing breaths.

When the shoes were sorted, it was time to worry about the guest list and the invitations. This caused me no end of stress. Initially I was going to keep it simple. I got plain but elegant stationery to print the invitations on, I had the invitations designed and I was just about to print them when…

…the hub-to-be announced that we should have a theme for the wedding.

It’s a great theme, I have to confess. I’m glad we’re going with it. But it meant that we had to change what we were doing with the invitations, and as a result they went out ten days later than I would have liked. But they went out, and all credit to Gerard, they are really nice.

We have a makeup person.

We have a DJ.

Everyone’s clothing has been sorted out.

Now, I guess because I actually have the time to worry about it, I have a new worry.

Who is going to do my hair?

I already know what my next worry after this one will be, but for now, I’m going to focus on the hair.

I can only worry about one wedding-related thing at a time, otherwise my head might just implode.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/saffy_suppi/4958417528)

Filed Under: parenting, Wedding, Worry Tagged With: , , , , ,
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