Please Don't Tell My Kids

There is something oddly and wonderfully comforting for me about the final steps in my children's bedtime routine.   After the tooth brushing is done (that part I hate), and they are in bed, cozy in their pajamas and under 45 blankets, I close window shutters, shut closet doors (yes, every single night their closet doors are wide open), close the door to the bathroom (for Alexander - I don't know why but he doesn't like it when it is open to his room at night), switch off the lights, pull blankets up to chins, and give snugly hugs and warm kisses.   There is a feeling about it of putting the whole room to bed, putting things in order, battening the hatches, making it all safe.

However, the other night, as I was going down the stairs after final kisses, I had this revelation.    Let me warn you, this is going to sound incredibly ridiculous coming from a woman of almost 50 who has been a parent for 13 years. I thought, holy shit, somehow I am the grown-up in this scenario.  Tucked in, room in order, even as my footsteps fade away, my children feel safe. I have made them feel safe.  Just like when I was a child and believed unreservedly that my mother and father had the power to keep me safe.  

The big difference is that my parents really could because they, unlike me, actually were grown-ups.  Full fledged, responsible, in charge, powerful big people. People who tucked me in, walked down the stairs, and used their big people powers to keep the world safe for me while I slept.  Moreover, they drank cocktails, and used credit cards, and wore sunglasses, and had dinner parties.

Sure, sure, I wear sunglasses and use a credit card, and I love cocktails, but there is a part of me that still feels as if I am playing at this grown-up thing, like a little girl wearing her mother's high heels.   I keep waiting for some rite of passage where the secrets to being a grown-up are passed down.  I turn 50 in October - maybe it comes then.  Certainly 50 year-old people are grown-ups, right?  Until then, please don't tell my kids their mother has been faking it all these years.

How My Blog Made Me Rich and Famous - 6/7 June

6 June 2012

I’m skyping with one of my best friends, Kate, and we’re talking about my blog.   The blog that is going to get me rich and famous.  Kate, who has been a writer her entire career – master’s thesis, doctoral dissertation, radio documentaries and accompanying books and web pages – says, “Have you thought about taking a writing class?”   I wince as a pinprick hole opens in that thin membraned little reservoir that houses self-confidence (I believe it is located near the gallbladder).   Even as my nose stings, and my eyes ever so slightly tear up, I know I am over-reacting, so I say nothing.  Secretly and furiously I try to use grown-up rationality self-talk to repair the hole.  Like that ever works. 

So we continue along.  Then, very reasonably, not knowing I am fragile because I stupidly don’t tell her so,  she says, “Caroline, you need to find someone to edit your writing.”  Okay, yes, that makes sense.  Of course.   And then she adds, “Even real writers use editors.”  At this point, a full-on tear opens up in this delicate little self-confidence balloon.  The force of the release whooshes it completely out of my body.  I watch it go zigzag skittering across the floor and come to a stop in the corner, small, deflated, emptied.  

As I get ready for bed that evening, I am feeling really, really discouraged, and vow to do nothing but work on my CV the next day, leave this silly writing behind, buckle down and find real work.  However, as real as those feelings are, I notice that I also already am composing a blog in my head, trying to capture the essence of how I experienced the conversation.  I can’t seem to help it.

7 June 2012

Today I am trying to figure out why my reaction was so out of proportion to Kate’s very good and reasonable suggestions.  Did I really think that I came to writing so naturally that I was beyond a writing course?   Did I really think that I was a good enough writer that my work doesn’t need editing?   I’m ducking my head in shame and averting my eyes now because I’m going to admit something very embarrassing.  Please don’t look at me when I tell you this.  Yes, maybe, a little. 

So, the best I can come up with now is that it is all part of the growing process.  Up until this point, I have drunk in all the encouraging and supportive comments which have come my way and nurtured my belief in myself.   I am grateful for those because as a writer still in the baby stage anything else might well have snuffed out my nascent efforts. 

But now that I am putting out there that I really want to do this, not just as a fun little past-time, but as something I am going to pursue more seriously I think I’ve entered a whole other ballgame.   I think the ballgame is the one where I have to say, “Please tell me how my writing sucks.  And I’d be most grateful for any suggestions of how I can make it unsucky.”  

I also truly believe that in my journey there will be turning point moments, or leap forward moments, when someone says something that stings, that is hard to take in, but that is exactly what I need to hear.   I am 100% sure that this conversation with Kate is one of those moments.  Thanking you in advance, Kate, for the fruit that conversation will bear.

Good Guys Versus The Dream Team

Alexander designed the day. A family competition day – he and Quince versus Bill and me.   On his schedule:  badminton, ping pong, netball, Wii tennis.  With a very, very complicated scoring system.  So many points if you win;  even more if you win by 5; you even can get points if you lose by no more than 3, and so on.

First up, badminton. Games to eleven. Best out of three. Badminton is one of my all-time favorite sports – if I may call it a sport.  I played hours of badminton during the summer as a kid.  All out, competitive, no holds barred badminton. Whoo Hoo --  Bring it on!

Bill and I name ourselves “The Good Guys.”  After much back and forth, Quince and Alexander settle on “The Dream Team.” The Good Guys take game 1.  Cracks start to show in the Dream Team.  Quince whines, Alexander criticizes.  Finally, Quince, scowling, free arm behind her back, stands at the net with racket in the air, but makes no effort to hit the birdie anymore as it sails toward her.   Alexander has had it with her.

We stop play.  Major negotiations ensue.   At first we leave it to Alexander and Quince to see if they can sort it out.   Can they play together or do they want to rearrange the teams?  Now is a good time to tell you that there had been a major shift in their relationship over the 4-week school holiday.  For reasons which are mysterious to me, they crossed a bridge and began to like each other, began to enjoy playing together, and most significantly, saw themselves as aligned.   Against us, their parents.  Now I realize that might sound horrible and wrong, but in fact, for a whole set of complicated reasons I won’t go into here, that is a positive.

It was important to tell you this, because you might think the easy out was just to change the teams around.  But they didn’t want that. They wanted to stay a team.  That wanted to play against us.   Unfortunately, that desire wasn't enough to propel them through the tough work of conflict resolution.  So much easier, and dare I say, more familiar and comfortable, to blame and accuse than to listen and understand.  So, bringing all my conflict management skills into play, I intervened.   You know how it goes.  “So, Alexander, what is Quince saying she needs?  Do you think you could try that?”  “Quince, it sounds like Alexander would like it if you. .“

And we were back on the court.  Quince making a big effort, Alexander praising her.   Game 2 to the Dream Team.    Game 3, all on the line, Bill and I surge ahead.  The score is 9-5.   Now my kids are old enough to handle losing, and I really like winning, especially at badminton, but it suddenly occurs to me that their tender little bud of sibling friendship will not be well served by a loss.   I catch Bill’s eye as he begins to serve and give him a microscopic shake of my head.  After 13 years of co-parenting, he sees it and gets it.  He makes it look good as he flubs the serve.   As do I when it comes back to me.  Final score:   13-11 Dream Team.   

The kids are ecstatic. They high five, they hug, the smiles broad on their faces.  Alexander, well trained, ducks under the net to tell us, the losers, good game.  He comes up to me, hugs me tight around the neck, and whispers in my ear, so only I can hear, “Thank you so much, Mommy.”  I hug him back, astounded.  Okay, maybe also a wee bit dismayed that he saw through what I thought was our so very professional throwing of the game -- I fleetingly wonder if those days of using that valuable parenting tactic of benevolent deception are behind us.  But mostly I am oh so proud of my boy because he got it. Got why we threw the match their way.  Appreciated it.  Knew not to reveal it to his 9 year-old sister.   Wow.

 I don't know how this very mysterious process of emotional maturation happens, but I am so very glad to have the pleasure of watching it happen.   

How My Blog Made Me Rich and Famous - A Secret

Week of 11 June, 2012

This week I have been feeling lonely.   Really, really lonely.  That heart aching, tears just held back, tears streaming, wracking sobs in the shower lonely.*   So I decided to tell you a secret related to this.  A secret about one big reason why I began writing – which I have really only just teased out by writing this piece.   

Fact 1:  This is not a secret.   I am an extrovert – in the Myers Briggs sense of the word. I like being around people.  I like talking to people.   I get energy from being around people.  

Fact 2:   I spend a lot – I mean A LOT- of time on my own.   I don’t have an office to go into, nor at the moment even any colleagues.  I am friendly with many people here, but my circle of go-to friends is still very small.  This means I spend large swaths of time on my own. *

Fact 3:   Get ready for the secret.  In the absence of other people, I do a lot – and again, I mean A LOT - of talking to myself (not out loud, mind you, at least not yet).   Talking about what I am seeing, what I am feeling, thinking, planning.  And although I find myself endlessly fascinating (smile), it’s ultimately not very fulfilling for an extrovert like me.

So I write.  You might have noticed, I almost always write as if I’m talking to someone (always you).  It's like having half a conversation.  When I post a piece, I feel an enormous sense of release, like a big exhalation.  That sense of release lasts for about half an hour until the anticipation begins.  I hold my breath, waiting for responses, waiting for the second half of the conversation.   With each response, I exhale a bit and feel a happy little surge of pleasure.  It is the nothing-like-it pleasure of being connected.  My extrovert self likes that, needs that.  My human self likes that, needs that.

In an odd turn-about, being on my own made me start writing as a way to connect.  Now that I am writing, I am craving more and more time on my own so I can write more. Weird how life works.

*  Please, please, please do not interpret this as a plea for play date and coffee invites.  Most of the time, I estimate about 68% - and that percentage is going up, I am quite content to be on my own.  The other 32% of the time, when I am lonely, craving connection, it is okay.  Really.  I tell Quince all the time it is okay to be sad.  Humans are meant to have the full range.    After all, how boring would life be if you only experienced happy?

Where Everyone Knows Your Name

I'm at my favorite coffee shop in Jozi - my favorite one to work in - and it is reminding me of the discussions my friend Kate and I used to have about what makes a really great coffee shop.  As I recall, good music was top, top, top of Kate's list.   At the time, top of my list was that they made a good decaf latte - notoriously hard to come by.  But a very close second was that the staff was friendly and double points if they knew my name.

This second criteria was put in solely because of Diesel Cafe - a small, women-owned coffee shop, a mere 3 minute walk from where I worked.  Now I really wanted to support a woman-owned small business, so I went there every single morning before work and ordered the same damn thing.  Every day.   Skinny, decaf latte to go.   Every. Single. Damn.  Day.   And every single damn day, they acted as if they'd never seen me before.  No smile, no "nice to see you again," no "the usual, Caroline?"   And let me tell you, their decaf was not that great.   (and their music SUCKED - mostly heavy metal.  Okay, probably not heavy metal, but whatever it was, it was too heavy for me. Is there a kind of music called Diesel?)

So I stopped going.  I switched to Starbucks. Not a small business.  Not woman owned. But their decaf is good. And more importantly, after about 3 mornings, the manager greeted me by name.   She knew what I wanted.  After about 5 mornings, her counter staff knew my name.   Before I even ordered, the barista would catch my eye and ask if I was having the usual.   The music was inconsistent, the ambiance was mediocre, but that "Good morning, Caroline," made up for everything.  Chain coffee shop creating a neighborhood feel.  Got my business.  Every single damn day.

So, now as I sit here at Motherland Cafe in Johannesburg, South Africa, I realize my criteria have shifted a little.   Here's what I like about Motherland.

1)  Diverse clientele - not only in terms of race (and that one is big for me), but you get funky students, hip young professionals, staid old professionals, middle-aged newly in love folks who are using all their will power to keep their hands off each other (maybe not every day, but that is who landed at the table right in front of me today), and really talented, gorgeous writers (maybe not every day, but that is who landed at my table today.)

2) Their coffee is fair trade.

2)  They always play African music.

3)  The wifi is free - not all that common here in SA.

4)  Only half marks for ambiance.  Nice brick wall, great lighting, comfy bench.   But it can be cold.  They need to more severely punish customers who don't close the door after they come in - it is WINTER people!

And today, Motherland soared head and shoulders above every other coffee shop. As I ordered my coffee, the counter guy said, "Hey where have you been.  I haven't see you in a while."

What's top on your list?

How My Blog Made Me Rich and Famous - THE LAUNCH

I know.  That title. Audacious.  Crazy.   Arrogant, even.  

What is she thinking????

Here’s what I am thinking:  

1.   I find myself in the most amazing country that inspires me every single day. 
2.  In the past year and a half,  much to my surprise, I learned that I love to write.  Really love it.
3.  As of February, I have been very ungainfully unemployed.  
4.  For many years I have admired the hell out of people who had the courage and gumption to figure out how to make a living at what they love to do. 
5. In the Chinese lunar cycle, it is the Year of the Water Dragon.  It is a year where you are supposed to do big, bold, courageous things.   It is supposed to be hard.  If you can hang on while that dragon gives you the ride of your life, the rewards follow.  It only comes around every 60 years.  I did the maths*. I only get one.  

 

When you add all those things up there is only one place to land.   The land of rich and famous through writing.

So, you ask, does Caroline really think she can become rich and famous by writing?  And I ask, do I even want to become rich and famous?  I don’t know.   I don't know.  I don't know.  But setting my sights at How My Blog Helped Me Make a Little Money to Contribute to Household Expenses seemed a little lame and not water dragonish at all.  

So, with this post, I’m just putting it out there.  I’m jumping off the cliff.   I’m letting you know my intention is to figure out how to make money by writing.  If you know me at all, this is incredibly uncharacteristic.  It speaks of a self-confidence I don’t actually possess.  It speaks of a belief in myself that every day I must work hard to get back to, and most days I don't get there.   In fact, I am so wracked with doubts about the whole enterprise that it has taken me weeks to write this and then another few to actually post it. 

But what is spurring me to make it public is the fear that these very same doubts will push me to set my sights low, or, worse, to not try at all.   So by putting it out there, first, I am saying to myself, “Self, now all these people know.  You better take some action to make it happen or you’ll be mightily embarrassed.”    Nothing like fear of shame as a motivator.  (Please note that I am giving myself permission to fail, but not permission not to try.)

And second, I am hoping that by going public like this I will have your support.   My plan is to keep a journal of sorts about my journey to write my way to wealth and fame.  I’ll post these journal entries as blogs in a series called How My Blog Made Me Rich and Famous.  I don’t know what form they’ll take or if they’ll be at all interesting.  But I’d like to invite you on my journey.  I’ll be so happy if you come along.   

* My sister pointed out my typo "s" on the end of math.  Only it isn't a typo - that is what these crazy South Africans call it.  But not so crazy really, because it is after all a nickname for mathematics - which you'll note ends in an "s".

A Short Story in Three Very Small Acts

Act 1

Sunday afternoon I decide to invest in the next 50 years of my life (that’s right, I am living to 100) by hiring a leadership/life coach.  She does not come cheap, but I reason (rationalize) the eventual pay-off  will cover it multi-fold.

Act 2

Monday afternoon, I take Alexander for an orthodontic consult.  The important word in that sentence is CONSULT.    In other words, not one iota of work actually takes place – it is just an assessment of the work that needs to be done. 

Act 3

At the end of the 40 minute CONSULT, as I sign the credit card slip for the equivalent of 2 ½ hours worth of coaching, I reverse my Sunday decision.  Like good mommies are supposed to do, or so I’ve heard,  I prioritize my child’s needs over my own.  Alexander will have a beautiful, white, straight-toothed smile.  In ten years time, after we have paid off orthodontia bills, I will get my coach.   It’s okay.  By my figuring that means I get to live till 110.  

Footnote:  Of course that is not Alexander.  Number 1 - he doesn't have his braces yet.  Number 2 - you know how protective he is of his image. This is some random (apparently masterful) boy taken from a google image search on boy and braces.