Metaphor at the fair

We had a fantastic day at the Western Fair on Saturday. For those who aren’t locals, the Western Fair is our fall fair. It has a big focus on farming (we are in the middle of one of North America’s most fertile areas, after all) but it also has all the additional attractions: rides, carnival games, music concerts, gambling and delicious food that seeks to shorten your lifespan. Max was full of energy and excitement, wiggling and dancing as he walked through the midway.

There were some well thought out changes made to the fair from last year, the most important one being a much bigger focus on family friendly activity that had no additional cost. Every good parent loves to take their kid to a fun event like the fair, but the costs can be pretty prohibitive. By adding free activities, the fair gave the kids more fun opportunities while letting mom and dad’s wallet have a little rest.

And like most of our outings, I had the most fun wen I was with the animals. Cows! Goats! Pot-bellied pigs! Affectionate horses! Stand-offish Alpacas! I even had the wife take a picture of me standing behind the rear end of a horse that was taller than me. And no, the horse did not poop on me. What a terrifying mess that would have been. So, as a family fun day, it was top-notch.

But let’s get to the incident that this post’s title refers to. As my little dude waited in line for his turn in the bouncy castle, I noticed a set of parents at the back of the castle and, being nosy, I went to snoop. I overheard them griping about the lineup, and the father was suggesting to another nearby parent that they just lift their kid up over the back wall and let them bounce. From the grousing and whining that continued from the parents, I realized that they had done that with their own kid. Frustrated with the speed and disorganized state of the line to get in, they had decided to break the rules and cheat. At first I wasn’t really bothered by this, until I realized that my 3-year-old was patiently standing in line and waiting for his turn. My dear wife and the ride operator were doing their best to keep the line of young, excited kids waiting without wandering off or getting upset, and they were doing a great job. So, I became enraged, and I began beaming the stare of death at both of the parents (known as “La Glare-o Del Muerte”). I debated the idea of verbally laying into the entitled pile of garbage, but my consideration for the family atmosphere kept me locked into silent stinkeye mode. And to her credit, the second mom refused to take the suggested shortcut cheat.

There was a fair amount of chaos in the waiting area for the ride, and the system wasn’t running as optimally as it could have been. The jerks in the back took that as a sign that they should ignore what’s best for everyone, and break the rules to suit their purposes. My wife, on the other hand, saw the problems with the system, and she considered the happiness and wellbeing not just of her own child, but of every child in the line. She didn’t storm up to the ride attendant and start whining about the problem, because she could see that he was doing his best. She did what every sensible, responsible and compassionate person would do: she rolled up her sleeves and pitched in. And soon, the system went back to functioning normally, and all of the kids were happy.

Maybe that is a stirring and compelling parable, or maybe my tired and sun-baked brain is misfiring. Either way, I’m proud of my wife.

Then again, I worry too much

The wisdom you gain from growing older manifests primarily in the ability to notice your own behaviour triggers and adapting around them. I know now that if the world is a weepy place full of unstoppable sadness for no particular reason, then I am actually really, REALLY tired and I need to go to bed. Instead of spending hours moping and trying in frustration to find a solution to the phantom problem, I should just hit the hay and take another run at things tomorrow.

The new warning sign I’m figuring out right now is the sense of bewilderment and panic evidenced in the previous post. That mood is somewhat fueled by uncertainty, but the real cause is that I haven’t been writing. If I dismiss my writing work simply because it’s terribly unprofitable right now, I’m missing out on the best skill that I have. Novel writing is my profession. I like doing it, I’m good at it and I get better at it with every hour that I work on it. There’s no point in focusing on the revenue it isn’t generating right now, because that is A) out of my control and B) pointlessly discouraging.  So next time I start running around crying about jobs and money et al, I’ll simmer down and grab a pen and paper instead. We’ll see how that works.

In semi-related news, the return to preschool is going very well for both the little dude and I. I was worried that I would be overcome with parental loneliness once he started spending 3 full days at preschool, but the opportunity to write and blog and research and be an independent adult during the day has banished any sadness. And he’s taking to it like a champ. There was a small speed bump on the first day, when he woke up from a small nap at preschool. Max and I share a common, sullen mood when it comes to waking up from a nap, and I don’t think he has ever had to weather the unpleasantness of waking up without me or the wife being on hand to supply comfort and juice, so there was some prolonged afternoon sadness on his part. But, the next day, we brought a sleep toy with us to pre-school, and Max reported after school that he didn’t have any tears. Now we’re on day 3 and there was no before school upset. He practically ran into class to start his day and had to be reminded to give mom a smooch. Now we’re 30 minutes away from the end of class, and no call from the school, so I’m going to declare another successful school day.

I know a lot of stay-at-home parents hit an identity crisis when their kids go off to school and the parents are left trying to remember what they did with their productive time in the days before child. I’m very lucky that I have my writing to fall back into, and it is fantastic to be able to use my creative brain during the day when it’s full of fresh, wordy energy.

I really don’t know what I’m doing

Are we all in the same boat here, full of a sense that we can accomplish more than we are, but no idea on how to practically achieve it? I’m going through this phase in life a little late (or a lot, depending on my optimism/pessimism levels) and maybe everyone else has already dealt with this feeling when they were in high school or university, and the rest of you have made peace with the tools you have on hand and your ability to build with them.  For me, it’s like I’ve woken up from a coma and I now have a brain full of exciting goals and dreams, but my withered coma body isn’t up to the tasks I’m presenting it.

Ego plays a huge part in all of this: I want to be in the cool kids club with the leaders and thinkers and visionaries, no matter how little experience I actually have, or the quality of contribution I can bring to the table. It’s pretty demoralizing when you want to help the people around you and your community but you don’t really know how.

Okay, the above statement is both maudlin and inaccurate. Blame senor Ego again. I do know how to help out. But I want to help out in the bigger and more impressive ways, like being a board member at a not-for-profit. The trouble is, I don’t have the skill set these boards need, and I know that. It will all take time and effort. I can’t help but glare glumly into the past at the younger version of myself and mutter about his lack of success. If young me had finished university, how much farther ahead would current me be?

The trouble with that kind of logic is that it assumes that the younger versions of me were capable of doing more than they did, when that’s not a fair assessment. My brain was a pretty sad mess for most of high school, a swirling mix of low self-esteem, social anxiety and a total lack of personal responsibility. That fog was extended and worsened by a five-year (give or take) enthusiastic drinking habit. It has been a long, difficult process of managing to function and thrive despite the brain mess, and things are much, much better.

Now that I’m paying attention to the world around me and trying to be a better all-around citizen, I’m hitting the limits of the amount of information I can process. No matter how earnest and engaged I am, I just can’t assimilate a comprehensive understanding of civic issues at the municipal, provincial, federal and international levels at the same time. My poor brain is aching. Do I like standardized testing? Is my opinion on the Shared Services plan well-informed? Do I even care if there are ad banners on the railway bridges? Is my stance on Israel fair and balanced? Ack! I don’t know! I’m just a poor author.

Speaking of artistic poverty, there’s this cheery piece of dream-crushing: http://www.locusmag.com/Perspectives/2011/09/cory-doctorow-why-should-anyone-care/

The author is a guy who has been doing this for a while, so he’s got the street cred. I know that the odds of my first book making a giant pile of cash are hilariously bad, but I really want to hold to the (reasonable?) hope that I can eke out a subsistence living by continuing to write and publish novels. I don’t want diamond shoes or anything, but would it be too much to ask to make enough to remove money stress from my life? I’m not talking a large sum of money here-when you work out the hours I spend on writing, it would probably come out to about a full-time minimum wage. Oh well. I can’t control who buys my book. I can only control the creation process.