Wednesday December 21: Early Christmas

Since we are away for the holidays, we had Christmas early with me contacting Santa to let him know that we needed him to come by last night (so already I'm teaching the kids about circumventing the system to suit their needs!)  Anyway picture to come but in the meantime, here's my post published in the Huffington Post today on Why I Hate Santa - click for the link or check the full text below.

Why I Hate Santa...


At five and two my kids are still young enough to truly believe in Santa and so, I'm currently doing my best to hide my hatred for the fat man in the bad suit.

There are of course many reasons to hate Santa, who (against his will I'll acknowledge) has effectively become our patron saint of personal debt, entitled commercialism, over consumption and our enslavement to the China supply chain.

And I'm happy to add the above to my list.
But my reason is that as a parent, I believe that in the clever guise of jolliness and reindeer, it's good ol' St. Nick that lays the first foundation for the idea that: You are fully responsible for your own misfortunes (e.g. any lack of presents under the tree). Goodness gets its reward with material success and so, those who are less fortunate are really just getting what they deserve.

So yes, I see him as a right wing tool or is it a tool of the right wing?

Anyway, I'll confess that I use the Santa bribe almost daily. When I'm late for work, nothing gets my five-year-old brushing those teeth and putting on his shoes like a discussion on how his behavior will play out, "in Santa's eyes."

But I feel guilty, since what I'm implicitly telling him is all those boys and girls who won't wake up to a tree surrounded by gifts deserve their fate, after all, they could have done things differently now couldn't they?

And already, my five-year-old seems to be headed down the slippery of slope of Santa self-righteousness.

It was after a minor playground dispute last week that the concept of Santa as a force of reckoning and retribution really set in for him. There was an argument over a scooter at playtime and while the teacher had given the other little boy a time out, my son relished the thought that more was in store for his classmate come Christmas.

For two days after the incident, he eagerly wondered how many presents the transgression would end up costing his little colleague.

For me, my doubts about Santa set in when I was around seven or eight. It was in the throes of the Ethiopian famine, when the Band Aid song "Do They Know Its Christmas?" was constantly on the radio.

Looking at the pictures of all these starving children, it hit me that of course there isn't a Santa, otherwise how could this happen? (Fast forward ten years and replace Santa with God and we have a whole different post).

But reluctant to let go of the myth, I decided to test it.

In the weeks before Christmas I deliberately did things that I knew were wrong but that I wouldn't necessarily get caught doing. It was between me and Santa -- if he was out there, he would know. I pushed my little brother, I stole my classmate's strawberry scented pencil eraser, I threw out my lunch and lied to my mom. I figured the way I was going, Santa had to take some action.

But no, come Christmas our tree was awash in gifts. Everything on my Christmas list was there. The gig was up. I realized that I could be "bad" and still get toys and that some other kid who was probably much better than me might get little to nothing.

It was actually a watershed political moment for me.

Since then I've linked the Santa concept to the fundamental question of how personally responsible do you think you are for your good fortune?

Take the Occupy movement (particularly in the U.S.). Even if you critique the lack of set demands, message, or leadership, it's hard to overlook the reality that too often, no matter how "good" you are (whether it's getting that college degree or trying to save for your first house), getting gifts under the proverbial tree of life is becoming increasingly difficult for more and more of us.

When you truly believe that your own success or good fortune is all or even primarily the result of your own actions, you not only overlook the many nuanced factors that actually led to your success but you also place the blame more fully on the other 99 per cent who weren't so lucky.

So this season, I'm attempting to navigate the tricky boundary between indulging my own children and their fantasy and somehow pointing out that lots of good kids don't get presents, so maybe we can try helping Santa out and stepping in for him.  /rs

Sunday December 11: A Mormon Shoutout

Since I started sharing my posts, I've had several questions about how I got the idea or what prompted me to do this blog: it was the Mormons.

What with Mitt Romney, Sister Wives and Big Love, Mormons are having a kind of cultural moment (even if the last two play on complete stereotypes).

For the record, let me say I have nothing for or against the faith (although calling yourself Latter Day Saints does seem just bit hubristic) but still, I'm equal opportunity on this one.

I'll also confess that my personal experience with Mormons has been limited. The closest was a non-fling with Mormon Surfer Man one summer, a very long time ago.  It ended after just 10 days when it became clear that my idea of a summer fling (drinks on patios and um, the actual fling part) sadly did not mesh with his tamer interests.

But the Mormons get marketing (does anyone else remember those commercials from Saturday morning cartoons?) and as I dicovered they apparently also get blogging.

I'm a Salon subscriber and one day this article pops up in my Inbox with the blurb: "I'm a young, feminist, atheist, who can't bake a cupcake. Why am I addicted to the shiny happy lives of these women?"  Curious, I start reading.

Until then, I've never heard of the apparently flourishing world of "Mormon hipster mommy blogs", so I click on a couple of the links.  The blogs are mostly about the wonders of being a mother, their amazing husbands and a sort of hyper rosy perspective on daily domestic and family life.  But with amazing layouts and fantastic pictures.

I hate crafts and am not that interested in babies I don't know, but like the author Emily Matchar, I become strangely if mildly hooked.  After reading gruesome headlines and violent stories in the paper (I know, I need to stop looking at the Daily Mail) I find I'm drawn back to the soothing vibes of blogs like Nat the Fat Rat, Nie Nie Dialogues   Rockstar Diaries and CJane,EnjoyIt. 

Regardless of the religious angle (and the right wing politics!), the Salon article nails the appeal, which is  "...the basic message expressed in these blogs - that family is wonderful, life is meant to be enjoyed, [and that we should] celebrate the small things..."

And so, it inspired me to try and blog about the little things in my own life, which I tend to rush over or quickly forget.

Except that to be honest, I'm not sure how successful I've actually been.  As I've discovered, I'm still me just on a blog and so I write about an assortment of other stuff, which may or may not involve my kids or things I'm grateful for.  And I'm pretty sure I lack a rosy glow of optimism in my writing. Plus, I remain fairly hopeless about pictures.  Maybe next time the missionaries ring my doorbell, I can ask for some tips..../rs

Monday December 4th: The Anniversary Post Script

Expectation and lived reality usually differ, but this is especially true when kids, particularly your own kids are involved.

And so it was, with the long awaited "Anniversary Weekend."

The hotel was booked, complete with a couples massage, a bottle of champagne and a late dinner reservation.  I had even vaguely floated the idea of buying something suitably cliche and lacy - I didn't get around to it of course, but anyway... it turns out it was just as well.

By Friday at 1am both boys have hacking coughs which soon morph into vomit.  Ugh.  Cue R and I spending the rest of the night changing sheets, getting water, dispensing cough medicine and bitching about who did the last round and who is doing more (me clearly).

Saturday morning dawns and we're both cranky.  It's also clear that no one, not even (or especially) family should be asked to cope with a second night like that. Plus, the boys would go crazy if we left them overnight somewhere when they're sick.  Only the dinner reservations can be changed without a fee - so we're stuck with a hotel room (literally around corner from our house) and the spa appointment. 

All is not lost however.  My sister in law comes to stay with the kids while we have our massage (R falls asleep in exhaustion, I think about making soup for their coughs).  We go home, we take the kids with us to the hotel - I optimistically bill it as a holiday family sleepover, yeah!

So instead of champagne, we take turns swigging a half bottle of average red wine from the hotel mini bar (the boys are putting animals in the glasses), the dinner plan becomes eating the kids leftover pizza with a McDonald's sundaes.  The kids are loving it though: the tv is bigger! The bed is bigger! You can see into other people's rooms!

We all pile into the bed.  Twenty minutes later, Avery is sick everywhere.

All the towels get used up as we try and mop up the mess.  I open the window and crack a couple of mini bottles, we take more sips in between cleaning up the bed, the children and ourselves. I hope I have enough cash on me for a serious tip.

We do a second round of baths.              Everyone collapses in exhaustion.

There is no glamour in this I think.

The morning brings room service and with it a slightly happier family.

So it was not at all what I'd planned.

But it was a reminder for me that relationships are not actually about the big planned events, but somehow finding fun in the tedium of the everyday, with someone that you can hopefully look across a pile of rancid towels at 2 am and think, I'm glad its him.

Even if it takes the help of a few small bottles to source that kind of zen. /rs

Friday December 2: 8 Years Ago Today

Already married 2 yrs we have a wedding

Memory is a funny thing.   When I think back about the days that ended up changing the course of my life, I get incredibly anxious.  Even though at the time, when events were happening I felt fine....

Which is a slightly odd way of introducing this story.

Eight years ago today, I agreed to meet R for a quick coffee at the Tate Modern.  At this point, we'd met seven times in person (two of these were random run ins at parties).  I was in town for my mother's 50th, and so far, in the manner of every Richard Curtis holiday rom com ever made,  we had only crossed signals, backstories involving friends who were exes's, exe's who were friends and so on.

The grudging coffee became champagne (pink! vintage!) at his house (day time drinks figure largely in pivotal moments in my life, coincidence? or cause? something to figure out later).

The first bottle turned into the second and somewhere along the line we decided instead of dating, we would get engaged.  So out we went out to quickly get a ring before stores closed (which led R's banker to call him and ask what was happening because the transaction was deemed "out of the ordinary").  The next step?  Telling my parents. They had never heard of Rana before, thought I was dating someone else (details) and so were predictably stunned (understatement).

Memory is also funny because in the re-telling of our stories, details and narratives naturally shift, and then change how we perceived the events.

In my case, our personal story became one of the hooks used to promote my last book.

I didn't always like or agree with the hows and angles, but I went with it - since if you publish a relationship book at 32 with no real relationship credentials, your own story becomes fair game.

The first question was always: since I had written about arranged marriages, had I had one?

So, as advised by my publicist, I would diligently launch into explaining that no, although we got engaged after seven meetings, our parents were in no way involved and in fact, our families didn't meet for months after.

The getting engaged after seven dates is a media grabber particularly since many of journalists I was speaking with were single women who loved the idea that in a day, your whole life could completely change like this.

And although the decision sounds astonishingly impulsive, lost in the "public" story is that we had been exchanging emails for months.

London Engagement Party 

These weren't explicably "romantic" but they did set up the scene....

For instance,  after a night out, I once sent R several revisions of the same email (each one slightly edited to improve the casual but i hoped flirty tone and voice).

Also lost in my public telling of the story, was that although we didn't "date" we did meet for one weekend in Ottawa for the 80th birthday party of John Meisel, a wonderful man - (but still an odd first date, no?) R's idea, not mine.

 Three months later I moved to London. Four months later we got legally married.

In the months that followed, I would often experience the onset of a horrible delayed anxiety: I could have missed this, that it all could have so easily gone some other way, with someone else, in some other place.

My brother would say that our lives have all been written, I'm not sure about that... but, today, I'm glad it worked the way it did and deep thoughts aside, I'm just looking forward to a spa day tomorrow, with some chilled champagne and courtesy of my wonderful sister-in-law - a child free night.../rs