Cat Skinner Club

Sometimes I Wonder How to Be Me

Workspace of my dreams

I am sitting by the wall of window that is my new living room, and watching the sun sink slowly below the tops of the skyscrapers.

I feel like me again. Mostly. I wonder if it is because it is no longer November?

I’m waiting for the family to get home. Waiting for our six year old to swing open the door and yell “Hi Distinguished!”. Distinguished is her nick-name for me. I have no idea where she picked this up. Waiting for the silence to be broken by hustle and bustle. Waiting to see how I feel to be surrounded.

I’ve been home alone a lot lately. I think it’s good. It’s been productive, and quiet, and this space is feeling more and more like my own as a result. My partners are working away at their old warehouse, and my apartment, and I am plotting and planning here between loads of dishes and laundry. It is only today that I’ve really felt like leaving my house in about a week or so. Very unlike me, for sure.

These two little girls have unlocked my creative drive like no self-help book I have ever encountered. All of this crafting has been incredible, and I’m constantly on the hunt now for new ideas and activities. Our six-year-old is an incredible artist, mind blowing really, and it’s thrilling to show her new ways to express her talent. It’s also a huge ego boost for me because they think I’m some kind of artistic genius.

I know I’ve written before about never recognizing my own artistic ability. I’ve spent so much time trying to support the artists I’ve loved, and help them realize their own goals. I’ve always thought of myself more as a dabbler, but now that I am the working artist in my household, I think I need to get on board with this idea – Schnoo as artiste.

Thirty-three years of denial is hard to kick. This much I know.

My partners are super supportive. They are supportive in the way that I have been supportive; that ‘I know you can do anything you want, and I want to help you realize how’ kind of way. It’s so incredible, in fact, it’s sometimes hard to believe. I want to be very sensitive about never taking advantage of this, or taking it for granted.

What will I do now, with this opportunity? I know I cannot sit at a desk, in an office, tied to one space for hours on end. I don’t work well like this, and I can’t pretend anymore.

The faint glimmerings of an incredible work possibility are on the horizon, but I don’t want to jinx it. It all came about in one of those moments when timing seemed like everything. I’ll write more as I learn more about this.

Whatcha got for me next, universe?

Please Be Sure to Secure the Overhead Compartment

Madame Tutli Putli

I think I’ve figured out why my new digs feel so crowded. Besides the obvious reasons associated with adding a fifth person to a household of four, of course. I think perhaps I may have too much baggage.

While some people show up with a smart little bag on wheels I have two steamer trunks, ten hat boxes, and three large suitcases. I don’t think I realized how much stuff I had until I tried to fit it into someone else’s space.  Stacking each piece up, one after the other, realizing that nobody else had arrived with so much, is getting to be a little embarrassing. It just doesn’t fit. I always thought it meant I was prepared for everything, but as it turns out, a handy all-purpose something or other that is more neat and compact would have been a better choice.

Now I’m standing at the station, surrounded by cedar-smelling, leather-trimmed boxes. I’m sifting through piles of soft unmentionables, awkward, cumbersome mementos, stacks of crumpled old letters, strange-smelling warm things, and some old, tattered, unflattering bits that haven’t fit me for years. I don’t know what to keep and what to leave behind.

A lovely woman is at my side. She means well, but has no more a clue than I about what is valuable. She knows which pieces bring out the colour of my eyes, and which garments are cut to fit me best, but she also understands the value of sentimentality in moments such as these.

A man gazes from his seat, out the window. His expression is drawn, and tired. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I think it’s safe to say he’d like to get going, and he’s wondering if the train is going to wait much longer. He buries his nose in the paper and tries to distract himself from my frantic rummaging.

When I was eight, I was almost left behind on a VIA train platform in Quebec. My family had been to visit my aunt, and when we boarded our ride home, my Nana and I got separated and ended up in a separate car. Rather than patiently wait for the conductor to open the connecting doors and let us pass through to meet my mom and dad, my Nana insisted I get off the train and run around to get on their car. I’m still not sure why she did this, though part of me believes she might have been trying to get rid of me.

As soon as I hopped off the train, the doors slid shut, the bells started dinging, and the train began to slowly pull away. White, cold panic spread through my little body, and I began to run, and cry. My mom freaked out, and someone must have hit the emergency alarm, because the train screamed to a halt, and the doors popped open again. My father ran out and scooped me up into his big strong arms, carrying me on board to my tearful mother. I don’t remember much else, except that the conductor let my Nana through, my mother was furious, and my Nana called me a “baby” for crying. My mom didn’t have much to say to her for the rest of the ride.

I don’t want the train to leave without me. I’m purging and re-packing just as fast as I can, but there is a vast collection of stuff here – years of hoarding, in fact. Maybe the trip will be easier if I stay behind and look forward to post cards.

Morning Pages

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I’m trying to post something here every day, but sometimes when I wake up in the morning, my head is so full of cobwebs, I have nothing really to say.

This morning, we’re listening to music that is slightly too loud for my morning ears, our three year old is laying on the sofa looking up adoringly at her daddy who is trying to get her dressed, our six year old is very slowly eating her cereal, my girlfriend is unloading the dishwasher, and all five of us are drinking kale smoothies.

“K for kale.”

The little one has been home from school for three days now, if we include today, due to a runny nose and a nagging, liquidy cough. Despite these symptoms, she seems her usual self – just as much energy, and I learned yesterday that if you don’t want to be bombarded in the shower, you must lock the door. I didn’t even have a lock on my bathroom door at The Fortress.

Our older one is looking forward to a big event at school tonight that involves the children exploring a magically transformed classroom in the dark, on their own. It’s supposed to be quite magical, but I have to miss this because I have a meeting this evening.

It’s slightly overcast, but I can see lots of blue sky, and I’m wondering if I should ride my bike today. I’m also trying to decide if this is physically possible because my boyfriend switched up my workout yesterday, and I can barely move. I think I’ll decide to push myself anyway. I have no clothing that fits me anymore.

Sometimes I sit here and marvel at how much everything in my universe has changed.

I went from being a lonely, single girl who took the occasional solace in her dog, to a girl who is constantly surrounded by people who love her, who no longer sees her dog because of the petty nature of his other owner, who is in the best shape she’s ever been in, and who is watching every single thing she’s ever wanted fall into place.

I miss my dog. I miss living close to the park and the trees, particularly because I know how much the girls would love that, sometimes I miss my things, and every once in a while I’m aware that I need a quiet place to retreat to. I imagine we all do. Our current home has no walls. The rooms are divided with a series of sliding glass doors, and you can hear everything around you. When I’m not at home, I hear everything around me in a different way. This dam-bursting amount of change, and joy, and love has me casting a critical eye at all of the things that are wrong in my own head, that have been preventing me from feeling such joy all along.

This weekend will be about family. (I’m looking at my girlfriend right now who is talking to our six year old from the fridge. Her hair is all tied up and she is wearing a fitted oatmeal sweater. She looks so gorgeous and delicate this morning. I love how fairy-like she is.) Last weekend, we hit the dollar store and bought a whole bunch of craft stuff and spent the day working on home made decorations for the Christmas tree. I’d love to do more of the same. We were hoping to get in a visit with my friend Ming and her new baby, but I think with a sick little one, and the rest of us exposed to those germs we’ll have to forego that.

Tonight we’re cooking dinner for two of my friends who have been so generous lending their talents to my cabaret company. They will get to meet the girls for the first time, and I’m always delighted by this because they are so utterly charming with new people.

Sunday I’m hoping to connect with my aunt who I haven’t seen in a while, and Sunday evening we’re descending en mass to the Muslim equivalent of a baptism or baby naming ceremony. Oh yes. There’s the element to our relationship that I haven’t shared yet. It’s going to be a big one, I think. A whole new world to discover and negotiate my way through. I’m looking forward to this. I love ceremony and religion.

The sun has gently pushed aside some cloud cover, and is streaming over my shoulder to illuminate my hair in a fiery halo. Our littlest one has been released from her first time-out of the day, my girlfriend is finished packing up lunch (which is supposed to be my job), my boyfriend is hard at work, and I’m off to fold some laundry and send our six year old off to school.

See how normal life can be? We’re not so different, you and I.

From our three year old: “Daddy, can you put rock and roll on?”

No More Clamato Before Bed

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Last night I had a dream about a baby. A fat-cheeked, red-headed baby girl that was mine. Except I wasn’t convinced that she was real. I kept seeing her when I was alone, but she was never around when I was with other people. I held her, smelled her sweet, sweaty neck, kissed her, sang to her, and decided in my dream that I had completely lost my mind and made her up.

I was in the mall near the house I grew up in with my friend Kathryn, and we were shopping for baby things, and I was nervous because I realized that I would soon have to tell her that there wasn’t a baby to meet, and that she’d come all the way to Hamilton to learn that I’d lied to everyone. Then my cell phone rang, and it was my mother calling to see when I’d be home because the baby was getting hungry.

This dream continued through the course of two alarms going off in my real world.

Presently, at my house, we are working together to concoct the stories we will tell the rest of the world about our relationship and connection to one another. Various facets of our life will hear various elements of our reality. Each story is crafted to allow for the most inclusion and involvement in each other’s communities, and to protect the children as best we can.

I know I’m idealistic, but it’s so frustrating to think of all the kids I’ve known over the course of my life in two-parent households that were so, so lacking in even the very basic things that humans require. I had a little girlfriend when I was nine who used to come to school reeking of her parent’s chain smoking, always with matted hair and a Kool-aid mustache, wearing the same clothes every day until the teacher had to send her home to change. It’s maddening to think that someone might raise an alarm because our household has three loving parents who would do anything for these girls growing up here.

This is our reality – we cannot be exactly as we are anywhere we’d like to go. I, who always like a good fight, must realize this more than anyone. There are compromises to be made for the sake of protecting ourselves and our home. It’s just such a shame after spending 33 years not fully realizing myself that I can’t always shout it to the world.

Silly prideful lion.

More Mama Love

mother_goose1

From my girlfriend’s mama:

Three in the bed and the little one said “roll over, roll over”
They all rolled over and one fell out…
Two in the bed and the little one said “roll over, roll over”
They all rolled over and one fell out…
One in the bed and the little one said “ ROOM AT LAST”…

. .. I’m a sleep on the right side of the bed person…. Middle? – not in a million, trillion years…. I hear you!

Some of my best moments are when I am completely alone. That means I am not accountable to anyone for anything other than to please myself. Remember you too need alone moments and its OK to take them. That’s why partners go on vacation without the kids and away from family and friends.

Yours is a unique relationship and it may take considerable time to feel safe and believe that everything will work out fine. I’m guessing past relationships have taught you that separation can be nasty. I’ve had some experience with that myself. When the right partner came along and it felt so right, I did everything in my power to push it away. Fortunately for me I was not successful. We invest so much time and energy into building relationships that it becomes easier to run and hide and protect ourselves from hurt again.

Your fear may be based on being surrounded by love, whole and complete given freely. As you peel away the layers, the threat becomes greater and you feel more exposed, until you are warmed by the fact that your fear was ungrounded. The bottom didn’t fall out, you were still safely wrapped in understanding, compassion, support, patience and there it is again that word…. Love. You cannot be in a relationship with anybody without compromise.

My biggest fear in this relationship is that the one person who I care deeply about will be pushed to the background. Care taker? Provider? Taxi cab driver? (none of it my business or within my control to change – acceptance is key). There is more to be discovered. You echo my fears in yourself, interestingly I see you in the forefront leading the way.

You can’t change history, only embrace it, learn all there is to know and make new memories. I’m into instant gratification and get frustrated with process, it takes so long to get to the end and when you get there the marker changes so you move forward again through a different process. It’s a lot like piecing a quilt… I hate the process but love the end result!

What happens if one or the other decides they don’t want you anymore? What happens if you decide this is a bad idea and you have been a part of shaking up a generation’s perception of what a family structure looks like. What happens if this is the best thing that has every happened in your lives. What happens if the three of you balance your relationship better than any two-party relationship and become the envy of everyone around you. What happens if the world is changing and as I am discovering, your new relationship is no big deal, everyone is happy, best case scenario. What happens if the girls love you so much that it hurts. What happens if there is another baby/child brought into the family to shower with more love.

About the bed… the purpose is to get a “good nights sleep”, make that the priority – a little cuddle and then draw straws – adios, see you later, bon voyage, … I’d be moving to the futon, love, love, love it. … You can’t think straight or feel well when you are not well rested.

Post or not as you see fit.

God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference

Momma.