January 9, 2013
Baby With a Heartbeat
There are so many things I’ve forgotten to worry about this time around: dwarfism, hermaphroditism, whether my baby would be born entirely covered with one big hairy mole like someone I saw once on Jerry Springer. My pregnancy was confirmed in September with the faintest double line on a home test (albeit the fifth test I’d taken that week. My un-neurotic behaviour only ever extends so far. But I’d known I was pregnant, even if the four negative tests had been oblivious). And after that, I didn’t even get a blood test. I made very few pregnancy-related google queries. One the odd day that I felt well, I didn’t panic and start to think that something was wrong. I was having the rare experience of living life as a normal person does, and it was a really, really nice way to be.
This was entirely different from my previous pregnancy, which tied me up in such knots that my midwife had worried about my blood pressure. Having never had a baby before, I’d found it impossible to believe it was possible, that my body would know how to perform this miraculous thing. It made me crazy to know that that here I was with this enormous responsibility, the creation of a person, and no control over the process. The no control thing was the worst of it, and it seemed really irresponsible to me. This time though, it was easy to accept it, to understand that being pregnant is fundamentally a passive exercise. Part of my ease with this was because it was easier to accept passivity, and with work, a small child and a first-trimester to contend with, any shortcut is welcome. The other part, I think, was because I already am a mother, and spend a large number of my waking (and sometimes non-waking) hours doing “mothering things”. I didn’t feel the need I’d felt before to enact pregnancy (worry about soft cheese and abdominal twinges) in order to stake a claim on motherhood. I had my claim. I also know that this baby is never going to be so easy to take care of as during its time in the womb–let’s enjoy the silence while we can.
(Note: As I say, my un-neurotic behaviour only extends so far. Don’t think that I haven’t supposed that my complacency will inevitably result in calamity. That just when I start to take security for granted, the whole thing will fall to pieces. That I will publish this post, and then find out tomorrow that baby forgot to grow internal organs. But I haven’t supposed so much. I can pack up these thoughts away in a box, which is really something significant.)
When I was pregnant with Harriet, I didn’t know her name or sex, or anything about her, but I spent a lot of time imagining. I wrote her letters, played her music, read her stories every night. I understood that bonding with this tiny being was a really important process, so I worked at this. From fetal kicks, we determined that she loved Motown, we read her Teddy Jam’s Night Cars on repeat so that apparently she’d recognize it, she knew my voice, she knew her daddy’s. Life the soft cheese aversion and anxiety, I think what I was really doing was staking a claim on motherhood. But then she was born, and she was a total stranger. I’d never imagined her face, she didn’t seem to like Motown at all, she was more amphibian than human. It occurred to me that my “bonding” had been 100% projection. The disparity between who she was and the baby I’d imagined (who, to be fair, was at least six months old) made those early days all the more difficult to navigate.
Which is probably part of the reason I’ve not really started using our new baby’s name or proper pronoun, though I’m aware of both. I tell myself that this baby hears more stories in utero than Harriet ever did, because I read stories to Harriet all day long (and most are of far superior quality to the children’s literature I had access to four years ago. Indeed, motherhood has opened up whole literary worlds). Perhaps the strongest bond that I feel to my new baby as a person is that this is Harriet’s sibling, which is a wondrous thing for me to behold. Any sibling of Harriet is someone I’d really like to meet, even if I have no idea what its favourite song is. Yet.
Baby has been kicking away all along as I’ve been sitting here writing this, and I don’t mean to convey that this feeling doesn’t fill me with overwhelming joy. But it’s more a harbinger than a direct message. The sight of tiny feet on my ultrasound two weeks ago, the galloping heartbeat at my last pre-natal appointment. When I went in for my first ultrasound at 11 weeks, and the technician who was blessed with people-skills said to me as soon as she’d started, confirming: “Baby with a heartbeat.” The first outside indication of fetal life since that faint double line six weeks before. That phrase was a kind of music, a song I have such faith in, and I love to play it over and over again inside my mind.
January 8, 2013
Stymied already
It’s stymied already, my one reading goal this year to read more outside the CanLit bubble. I’ve spent the last while putting together the 49thShelf Spring Books Preview, and there is so much to look forward to. The whole list is more than a little coloured by my bias anyway, but in particular, I am excited for Marita Dachsel’s Glossolalia, Belinda’s Rings by Corinna Chong (because who can resist a book with a squid on its cover?), Helen Humphreys’ Nocturne, Bone and Bread by the excellent Saleema Nawaz, Claire Wilkshire’s Maxine, Every Happy Family by Dede Crane, Nancy Jo Cullen’s Canary, Studio St. Ex. by Ania Szado, Tish Cohen’s The Search Angel, and new Chevy Stevens!
January 6, 2013
Whitetail Shooting Gallery by Annette Lapointe
Imagine Alissa York’s Fauna but in rural Saskatchewan and with all the sentimentality stripped away. Imagine lots of sex, kissing cousins, a gunshot to the face, and a set of teeth that get kicked in over and over again. Imagine a family farmhouse, country roads, the kind of place you might want to move to raise your kids if you don’t look too closely. The hockey player, the pastor’s daughter, how he’s giving blow jobs to his teammates, and she’s having sex with her best friend. All those things that go on down in teenage caves in the basement, the kinds of people who live in holes in the ground, poring over pornography, vampire novels, Flowers in the Attic, scarcely coming up for light.
Oh, and horse books. “It’s those damn fillies again. They’re everywhere. That particular shade of sun-drenched blond hair spontaneously generates short fiction for girls when nobody’s looking.” And in a sense, this is a horse book, but not in the way you think. Jen is big, not at all graceful as she scrambles up on her horse’s back. The book begins with gunfire, buckshot in her horse’s neck, and Jen’s own body is full of holes. The shooter was her cousin Jason, the circumstances behind the incident quite unclear, and clarity never really comes, the plot circling around the mystery over and over, as two decades pass.
“Clarity never really comes.” I think this sentence is important, actually, as Whitetail Shooting Gallery baffled me thoughtout, disturbed and troubled me, but it also intrigued me, continually surprised me, never stopped me wondering what would happen next. It’s an anti-pastoral, a complicated portrayal of rural life. It’s the story of Jen and Jason, two cousins whose relationship was always strangely tangled or predatory, who drift apart in their teenage years. Jason is troubled by his shattered family, and while Jen’s family remains strong, her parents don’t really know her. She struggles to reconcile her feelings, her yearnings, her body, with expectations of womanhood. (Significantly, at the arena where Jen teaches figure-skating and Jason plays hockey, the girls’ change room is labelled “Visitors”). She runs around with a pack of wild girls, girls with fleshy bodies, hair, nails and teeths. They’re all a bit feral, and they long for lairs, the kind boys get:
“If Jenn were a boy, she’d have claimed the family basement for her cave. It would be her birthright, She’d have crawled underground and lined her cement cave with clothes and animal hair, and she’d plot how to capture her chosen other-person, how to drag them down into the dark and chew on them.”
The narrative follows Jen and Jascon through their teens, twenties and into their thirties, and demonstrates how each is shaped by their early years, by the peculiarities of the land that bore them, what is possible to be overcome and what isn’t. Both continue to have their closest relationships with animals, Jason with the ferrets and lizards he keeps as pets, and Jen ending up working in a zoo. The line between humans and their fellow-creatures remains ever-blurred, which is one of the most interesting parts of the novel, of so many.
Annette Lapointe’s literary reputation was established with Stolen, which was nominated for the Scotiabank Giller Prize in 2006. And here in her second book, she’s turning Can-Lit on its head, challenging not only her readers’ sensibilities, but also ideas about what a novel should be. And the latter seems to be a requirement for the kind of book that I like best.
January 3, 2013
Our Favourite Kids' Books Lately
Lumpito by Monica Kulling: The evening Lumpito arrived in our lives, Harriet wanted to read it over and over. She’s a sucker for dog books, and Lump became beloved right away. In vivid illustrations by Dean Griffiths, we discover how a little dachshund finds his way into the heart (and home!) of Pablo Picasso. Neither Picasso nor his art are really the focal point of book, but I love that through Lumpito, Picasso becomes a point of reference and part of Harriet’s world.
This is Not My Hat by Jon Klassen: I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know–Jon Klassen is amazing. We were so excited for his new book, which is beautiful and just as subtly sinister as I Want My Hat Back. Harriet loves it, and enjoys it every time she imagines she’s outsmarted the story again.
Goldilocks and the 3 Dinosaurs by Mo Willems: Once again, Willems is no undiscovered gem, but we love everything he does. And for our girl who is especially partial to dinos, we thought this one would be perfect. The book is geared for someone a bit older than three, and much of the humour is lost on Harriet, but we love it, and she gets off on the silliness. It’s the Three Bears turned inside out with a useful moral: if you find yourself in the wrong story, get out.
A Good Trade by Alma Fullerton: In gorgeous illustrations by Karen Patkau, readers follow Kato, a small boy on his morning route to get water for his family in his small village in Uganda. We notice the vivid colours of his clothing and his friends’, the community spirit, and in the background are soldiers on guard, the fact that the children are shoeless. When an aid truck rolls into the village, Kato is intrigued by what’s inside, and imagines what he might give the aid worker in exchange.
The Stone Hatchlings by Sarah Tsiang: We loved this one, a follow-up to Tsiang’s A Flock of Shoes. Abby is back, and she’s found two little eggs. They’re just stones, says her mother, but then we already know that Abby’s mother is often full of nonsense. In Abby’s vivid imagination (and with a great deal of care), the stones hatch into beautiful birds that become her companions. And when it’s time for the game to finally end, Abby’s ready when it does. (I interviewed Sarah Tsiang about the book last fall.)
LMNO Peas by Keith Baker: Not just another alphabet book (plus, it urges on Harriet when peas are on her plate. “Look,” I say. “They’re peas and they’re unique!”). This book is a triumph of design, written in jaunty verse and I love that this alphabet is astronauts, explorers, gigglers, investigators, outlaws, readers, voters vets and volunteers. Also that it has introduced, “Can you dig it?” into Harriet’s vernacular, and at one teaching point (“Kings”) features Elvis. We all love this one.
This Moose Belongs to Me by Oliver Jeffers: Jeffers is another underground kidlit sensation that only I have ever heard of or loved (ha). His new book is a bit of a departure visually, employing the collage technique he’s used in other books but this time using backdrops from old fashioned landscape paintings. It’s a funny little story about a boy who thinks he owns a moose, but the moose is most determined to own itself (and is partial to anyone giving away apples).
January 2, 2013
My Christmas with Caitlin Moran
It is never Christmas properly for me unless I get to spend most of the day curled up on my mother’s sofa reading a book. This year’s book was Caitlin Moran’s Moranthology, which I received in hardback from my sister-in-law, which was only fair because I turned her onto How to Be a Woman last year. It’s a collection of Moran’s columns from the Times from over the years, interviews with characters from Paul McCartney to Lady Gaga, synopses of episodes of Sherlock and Downtown Abbey, celebrity gossip notes, and columns of wider social significance–on poverty, feminism, activism, and more. Moranthology is clearly more a collection of newspaper columns than a book proper, but for those of us who have fallen in love with Caitlin Moran, it makes a fabulous read.
The other book I got for Christmas was Astray by Emma Donoghue, from Stuart who was determined to buy me a book I hadn’t asked for, a surprise book. He went through my 2012 Books Read list, examined my shelves (to-be-read and otherwise), and had my Book City account checked to ensure I hadn’t bought the book and hidden it. As Harriet ended up telling me what all my other presents were (a cast-iron enamel pot and a tea towel), the book turned up to be my only surprise at all, and it was a lovely one.
I have also just realized that ten years ago, I never would have imagined that receiving a cast-iron enamel pot and a tea towel for Christmas would thrill me as it did, but it did! Though mostly because the tea towel is of the Barbara Pym variety. My husband is wonderful man indeed. And I guess a decade is a long time to change in.
December 31, 2012
Terror and Joy
“For 2009, I make no resolutions, because things will be changing whether I will them to or not, and certainly, I am no longer (as) in control of it all.” Which is a thing I wrote exactly 4 years ago, supposing myself to be so brave and open-minded, but what I didn’t know then was how unhappy it would make me to lose control of it all, that I’m really not the type to go with the flow. Having a baby made me more aware of the fixedness of my limitations than anything else I’ve done before, except perhaps for that summer I spent alone adventuring in Europe and crying in phone booths.
So really, my most important resolution for 2013 is not to break. That I employ every bit of my minuscule store of patience. That I’m able to weather the difficult days with an awareness of where they’re taking me, which is to a place where I belong. To face forward, even with all the terror, that terror that is so inextricably mixed with the most enormous joy.
Happy New Year. May 2013 bring you fantastic books, a glorious summer, topped-up glasses and so so much clafoutis.
December 30, 2012
2012: My Year in Books
For the most part, my year in books was a good one, but somewhere around October, it all fell to pieces. I blame my own circumstances for this mostly, but it’s true that books this Fall didn’t spark my enthusiasm as those from the Spring had. There was a time in the spring when I was so on a roll, not sure that there wasn’t a book in the entire world that wasn’t wonderful. By October, I’d stopped keeping track of the books I was reading, deciding I didn’t care about that sort of record anymore, though when I came out of my first trimester stupour, I realized I did, and spent an anxious hour putting my whole list back together.
I’ve already shared my books of the year. I’ve also read some poetry, though I never know how to talk about it here, so I don’t. Some of the best books I’ve read this year that weren’t new were Subject to Change by Renee Rodin, The House With the Broken Two by Myrl Coulter, So Beautiful by Ramona Dearing, Bilgewater by Jane Gardam and All the Anxious Girls on Earth by Zsuzsi Gartner. Like everybody, I loved Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran. And the most amazing book I’ve read all year, the review that brought me more hits than any other I’ve ever written, Firebrand by Rosemary Aubert, “Loving the mayor is a bit like that”. Other notables of 2012 were Tanis Rideout’s Above All Things, Jo Walton’s Among Others, Kyo Maclear’s Stray Love, Noah Richler’s What We Talk About When We Talk About War, Alice Petersen’s All the Voices Cry, Zadie Smith’s NW, dee Hobswan Smith’s Foodshed: An Edible Alberta Alphabet, Sussex Drive by Linda Svendsen, Miranda Hill’s Sleeping Funny, and Daniel Griffin’s Stopping for Strangers. And Isabel Huggan, the very best thing I found all year. I loved her two short story collections so very much, and have her third book Belonging lined up for not so far into the future.
I did not succeed in my 2012 New Year’s Resolution, which was to finally finish reading John Cheever’s collected stories. I am beginning to think that “collected stories” volumes are not necessarily reader-friendly. Or maybe the problem is simply me.
I’ve read 120 books this year so far, and may get two more in before the year is out, as I’m just about finished Ali Smith’s collection The First Person and Other Stories. 120 is less than I’ve read in years past, but then I’ve also been reading for work more than I ever have before. It has been a very busy year, bookwise, with less room to read for pleasure than I’ve ever known, what with the work stuff and the obsolescence of naptime, but then I also know that I’m lucky to be paid to read at all. And that I’ll probably be breastfeeding again in about six months time, which comes with its own agonies, but ample time to read (one-handedly, all night long [yawn]) is not one of them. I’ve also been too isolated in a Can-Lit bubble this year, and need to branch out beyond. In 2013, I plan to do something about that.
Anyway, long live books! Long live authors! Long live small Canadian presses, which publish most of the best stuff out there. I’ve spent the last two weeks reading indulgently, and it’s been a pleasure, reading for reading’s sake. The definition of holiday. And I’ve got some exciting books lined up for the new year–new Lisa Moore, new Kate Atkinson! Also getting around to the 2012 books I’ve been slow on–John Lanchester’s Capital, for one, and others. As ever, I am looking forward.
December 29, 2012
Treasures and others
I’ve decided to remain unabashed about my propensity to read only/mainly female authors, at least until most of the literary world clues in to the fact that they’ve got the same prejudice but just in opposite. And now, apropos of, um, something, a few highlights from the Globe and Mail’s year-end book recommendations list, which I always enjoy and has found me some treasures in years past.
From Robert Hough: “One of the best is Any Human Heart, by William Boyd, all the more so because the central figure is male – a growing rarity in an industry that falls all over itself trying to please female readers.” Charming.
Miriam Toews sells me on Alison Bechdel’s Are You My Mother?, though I suspect Miriam Toews could sell me on anything.
Sarah Polley reads while breastfeeding! And while she recommends we read Anton Piatigorsky’s The Iron Bridge, which I really do want to read, but she notes we should wait ’til baby is weaned: “Generally it’s best to save books about how dictators become dictators for times when you are not lactating – this is something no one told me.”
From Ian Baruma: “Alas, this left little time for contemporary fiction, most of which seems to pale in terms of daring and ambition compared to Melville or Joyce…” Yawn. Though both he and Laura Penny recommend Moby Dick, and my feeling is that Laura Penny never steers one far wrong.
I loved Katia Grubisic’s recommendation of Patrick Warner’s Double Talk, which I’ve been interested in and now I absolutely want to read.
And thank goodness for Lisa Moore: “I choose books by Three Wise Women…” Zadie Smith, which I already know is great,Christine Pountney, which I’m getting a feeling about, and you can always trust a reader who is recommend Elizabeth Bowen, oh yes, you can. I also think that if I spent the rest of my life only reading what Lisa Moore told me to read that I would probably be all right.
And Martin Levin was good enough to recommend one book by a woman, “the great Jane Gardam’s Crusoe’s Daughter,” which I totally want to read now and Gardam is great indeed, though I am beginning to suspect that Jane Gardam is Martin Levin’s go-to woman writer (at least when conversation necessitates), what Woolf is to so many others, but at least he’s read her.
December 19, 2012
The Fairy Door
For me, the blogosphere has always been about inspiration, new discoveries, things to learn, and people to learn from. And while very often I’m unable to measure my own life up to those seemingly perfect ones I find online (I can’t decorate a cake for shit, my knitting is always wonky, and if I had a lifestyle blog, it would be called “Cluttered and Dusty”), I usually come away better f0r these encounters. My life is so much richer for what other bloggers have shown me to strive for over the last decade.
Sometimes these bloggers make it all seem so hard though, out of reach, or perhaps they are just underlining the very things my own world is lacking (like an expensive camera, patience and artistic ability). I’m here to show you, however, that none of these things are really necessary to create a little magic in your lives, and the Fairy Door is case in point. Now, Fairy Doors are amazing. I think I heard about them while I was pregnant with Harriet, and I loved the idea of a tiny portal, a door to nowhere and anywhere, of a secret world beyond our own. I wanted that kind of everyday magic in our household, an otherworldly realm to believe in. So at some point in Harriet’s first year, I “built” one.
According to Pinterest and other fine sources, a Fairy Door is a beautiful thing. Apparently you can buy accessories for it. It’s one of those projects I would never ever have accomplished, or even tried, except that I made mine without a template. In fact, I made my Fairy Door without anything except a Sharpie marker, and it’s not beautiful, and my stairs are really dusty, but I promise you that neither of things mean that my daughter believes in the fairies any less.
Somewhere along the line, our Fairy Door became the home of the Hoopty’s, Mr. and Mrs. Hoopty and their daughter Harriet Hoopty who have been identified our own family’s reflections in the kitchen windows while we eat our dinner. (They must shrink down when they go home.) They have a younger child, a son called Hando, and they’ve also taken in Cousin Dupa since his parents disappeared and his babysitter died. Apparently, they’ve also just had a new baby, christened Butterfly, and it must have been a high-risk pregnancy because Mrs. Hoopty was in the hospital for 7 weeks. She’s been reported to be fine though.
Anyway, it doesn’t have to be as difficult as it appears, parenthood. Which is not to say that it’s easy, but there really are so many wonderful things for which almost nothing is all that’s required.
