Now, the roles have reversed. Now I’m the mother of teenagers, who have recently complained that I lack decorum.  And it makes me defensive. I want to say things like, “I? Embarrass you? Why should you be embarrassed? What I’ve said has nothing to do with you and isn’t any of your business… isn’t it your bedtime, by the way?”

Coming full circle is a strange and curious experience. It’s not that I want to negate my children’s honest responses and feelings—I remember having them myself, after all. The mother-daughter relationship is complicated.

But when I look back, I realize that I perceived my mother as a one-dimensional personality, a cardboard cutout—and in some ways I still do. This is the woman who did laundry, made meals, had no history and only came to life when I got home from school. She only existed to serve my existence.

And I suppose that’s the way it should be. You don’t want to have a mother who doesn’t serve your existence: we call that neglect. Therefore, how can a child see her as anything else?

It is an excruciating thing to be a writer and not be allowed to express on paper what’s closest to the surface for fear of irritating someone else. Writers need to write about everything, it’s an outlet. Writing is how I make sense of my feelings, and how I make sense of the world.

It’s doubly excruciating to not be able to write about the experience of not being able to write.

In other words, I might get in big trouble for blogging—er—complaining, about this. (If I go missing, don’t believe the suicide note.)

I was thinking about my memorable moments today while I was elbow deep in Christmas baking. I was happy to observe that I had more than one.

Five years old: In my flowered flannel nightdress early Christmas morning, I hopped barefoot downstairs to find my mother crouched beside a Wedgewood-blue plastic dollhouse with white shutters (saltbox-style) sitting unwrapped under the tree. She looked up at me and grinned when she heard my sharp intake of breath.  I ran down and immediately started arranging the little orange furniture pieces, individually-wrapped in clear plastic.

Nine years old: Two Shaun Cassidy albums…sigh…I was going to marry him. I have no idea why it didn’t happen. Later, when he starred in the Hardy Boys series on television, I switched my preference to Parker Stevenson. He was taller.

Eleven years old: The first time I ever saw It’s a Wonderful Life late one Christmas Eve. The story enthralled me, and I pondered it for days afterward—“Every man on that transport died. Harry wasn’t there to save them, because you weren’t there to save Harry!” Powerful stuff.

Thirteen years old: My older brother came home from university to celebrate the holidays, and we posed for pictures in front of the tree. I was wearing a white knit pullover with purple stripes and dolman sleeves that I bought with my allowance money. And I smiled because, for the first time in memory, my brother seemed happy to sit and chat with me.

Eighteen years old: On Christmas break from my study at a technical school near Toronto.  Didn’t I feel cosmopolitan, coming home to visit the country folk? Within a few short months I had doused my permed hair with henna, turning it a brilliant red, and got a very short 1980s mushroom cut (long in the front, short in the back). When I boarded the plane in Toronto there was no snow, just a mild, dull brown landscape. I wore a long black coat and black boots with a bow and skinny heels.  But I nearly slipped and fell when I landed in Moncton, where it had been snowing heavily for quite some time.  I slipped and slid everywhere I went that Christmas—but I had great-looking footwear.

Forty-three years old: Right now, right where I am. With my three fantastic, healthy kids who are growing up so brilliantly in front of me and my husband who, by example, teaches me about unconditional love and servanthood every day.  I am thankful for one more Christmas with my parents and other family members. I’m thankful for the things I was able to accomplish this year—releasing a first book and experiencing my first play production. And I’m thankful for my health and really, really good friends.

And though things often go wrong and there’s not always enough money and there are plenty of things that need to change, none of it really matters compared to all the greatness in my life. And with that in mind, to you and yours, I wish you the very best of the holiday season, and a healthy and productive 2012.

As I glanced up to grab my mug I noticed the Jehovah’s Witnesses trudging up the walkway to R’s house across the street. It’s the white house with black shutters on the corner, gaily decorated for Christmas in red bows and greenery.

The experienced fellow of the pair opened the screen door and knocked while the novice waited and watched at the bottom of the steps.

I watched, too, wondering what R would do when she opened the door.

After about 15 seconds, the door opened and the man stepped forward. But as soon as the door opened, it shut again firmly.

They had nary a moment to get out the first pleasant greeting when they were shooed away like so many bold gray squirrels going after a picnic in a city park.

I noticed his resigned look  as he retreated down the street on this chilly December morning. I felt a twinge of discomfort on his behalf. What a lonely existence, I thought. It can’t be comfortable to be constantly turned out on your ear.

But perhaps it’s not such a lonely existence. Is it possible that when there’s little comfort or acceptance for one’s ideas, pride can easily fill in the empty hole?

This pride attached to knowing that one is utterly and completely right and the knowledge that one is suffering for a higher purpose is the fuel that gets us from door to door, whatever we’re selling.

My lips curved in a little sheepish smile then, because I remember many times when I found the same subtle satisfaction in the idea that I had all the answers, at least about a subject or two—and I know that attitude served to severely annoy the people in my life.

Because someone who acts as though they know everything and have no questions at all ceases to be relevant to the rest of us, who are mucking about in the quagmire of life.

Oh, the insidious, prideful comfort of being right, even more so if you actually are right. Then, you’re really annoying.

Continuing to be teachable even as you continue to be convinced of certain things is the key to a life that bears healthy fruit.

I think that’s why I love the Bible so much because there are miracles and mysteries contained within its pages that seem contradictory at first blush. Yet with time and closer inspection, they morph into paradox—a riddle of missing information.

And as my life races by, wrestling with these issues through difficulties and disappointments has made me less cocky and more objective. It’s the process of wrestling that has helped me make peace with the things that I don’t understand.

Is this what I’ll say when they come to the door? I think it’s something you have to go through to appreciate.

The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control…Galations 5:22

“This your book?” he mumbled.

I nodded, leaning forward in my seat. “Yes,” I answered, smiling.

“So you wrote it?” he asked again, eyebrows knitting together as he squinted at the back cover.

“Yes, I wrote it,” I said, adding my standard, “do you have any teen girls in your life? This is a novel for young adult girls.”

He glanced up briefly over the book cover as he continued to read. “Um, I have a couple of cousins.” He adjusted his droopy pants. After considering for a while, he put the book back down on the stack in front of me. “Well…I would buy it…but I didn’t bring any money.”

I gave him a sympathetic look and shrugged. “Ah…that’s too bad.”

Then his eyes fell on my fine-point Sharpie pens, two of them, lying side by side on the table. He pointed at them. “Ah! Those are great pens, aren’t they? I LOVE those pens!” he exclaimed. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and backed away slowly, like a monkey hoping to get away from a tiger before it pounces.

“Yeah. They’re great. I really love them, too,” I called after him, deciding not to pounce.

And so it was, my first of a very few conversations and I wished the line-up at my table was as long as the line-up for coffee.

My second favourite response are the old women at craft fairs. They pick it up, read the back, and then I love watching their eyebrows fly up when they figure out the subject matter. “Oh dear,” they say, “I can’t read that!”

They promptly drop the book and walk away.

I can’t say I enjoy doing this type of thing. I’ve spent many years volunteering behind a table, waiting for someone to buy something from me, looking at passersby in the eyes with a pleasant-but-not-threatening smile—whether it was for the development agency Compassion International, hoping families leaving a concert would sign-up to sponsor a child, or to sell tickets for some charitable event—and now, to sell copies of my own first novel.

But I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s really useless unless people are expecting you and have come to the store purposely to buy what you’re selling. This is largely affected by how well-known your book is in the first place, and notoriety has to be achieved in other ways.

In one of his lectures and biographical sketches regarding education, Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Leave this military hurry and adopt the pace of nature.  Her secret is patience.”

Lifted out of context and applied to my current situation, I find I have little patience, and little awareness of the world around me.

Right now, life is just a goal. I find that the distance between my message and my audience is far too great. But I’ve only just started the journey.

Maybe a walk in the woods would help.

Take a deep breath or two. Look at the stars.

There’s always tomorrow.

I can’t help it: I love the word “dude.” I giggle whenever someone uses it. Put it at the beginning or the end of any sentence, and it’s funny. If you can imitate Keanu Reeves in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure while you say it, so much the better.

Unfortunately, my children forbade me to use the word “dude” in any of my sentences. Ditto for the word “sick” –meaning good, not ill—not in my home or with friends or on Facebook. There are certain words in the English language that are off-limits to anyone over age 20…especially if that person is Mom, who immediately renders them uncool and unusable.

Of course, this isn’t the first time one generation has claimed exclusive rights over words and phrases.

I tried to explain the etymology of the word “dude.” The surfer culture of the early sixties popularized its present usage, when I was just a twinkle in my mother’s eye.  Before that, it referred to city slickers who vacationed on cattle ranches…How then could my twenty-first  century teenagers claim a monopoly? They just rolled their eyes.

As a teen in the eighties, if we were disgusted, we’d say things like, “Gross me Green—Call me Kermit!” (A reference to Sesame Street in its heyday.)  Other similar phrases were “Grodie” and “Gross Me Out The Door.”

“Decent!” or the aforementioned “Excellent!” were happy exclamations of wonderfulness, but “Wicked,” ‘Totally Awesome” and “Outrageous” were also acceptable alternatives.

The Head Bangers were heavy metal fans, the Space Cadets were the odd people with their heads in the clouds, a Hoser was a clumsy or stupid person who drinks lots of beer (coined by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas in SCTV’s famous comedy sketch, The Great White North). A nice outfit earned the term Boss, Bombdigity, Happenin’ or Bodacious, as in, “That outfit is the bombdigity!”

I don’t remember being embarrassed by my parents’ language, perhaps because they didn’t try so hard to interact with me. They were too busy working and paying the bills. Our lives didn’t intersect much, and I didn’t question the fact that they probably didn’t understand me. So, as a modern parent, am I trying too hard?

Heck, no. I just like the word dude.

Wait your turn, kiddies. Right now, you’re basking in the glory of youth and coolness, but all will be a distant memory when you have children of your own. Until then: “Excellent! Party on, dudes!”

In later stages, I not only had physical discomfort, I also agonized over my fitness as a mother. Could I be an effective parent? Could I rise to the challenge of launching my baby into a fruitful life?

In the days before the delivery, I started looking for someone to help bring my baby into the world. Nobody wanted us. At first, I didn’t worry about it, but as time wore on, I started getting anxious. Doesn’t anybody care, I wondered?

The day I felt the first pangs, it was dreary and gray. And then the skies opened and pelted the streets with rain. Poor, soaked and penniless, I wandered from hospital to hospital seeking refuge, but they all turned me away.

They were full.

Or they were only for certain types of pregnancies.

But mostly it was because they just didn’t like my kind. One hospital almost loosened their regulations for me and I dared to be hopeful, but in the end they lacked the courage.

As the pangs grew urgent, I couldn’t continue looking. I opted for a home birth instead.

Okay, it’s not a perfect analogy. Books aren’t like babies, who find their way down the birth canal no matter where mama is. If a book is rejected, you can let go of your romantic delusions.

But these days, writers don’t have to let manuscripts gather dust in a drawer if a publisher doesn’t wave their wand of approval over them. Today, self-publishing is David to the publishing world’s Goliath.

And you know what happened to David. He killed Goliath, and then became king.

I could have accepted rejection and gone on to another project, hoping I would be a better writer someday, good enough to catch somebody’s eye.

But over time I realized that I was living out the theme of my own novel: validation. We all want it so much in every area and every stage of our lives. It takes courage to ignore that insecure voice, to be objective and follow where the logic leads.

My favourite quote comes from my literary hero, C.S. Lewis. He said, “No man who desires originality will ever be original. But try to tell the truth as you see it, try to do any bit of work as well as it can be done for the work’s sake, and what men call originality will come unsought.”

Like it or lump it, I certainly have tried to tell the truth as I see it.  Whether you think I achieved it is up to you, the reader.  And so, I am launching my first novel on October 8, 2011 at Cover to Cover Books in Riverview, New Brunswick, from one to three p.m.  I hope you’ll come.

I can’t say that I’m overjoyed to have had my baby at home, but we got through the birth unscathed and I think she’s beautiful nonetheless.

How does one adjust to not being needed at all when one is used to being needed all the time?

Brr, that gave me a chill.  I’m not going to think about that right now. Forget it.

Anyway, I was looking through some old journals and it occurred to me how much children change your language.  Through the course of time as a parent I have said many things that would just never come up between adults.

I revisited some frustrated phrases this morning, which I found locked up in the annals of our family history. As a public service, I thought I would share a few, so that new parents may prepare themselves.

1. “Get your feet out of the spaghetti.”

No self-respecting reasonable adult, ready for dinner, does this. But toddlers do, especially the ones who sit in high chairs and who like to play with, wear, and eventually fall asleep in, their food. If you have a particularly mischievous kid, they will only do it when your back is turned, or when entertaining guests. This sentence also applies to applesauce, chili, fried potatoes, or anything else that could potentially be sucked off a toe.

2.  “Do not lie down on the floor at the mall and lick the carpet in the video game store. That’s gross.”

At the time, an older sibling reported that our preschooler got such a bright idea from watching Spongebob Squarepants…remind me to sue myself for permitting such a terrible television babysitter. I patted my husband on the back, who was about to vomit at the sight of our little boy getting such a kick out of smearing his tongue over the dirty carpet, and I whispered the word, “antibodies.”

“Antibodies” is also akin to the comforting phrase, “Five second rule,” which I often whispered to myself when the kids dropped food on the floor/concrete sidewalk/muddy path, picked it up and shoved it in their mouths before I could stop them.

3. “Stop trying to blow up each other’s brains!”

This is a current form of battle in our home among the young’uns, possibly a reference to a popular television sitcom, in which the main character puts his fingers to his temples and stares at an annoying person with the intention of blowing up his or her brain telepathically. So far, it hasn’t worked for the main character, and it hasn’t worked for my kids…thank goodness. Unfortunately, the fact that it doesn’t work means they sometimes come to real blows, and that can get pretty messy.

4. “No, you cannot give the bugs crawling through your hair to somebody else.”

Such irony in my child’s tearful words… she was angry and impatient that the presence of lice was costing her participation in several social activities, but I laughed and assured her that giving them to somebody else was what we needed to avoid.  What followed was a week of treating, washing, combing, combing, combing (a little inward cursing) and haircuts for everybody.

Okay, let’s get off this one, I’m starting to get itchy.

5. “What are you talking about? Of course there’s a tooth fairy…sometimes she just forgets how to get to this neighbourhood.”

Yes, folks, the tooth fairy almost always forgot to exchange teeth for money at our house. I came up with all kinds of excuses, even answering a distraught child when they came in my room early the next morning with an, “oh, my goodness, are you sure? Go to the bathroom and I’ll check for you,” but this clever ruse didn’t convince them for long. Eventually, they just started leaving notes on their bedroom doors which read, “Dear tooth fairy/mom and dad: please do not put my tooth money under my pillow. Leave it sticky-tacked to the door.”

So whatever strange and unusual phrases you end up spouting through the course of your parenting life, just remember, this too shall pass. You will be crying into your graduation order of ceremonies in no time, after which you can eat your spaghetti with a fork.

The subject of death, of course, is morbid and generally I find people like to avoid thinking or talking about it until circumstances, like illness or sudden tragedy, force it upon them.

But the fact that neither of these people would allow their family to publicly acknowledge their passing, and by extension, the life they lived, seems unnatural. So I’m talking about it.

I think it was a little selfish, a tad controlling from beyond the grave, a snub to the people who loved him. Sound harsh? That’s how I feel about it.

After all, a funeral isn’t going to be enjoyed by the person who died. Imagine it…we’re not going to be at our own funerals! We’re not going to be sitting at the back, thinking how fat and bald everyone’s gotten, how awful the singer was, or how far away we had to park.

We can’t fathom the nothingness of death, so we envision our own ceremony as though we were guests. And who enjoys going to funerals?

Actually, I hope my own funeral will be a time for my family to rejoice, because as a Christian, I believe death is more like a graduation. As Tolkien wrote, “…the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

I’ll finally be with Jesus, and I hope that joyous thought will help my children deal with the grief of being separated for a time. In the meantime, remember. Close ranks, love one another. Live your lives well, remind each other about what’s important.

A funeral is a ritual that allows friends and loved ones to commemorate someone who made an impression on their lives, an impression on the world, for good or for ill. We shouldn’t take it away from them. It’s the period at the end of a sentence–it’s not finished without one.

Seen through the eyes of female artisans and writers, the production attempts to expand society’s notion of beauty beyond thin thighs and young, smooth faces. Wrinkles and white hair are beautiful (in their own way), largesse is beautiful (in its own way). It purports the idea that just as every different flower in nature is beautiful, so are we, at every stage in life.

Creator and host Colleen Furlotte sums up her documentary by saying “beauty doesn’t create love; love creates beauty.”

Oh, blah, blah, blah.

I smirked at a quotation from a 29-year-old girl in the film. She said, “I look forward to wrinkles.”

With eyebrows raised, I looked at the friend on my left and whispered, “we’ll see.”

I suppose I shouldn’t have spoken it aloud at such a love-in, but I can’t help smiling at her naivete. You see, the real problem with wrinkles is all the things you have to go through in life to get them.

I got my first wrinkle in college. One night around 10 pm, I was walking home on an empty street after a shift at my part-time job. From far behind, a man began chasing me. “Andrea!” he kept yelling. “Wait–you come back here!” (Whoever Andrea was, she was in serious trouble.) I kept walking faster, almost running, hoping I’d get home before he reached me. My heart leapt in my throat. He finally caught up and grabbed my shoulder. I whirled around, afraid of what might happen next. When he saw my face, he stopped short, and his angry look turned sheepish. “Oh…sorry,” he said, and walked away.

I never walked home alone again.

All kinds of momentous occasions cause wrinkles: the time your spouse had a serious motorcycle accident while you were just a couple of weeks from giving birth; the time your toddler decided to go sit in the middle of the road when your back was turned—that was worth a few gray hairs; or when he put a baseball through somebody’s window with a replacement value of $700. It’s getting one too many sunburns in childhood, enduring financial ups-and-downs, stress on the job (or having no job at all), the betrayals of chronic disease. It’s just time.

It’s one thing to be a 68-year-old, like one woman featured in the film who said, “I’ve never colored my hair, I like my white hair the way it is.” Fantastic! More power to you for gracefully accepting the changes age brings. But it’s quite another to have a 20-something look at you and say, “Oh, I love your gray hair. I can’t wait till my hair is gray.”

Are you nuts? Enjoy being young, for heaven’s sake. It doesn’t last very long. There will be plenty of time to enjoy gray hair when it comes. Hopefully, your fading color and shine will be replaced by the more eternally beautiful values of patience, maturity, gratitude, kindness, and the wisdom to take joy in small things.

Please hear me, grocery store clerks, gas station attendants, librarians, food servers and retail sales associates: I am not your “dear,” nor am I your “sweetheart.” Those terms are reserved for use by close relatives, not perfect strangers, especially if you’re younger than I.

This is not a new peeve for me, I’ve been peevish since childhood, when usage of the word “dear” by strangers underscored the fact that I was just a kid. Then, in adolescence, I wanted to be called “Miss,” since I was on the fast track to adulthood. I enjoyed “Miss” all through my twenties, and by my 30’s, “Miss” became a highly-prized title because I was transitioning into the matronly-sounding “Ma’am” (which, by the way, is also a traumatic development).

Today, in my 40’s, with my gray-speckled hair and spreading crow’s feet, I’m okay with “Ma’am.” I’ve earned it. If it’s good enough for Elizabeth II, it’s good enough for me. But I’m finding the word “dear” is once again rearing its ugly head, in the grocery store, at restaurants, wherever workers are trying to convince me they’re down-home friendly and they give a hoot.

For older people, the term “dear” is used on younger people as an expression of a nurturing, caring attitude, as in grandma saying, “would you like another cookie, dear?” Grandma is allowed to call me dear. She earned that privilege, not the bank teller.

Younger people also address older people as “dear,” presumably for a similar purpose—to be soothing or warm perhaps, but to me it doesn’t have the same cachet. It’s what nurses yell at seniors on the geriatric floor: “We’re going to turn you over now, dear, so we can get that suppository up there. Just hang on…”

I’ve noticed that children and seniors are often treated the same way by those of us in the middle years. We patronize them. The cycle of life begins and ends with total dependence on others. As we age we gradually need most or all the assistance we needed as children…and yet we’re not children. Did the old man on the geriatric floor live through the Depression? Did he fight in World War II? Did he have a meaningful career and a wife? Did he raise a good family? To call him “dear” is to emphasize the fact that a once vibrant and vigorous person with a lifetime of experiences is no longer able to care for himself, a mortifying truth for an adult to face.

We live in a society that is very much focused on what each citizen brings to the table. We are encouraged to realize our ultimate purpose, to make our contribution. As our dependence goes up, our usefulness goes down. The degree to which we marginalize those who can no longer compete is the measure of our preoccupation with self.