Books, babies and teething...

Monday morning: it's been a week and our little guy, A, has decided that he is above sleeping.  Or napping.  Or being content.  He has good moments, sure, but he certainly is not himself.  For the first time in 14 months, I feel pretty confident saying this little patch is teething.  Afterall, I can actually see molars and eye teeth pushing through with white little points and I'm guessing that can't feel good.  What also doesn't feel good?  Not sleeping.  Any of us.  And being nine months pregnant & not sleeping = a deep sense of worry.  What will I do when there are two babies?  So, as I cuddle A to sleep and remind myself that all of parenting is more or less a 'phase' I ask myself, what am I modelling for this child?  What am I teaching him?  I hope he is learning that he is deeply loved.  On top of that, I am trying to show him that we read, that we play outside, that we snuggle and that there is no greater gift than love.  But when all you want to do is drift off to sleep all day long, it is hard to remember parenting is an amazing honour and not a tiring burden.

Pride and Prejudice is far and away my favourite book.  But when Elizabeth and her Darcy don't fit the bill, I often turn to another life long friend--Anne of Green Gables.  Particularly Anne of Avonlea and Anne of Ingleside, two in the 7 book series about Canada's favourite willowy red-head.  It was a good thing that I re-read (okay, skimmed for the parts that make my heart swell) Anne of Ingleside last week.  Now a mother, Anne finds herself living with the big adventures of little souls (as well as some classic Anne-Gilbert interaction) and spends a good deal of the book reflecting on motherhood.  She talks of chubby knees, velvet elbows and grasping hands that are so incredible, so lovely and so worth loving.  When A is crying in his crib and B and I are both living in sleep deprivation I listen hard to the words of Anne as she reminds me that this little man (and his soon-to-be sibling) are worth every minute.   What are a few hours of my night?  What are long hours of my day?  What else is more important than nurturing this little soul? Yes, my sanity is up there because that is what I need in order to do the nuturing, but motherhood has made me find that sanity at a deeper level.  Strength from new, deeper sources.  Although Anne Shirley and her little brood are ficticious and not a terribly well balanced look at motherhood, they are nonetheless an example of seeing beyond the precarious moment and remembering that this second is fleeting and worth savouring.   

Not that I think he needs to be spoiled--his newest baby sign language sign is 'please' and we are pretty insistent on responding to 'please' over the point-and-grunt that A so prefers to use.  I also know that sometimes he just has to cry and that you don't learn to walk without falling.  But when he is in pain, a little fevery and distressed, what else can I do?  Perhaps you have ideas.  But in the moment, all I have is my instinct. Thank goodness for books that remind me of truth beyond myself.  

With all The Elegance of a Hedgehog.

When I was in grade ten my history teacher told me I "wrote like a gorilla."  He even put it on my interim report card.  While it seems harsh, it was true.  I have always worked at writing--editing carefully (okay, not so much on the blog) and really forcing myself to take a detailed look at grammatical rules.  I'm still fuzzy on some things (like split infinitives) and ever mindful of number agreement (so much easier to use 'them' when he/she is the right choice) but more or less, I have gotten over my gorilla-like tendencies.  Even by the end of grade 10, great strides had been made.

So when someone loves grammar or is very aware of the rules, I'm a bit in awe.  After all, I am usually doing my best to keep my head above grammatical water, let alone be able to notice grammatical flaws in public places.  I can edit and edit and edit but I don't usually choose to edit my daily surroundings.  In my experience, being too critical always ends badly. 

Grammar, and all of it foibles, plays a central role in The Elegance of the Hedgehog (I really, really love the title).  Two characters tell their own quest for truth, meaning and beauty while facing the day-to-day limitations of life and culture in modern day Paris.  A little dense, yes.  A good read, certainly.  I openly admit to skimming sections that are waxing philosophical on art and the theory of art.  I much preferred the narrative elements to the philosophical, metaphorical musings.  But whenever the author was about to lose me because we had droned on about art long enough, the story reappeared and drew me in again. 

To summarize: if lofty language and academic prose aren't your thing then this book is not for you.  However, if you are willing to read with a dictionary close at bay (another argument for e-readers), this book is a sweet read with a touching finish.  And you will completely understand why such a a title would ever be given to a book. 

Next up: a recommendation The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More (Roald Dahl) and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie (Alan Bradley)

Canada Reads #4: On a Cold Road

So if I said I wasn't a hockey fan (see my thoughts on The Game) then I should also admit that I am not a huge rock'n'roll fan.  However, I do love music and love love love performing (in my own little head I'm a Broadway star) which is probably why I enjoyed On A Cold Road as much as I did. 

I was a little surprised--after all, this is the wayward story of The Rheostatics as they traipse around Canada with The Tragically Hip.  As a fan of CBC Radio, I had definitely heard/of The Rheostatics but to assume that I would therefore enjoy a story of their cross-country travels?  I wasn't so sure. 

But I loved it!  It was an easy read (not nearly as dense as The Tiger) and was a great insight into what day-to-day life is like for most musicians/artists.  For me, the little stories that happen behind the scenes, the things the audience is never meant to know or notice, those are the stories I love.  And I also appreciate Bidini's willingness to share his book space.  After a story or two about The Rheostatics, he turns to the voice of "the chorus" -- a whole group of singers/musicians/music industry people who share his/her own story about a topic--their first gig, worst buses they toured on, little towns they will always remember playing in, and so on.  All of these great windows into the nitty, gritty parts of being a Canadian musician.   All compellingly written in a way that even if you have no idea  who they are talking about (like me), you can somehow relate to the story, the moment, the experience.  Where I felt like The Game never really let me get that close to hockey and the real life of an athlete, On a Cold Road managed to let me get close to the musicians and allowed me to experience all the emotions of being on the road. 

But, in all fairness, I am a performer.  I try to find my way on some kind of stage at least once a year.  I love the backstages, the comradery and the amazing transformation from regular people to actors that comes the second you enter the wings of the theatre.  Nothing is quite like creating art, creating yourself and creating community through music.  So, in that sense, I get Bidini's story.  It compels me because it allowed me to enter into the backstage of a world I will never know (ie. rock'n'roll).  It also reminds me of the moments that I hold so dear--moments no photo, no words, no blog could ever capture.  Moments that are pure art, pure relationship, pure community. 

Wanna know what it's like?  Let On A Cold Road tell you.