Perspective

It's been a weird week or so. I've finally made my decision about Mr Mean Man (thanks, Julie!), and all that he embodies, so that's good. My plan is in place, and as soon as I'm at liberty to talk about it, believe me, I will. But suffice it to say, it's certainly lightened the load for me.

The other thing that happened is that I learned some distressing news a week ago tonight. The mother of one of my 7-year-old's classmates died last week. Melanoma. She was diagnosed last summer, and BANG. She leaves behind a daughter who's 5, a son who's 7, and a really terrific guy who's now, according to multiple sources, having a really bad time of it all.

And she was my age.

I didn't know her. I met her only twice. She seemed really nice. So I'm not writing this to tell you how much I'm mourning my friend, or to talk about what a great person she was; I don't really know. I presume as much, but I don't know.

What I'm writing about tonight is perspective.

Mr Mean Man has been getting my goat far too long. And I've been racking my brain to figure out what I can do to impress him/the others/whomever it is I think I need to impress, to get ahead. And I've realized that it really doesn't matter.

I have spent so much of my life being identified by what I do every day to earn my money. I don't know why. It could be because of the industry I was in when I cut my business teeth, and all the bullshit that surrounds everything that goes on there. I could be the people who I claimed as my mentors while I was in that crowd. It could be a combo. It could be none of the above.

But I've realized that my kids are 4, and 7. And right now, they'll still hold my hand when we're walking along. And they want me to kiss them goodnight, and read them stories, and they want to do things with me and go places with me. And in a few short years, they won't want to do those things with me any longer. Especially the holding hands bit. That might just be what breaks my heart, when it happens. And it will happen.

So after hearing last week's news over a cup of late night decaf with a friend at her kitchen table, my perspective has changed. My decaf friend asked me about how I'd feel if tomorrow were my last day on earth -- would I be so upset about not spending more time slogging my guts out for people who don't even know my name, or people who talk to me as if I'm dirt? Or would I rather be lying there, and remembering all the lovely things I did with my kids, and my husband, and my family, and my friends?

I choose the latter, folks. And it's a conscious decision to do it. It doesn't matter what I do from 9-5, really, as long as it's something I like. And it's something that likes me back.

I look at the faces of my kids. I see pictures of them from just 6 months ago, and I see the changes in their eyes, and faces, and smiles. I see their slightly rounder, slightly more babyish cheeks stare at me from the picture frame, and when I look round to who they are today, I see girls, not toddlers. I see personality, and curiosity, and temper, and independence, and fury, and humour. And I've only got a little while to be within their circles, until I'm banished because that's what we did to our parents, and what our children will do to us.

Last week, what did that lovely young mother think as she waited for her end to happen to her? Was she prepared to leave her children behind? Did she regret any choices she'd made, because she'd thought she'd have years and years to spend? I don't know. I never will know.

But I'm not going to regret a thing. Thoreau also said 'Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.'

OK, Henry. I'm listening now.