Popping the Question

"Soooo... Are you guys planning to tie the knot?"

A friend at work, who saw it all go down last year when I first met my guy, hears me mention our 1-year anniversary and pops the question. The latest in a long line of friends who seem to think my relationship won't be complete until I a) move in with him and b) marry the poor man.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not mad. In the same way that we routinely ask people "So, what do you do?" defining ourselves always by our jobs when we really just want to get to know each other better, I know that my friends are really saying "Is it serious? Does he treat you well? Do you want to spend the rest of your life with each other?" They're thrilled for me: against all the odds and statistics this 'older' woman found love- and through online dating, at that! I am a rare and lucky bird, this I know. And well-wishers, the answers to your unspoken questions are: yes, YES, and Probably.

But here's the thing: my guy and I have absolutely no plans to live together, let alone get married. And you can scratch your heads and wonder why we choose not to 'commit' further, but let me tell you that we are truly happy in each other's company. Far too happy to mess up a good thing.

The luxury of being with someone later in life is that we have so much less to prove. We've already lived with lovers in a marriage-like setup (one of us had a partner's kid living-in as well). Back when we were younger we both thought about having kids, and both of us rejected the idea. As I pass through the last of my childbearing years I feel slightly aghast at the idea that I am-biologically speaking- old, but I have very few regrets about being childless. It was a road I decided not to go down, that's all. I love kids, and now that I'm a teacher I am delighted to be around them more, but my ovaries aren't pining to be used. As for cohabitation? Speaking for myself, I enjoyed living with someone for a while, but love became routine, small faults became large annoyances, and delight withered. He was a good one, the best, but the flame died.

There are so many practical reasons not to live with my person. We both have eccentric work schedules and often work- or don't work- from home. So we'd be constantly in each other's way. One of us is a bit of a workaholic (spoiler alert: it's not me). When we get together it's a break from our responsibilities and worries; if we lived together it would be an endless wrestling match between wanting to have fun and needing to get work done.

We aren't going to combine our financial resources- both of us are better off handling the ups and downs of those by ourselves.

And we're squeamish about swearing eternal love to one another, again because we're old, dammit. We've seen love come and go and we know that what we have now might not last forever. I mean, we both hope that it does, but one way that we can ensure that we are still in love year after year is not to force something that wouldn't be right for us.

You know, for so many years I was stuck in I should, and I wish and If only. What relationship could possibly survive the weight of so many expectations? I was unhappy with myself, and no man could waltz in and fix that. I left a long-term relationship. I had an short and emotionally brutal romance that left me bewildered that I could be so unhappy, since this was nothing I'd ever experienced before.

But when it ended, and I was wrung out, happiness poked its head out again like a sturdy little weed and I realized that for the first time I was truly content to be who I was, where I was.  I realized that I could "smack my lips over life" (to quote a character from one of my favourite children's books). I can remember roaming the streets of Victoria when I was doing a show over there, incredulous that I could feel so wonderfully vital and alive and content to my very bones.

And that feeling never left. Through rough times and loneliness and poverty I was- and AM- so very happy to be me. I don't know if torturing myself through an unsuitable affair was the 'answer'- whether having been through the fire of being so unhappy with who I was I landed on the other side just happy to have made it through. Ironically this unsuitable lover was always telling me to lose my expectations, a suggestion I vehemently ignored. But when I did... sweet relief.

Which brings me to my current relationship, where I simply expect the non-negotiables: love, respect, happiness. All of which are delivered in spades.

Every relationship brings choices. I choose the one I can laugh with, the one whose body feels right pressed against mine, the one I can talk with on the phone and in person like I've never talked with anyone before. The one who celebrates our differences, listens to and remembers the things I say, who brushes off our arguments because he knows there's rock-solid love underneath. The one who needs the space of his own home just as I do. The one who chose not to have kids, just like me.

For those of you who are happily married, or who want that for yourselves, I salute you and I wish you well on your journey. But know that there is more than one way to live happily ever after, and my way won't include an "I do."

thoughts that were a lot more coherent in my head than they appear here.

We sat around a table at Stella's last night- my family- drinking exquisite overpriced Belgian beer and getting happily sozzled together: me, Jon, my brother, sister-in-law, and my Dad, in town on business. Work has been an escape for him in the last couple of months since my stepmom died. The companies he works for have money to burn before the end of the fiscal year so he jets off to Ottawa, Toronto, Winnipeg, and there must be some relief in not rattling around in a house that was large for two people and now houses only one.

I feel guilty that my life hasn't changed more since June's death. That I could say oh god that's tragic and still go on with things as before seems horrible; not because it lacks respect for the dead but because I can't make more room in my life for my father now that he's alone. In another ideal universe I give up work and move in with him and we break through the awkward pauses and find a new closeness in our shared grief.
But it's not like that. I simply can't stop working; every job and every dollar is essential. And if I'm more honest, I didn't want to, not really. I love my dad, and we like each other too, but it's not easy, not the way it is with my mom. We don't have a shared vocabulary.

So we did what we could last night: we got expensively tipsy together and had some laughs and maybe it wasn't much but at least we all enjoy being in the same room together, and if we need a few beers to make conversation flow a bit more smoothly well, that's what beer's for, right?

And it gets me thinking, especially in light of a few blog posts I've read recently on the whole moms-versus-nonmoms debate in the blogosphere. You know, the one where some moms are saying well you just don't get it 'til you've had kids I mean I'm way more of a woman than you'll ever be and the childless are saying don't give me that crap and if you complain about being sleep-deprived one more time I'll... Both "sides" feeling cranky and judged. I love shit like this. I love wading through the posts and the endless commentary, agreeing and disagreeing with various writers. I read a lot of "mom" blogs like a voyeur who peeks into a noisy dark room and takes it in hungrily then says that was... interesting. I don't want to live there, ever. But maybe I could visit again sometime?

Here's what I think: I think choosing to have OR not to have kids is an inherently selfish decision. I mean, I didn't choose not to have kids because the planet is overcrowded (although it is), or because I was afraid I wouldn't be a good enough mom (also true). I choose to be childless because my love of travel, sleeping in and playing music far outweighs any desire I have to breed. And you parents, you didn't have kids because they might discover a cure for cancer (they most likely won't, you know) or create world peace (ditto). You had them because you wanted someone new to love, or to save your marriage, or because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But getting back to family (see, I'll tie this all together eventually). You may have kids and they'll have kids and you'll all sit together at a table one day and drink beer and act like a clan of some sort. Or you may have a brood but you all hate each other or live halfway around the world and never see each other. Or you may choose, like my brother and I, to live a life without kids. To bring our branch of the family to an end. Which means that if (god forbid) I'm widowed one day, there may be no one to have dinner with.
When I'm old, who'll be at the table- so to speak- with me?

Bedtime

Alright, Buddy, I say. I'll read you one story if you promise to be a big boy and go to sleep or read to yourself after, ok? He agrees, and we read a French book about bathtime, his French already so much better than mine. As we read together, his parents put his baby sister in her crib and sneak away for their night out. The story ends, and tears threaten: I don't want to go to sleep! he protests. But we had a deal, remember? The deal was all of 10 minutes ago, a lifetime to a toddler. I cave. I'll turn off the big light and hang out with you for a while, alright? We lie together on his big-boy bed, lit by the blue night-light. His head on a pillow, mine resting on a pile of his books, my feet dangling over the end of the bed. He is giggly, not quite ready to close his eyes. I am giggly too, having sampled a bit of pumpkin wine* at a friend's before my babysitting duties began. We talk, as only a 3 year-old and a slightly tipsy 34 year-old can. I'm a monster. I'm gonna eat your nose. I'm gonna be a pirate for Halloween. So's my boyfriend. How's school? No, I'm a monster and I'm gonna eat your ear!
Finally, adulthood asserts itself and I get up; time to go to sleep, Monkey. We've been "chatting" for a good 30 minutes.
I blow him a kiss and tiptoe out, spending the rest of my time fighting sleep and poring through the weekend Globe & Mail. The baby sleeps like a log; so does her brother.
I remember evenings with him as a baby, as young as his sister is now. I am enchanted, lulled by what has undoubtedly been a super-easy evening of childcare, but I'm so glad they're in my life. I can't wait for more silly conversations as they grow.

*BTW, it was only a bit of pumpkin wine; I was NOT babysitting drunk. And no, that was not a typo- it was pumpkin wine. Imagine pumpkin pie in a wineglass and you have a pretty good idea. Wow. Yum. No prizes for guessing where it came from...

Feelin' Broody

...but not in the way you might think. I've spent enough time around kids lately to realize that there is still no tugging on the old heartstrings when it comes to rugrats & anklebiters. They're fascinating, funny, complex, moody little packages, and I love the ones I spend time with. (and not just because their parents are paying me to do childcare.) But I don't want one at the moment.
No, tonight I was just reading someone's blog and they had an ad for some animal cruelty fund (I believe the fund was against animal cruelty, just to clarify.) And I saw the little photo of a baby grey tabby and my heartstrings were yanked and I thought I want a kitten. I want to smell its clean fur and feel its little head rubbing against my chin and stare into its eyes and feel that inter-species connection. And feel it purring on my lap. But I can't technically afford a chocolate bar right now, so I think a kitten is out. Anyway, I don't like the idea of keeping animals inside, and I'd have to, as we're on the 3rd floor. I know it makes 'em live longer, yadayadayada, but they want to be outside, dammit. Why should I prolong a cat's life by making it sad?

tick. tock.

Reading some of my favorite blogs this evening, steaming tea in hand, I came across two references to Advanced Maternal Age. Yes, this not-so-magic number-35- is fast approaching, leaving me feeling like I did in school when homework was due that I'd left 'til the last minute (I always have been a bit of a procrastinator). The thoughts I'd have then are the same ones I have now: What, already? But I'm not prepared! Does this mean that what I produce won't be good enough? Maybe I should just not do it at all...
A co-worker at the Pumpkin Patch says I feel like I'm in this alternate world where everyone has a child. Funny, and true, because of course the patch is a place you'd probably only come to with a little one. So they're in my sights all day long and still I vacillate between want & don'twant, back and forth like the pendulum in my biological clock.