Pun intended

Coming back from my weekend away, I was rushing to get on the train. I had that glorious feeling of having spent the day in the sun, all sweat and sunburn, and then hitting the aircon of convention. I like the contrast between the outdoor world of skin and the function and blandness of the train station. I got on the train, assigned seating this time, and took my time getting settled. I said 'hello' to the elderly lady seated next me then dove into the last few pages of Heather O'Neill's Lullabies for Little Criminals (2006).

When I had finished my book I put it down and was ready to make conversation with my seat mate but I noticed she was reading a religious pamphlet hidden between the pages of a paperback.

That stopped me in my tracks.

A garden story

In the collective garden. I try to plant tomato plants while keeping an eye on my son, who runs up and down the aisles. A- is weeding down at the bottom. Ah-, M- and G- haven't arrived yet. J- comes up with the shopping cart full of tools and plants. It is hot and windy. My son has dropped his cashews on the ground and is picking them up with dirty fingers.

A white, French-Canadian woman comes up to the garden. She seems to know many of the members. She smokes a cigarette and has a loud voice. She is looking for Ah- and says she will wait until he arrives. In the meantime, she approaches A-, who has come up to the fence. Cigarette starts telling A- about a research project happening at UdeM, something to do with women from different cultural communities and their food habits, she says. You get a basket of free food, she says, selling the project. There are already women from South Asia and the Middle East, Cigarette continues, we need women from other areas. You're Haitian, right, she asks A-. I am from Burundi, says A-.

I am cringing inwardly as I shove basil into the soil.

Oooh, continues Cigarette, Africa! That's far. She goes on in this vein for a while. I am so offended that I stop listening. That is ok, though, because I have been ignored completely. Too white, I guess.

I swear to myself that when I go back to work, I will not be like Cigarette. I will not pigeonhole people. I will not guess Haiti when it's Burundi. I will not offer people to be part of research studies because I would never want to be part of some research project where free food is seen to be an acceptable and respectful compensation.

People are not their cultural identities. People are not poverty.

I dislike Cigarette. Although I have not smoked in years, there is always a part of me that could.

Cycling in the rain

I have always liked a physical challenge. If there is a mountain, I'd like to climb it. If there is a bike path, I'd like to cycle it. I like the feeling of pushing further, beyond tired. I like the taste of salt sweat on my arms and the feeling of all of my muscles contracting, working in harmony. I like eating dry bread and bland cheese on the edge of cliffs, with only the wind and the waves as company, knowing that anything can happen.

This is not to say I push it the farthest, the fastest, the longest. I have many friends who pass me on the ups of a long hill, who have more stamina, desire, motivation but I like the personal challenge, seeing if I am up to it, racing against myself.

Things changed when I had my son. Maybe the challenge of trying to push him out emptied me of my will to keep pushing on. Suddenly the need for adventure, for a body well-worn with physical exhaustion shifted. Travelling with my son I would worry. Sitting in a fly-infested road-side bar, waiting for a never arriving bus in Central America, I worried. I worried he'd get sunstroke or be bitten by a rabid dog or catch some disease from the swirling dust. I never used to worry. I could sit for days on the side of a road, watching the world go by. I could walk all day with only the vaguest idea of where I would stay that night.

I have missed my adventurous self and have been trying to coax her home.

Today, I feel she made a small gesture of reconciliation. I took my son to daycare, on the bike, in the rain. Now, I know what you are thinking. You're thinking: "AM, that really is no big deal." And you are right, it isn't but it was the joy of not being defeated by weather, of not being intimidated by niggles of worry. It was the ritual of kitting my son and I up in our rain gear, of feeling the lashing rain on my face and hands as I pushed off from the kerb. It was the feeling, after so many months of softness, of that little hardness in my muscles, the feeling of "I can do this."

Loud voice

At the small park today, there was a Haitian woman sitting on a bench watching over several children playing on the jungle gym. She kept up a loud and sometimes funny disciplinary commentary as the children ran amok, often calling over one or another miscreant for a time-out or a one-on-one talking to, before sending them back into the fray. It was loud and somewhat obnoxious.

Yet I have joined the club of loud voiced women. It must be a right of passage in giving birth. Suddenly, I am yelling a lot and the strangest thing is children listen to me. I must have a 'mummy voice' that stops them in their tracks.

Yesterday, I hollered at some children trespassing on the collective garden. "Hey, hey!" I yelled while waving my finger, and the kids turned, they slowed down, they asked permission and looked somewhat sheepish. I then gave a loud speech about respecting the garden space. I didn't even have my son with me, I must have just glowed mummy power.

Today, an older child knocked over my son in the chaos that was the park in the hour between the end of school and the call to supper. The boy stood there, unsure of what to do. I marched over and said "Qu'est ce qu'on dit? On dit 'excuse-moi'!" Such sanctimoniousness! And the poor little guy whispered "excuse-moi" and then I allowed him to go.

Oh the power. In becoming a mother I have become a queen over the kingdom of children. Or perhaps tyrant is a better word.