Tag Archive: work


a morsel of gratitude

cornucopia

Photo Credit: Jina Lee; Licence: CC BY-SA 3.0

Today was one of those days.  You all know them.  Just as I was starting to feel like I was getting back on top of my workload at work, I was dealt a blow when I learned of a decision made higher up the ladder that translates to a major undertaking being dumped on my lap for the next few weeks. That pile of tasks on my desk was just officially pushed to the back burner.  I worked late in an attempt to get a head start, and to put out a few fires.  Then I picked up the kids and arrived home to start making dinner.

Like a lot of people, I’m so exhausted by the time I get home most days that my kids are lucky they’re not fed a bowl of chips and some HoHos for dinner.  But one of the commitments I’ve made to my children is to make an effort with dinner.  I want to serve them good, healthy food to help their bodies and minds grow.  I confess my love of cheese sometimes results in an over-representation of it in my meals, but I try to pack the meals full of nutrients too, using fresh vegetables and foods as little processed as possible.

My boys are pretty good eaters.  My eldest loves vegetables, and both boys will eat lots of things lots of kids (and many adults) won’t: fish, seafood, mushrooms, spinach, etc.  But I still get my share of whining, and after coming home from work feeling defeated but still putting the effort in to make a nutritious meal (that I thought was delicious), I was deflated a little more to hear the tiny violins start playing.

“I don’t like this.”

“Do I have to eat the onions?”

etc.

And then my 3-year-old — the same one whom I’ve asked twice in the last three minutes whether he has to go to the washroom, the same one who has twice replied “no” — suddenly starts squirming in his seat.

“Do you have to pee?” I ask.

“Yes!” he exclaims, his eyes betraying panic.

Knowing it’s an emergency, I throw him on my hip and bolt up the stairs, only to feel a warm sensation spread down my leg as I reach the bathroom.

By the time I got him cleaned up and get us back to the dinner table, my originally comfortingly warm dinner was now stone cold.

And while I scowled into my tilapia and (cold) warm vegetable salad, I searched my mind to find some morsel of gratitude from the experience.  Gratitude is my refuge against the chilling tendrils of bitterness which, on occasion, start creeping into my heart: if I can shift perspective, I can chase away the sting of antipathy.

So here it is: Today, I am thankful that, as a child, my parents (more specifically, my mom) exposed me to the types of foods my kids might be disinclined to eat.  You might feel ripped off by that one.  Don’t. There are lots of people in the world who grew up eating a lot of junk, so are at a disadvantage in knowing how to prepare for themselves or their children the sorts of foods that will keep them healthy.  I had the benefit of a mom who, long before the nutritionist craze that pervades our lives and the media, exposed me to good-for-me foods so that they wouldn’t be foreign to me.  I am grateful for that, and I hope that, one day, my kids will be thankful for it too.

(But I won’t hold my breath).

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“best day ever”

It’s a good thing I’m not paid to write this blog. If I were, I would be fired. I discovered today that I only posted four times in October.  I’m not precisely sure how I should feel about that, but “ashamed” seems close to the mark.

And it is not that I’ve had no feelings of gratitude. But the last few weeks have been tumultuously busy, both at work and at home. It hasn’t been an unpleasant busy. I’ve felt a sense of efficacy and productivity at work, and home life has been packed with the sort of activities that are exhausting, but nevertheless remind me why having a family can be a great thing.

Today was an exception from the fast pace that has characterized the last month.  After bundling the kids into the car and getting my oldest on the bus, I discovered a text message from our child care provider saying she was ill.  What started as any other Monday turned into a “Daddy-Zachary” day.

father with son

Photo Credit: John H. White; Licence: CC BY-SA 2.0

When I was young, my mom and I would sometimes go out together for a muffin and coffee (muffin and hot chocolate for me).  Sometimes I would save up my money so that it would be my treat, though I’m willing to bet my money never made it to the till, my mother being so very much like a mom.

One of my regrets as a parent is that, after the birth of my youngest, spending time alone with either of my boys became a rare occurrence. No doubt all children with siblings appreciate an opportunity to spend time alone with a parent.  For the child, the absence of another sibling is the very thing that makes it special: for a little while, the child isn’t just “one of the kids” but a friend, a confidant, “chosen.”  For the parent, the experience is visited with a quietude that must otherwise seem like a distant memory.  Although my sons have a fraternal affection for each other I doubt my brother and I ever shared, spending time with both of my sons together still usually leaves me feeling like a referee, and I am sure most parents feel the same way.

Today, I am thankful for the few moments in life when parents are able to move beyond the parent-child roles and be friends with their kids.  After Zachary and I returned from a visit to the library, I suggested that he go use the washroom, and then we could read all the books we borrowed.  As he began climbing the stairs, he exclaimed, “this is going to be the best day ever!”  It’s uplifting to see that much enthusiasm over something so simple as reading books with Dad.  It’s not like we don’t read books together every day!  But today was special: it was just us.

the new world

passenger ship

Photo Credit: Unknown; Licence: Public Domain

I was on an ancestry kick several months ago.  Ancestral research is a difficult process made infinitely easier by services such as ancestry.com, which permitted me to research my family history in my pajamas.  And if that isn’t the very definition of progress, I don’t know what is.  I was also helped along by my poor grandmother, who did all of her family research before the advent of online ancestry databases.  Without her immense initial effort, I never would have gotten anywhere.

For some, researching family history has been simple.  In one line on my father’s side of the family, I’ve gotten as far back to the 17th century with nary a bead of sweat on my brow.  My grandmother’s paternal line, on the other hand, has been a thorny maze fraught with dead ends.  Her father seemed to have a penchant for adventure (read: trouble).  He changed his name, and his life before moving from England to Canada is shrouded in mystery.

After a month of solid research, during which I spent almost every waking second not otherwise absorbed by obligation poring through records, I finally had to shut it all down.  I am highly obsessive.  Faced with a problem, I’ll skip meals and sleep in an effort to reach an answer.  I was very literally exhausted.

But the process was not without reward.  The beauty of ancestral research is not only that it tells you something about yourself, but it also gives you a glimpse of history in a personal way.  Though I am cognizant of the class system in England, both now and — more prominently — in the 19th century and earlier, seeing that my ancestors were lower-class labourers opened my eyes to how fortunate I am to live where and when I do.

Today, I am thankful for living in a society that ascribes greater value to determination and ability than it does to birth.

My parents and I have all had the benefit of a university education.  If you told my great-great-grandfather, who was a coachman and domestic servant, that his great-grandson (my father) would be a university-graduated accountant, he would have laughed.  There was virtually no opportunity in his day for anyone to rise above the limitations of their birth.

How incandescent my ancestors must have felt, travelling by ship across the dark waters of the North Atlantic.  Crammed into third class accommodations, the journey must have seemed endless, but on the other side of that horizon stood a new world, laden with possibility.

fortune cookie

A while back, my wife on a whim bought a whole bunch of gourmet fortune cookies, and this week we have finally cracked open the container and been munching on them.  The contents of the cookies are not so much fortunes as “thought-provoking messages.”  Tonight, my fortune cookie said: “Not a cloud in the sky. What will you do with this one perfect day?”

It provides good insight into my mood to know that my immediate and begrudging thought in response to this uplifting message was, “I don’t get to do anything with this one perfect day, because I have to go to work.”  I am, after all, a bit of a cantankerous fellow.

Yes, I do have to go to work, and yes, that does keep from doing many of the things that make my life feel fulfilling and meaningful.  I pay someone to play with my children so that I can go work?  What’s that all about?  But the world is filled with poverty — abject, debilitating, and often if not always preventable poverty.  More so now with the current economic climate, where miserable fortune has fallen roughly on those who were previously fortunate.  The unfortunate have become dire, the dire have become desolate, the desolate have probably become… dead.

So, while my first inclination is to gripe about having to get up in the morning to deal with annoying co-workers, departmental fiefdoms, egomaniacal bosses, internal politics, stress, exhaustion, and everything else… I have to stop myself and say, “at least I have a job” and just leave it at that.

Today, I am thankful for having work, and I am even more thankful for having work that is stimulating some of the time… work that sometimes lets me come home at the end of the day and think, “I helped someone today.”  I really can’t ask for more.

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