Life These Days: Fledging the Nest

The other day, by sheer coincidence, all three kids were wearing their WP gear. Please enjoy this picture of the early morning pre-school chaos, as I forced them to all sit together so I could immortalize this moment on my phone. Something has spilled, someone is eating their cereal out of a small pot, someone is wearing Christmas pyjamas, someone doesn’t care at all about what’s going on, we are all late. Their hand was forced by a near total dearth of clean laundry, so everyone was reaching into the back and dusty corners of their closets and drawers. Careful you don’t end up in Narnia, kids. Things were a little tight on them, but how cute, the three of them matching. My children: the wonder pens chickens, existing out in the world as free, if somewhat vague, advertising.

I’m back in a cheese phase, which consists of me buying various cheeses and eating them directly from the fridge one slice at a time. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a cheese phase, and interestingly now the kids—all three of them—have turned into raccoons, begging aggressively for scraps of cheese every time they see me heading to the fridge with a little knife. It’s terrible because they have zero sense of savouring a small, delicious slice of cheese for what it is, which is an oasis of calm amidst a frantic day; they gobble it up like literal raccoons. Actually I think even raccoons would be more delicate. I’ve tricked Junia into the idea that there’s adult cheese (aged cheddar, gouda, etc.) and kid cheese (block marble, occasional slice of sandwich cheese, etc.), a concept based primarily on the cost of each cheese, but the older two have cottoned on, demanding the good stuff, and as a result, I’ve found myself in the unpleasant position of sneaking around in my own kitchen surreptitiously trying to eat my cheese in peace.

In any case, it’s a reflection of my continued swirling existential crisis, along with accompanying decision paralysis, as we prepare to head off into the world once again, our little troupe of disorganization and grumbling and tumbling out of our cozy Toronto nest. I am but a small creature, a miniature yeti perhaps, just rambling shyly about the corners, not fully understanding the mechanisms and motivations and rationale of the humans around me, competently and capably getting things done. Everyone once in a while a friendly human spots me, and, curious about my existence, gently inquires about the pens.

The other day, I was having what I thought was a casual conversation with one of these very competent, capable humans, and she was explaining how AI was becoming a crucial part of her job industry, her job industry being probably in the same office building as Chandler Bing. “Not knowing how to use AI is career suicide,” she said, offhandedly, as I contemplated the death of my career. I’m selling stationery, so I guess I was already half-way there.

On the ride home, Naomi asked if I could dye my hair any colour, what would it be, and I said I like the way it is, so I could dye it the exact same colour it is now. Her follow-up question: it could be any colour than the colour it already is, so it could be and I quote “any colour except black or grey.”

And yet, the sun is shining bright, and I’m contemplating an adventure out into the world! Maybe this is actually what we all need, what I need, to see the world and discover what secrets she still has hiding. To pack up my bags, to turn open the first page of a new journal, to bring my chickens along to see new mountains and try new noodles and to crack open new cold fizzy drinks—and to see if the things we’ve read about in books are real. To look out the windows of trains and planes and to exist as a human on this planet.

But also, there’s no rush, of course. Far be it for me to drive any faster, the car, the wind, the days: Time moves fast enough, and these chickens will be fledging the nest before I know it, before I’m ready for it. Each day has its own gifts, no matter where we are, no matter where home is.