Why it's my bubble

Don't burst my bubble, leave me in my bubble, hate to burst your bubble. Sayings you will hear me say. Yes, cliché, but those were the first phrases that enabled me to set a protective perimeter around my hopes, dreams, views, and physical self. In retrospect, I find it troubling that I found the need to build an imaginary bubble to set a barrier from outside "harm". It may be a reach back to my own childhood where, when things didn't go right (more about that later) I would retreat into my own imagination. Then as a teen, (love those awkward memories), I would use the physical defense of clutching my binder to my chest as I walked through the hallways in highschools, with my head bent to the left shoulder. (Vivid memory of my cousin "Dougie" asking me why I did that) and then oh the struggle to not do that subconsiously. As a young adult, it was eye contact. I felt I couldn't look at anyone (other than my hubby). I felt scrutinized and was so uncomfortable as a young, unwed mother. (Thank goodness hitting my 30's wiped that out for me.)

But I never needed "My Bubble" more than when my daughters entered their glorious teen years. I was jealous of my mother at that time. The tales my brothers would relate about their exploits along the Scarborough bluffs, late night escapades and such and how it was kept from my mother protected her from worry. That was not the case for me.

Having tried to follow society's "Talk with your children" lead has lead me to no end of sleepless nights...because, dagnabbit they talked back. They felt safe with the parental us to relate who their friends were, where they were going, and most times what they were doing. One child in particular has shared, in her words, just about everything. Erego, I dye my hair to reverse the grayed effect. (Thank you Gilles )

Now the two young adult ones giggle as they reveal piece by piece something that scandalizes me. I cry out "Bubble, keep me in my bubble!" But alas, to no avail. As of late, both girls are on difficult paths. I want to build them their own bubbles to envelope them from the outside world. Ivory towers, impassable moats, chain-linked electrified fences. That may be going a tad far, but they (although 21 and 18) are MY babies and I would fight, tear apart, and nuke anyone who intended them harm.

So my blog era is called My Bubble. It is the place I am hammering it down, figuring it out, playing around with it, and taking a stab at it. There is a possibility for great things here, once I figure it out. If you are taking this journey with me, hang on hunny, it's going to be wild, boring, and at times just plan odd. If you know me personally, you would expect nothing less. So step inside my bubble, there's plenty of room.

Why I chose to call it Bubble

Raising and loving my three little soon to be adults has been the most rewarding challenge of my life. I thought that incorporating traits from my mother Florence, Martha Stewart, Erma Bombeck, and Patty from TVO into one persona that I could don the role of "Supermom". Reality

Then out of the blue...

There it was. Confirmation I am going to be a grandmother. What the hell? I have this parenting thing barely down and now there's another generation on the way. In no way is this fair to me. I was just cottoning to the idea of being a MILF, and now I have to contemplate purchasing a rocking chair and learning to knit. Ya. No.

Don't get me wrong. I love babies. I had three of them (not all at once mind you and thank the Good Lord for that blessing) and I wouldn't trade them for all the stars in the sky. But when I take a look at my beautiful 18 year old daughter, with her gorgeous baby belly looming around the corner, I am freaked out and worried. I remember all too well at the tender age of 19, how scared, broke, and pregnant I was. Sure I had my Grade 12 Diploma behind me, but had absolutely no clue what was in front of me. And so began the 2o year climb up a mountain called parenting.

I still remember my boyfriend's face (currently my husband of 20 years - no way was he going to get off that easy) when I told him "we" were expecting. First words out of his mouth were, "Do you want to get married?" It took me all of 30 seconds to think on it and I answered with, "No. I am going to be a Mom, and I'm not sure if I'm ready to be a wife." I mean, we had just moved in together a few months prior (our meeting is a story for another time), and I was still in the honeymoon phase of folding his laundry. (I know, sick right?) So we put off matriomonial bliss for a couple of years. Hey, I had to know if he could hand teething and tantrums first. His learning curve was going to be just as big as mine.

So I have three months left to figure this "Granny" thing out. I mean, I still want to ground the little bugger for forcing this title on me way before my time. But, then, I think that this whole MILF to GILF situation is kind of bringing my daughter and I together in a way I never thought possible. Our path has not been an easy one. It's been quite messy with loads of mistakes on both parts. I still want to ream her out for leaving food laying around, or the lights on, and am constantly wanting to grill her on her PACE progress...and then I sit back, breathe, and I remember, payback is coming...in three months. I am in love with this baby, and he/she isn't even here yet.