It is difficult to pinpoint what triggers my anxiety.  Some obvious catalysts are the wispy, frayed nerves the morning after a night of indulgence.  Others include an impending speaking engagement or presentation or the mere thought of pressing the send button on an e-mail that may be misperceived.   Anticipation is partially to blame.  I am much better chiming into an existing discussion than waiting my turn to speak down a row of bobbing, nodding heads.  During previous employment incarnations, I enjoyed the chime in, hated the pinpointed bookmark where I was scheduled to jump in with some scripted benefit or advantage of the particular ware I was shilling.  I understood the need for preparation (did you Jason? Did you?) but to be so rehearsed for your pop in was unsettling.  But in any event, waiting for me to hit my mark and offer my blurb, I always thing about bolting from the room.  And once did.  Career defining moment?  Check!

Anxiety is such an odd animal.  I almost admire it for its ability to take something so mental and affect one so physically.  Trying to describe an anxiety episode (attack sounds so leopardy) to someone who has never experienced one is challenging.  The analogy or description I try to offer is imagine you are going crazy but you don’t know what happens when you get there.  Do you pass out?  Do your eyes Marty Feldman?  Do you tear off all your clothes and run screaming down the street?  Do you claim the ability to fly and burst through the window like an angel dust after school special?

Truth is I don’t know.  So far crazy has alluded me (Has it Jason?  Has it?).  I have taken various medications that worked short term, but I did not commit to other long term suggestions because the accordion-like side effects were simply not acceptable.  Cognitive behaviour therapy was suggested, which includes basically walking you through your anxieties and letting you conquer them by will and common sense.  And while my common sense is quite strong, my will is lacking.  So lacking that I did not investigate the three business cards offered to me by my MD because the idea of therapy was too much effort.  Like dieting and exercise to conquer my weight issues.  Is there a lap band for my brain?

Fact is the anxieties are back.  They left for a couple of months, but have recently returned to the cave in the recesses in my stomach to once again make me question all the serious decisions in life.

Like what if the elevator stops mid floor?

Or what if the subway stops and I have to use the washroom?

Or what if my wife suddenly realized that I am not the charming confident man I claim to be?

What if my kids are blessed with the same struggles throughout their own life?

What if I take the wrong turn while skiing and end up on a double black diamond?

What if Tasman falls under the bar on the chair lift?

What if the transport truck driver misses the small open gap where he flicking his ash and the cigarette lands back on his lap?

What if never can buy a house in Toronto again?

What if?  What now?  What happens when?  What do I do then?

It’s all so boring.

Can we build a fire?

What’s for dessert?

I fed Alice

What time will you be home?

Your driving tonight, these are my friends.

Your feet are freezing

Can you drive tonight?

Stop playing with your shirt

Stop eating your shirt

That’s inappropriate

He gets that from you.

Does this count as screen time?

I have 22 minutes of screen time left

Dinner!

Breakfast!

Tell me you didn’t put that skirt in the dryer

Your mom called

Your sister called

This song was popular when we were in New Zealand

Remember New Zealand?

We need toilet paper

I don’t need to see that Tasman

Can you lie with me for a bit?

Don’t drink scotch tonight!

Finished!

Put on Moves Like Jagger

I think Alice leaked on the couch

Come for a cuddle

Did you finish your spelling?

Can we watch a movie?

Just kiss me

Did you pay Rebecca?

Did you pay Rogers?

Did you pay Enbridge?

Did you pay Hydro?

I picked up the poos

Don’t spend too much tonight

I don’t know, I’m in production

Have you seen my phone?

Can I have a granola bar?

It’s your turn to do stories

Are you drunk?

Is Sam going?

I’ll pack the car

Did you toot?

Who tooted?

I love you mom

I love you dad

I love you

I love you.

You’re drunk.

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized I was fat.  There was not a defining epiphany, a pant button winging across the room like a mini Frisbee or waking up next to an empty jar of Skippy chunky peanut butter and a mound of multi-coloured bread tags, drowning in L-shaped crusts.  It was at age 13 or 14 I started to sport a mild paunch, but at six foot three, it was easy to conceal under a Beaver Canoe sweatshirt.  I was also a considerable high school athlete, both in football and basketball, so size, both height and girth, were more or less applauded then ridiculed. So I trudged through hallways, high fiving with one hand and eating Jamaican beef patties with the other.

My post high school life, both educational and social (more social) was a bit more gluttonous as beer came into play, so late night sub sandwiches also came into play.  The mild paunch sauntered to the side and began morphing into pear, first the Bosc and then the Anjou. In my mid twenties, my waist size was no longer being carried at hipster stores and comfortable khakis (my pant of choice) were only available at The Gap, or egads, The Bay.

Of course next I met my lovely wife, who loved me so ferociously and passionately (meow) that, once betrothed and thereby off the market (sorry pounding down the door ladies), I gained another 20 or so pounds, putting me at a jolly 280lbs at my wedding.  I know I was this heavy because in a black and white wedding picture of Steph and I standing next to a vintage car you can almost see the worried headlight eyes of the car hoping I was not going to get in the front seat.  I didn’t.  The car sighed.

Fast forward another 10 years and, less a year in Australasia where I managed to shed some significant weight; I ballooned to 328 lbs and thus signed up for lap band weight loss surgery in the fall of 2010.  I am now roughly 240lbs and relatively comfortable with my body type, yet still struggle with eating habits that sometimes border on masochistic.

Here is the rub; both my two boys have wee little paunches on them.  Noticeable more on Tasman because of his own stocky body shape and he also has the remnants of the toddler pudge still hanging on.  Hud is a different story, he was always so lean and tall for his age, yet the rotund beginnings of excess weight have appeared both in his stomach and around his hips. Something I have noticed in the past, but really noticed last night during an impromptu topless Tuesday night dance party.

So I had a word with them both.  A conversation about healthy eating and the need for exercise.  It was a bit heavy handed (hence the guilty handwringing masked in text here) and full of personal stories about what a true drag it is growing up with a weight problem.  They listened in earnest and Hudson actually sounded a bit frustrated about the lack of opportunities he had to get an hour of day exercise, particularly in the winter.

I know that I have to lead by example here.  I know I am the one that buys the groceries, prepares the meals and ultimately makes almost every decision about what food enters their system.  I know the significant bulk of responsibility sits with Steph and me and sometimes we fail because of two primary reasons: a) its sometimes easier to serve less that optimal food, b) we sometimes want less than optimal foods ourselves.  I also know that finding exercise, no matter what the forecast is, remains primarily our responsibility.  We must do more and we will.

That all being said, I still think my own example of weight loss struggle is important.  I am a real, viable, emotional case study of how difficult a life battling body image issues can have on someone, both physically and mentally.  While I know having a heart-to-heart about being fat with a five and nine year old may seem harsh, these two boys love the hell out of me.  To see me close to tears explaining my own personal challenges and my own need to make better food decisions for all of us and to set a better example for a healthier lifestyle, has an impact.   I only hope it will help them when it comes time to make their own decisions about why they are eating something, for sustenance  or simply for flavour, or to walk that extra block instead of asking for a ride. Just make better decisions.

I want so much better for my kids than I have given myself.  I am not sure if I am doing it the right way.  But it’s rooted in huge love and I hope when they eventually fuck up in some way; it will only be a mild blip in otherwise full, rich, productive and healthy life.

I will admit that when Steph was pregnant and we were bandying about names for our prospective child, I looked up the top ten snow and skateboarders in North America.  I was trying to fulfill some predetermined destiny that by giving a child a cool name, he or she will aspire to satisfy the coolness of that name either by a) be somehow be naturally graced with the talents of world class skate/snowboarder and fulfill the role they were always meant to be or b) not give a shit about anything, which, as we all know, is the first step to coolness.

Sidenote:  I am 42 year old man still mildly obsessed with the notion of cool, knowing all too well that this obsession immediately pegs me off the perch of cool.

Now to be fair, the names I researched did not all come back Bode (who I know is a skier, thanks assface) they were quite typical – as an example here is a snowboarder list from 2007.

Craig Kelly – USA
Nicholas Muller – Austria
Terje Haakonsen – Norwegian
Travis Rice – USA
David Benedek – Germany
Shaun White – USA
Romain De Marchi – Swiss
Jeremy Jones (either of them) – USA
JF Pelchat – Canadian
Shaun Palmer – USA

And a random skateboard god list from 2000-2010

Tony Hawk

Rodeny Mullen

Danny Way

Ryan Sheckler

Rob Dyrdek

Bob Burnquist

Daewon Song

Paul Rodriguez

Elissa Steamer

Jamie Thomas

As you will note, none of these first names really stand out as anything special.   Some sound cool because of the last name e.g. Tony Hawk or Travis Rice or Danny Way but nothing too aloof and cigarettey as I was seeking when trying to find a name for my eventual child.

I liked Brody a lot, basically because of Mall Rats and Bennett was in play for awhile as were some other variations of typical names that proved I was trying to hard to aptly name my child.  Our child naming strategy consisted of both Steph and I submitting a list of five names a week leading up to the birth and comparing notes.  Names you really liked stayed on the list, even if the partner abhorred them, giving you the opportunity to sell in the moniker over a period of time.  Which of course never worked.  I always loved the name Kate, but Steph did not like Katherine or Catherine and Katherine Graham was the publisher of the Washington Post so, basically taken, so it was quickly smudged off the list.

Of course the name that kept coming back on Steph’s list was Hudson.  Now most of you know that Hudson is small, predominantly English speaking town, 60 kilometres west of downtown Montreal.  My wife spent her formative 10-17 years there before escaping to Ryerson to begin her illustrious and career as a housewife and sex kitten to her husband Jason – wait wait – that’s another blog.  Anyway, I immediately did not like the idea of our child being named after the town she grew up.  It was too cute, as is the town ironically, and toting Hudson around while visiting her family and friends in Hudson (perhaps wrapped in Hudson Bay blanket) was almost as bad as wrapping a jaundiced baby in a yellow blanket and inviting the neighbours over to see the “yellow baby”.  Note the word almost mother.   But with an awesome selling job, Hudson became the name of choice if we had a boy, which of course we did, almost nine and half years ago.  Funny I do not know the female name we landed on as it seems like so long ago.

Now as any parent will tell you after any degree of time it is difficult to think of their child with any other name.  Hudson fits Hudson whatever that means and Tasman fits Tasman.  For those that do not know, Tasman is named after the Tasman Sea or, more appropriately, Abel Tasman the Dutch explorer who founded New Zealand where Steph, Hudson and I spent significant time in 2005-2006.  If we had a girl she would have been named Tasman also, but please don’t tell Tasman that.

I like the origin of both my son’s names.  They are both strong and unique and with their geographical roots, they escape the rolling of the eyes the parents occasionally offer who named their children more atavistically.

Hud and Taz also roll off the tongue when yelling at them to go to bed or get me another freaking scotch.

And both are pretty cool kids to say the least.

Courtesy of the lovely Ms. Lanthier

I love how the colour of my wife’s eyes perfectly matches the colour of both my son’s eyes.  I look at them, I see her.  I love Alice the dog’s new found love of attention, if your hand is hanging, expect her head to occupy it.  I love my mother’s ability to suggest a really tasty dinner no matter what you have in the fridge. I love getting out of the car upon arrival at the cottage and breathing in.  I love hard salami.  I love when my father purses his lips and does a dance with his hands.  I love watching my niece Emma do charades. I love crafting a fictional sentence so awkward it makes me shudder.  I love my new found ability to nap anywhere and everywhere. I love strategically setting up alone moments. I love Tasman’s new pelvic thrust dance, totally inappropriate, awesomely funny.  I love that I have five best friends that I have known for more than 25 years. I love beating Geoff at NHL 2009 at my cottage on New Year’s Day.  I love sitting down and planning a dinner party.  I love my stepfather’s faint southie accent.  I love that I am slowly reconnecting with the two neighbourhood brothers I have known since I was one years old.  I love the keyboard we bought for Hud.  I love when spooning turns into something more.  I love that I quit daily coffee and turned it into once and awhile coffee. I love coaching soccer for the fun of it.  I love making a pass that no one on the floor would even dare try.  I love rolling into a bar in front of all the snarling line up people.  I love the house music crescendo moment where everyone is going bananas on the dance floor at the exact same time. I love that Hud’s slowly emerging sense of humour is self deprecating and razor sharp. I love how passionately Steph and I fight and how quickly it’s resolved.  I love when my stepmother bites the tip of her tongue when she makes a slightly off colour comment. I love when random women immediately get my sense of humour.  I love that my nephew is a tremendous role model for my boys.  I love dominating at backgammon. I love that I collected a number of sayings over the years. I love to be precise.

After months of sitting back and watching their son’s minds turn to mush, Stephanie White, 39 and Jason Graham, 42 of Lorindale Avenue in Toronto decided to do something about it.  White and Graham, full time working parents of boys Hudson, 9 and Tasman 5, decided to limit the amount of screen time for their sons to one hour a day.  The parents defined screen time as television, computer, handheld dives like the Ipod or console video game like the Nintendo Wii.

“We were watching their imagination disappear right before our eyes,” said Graham.  “Without a screen in front of them, they were baffled on what else there was to do.”

Hinted at over the holiday season, White and Graham sat their two boys down over dinner on January 8, 2012, the day before their return to school.  They explained to the boys their intent, positioning it as an opportunity for the four of them to do more together as a family.  Both parents agreed to limit their own screen time to television only after the boys were in bed or to check e-mails on their respective smart phones.

“I think it will be hard for all of us,” said White. “Not only do the boys get accustomed to sitting in front of screens at any spare moment, but, as parents, we get accustomed to the freedom it allows us.”

The proposed limit on screen time is only during the school week, but the boys were informed their weekend’s time will also be closely monitored to ensure the screen activity is not abused to make up for lost time during the week.

Graham added:  “We also told them that any education-related screen time does not count against their hour.  Our goal here was not to make the devices out to be the problem, but to create a happy balance between the benefits they provide and other creative activities like drawing or painting or music – or the quality family time we talk always talk about.”

An alarming report from the American non-profit group Common Sense Media. Said that fifty-three per cent of children aged two to four have used a computer as have 90 per cent of five- to eight-year-olds.

White noted that her own harmless addiction to Plants vs. Zombies, a popular Iphone game will be hard to break, but “it’s all about sacrifice for the brains of my children.”

Exactly nine minutes later, Tim walks in the front door of his modest 2-bedroom semi-detached home on Douglas Avenue in the north end of the city of Toronto.  Exactly 15 seconds after that, Tatum wraps her warm, skinny arms around her father’s neck.  A fire burns in their working fireplace (first line of credit experience) and Laura makes dinner, actually breakfast for dinner, a family favourite, behind the same counter where Tim ate his peanut butter bagel 10 hours prior.  Popeye the dog holds a pair of pink Hello Kitty socks in his mouth and wags his tail furiously, equally excited for Tim to be home.

“How was your day?”  Tim asks, dropping his leather knapsack (containing a gum wrapper, a pack of secret smokes (three left), a bottle of relatively cheap cologne, a chewed up pen cap, a pack of Tums (four left, tinfoil tail swirl intact) and a Financial Post crossword with doodles along the edge (a cartoon dog he learned to draw when he was eight, and stick figures playing basketball).  The knapsack was hardly a physical burden to get home, but it made Tim feel very urban and a little granola.

How should Laura respond?  Tell him it started out great, especially the part where she strangley reached orgasm while Duncan’s long finger explored her like she was an undiscovered cave.  Or should she just jump right in and explain that Duncan’s seminal fluid was much thinner than Tim’s and a bit bitter, like almonds dipped in blood.

‘It was fine, was able to score the massive mirror Susan was looking for, all at a tidy little profit for us.”

“Woo hoo! I love profit for us!”  Tim responds, moves behind her and kisses her on the back of her neck.  The bacon in the pan spits and lands on his hand.  ‘Yowch”

“Woo hoo, Yowch!” repeats Tatum, wondering closer to her mother.

Laura looks down and warns: “Watch it sweets, the bacon is angry at your father.”

‘What did I ever do to the bacon?”  Tim boos hoos for Tatum’s sake and Laura can feel the wave of not cute anymore nausea punch her in the stomach.  Tatum laps it up.  Popeye wants the bacon.

“Let’s eat,” says Laura.

“Breakfast for dinner!!”

The Langley dining room table was a harvest table passed down from Tim’s father when he upgraded to something ornate to match his current wife.  Tim sat at the head of the table, one of the few patriarchal things he demanded and something Laura could care less about.  Even Tatum recognized the inanity of Tim’s royal demands, making fun of him by always sitting there, knowing his creased glare and finger pointing to her assigned seat was forthcoming.  She liked sitting across from her mom anyway, she was an elegant eater and Tatum tried to copy her.

The familiar hum of a smart phone interrupted their first bite.  ‘Mine’s in my purse,” Laura said, scooping a fork full of cheesy eggs into her mouth.

Tim almost instinctively rolled his eyes at Laura.  Her phone was always going off, including at some odd hours in the middle of the night.  He never once asked her about who was texting her at 2:24am, she had tons of female friends, some he loved and some he just felt sorry for.  Laura acted as a sounding board for the dramatic and a wing woman for the desperate.  His phone in his front pocket buzzed again.

“Daddeee, check your blueberry.” Salty bacon, sip of juice.

Tim fudged in his front pocket, pushing the phone up to his hand.

“Really Tim, at the dinner table?” Laura was mocking him, light heartedly, putting it in the bank for later.

Sorry to do this Tim, but I am finding it difficult to not think of you.  I am guessing you are sitting down for dinner right about now.  I am hoping you are the kind of man that doesn’t check his email at dinner. 

Sarah.  Wow.

***

For Tim and Sarah’s second date she invited him to her parent’s house for cocktails. They were away for the summer in Africa redeeming wealthy guilt.  It was a perfect summer evening.  She was wearing a long, brown summer dress and leather gladiator sandals.  Gold and silver bangles snaked up her arm when the vodka and soda met her lips. Her black hair in the bright sunny afternoon was off putting, too much contrast and way too downtown for the uptown mansion district. Leading him to the back veranda she raised her dress to reveal her new tattoo and Tim had to concentrate to keep his breathing even, to remain casual about seeing her upper thigh, the hint of boy short panties where the small cartoon Max from Where the Wild Things Are now attacked.  The tattoo was camp, cute and approximately dangerous. Tim smiled, too cool for school and gulped his beer, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Later on, she sat across from him, legs crossed, occasionally shifting in her seat to offer more calve, more thigh, more forehead sweat.  They spoke about silly things, about sexy things and he could feel himself stiffen a bit as she told him how dirty she got during sex or how much she enjoyed going down.

“We should stop talking about this…” He said, sipping wine and staring.

“I guess you’re right; we should stop talking about this.”  She said immediately, holding the gaze, but obviously a bit disappointed.

That was eleven years ago and he is amazed at the details he remembers so vividly, considering he currently can’t remember where he left his car keys or the night of Tatum’s weekly swimming lesson.  After the third date ended in indifference, Tim guessed it was just another momentarily lusty moment that meant pretty much nothing to Sarah.  Her memory did not include the scent of the flowering hyacinths that creeped behind her or the hum of the hydro wires overhead.  There was no memory of the occasional yelp of a small dog in the yard next to them, the street lights coming on, or the awkward heavy lidded thickness of the long driveway goodbye.  He knows he messed it up and should have acted, should have stayed, should have second date felt her up.  Aggression has never been Tim’s strongest asset.

Just ask Laura.

***

I missed calling my father on his birthday yesterday.  He turned 74 and we were just remarking on how great he looks for someone whose life has occasionally been peppered with drama.  Birthdays have never been too big of a deal between us and the half heard speaker phone calls of my kids singing off key never seem warranted or appreciated.  Yet still I lament about it here.  Guilty fingers as well as feet have no rhythm.  Yet I bet I do dance again.

So 2012.  What is in store in this 43^rd year of my life.  Wife?  Check.  Two kids?  Check.  Health?  Semi check as I do think I either increased my alcohol intake last year, or, due to my 80-90 lbs weight loss, I drank the same, just felt the effect more severely.  In any event, the January detox has lasted two days, but with post basketball pints looming, it may be over quickly.  Job?  Check, although I must do something quickly to provoke some challenge, and by challenge I mean good challenge, not try to steal a computer or a work station on the weekend challenge, or try to walk the 300 ft to the bathroom with my penis out challenge.  Those challenges would be fun, but would definitely not serve the same career path focus that is needed to keep the dream alive.  What is the dream?  To not get fired naturally.  To excel from a public relations aspect, not just a people relations aspect.  To feel a sense of satisfaction from not just the end result of a glowing piece in a major newspaper, but an ongoing program of success, that may start organically, yet turn into something that drives sales over the long term.

Wow – that was the most I have ever written about work.    Just changed font and font size to keep the page alive and open to receiving more words.    It’s tricky.  Tricky, tricky, tricky.

The holiday season was pretty sweet.  10 days off in a row for the first time in my professional life.  Eight days spent up north at Three Mile Lake, first with lovely sister and family and then with lovely (mostly) friends.  The boys were spoiled by both Santa toys and parental attention.   I was able to sit on a quad lift with my three favourite people and, while only suffering a mild hangover panic attack, make it to the top of the small hill. I then weaved this bowling pin body down to the bottom without tearing an ACL or crushing anyone waiting in line.  Thumbs up!!

The food was fantastic and we spent way too much money ensuring the meal plan was both abundant and a mix between homey and gourmet.  We had a huge pot of corn and bacon chowder and of course my chili and jalapeno cheddar scones for all to have over the multiple mid afternoon munchies.  The NYE dinner was prime rib with nasal clearing horseradish, Yorkshire pudding, roasted red potatoes and grilled carrots with ginger and maple syrup.   Oh, and it all started with a mixed green and grilled shrimp salad to cleanse everyone’s palate before the slab of meat met the plates.   We had brilliant bottles of red wine and even a couple of huge magnums of blush to keep everyone honest.  I mixed vodka, triple sec and cranberry shots and poured them from the mouth of a chicken pitcher, and yet there was not one cock joke to be found.  The morning was hazy and lazy, and even with some high school drama, we all managed to eek out a few more laughs before the party ended on the 2^nd.   I even danced with my sons to Flo Rida.  And we fucking owned the floor.

We came home through a blustery and occasionally tedious snowstorm which Steph chose to be the driver.  Leaving me no choice but to hold the empty diet 7up bottle for Tasman to pee in as we trudged down highway 400.

Last night we took down the tree.  Another beautiful Graham/White rendition of white lights and ornaments we have collected over the 14 Christmases spent together.  Such a mixed bag; kindergarten creations, a star stolen from a centerpiece, a giant light bulb emblazoned with a Sharpie holiday message from a since split up couple, farm animals given as a joke, yet remained as tradition.  Other classics, from cheese to ornate, from silly to stunning, from eyes rolling to eyes tearing at the origin of each little historical trinket from Christmas past.    I can only imagine what it will look like in 20 years, added to by our grown boys, some past down from passed away parents, new friends making their mark by hanging their dinner party offering and old friends solidifying their spot in our lives with their own gift, their own holiday bauble.

It was a good holiday.   But now the tree is gone and the living room is back in order, old clutter back where new clutter once stood.  I changed Tasman’s room around as he was too close to the recent, bitter cold.  I like it better the new way and after a bit of time, Steph admitted she liked it too.   I rarely win these battles, so I was happy when she conceded.

I do love her.  I am lucky to have all these people in my life.

***

I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,

To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,

To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,

To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment—what is this, then?

I do not ask any more delight—I swim in it, as in a sea.