Young Brent: The Early Years

Sibling. The google online dictionary defines "sibling" as "each of two or more children or offspring having one or both parents in common; a brother or sister."

This definition truly encapsulates what Brent is to me: a brother or sister (though I prefer to think of him as a brother.) Furthermore, we have one or both parents in common (hopefully both) . . . and, oh, so much more.

My youngest sibling, dear Brent, was an outgoing, cute kid with a head of nearly bleach blonde hair. I recall the primary passion of his youth: collections. He collected bottles for recycling, a collection that grew rapidly because he was an outgoing, cute kid with a head of nearly bleach blonde hair. (Incidentally, that same fair hair made him question his lineage, to assume that he was one of the foster children because Rob, our other sibling, and I were so dark.) Brent collected Transformers, and Star Wars figures. He collected hockey cards, outwitting his friends in negotiations (and later returning cards in an act of penitence). He collected friends who shared his passions and who played street hockey at every opportunity (I can still see, in my mind's eye, fiery-tempered Evan being restrained by his much larger comrades).

Brent's burgeoning extroversion and keen business sense came in handy for me. I hated approaching clerks in stores--loathed the stilted conversion that came with purchasing petty items with my allowance. I got my bold brother to complete the necessary transactions, to utter the words necessary to human interaction. And then there were those hideous chocolate sales, the hell of being torn between the motivation prizes (sell 5,000 boxes to receive a bracelet, and the more significant honour of outperforming one's classmates!) and the torment of going door-to-door to boost sales. Here, my little brother came in most handy. He was charming, and he sold my chocolates while I waited, nervous and restless, on the sidewalk.

Yes, it was a tad exploitative.

But I returned the favour by being Brent's moral compass. When he fed Mookie, the next-door-neighbour's fence-climbing dog, a chicken bone, Brent was reprimanded by the neighbour's adult son. I took his moral development a step further, marching him right back to the neighbour's front door to apologize a second time. Brent has never fed a chicken bone to an animal again, and I'd like to take credit for that.

I also taught him basic survival skills. For example, I knew that the best way to avoid being stung by a wasp was to remain motionless. And so when Brent stepped on that wasp's nest at the cabin at five, and was covered in enraged insects, I called encouragement from the sidelines.

"Doooon't move!" I yelled. "They won't sting you if you hooooold still."

Poor Brent. I didn't quite have a grasp of context yet, and my little brother listened to me even as our father hurtled towards him, scooping his son up in his arms and running into the bushes.

One of our favourite pastimes in the tender years of our youth included singing, "Let There Be Peace on Earth." The key to that song, in our opinion, was to harmonize slightly off-key. The result (which may still exist since we always had a tape player handy) was impressive. Few singers could let a note fall flat like we did, or combine dramatic singing with spoken lyrics in a way that was simultaneously powerful (in our minds) and corny. Few singers could convey such an important message in such an irritating way.

Our greatest pleasure, however, was designed to alleviate the boredom of clothing shopping with our mother. The Bay provided many a wonderful opportunity for mischief. The clothing racks had a knob on the end of each metal bar to prevent hangers from slipping off onto the floor. As luck would have it, there was always enough room for at least one hanger to sit beyond the metal knob, and most racks had four knobs. We would place items on the end of each bar throughout the floor as our mother browsed. And alas! When an unsuspecting victim brushed against the strategically placed hangers, clothing fell everywhere. If said victim panicked, she might knock several outfits off at a time, to our great amusement. This was an art and a science, and we were masters of both.

Brent made me proud many times in these early years and the years to follow. He earned my respect when he pelted parked cars with water balloons from the church roof in the middle of winter (creating an impenetrable layer of ice upon each windshield). He made me proud when he conspired with me to "trap" our older, surlier sibling in the loathed middle back seat of the car (which took considerable skill and a few dekes), or to pinch the loose skin on my mother's elbows as she sat in the front passenger seat. He earned the title of brother when he helped me put pepe, a brutally hot spice I brought home from Africa, on the Barbeque chips our elderly grandmother would soon consume, and to decorate this same grandmother with tinsel each Christmas as she dozed in what became a beautiful Christmas tradition.

Yes, Brent. There was peace on the piece of earth we called our home. But it did not begin with me. It began with us. Siblings, walking in perfect harmony.

Baring It All (A Tribute to my "Wobbly Bits")

I'll spare you the photo (I'm too comfortable to run and get my camera), but ever since I've had babies, I've become a little more "well-rounded." I'm not talking only about my blossoming skill sets, which now include removing nail polish from any surface (thanks to an independent three-year-old who loves fancy toes) or using hand cream to remove said child's arm from a metal steering wheel in a mall play area (in the presence of some very concerned security guards). No, I'm talking about my belly.

What was once flat now has some personality.

And I'm perfectly fine with that. In the process of giving birth, I gained a whole new level of respect for my body. I suddenly had a sense of a much larger picture--an appreciation for what being a woman entails. My body is a baby-making marvel, and I can produce milk like no one's business.

In fact, I made gains where I once felt flawed. During a rather unpleasant break-up in my twenties, a boyfriend uttered the last words he would ever say to me: "I'm glad that you decided to end things because you were too flat for me." Little did he know that in the process of becoming a mother, I would have to squeeze into a double-D cup. (Of course, the milk that would shoot a metre or so would certainly have removed some of the sex appeal of my newfound and hard-won cleavage.)

Before I provide too much information about my triumphant body, I will say that I was profoundly disturbed today upon reading about the "Thinspiration" movement. A recent CBC article talks about anorexics and bulimics finding support through online communities (See Pro-anorexia Communities). This "support" doesn't come in the form of encouragement as they strive to maintain a healthy weight or deal with the emotional issues underlying their condition. Rather, weight-loss "achievements" are posted and applauded by others, and "inspiring" photos are posted to keep viewers "on track."

I've posted some of the more troubling "inspirational" photos posted on the Proanalifestyleforever page (See proanalifestyleforever.wordpress.com).

One girl writing on the comments page of this site muses, "I like most of the pictures. There isn’t a single one of these women (or any woman or girl) who isn’t beautiful. I’d like to be thin. Right now, I’m in the normal range for my weight and BMI...All the girls here look healthy and thin...Thinspiration is definitely a great source of inspiration for both women and men to stay motivated and keep to their goals."


I can see setting fitness goals, certainly. And yes, women and men should be motivated and goal-oriented. But to spend your precious moments of your life fixated on cutting down that last calorie is to squander your life, your talents, the work you were put on this earth to do. It's heartbreaking.

"Starting today, only water," one girl writes.

Another writes, "I need to loose [sic] weight. Badly. I used to carve words into my wrists: disgusting, fat, ugly etc. But its not motivating me any more. I haven`t eating in days, but i don`t seem to loose [sic] any weight….. Help? remember, emptiness is pure, starvation is the cure!"

Perhaps the most troubling is the comment from "Desiree," who writes, "I am this thin, but i want to be thinner. I am currently 7 stone 4. I want to get down to 5 stone 3. It sounds stupid and dangerous but i think i will be happy when i am at that weight. Look at these girls, their bones dont show enough."

I am terrified about the criticism my daughters may one day face, that my beautiful three-year-old may stop boasting about how much she has grown--how "big" she is getting. I am worried that my six-year-old, who has a lean, muscular build, will poke at the flesh of her calves and fail to ask me, "What the heck are these flaps for?" (Incidentally, she did ask, at which point I talked about the function of fat. Chuckling, she hugged herself and said, "I love my body!")

I despise what our media culture is doing to girls. I hate the message that becoming an empty, vacuous vessel is what being a female is all about. I hate how we are being shortchanged, and sidetracked, and set on a futile journey.

And that's why, when my daughters poke at my belly and chuckle, I join in and poke fun at my  "wobbly bits." I declare that I love my body, am proud of my beautiful, strong, healthy self, a self that changed when I gave birth. And as I cuddle my girls on the couch, I let them know that with these changes came profound gifts--the best of which are now nestled against me.