First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
From parenting struggles to near-misses with phone scammers, Globe readers shared many stories with us over the course of this year. Here are some highlights from the First Person series.
Every generation has new parenting ideas but as a grandparent, it’s hard to hold my tongue
Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
By Sheila Perkins
I think to myself, is it so bad to make a child do something they don’t want to do? I’m not suggesting we got back to the era of “spare the rod and spoil the child” or even “children should be seen and not heard.” I am, however, teetering on the brink of the “because I said so” abyss.
I understand children have needs and that each generation of parents takes a different approach to providing them. Along with unconditional love, children also need to comprehend expectations and consequences to feel a sense of security in the world. This has always been the case but although expectations are still clear, the road to consequence has been muddled with good intentions. Today’s mom and dad simply cannot bear to see their child unhappy, even for the shortest period of time, and will go to great lengths to restore a happy family dynamic.
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It’s finally time to give up the cottage
Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
By Amanda Le Rougetel
We are not as young as we used to be and we can no longer be the self-reliant wilderness women we so loved being, so our cottage days will soon be behind us. The memories I have – all the memories, from mouse-proofing to toilet fixing and from sunrises to sunsets and that view across the lake – I’ll take them all, along with the confidence from all those trailer dump runs, into our next more urban chapter.
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Dry January reminds me that being ‘dry’ is not the same as being sober
Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
By Jordan Kawchuk
Worldwide, millions swear off booze for 31 days, stoked by their self-restraint and heightened sense of health. My social media feeds fill with photos of pimped-out virgin caesars and workout selfies hitched to lines like “giving my liver a break!” Posts are garnished with #dryjanuary, like a maraschino cherry dropped in a Shirley Temple.
And when Dry January wraps up, celebrations erupt online as people cross the finish line, exhausted from their marathon of abstinence. Finally. We did it.
Me? I have the other 334 days to carry out. And the year after that. And the next year. But I’m not bitter. I just can’t drink like a normal person.
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I flew to Istanbul for a hair transplant. The treatment was medieval – but it worked
Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
By Paul Finlayson
At times of mental strength, I think, “It’s just hair, don’t be so shallow.” That usually lasts until I pass the first mirror.
Going bald has made me view the world differently. I resented all those men, 25 years older than I, who didn’t have to make 25 square centimetres of hair do the work of 50. They didn’t need to self-consciously pat down the flop so the hairs didn’t expose the steady progression of baldness. They didn’t walk through WalMart exits, looking up at the exit camera and shuddering at the massive white puddle on their crown.
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I almost fell for the ‘grandparent scam’ and now I’m angry
Illustration by Drew Shannon
By Virginia Fisher Yaffe
The longer the time went on the more I knew I had been punked or to be exact, almost punked. I was still frightened and remained so until I called my grandson Caleb after school. Those hours between noon and 3:15 p.m. were long and frightening and unshareable; who was I going to call to say that I think I had gotten my grandson … never mind.
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