The Weight is over

Hello babies!

On Thursday, February 22, our family had a 9lb, 9oz addition to our numbers. Hardy and hale, we welcomed her into our hearts and minds. It immediately occurred to me that we have some cheese in the fridge I bought for the holidays, which we haven't quite finished yet, and that cheese is older than this kid. Last weekend I baked some cookies that deployed some bananas probably older, and sweeter, than that cheese. 

I concluded that I definitely have some socks older than some other members of our clan. I probably have some underwear older than other kids I've met. I'm positive I have some jeans older than kids that play in the schoolyard behind our house. For that matter, I have some sweatshirts older than our current government – that would be a relatively new sweatshirt. This inevitably reminded me that I have a t-shirt older than some of my work colleagues. It's a bit of merch from Sting's "Nothing Like the Sun" tour from 1988. I'm pretty sure I have another t-shirt from a known Toronto-based design firm, Reactor, that's probably from 1990. They still fit! And no holes. They don't make 'em like they used to.

Heck, this blog is older than the kids who shovelled our walkway last week. My Facebook account is also probably older than them. I know in a drawer somewhere I have a pair of bills, a one-dollar and two-dollar bill that a generation of Canadians have never known. I have a cheese grater so old it doesn’t say “Made in China” — it just has some Mesopotamian Cuneiform. I have a hockey stick so old it’s been carbon dated as being Howie Meeker’s father. A wooden hockey stick is a relic of when hockey sweaters were made from wool and road bicycles were made from steel. That's right, I have one of those too. My desk, at which I currently sit, was bought used from an office supply company and is clearly older than the office building that I should visit, but hardly do. I have sketchbooks older than any of my nephews and nieces. A brief review of our record collection would reveal some that are older than me (Hey, now! Be kind and do not ask a gentleman his age). On our shelf in the living room I have a desk fan older than myself or some of my oldest friends. On a lower shelf, I have a typewriter, once used by our grandfather, older than me or my siblings. I'm well past the age of already having had a physician younger than myself. I once met a specialist who upon noticing my birth date said, "Oh, we're the same age!" Her surprise suggested that I somehow looked too old to be her peer? She was particularly fit; an ultramarathoner on her days off, no doubt. That's OK. I trust physicians my age or older. Younger ones need to earn my trust.

What compelled me to list the old stuff I have? Oh, right… that shiny new babe that just entered the world. I'm not a collector, but I still feel a desire to catalogue and curate my life like a little museum to myself. I realized years ago, "stuff" weighs us down, and it should be our goal to rid ourselves of it, but it also anchors us. It anchors us to a place, to a chronology, and, most importantly, to other people. I am not a singularity. I am a multiple. I am an extension of my mother, my father, and my brothers. I am a lover, a friend, and confidante. I am a son, a brother, an uncle. We are, perhaps like tree roots or some cosmic mycelium, bonded to others in our orbits by strands of fine silken filaments of familiarity. I am not what I own, but who I am connected to, and now, today, on January 22, 2026, I am connected to one other person, whether she knows it or not.