Good Dad, Bad Dad, No Dad

The best thing my father ever did for me wasn't teaching me how to swim.

One summer in Greece when I was five, on a Papalimani Beach - the name even contains the root for "father" - my dad threw me off a dock and straight into water that was well above my head. The first thing I remember was the sea water burning my nostrils. The second, that as soon as my head bobbed up, I began raging accusations at him including the epic: "You crazy man, you tried to drown your very own child!" Our party burst into laughter. My tata (dad) told and retold this as a joke for many years. But by the time I ended my furious rant, I was a swimmer.

My father, sister and I, Belgrade 1969

Father's Day did not exist in Belgrade of my childhood. Dads I knew: my tata, my amazing uncle Zoran - a second father to me who I still lovingly call Koka, my friends' dads and our neighbours were a rarely-appreciated bunch - at least publicly. They went to work, they fixed our toys, bikes and each other's cars, they mastered the art of making "pljeskavica" (famous Serbian burger) on a charcoal barbecue. They stood up to a bully, no matter whose child was being hurt. They watched soccer, dividing themselves between being the die-hard fans of either Red Star or Partizan and cursing the missed opportunities to score a goal, all the while remaining good friends. And they would get up at wee hours, coats over their PJs to come fetch us from a party. My sister knew if she were to run downstairs, all flushed from dancing and sweetly beg: "Tajkane, it's now the best part, could you come back in, say, an hour and a half?"  that he would.

In all of my childhood I only remember one bad dad. There was a boy in my class who was often getting into fights. He was fearless and fast and dangerous. He lived with his single father who would show up to a parent-teacher meeting in an un-ironed shirt, dark wrinkly circles around his eyes. He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. He would listen to the teachers’ concerns over his son's violent behaviour with only a silent nod, gaze hidden under puffy eyelids, far too calm for the list of offences. Then, my classmate would show up in school the next day with bruises. Before the day ended, he was in yet another school fight covering the home-made bruises with more honourable ones he earned while deliberately picking on a much older and stronger opponent. Years later we learned that his mother had barely escaped getting killed after one of the countless violent domestic disputes. Women's shelters were unknown. She fled to Germany, working as a gastarbeiter stealing moments to see her son while we were on overnight school-trips, twice a year.

This was my definition of a bad father. He was an addicted, sick man. It sounded like he had an excuse. Affliction comes conveniently to bad dads.

Throughout my life I have met many remarkable fathers. True heroes. The father who promptly RSVPs to his twins' tea parties. And those ones sporting glitter on their toe nails. The one who flew to the other side of the continent as fast as he could to watch over his baby girl while the socialite mom – whose turn for custody it was - was drunk, stoned and unaware that a 2-year-old can't survive if left alone at the poolside. The father whose yearly tradition was to take his kids camping in Algonquin Park in the middle of January, teaching them how to love, protect and befriend nature at -40 C. The father who welds half a year in the cold Canadian North and the rest of the time makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world, showering his family with care and affection. And two fathers, a dad and a tata, who are masterfully raising their son with abundant love, teaching him the very essence of freedom. A dad, the soccer coach, instilling army-like discipline and precision in second graders, only to break all of his own rules as he ran victoriously across a field in East York, grin visible from the moon - with his step-son hoisted triumphantly high above his head in one arm, after the (accidentally) scored goal! Step-father? No way! Only a real father can be this amazing!

For the last several years I've been basking in the feeling of finally having back-to-back-to-back perfect Father's Days. School-made gifts I harbour for days at a time, while two sets of little feet keep anxiously stomping around them, revealing my hiding place well in advance of the Sunday morning's pancake breakfast. And the cheerful screams of "Aba, Aba!" fighting for my husband's attention as we map out the fun-filled day. This year, it was our first piano recital in a downtown Toronto gallery that our amazing teacher Viktoria holds deliberately on Father's Day. All throughout the audience I observed the beaming, glowing fathers with glint in their eyes who don't even attempt to hide how deeply moved they are by their offspring's performance, my man among them. So sexy!

But the duality of life wouldn't be complete without the bad dads, right? 

The decorated police officer who after verbally abusing mom in front of their child at the end of his weekend asks: What are you going to do? Call the police? - I am the police!

And the top-notch lawyer who sinks himself into his work during a 90-hour work week only to sink into his phone for the remainder of any possible family time.

Or the oil business white-collar executive who on Father's Day writes e-mails to the son he's never met in an attempt to weasel out of paying adequate child support yet one more time.

What "bad dads" don't understand is that kids are resilient. Their kids will grow up whether they abuse or blackmail or ignore or weasel out. They will actually be better for knowing who they don't want to be when they grow up. What will become clear one day, maybe only on his deathbed, is that despite the fact that he might have been a decent father to a dozen other kids, it is all worthless if he has been a bastard to one. That’s just how it is.

And while I'm at it, a huge bow down to the single mothers doing double duty on Father's Day and every other day. I've been one and I'm in awe of you - those I don't know and those I do and am privileged to serve. One good parent is more than enough! No dad - no damage. Not bad!

The best thing my father ever did for me was to get me a signature. Mr.Popović, a Belgrade lawyer, had the power of signing a document that would forever end a year of my greatest anguish. But he refused - he was too busy. He was leaving on vacation. Cottage-bound. The office is now closed and will re-open in two weeks. Please leave a message. Beep.

I will never know how my dad did this 19 years ago, but somewhere in Serbia's cottage country the two men met. They sat down and had a glass of šljivovica my father brought. Talked about fatherhood and their daughters. And when decency and common sense finally crumbled the arrogant air of a hardened divorce attorney, Mr.Popović looked at my father earnestly and said: "I get it. What happened to your daughter is disgusting. I would have done the same thing for my child. I would gladly draft the final divorce, but this is a cottage. I don't have a computer and printer here". My father silently reached into a bag and pulled out a leather box that stored a Hermes original manual typewriter. Three crisp white sheets were already inserted, sandwiched with deep indigo blue copy paper. Mr.Popović, took a sip of šljivovica and started typing. He finished just after midnight. Pulling the papers out, the old lawyer said - "Damn! I have my stamp with me, but unfortunately no ink pad". Then he looked at my father. The moist purple cushion had already materialized in front of him. 

My father was a humble, quiet man. Although he was proud of us three girls - our mom, my sister and I - he kept his praise private. And he never asked for much back.

The following morning after feeding my baby boy, I joined my parents in the kitchen for our ritual of coffee and conversation before work started at the pharmacy, and they turned into my daycare.

My mom said: Good morning darling. We have news - you divorced yesterday. You can apply for a Canadian visa now. You are free.

Happy Father's Day, Tata. Thank you!

In a beautiful land far, far away... (U svetu postoji jedno carstvo)

There is a beautiful land far far away. It is so far away that most people forget it even exists. 

AE Atelier

Only the oldest of maps show its true location. But almost all the maps have faded or long been lost.

The last explorers who went there say that one needs to go over seven seas...

AE Atelier

And over seven hills.

AE Atelier

Be ready to tackle any weather...

AE Atelier

And face the strangest of nights -

AE Atelier

Dreaming tangled dreams.

AE Atelier

Then take the long and winding road...

AE Atelier

That leads through an enchanted forest...

AE Atelier

All the way until the end of the world.

AE Atelier

There board a magical ship...

AE Atelier

And find an entirely new land...

AE Atelier

And a well-hidden secret bay...

AE Atelier

And only when the moon is full a bright road will appear...

AE Atelier

Leading to the top of the mountain...

AE Atelier

With a lighthouse high at its very top.

Shining a light on a world so magical...

AE Atelier

That in its reflection, one learns what is one of life's greatest treasures:

AE Atelier

F r i e n d s h i p.

The long-lost art of real and true friendship. Where no matter the miles nor the years that separate us, nothing ever changes. We are still the 7-year-old girls inventing games. Making maps. Drawing with chalk and water-colours, charcoal and pastels. Writing notes and letters. Celebrating our birthdays together in the fall when school starts because we both happen to be summer babies. We are still 11 and whispering to each other our most sacred secrets in the school yard. Confiding to one another our first crushes (who just happened to also be best friends!). We shared our hopes and our dreams. We made plans so elaborate we had maps and designs for them and we even knew what our homes and beds and pillows would look like one day. We have never fought. Or compared. Or competed. Or gossiped. Or lied. Simply. Never.

The beautiful land far, far away is the land of true friendship - the one that has almost been lost and forgotten in today's world. Its true essence has faded and been hidden behind the mundane, the meaningless and the materialistic, threatened by the insignificant and insecure. Shadowed by "The Bachelor". Tainted by the Kardashian. Convinced that there is not enough for all of us, so that we have to resort to claws and comparisons and competitions. Or adopt being hurtful or mean or conniving. 

Where in the world is your childhood's bestie? How long has it been since you told her how much she meant to you and how sacred your friendship is? How wealthy do you feel that you still have her in your life to talk future, to talk today, and to giggle while reminiscing the past?

Today, I chatted the whole afternoon with my childhood's bestie, just as we did last week. We live on two different continents. I live in a bustling city. She lives in the picturesque countryside. I have sons. She has a daughter. I am a pharmacist. She is an artist. An artist whose art leaves me speechless. Feeling goosebumps. Feeling inspired. And grateful.

And in awe - because somehow we knew this would be a lifelong friendship almost three decades ago. 1976. Grade 1. Special. Beautiful. And like all true and pure female friendships: it is life-prolonging. Best friends forever!  

I love you Aleksandra Erić!

 Priceless!

Aleksandra's entry in my journal 1978

There's No Place[nta] Like Home!

One of the toughest things I ever had to do as an immigrant-single-mother was become a landlord.

 That skill was required if we were to succeed with an arrangement that my son and I can start living independently in our own house five minutes away from the school as well as steps away from my mom - aka Bajce aka day-care aka before&after school program aka ruthless retired-lawyer tutor aka #all-meals-made-from-scratch. Often in my early days of motherhood that coincided with the early days of heartache over my unexpected divorce I would come to the conclusion that no one really needed a husband, if they only had a mom like mine! 

        The tough part about renting the basement of my mother's house was that for 500$/month it was hard to attract a “high quality tenant”. So, burdened by my own story and wanting to save the world one single mother at the time, the first two tenants have both been single moms, each with a little boy in tow. The first one lasted only for a few months. Her beautiful blue sparkly eyes hid a severe mental illness I couldn't have picked up on the interview. Nor would I have deemed it fair to deny her shelter because of it. After all, I am a healthcare professional - stigma stops with me. Unfortunately, the social services picked it up no problem as they came to collect the 4-year-old that she left home alone while she went running on the streets, shouting and hitting cars with a wooden plank she picked up along the way. Naked. 

The second single mom was a child with a child. I should have known there was no way she could afford to be a responsible parent let alone a tenant - there was a venti Starbucks frappuccino in her hand every day coming home while her boy munched on a mummified McNugget, greasy little fingers clutching the happy meal toy. My hope was that by mere proximity to my mother, who was always a mom to any kid we happened to bring home, she would start knowing better, doing better. Once when she hadn't left her apartment for a few days, mom went down with a hot soup and a freshly-baked banana bread, sure they were both down with flu, only to discover they must have moved out overnight, forgetting to lock the door and pay the last three months rent. She had said she was between jobs. I nodded and said I understood. 

        Thankfully an unemployed history teacher turned Riverdale jail guard working the night-shift soon moved in, causing us to relax for a long stretch of time. We appreciated having this interesting and well-read man sleep all day. He appreciated finding a banana bread on his window sill when he came home at dawn. 

       But just before him, we had another tenant - an old lady, Jun… Oh, do I remember! 

        Back in the nineties, it cost me a fortune (36$!) to place an ad in the newspaper hoping to find a renter. Today there is just about a million free ways to search for the right tenant - pages and pages of rental websites can be found in seconds. Between Airbnb, Craigslist, Kijiji, Tripadvisor and a myriad of local rental hubs, it is easy for one to post an ad - the photos, the hood, the price. Right? 

        Who would you want to live in your space, should your work, say, take you abroad for six months of the year? A period too long to just put sheets over the furniture and too short to contemplate selling. 

        A friend of mine - a smart, honest and meticulous human being - took an analytical approach to advertising her beautiful place downtown. She was looking for a professional (read: pay rent on time) couple (single people can attract all sorts of trouble back home with them), non smokers, no pets (for obvious reasons), no kids (perhaps because she's met my kids?) to leave her sacred space to strangers for six months (in exchange for rent money, of course). As it turned out, she had an amazing choice of couples from which to choose. Guess we always look for something similar to us and something we hold in high regard when making these decisions. That way, although there are no guarantees, at least for the start we feel like we made a safe and reliable choice. So, no wonder, my friend settled, after a series of Skype calls, on a couple that was already on route to the big city: a PhD candidate and his yoga instructor wife. It spelled: responsible. Honest. It radiated: karma-conscious. In subconscious mind: safe. Decent.

       The neighbours said they were quite nice. For the most part - quiet. They kept to themselves. 

       The familiar noise of keys jingling in my friend's hand as she approached her front door six moths later invoked a feeling of anxiety - what would she find walking back into the sacred space she worked so hard for? The recent news-story of an Airbnb condo being trashed beyond recognition as if a rock-band had been holding an after-party and a barfing marathon in it probably sits in minds of anyone who has ever handed the keys of their home to a stranger. 

        So when the door opened and she caught a glimpse of the inside of her home looking familiar and welcoming she relaxed. As agreed, the couple had hired her own cleaning lady to come several times during their stay and clearly they had kept their part of that bargain.

       Kicking off her shoes, she went to her bathroom to refresh. Brand new soap bar. Clean towels. Thank goodness. 

        Nothing feels more like “Home Sweet Home” then stretching out comfortably on your own familiar bed. Your bedding. Your pillow. The scent of your favourite fabric softener. The ultimate comfort we work hard for. 

       She didn’t know whether it was an unfamiliar smell or was it the room’s Feng Shui that seemed odd and all upside-down but for some reason she just couldn't relax. She tossed and turned and became restless as if waiting for some truth to sink in. 

       And what do we do when we feel the pang of unexplained anxiety? We make a trip to the fridge! She was still contemplating which healthy snack would provide both ease and comfort, her hand on the fridge handle when a note under a magnet caught her eye. 

       It was a neighbours’ "welcome to the hood" note. Introducing herself. Listing the best coffee and take out places. Then saying she was excited to meet the little fella soon.

  

       Little fellow? What little fellow? 

Although my friend is a devoted doggy-mom the ad had specified no pets. A vet had recommended that so that her dog would feel like she was home once they returned. 

      Could it be a child? All these calls - they said nothing about bringing a child! 

      As it turned out, the yoga instructor - I’ll call her Rosemary - and her academic hubby were liars. Rosemary was nearly 7 months pregnant when they moved in - easy to disguise on Skype if one wants to. Not so easy to disguise as one waddles down the street and runs into a neighbour. 

      People don’t need to ask landlords for permission to have kids. I get that. How about getting consent to having a home birth? 

     

According to the made-to-sound-cool blog post, one day during the February freeze, my friend’s place became the birthplace of a baby boy. And a make-shift hospital where two midwives practiced their skill, hoping nothing would go wrong. Home births sound great in theory - if nothing goes wrong. Sometimes, however, things do go wrong - a breached baby or a slowed heart beat or a lack of oxygen or inhaled meconium or mom’s blood pressure rising or a placenta previa or a million other things. A famous Serbian ob-gyn got himself in hot water once stating that the woman is closest to death during childbirth, statistics proving him right. In that case your home could become an address on the death certificate?

       My friend’s place was also a training ground - apparently two mid-wives in training attended as well, together with a crowd of family and friends likely holding hands and chanting “Kumbaya” in lieu of an epidural. Or to clear the karma of two parents who conscientiously chose to birth their child in a cloud of deceit - equivalent to having him wrapped into a yoga mat made of lies. How very granola of them!

       I’m an unreasonably-affectionate mother of three. For 823 days of my life I have been an expectant mother, loving my nausea and my swollen feet, nightly leg cramps and even the dreaded finger exams - all this was leading to my motherhood graduation days one January, one July and one October. And with recent public lash-outs on breast-feeding moms or the omnipresent fat-shaming should one not shed all the baby weight in the first few weeks like our Angies, and Jessicas and Giselles effortlessly do - I am extremely protective of new moms. They don’t tell us how hard the first few months of ultimate sleep deprivation are. Or that breast-feeding at the beginning hurts more than the roughest of labour pains. Or that the baby blues is often a cruel downplay on postpartum depression we feel too guilty to admit and get treated. White knuckling those first days and months trying to look as blissful as expected. Reading those damn cards that completely misrepresent the chaos we are trying to get the hold of (Hallmark and I have never been on good terms). No one tells us that it sometimes takes years to get our bodies back in shape or our marriage back to harmony; our jobs back to rewarding. And our self-esteem back at all!

       And with all my love and understanding of new moms I can’t fathom any place but the hospital for me to leave my sweat and tears and many other bodily fluids coming out of me and my baby. Leaving it in someone else’s home is just plain gross and irresponsible. And a biohazard.

     

Internet - the oasis of quotes! 

 I visited my friend the other day giving her a hug after her exciting time abroad. And as we chatted and laughed I casually disappeared to the kitchen and silently opened her freezer. I scanned the few boxes - some packages of edamame and a frozen yoghurt desert. Phew, no umbilical cord stored -- they dodged the hospital, but what about the cord blood banking? It’s now up to Bella*, her poodle to check the backyard for anything else.

       You see, that old lady Jun - my last horrible tenant - was a hoarder. As seen on TV. The worst find during the clean-up after a long-fought eviction: fish insides, guts and intestines, bagless in the fridge and freezer. Although we had to replace the fridge I was so relieved the bloody fragments actually belonged to a fish. It could've been worse. That fall as we prepared to plant bulbs in the flower beds, we discovered that Jun buried about 3 dozen fish heads. The rotting smell scarred me for life. Gave up gardening - forever. 

But still better than finding Rosemary’s placenta stashed somewhere! 

       *not her real name 

Lean In Ladies! Actually... no, not so much?

What does a rainy Sunday at the end of May spell?  Binge-watching reality TV!  Blessing for my children - it's for you too! In my defence, earlier this morning I cooked some seriously savoury organic home-grown stuffed peppers and experimented for the first time with my husband’s favourite Middle-Eastern treat “Mahalabia” with a perfect result!   So, darlings, judge me all you want, but I sank onto my sofa in the afternoon to watch the finale of MasterChef Canada Season 2 one more time. And as a refresher, a few of the previous episodes. OK, I admit it -  I binge-watched people cook for about 5 hours! To explain further, this has been an emotional season.  "Serbian" stuffed peppers After all, my sister - our family’s own kitchen maven - was a contestant herself! One day, for a few hours our family and friends and colleagues were guests on the set as she cooked for that coveted white apron. Star-struck by the familiar surroundings, the young producers running around with clip-boards, the cool camera crew following us around - never mind the three famous judges - this was a fun and unforgettable escape from my regular career of mostly serious, medical stuff. Seriously sinful: Mahalabia No surprise, the flourless chocolate cake, the staple of our many family celebrations won the palates of two out of three judges. White apron was awarded with our whole family sharing that moment, crowding the TV-kitchen space. Lights, Camera, Appetite, Adrenaline, Action!  It took me a solid hour to tame my disappointment after the very first episode finally aired in early February. After reaching the top 25 home chefs, my sister was asked to surrender her white apron. 16 others moved into the cooking Coliseum, an insanely-equipped stainless-steel kitchen. My bitterness was somewhat soothed by the knowledge that, for our family, food is a thing of pure love - a meditation over the stovetop rather than a competitive sport. But it was easy for me to continue being glued to the TV -  feeling a pang of hunger - every Sunday at 7:00 PM because of two other amazingly talented and strong home chefs, Line and Tammy, who knew how to cook, decorate, cooperate and compete while clearly becoming good friends along the way. And when Tammy - the incredible hunter-gatherer mother of six - was sent home mid-way through the competition, this mature female friendship made me root even harder for Line, a military veteran French-Canadian power mom, who single-handedly raised her daughters. Battling poverty yet learning the daring art of “chi-chi-foo-foo” cooking! As a former single mother I nodded to myself: “Whoa! Line it is!” The cooking show ended two weeks ago, together with a myriad of other reality shows, designed to catch our attention, our likes and re-tweets in the winter-to-spring timeline. Reality TV fame evaporates faster than alcohol in a flambé, right? So why talk about the #MCC Season Finale now? For someone who is a volunteer life coach dedicated solely to assisting women in transition, the social media thread linked to a nation-wide opinion of who deserved to win MasterChef Canada Season 2 served as an incredible case-study. And amazingly enough - the comments are still coming in. Facebook seems to greatly extend the life of the show! Here is an observation: When a man cooks well (even though a major error was made deeming those sweetbreads impossible to serve at a fine-dining restaurant) other men are: "Whoa! Dude! Make the west coast proud! Go Dave Go!" They even call him “bro”. Not a single word of criticism, let alone an offensive word. Nice. I took the past two weeks to diligently comb through the MasterChef Canada’s Facebook page and capture an opposing phenomenon.  When a woman cooks well - (although she served the steak rare rather than medium rare) it is the other women who are the ones to comment the most. And although there are certainly those who offer praise and encouragement, there is an  o v e r w h e l m i n g  number of women whose comments are derogatory, dumb in their menace yet intending to hurt. The range and ravage go from commenting on finalist’s Line’s strategy, to assaulting her looks, to hating her voice, to judging her personality.  Sad. Actually - suffocatingly sad.  In this mid-second decade of the 21st century women still have a lot to conquer and overcome: Equal pay. Rape culture. And in many places, the right to end pregnancy. The right to love another woman. Cat-calling. Fair employment opportunities and career advancement. Learning to Lean In is no small task. With these we are only touching on our first world problems. What about Malala Yousafzai’s battle for girls’ right to education? Or the Nigerian girls being abducted by Boko Haram - some of whom are forced to wed, while others are raped and killed or forcibly used as suicide bombers? We are talking Canadian women watching a Canadian cooking reality show, choosing to spend their on-line minutes to harass and bring the fellow woman down as hurtfully as they can. What is it that makes women who live in one of the safest and most prosperous countries in the world want to pour malice onto a TV-show contestant?  How does one know that what you see is not just a well-planned scenario (did someone say alternate ending?) of a savvy TV show producer who calculated: “In this corner a blue-collar dad who must provide better for his family”… “In this corner an ex-military single mom in high heels”. Let the kitchen gladiators take their knives out! The Truman show. Clearly, it works, because we all watched. And cheered. And some of us even pimped up their kitchen skills due to the show, gaining some unnecessary gourmet pounds along the way.  But, fellow woman, yes you who shamelessly (your first and last name fully displayed) took jabs at one of our own after her incredible kitchen stamina and success - are you done now? Did this virtual stoning make you feel better? Taller? More accomplished? Do you feel safer in your own world now that you slung hurtful words and insults at a woman you don’t even know? Let me tell you a secret - I don’t know Line either!  But I have learned that there is nothing like cooperation if not the camaraderie of mature women who can empower, support and change the world. One kitchen, one classroom, one boardroom, one stage at the time. As a life coach, I want you to feel the sweet and powerful ambrosia of that amazing bond. It will do you so much good - give it a try!  Where to start?  I’m a pharmacist and a kitchen enthusiast - so here is the Rx or a simple 5-step recipe on how to move on from this bitter unfortunate phase to a graceful and more the real you life. (those comments on Facebook - that can’t be the real you! I refuse to believe that!).  Here we go:  Step 1 - Cleanse. Pledge not to eat fast food or drink pop or munch cheezies for the next 2 weeks. Not kidding. I don’t care if the pop is diet or made with splenda - it’s equally poisonous. Water with lemon and real food for 2 weeks, darling!  Step 2 - Forgive. Your mother or step-mother or a mean aunt or a bitchy neighbour or that cruel nun who beat you with a stick in school. Forgive whoever it is who convinced you that women are no good. You might have been wronged at an early age. Seek help. And trust you can heal.  Step 3 - Cook. Tie an apron on, get some fresh organic ingredients, blast your favourite music and cook your heart out. Use the best food. Bring out the fancy plates saved only for special occasions. Feed your family. Feed your friends. Feed a stranger. Today. Feel the joy that accompanies whole food and whole life.  Step 4 - Watch Season 2 again. Find something you appreciate in every contestant you ever bitched about, focusing on women. Stay on task. Don’t go drooling over the handsome crooner again, the one who branded himself the sexy-food chef. If you want to support him, buy his music. Remember why you are here. To learn to be kind to women. Yourself first. Watch, breathe and repeat after me: It’s only TV. Breathe. It’s only TV. Breathe.  Step 5 - Remember that one woman in your life - there must have been one - who stood out for you as someone strong. Or brave. Or wise. Or selfless. Or capable. Or kind. Or all of the above. Go talk to her. Call her and tell her how meaningful she is to you. And why. Send her a letter. Or write it all in a journal tonight if she happens to be in another realm. But take the time to recognize and honour the sacred feminine. It is your birthright. For your own sake. And your daughter’s sake. And your son’s sake. And the world’s sake. Now take a minute to realize that the person you have been slandering all along is that woman for someone else. For me, that was my mother’s friend Sonja*. I observed her become a kick-ass engineer and then a bride (little girls remember beautiful brides!), compete and win in the men’s professional world, start her family. Then experience real hardships - divorce, life-threatening illness of a child, civil war. Through it all she stayed strong and focused and wise. You know what else I remember her doing? She would often call or come talk to my mom, who was over 15 years her senior, to harvest energy and kindness and a sense of support and relief and hope. All these decades later, that friendship still lasts.  And when I had my own hardships to deal with, I looked for Sonja, 15+ years my senior. What I got from her was gold. Relief. Timeless wisdom. And two years ago, during my brief time in Belgrade, I knocked on her door. And hugged her. And told her how much strength I had received from her courage. Sharing that was one of the best feelings I have ever experienced.  I want that feeling for you. That’s all. Because being gracious tastes so good. Just like Line’s crème brûlée. A few days ago, I ran into the MasterChef Season 1 finalist Marida Mohammed - where else than in the best roti place of the Greater Toronto Area! She was having lunch with her twin sister Narida and their very lucky and proud mother. I can’t say what struck me more - how warm and welcoming they were when I approached recognizing them or how passionate and personable their suggestions on what should I taste first from the restaurant’s incredible menu. How poised yet pumped when talking about the launch of their Twice de Spice adventures-in-food company! Palachinka (Serbian for crepes) So I decided to watch the finale of Season 1 of MasterChef Canada again. Got hungry again. Got angry again - Marida didn’t win (nothing against the young Eric Chong but I favourited Marida’s spice art quite a bit more throughout the whole season). But anger doesn’t feel good so I looked for a way out. My signature thin crepes with blueberries and crushed candied pecans. Phew - it worked!  Then I remembered. It’s only TV. A producer sitting down and action-planning the business of the first 3 seasons of the Canadian franchise of the show. What will rake up the ratings? Attract the advertisers? Where will the top 8 home chefs cook in Season 3? Aprile’s Origin North and Bonacini’s Canoe have already done their turn.  But of course: “Silly me - I now see - R&D**- it’s only TV!” * her real name, XOXO! ** read the reviews then tried for myself - R for robbed, D for disappointed!

Since I met you baby...

A King died last Thursday night. Not just any king. B.B. King. He was 89.

That same morning in Belgrade, Duda - a decade younger than him, my favourite "komšinica" [kom-she-nee-tza] - neighbour, also died. How extraordinary!? There are no mistakes in the universe!

B.B. King came to Belgrade to do a concert on July 6, the summer I grew up.

B.B. King in Belgrade - 1991

The then-still-glamorous Sava Centre Concert Hall was completely full. Four thousand people came out night after balmy night to enjoy Belgrade's Summertime Jazz & Blues & World Music Festival. Luckily, my boyfriend and I had tickets for every single performance – he being the son of the conductor of Belgrade's Jazz Orchestra. They were really good seats - right in the middle of the hall.

Half-way through one of the most memorable jazz experiences of my life, B.B.King started jamming the opening notes to his famous:  "Since I Met You Baby".  Suddenly he stopped, and flashing his mischievous smile at the audience, said he would play, but he "wanna see some kissin' goin' on"! Who else could create a small-club atmosphere from a giant auditorium other than B.B.?!  He started playing, lazily caressing his guitar, but significantly slowing the beat from its original version: “Since I met you baby, my whole life has changed...”  he mused. As the next instrumental kicked in, he announced: "Let’s see if there is any kissing going on - bring up the lights!"

Two powerful beams began their crawl from the far left and right ends of the concert hall. My boyfriend and I were sitting in the very middle of the room and we quickly understood that the lights would inevitably cross over each other right on us.

"We should totally get up and French kiss when the lights get here - you game?" - he whispered in my ear excitedly. Adrenaline was rushing and my heart was beating wildly, but I shoved my normally-shy self aside and took the plunge:

"Let's do it" - I agreed, falling in love - that very second - even more deeply.

The mighty lights arrived a second later and we got up right as they crossed over, giving B.B. King what he asked for. The deafening roar of the audience was followed by a loud applause. B.B. let his guitar hang as he lifted both arms in the air, sending us a giant kiss and then bowing in our direction:

"That's how you do it! This lady knows how to kiss!”

Although Radio Television Belgrade aired the concert just about a million times and I had it taped on VHS, the clip didn't make it with us as we immigrated over the Atlantic ocean. And although YouTube generously provides the slow and lazy version for your pleasure, it is not the one from Belgrade. Not the one with my most famous kiss.

The doorbell rang furiously and the front door of my parent's Belgrade apartment swung wide open just as I was watching again that taped clip. It was January 30th, 1996. I was holding my newborn son. Komšinica Duda -- our neighbour from two floors above, stormed into our living room, pale-faced, curlers dangling, asking questions. "Is it true?!!!"

My mom appeared, smiling and in an amazingly calm voice confirmed that yes, that boyfriend - turned husband - the one I kissed at the B.B.King concert 4.5 years earlier – had indeed left me, ten days prior to the birth of our son. No, we don't know "now what?“. But all is well. All is perfect. The baby is perfect.

"Ma nek se goni u pičku materinu!" - Duda hissed passionately, cursing him then and again every single time his name came up in the next three years that we lived in Belgrade. No, I will not translate it. It is one of those common-place obscenities my non-Balkan friends can not begin to understand. It kind of has to do with sending him, rushing him rather, back into his mother's vagina. There. I said it. The underlying meaning is absolutely untranslatable.

But it did bring relief. So did the endless supply of platters filled with the most delicious hand-made baked goods and decadent cakes - intended to soothe and comfort the new nursing mom. Love on a plate. My favourite treat of all of Duda’s masterful creations: "Muška Torta". Masculine cake. How appropriate!

What also brought relief was listening to B.B.King and yes, watching and watching again that three

Photo credit Kamenko Pajic

minute clip of my past life. I saw two kids in love, who mere days after that concert witnessed the beginning of the Balkan War, the "voluntary" gathering of the special parachute brigade he belonged to and the not-so-voluntary deportation straight into the war in Slovenia. The 21-year-old us trembling in front of those same front doors of my parents’ apartment facing real fear for the first time, consoling each other, making promises, kissing goodbye. And at the same time, together and very rapidly, growing up.

"Since I met you baby my whole life has changed" became my soothing hymn. Sure, since I met you baby, my whole life has changed. For the better. Then for the worse. Then for the much, much better.

I last saw Duda just about two years ago. It was my first and only brief visit back to Belgrade.

Neighbours are family

I will always remember it as the fireworks of love - me approaching the entrance of Blagajska 10 street, pressing almost every button on the intercom, surprising my darling neighbours telling them all to come down. Screams, cheerful shouts, hugs, kisses, holding hands long and hard with the people who were not my family but became family. Fellow tenants who saw me grow up, get the school done, get married, get pregnant, then come back home with the little bundle in tow. Looking now at the pictures of a grown man they helped me raise those three first fragile years. The enormous amount of love made me humble and speechless and I choke up with tears even now. I now fully understand the concept of "Love thy neighbour".

There is a crazy good jam session going on in heaven right now. Sachmo and Ella and Miles and Etta and countless others gathered around microphones and with guitars and trumpets. And Duda is there wearing a fancy silk dress - her slender figure swaying to the beat, red lipstick and hair all done up - she is beautiful and free of all of her earthly worries. Boy, those curlers did a great job!

Happy Place

It's a well-known rule amongst bloggers that requests for a specific topic should never be fulfilled -- allegedly it robs the writer of his or her authenticity and voice and ends up looking staged. That is why thus far I haven't subscribed to any ads or other monetization avenues. With a blog name such as “Friend Like Me”, I can only imagine what kind of businesses it would attract – possibly an escort service? Ouch!

However I do have two particular fans who, whenever they see me on my Mac, ask in unison: "Are you writing a blog?" I know they are not reading this blog let alone even really know what a blog is, but they still keep asking. Every photo I've recently taken, especially ones of the two of them, is followed by: "Are you going to put us in your blog?"

Recently, as we lazed away our days in sunny Florida and I kept snapping photos with my phone, my two devoted fans approached me: "Mama, you need to write a blog about how much we love Florida! And put our picture in it! Here!" and they posed for yet another photo on a beautiful balmy afternoon (see the photo AFTER below!).

So I am ready to break the blogging rule and also to put aside paranoia for a second and neglect all that advice that we parents get about limiting the on-line exposure of our offspring. Here and now, for my two most avid fans I call Thing 1 and Thing 2 aka DaDa and JoJo (what they call each other) I will tell the world why South-West Florida is our literal and proverbial HAPPY PLACE. Here you go, "midgets"!

The concept of a Happy Place has always been a part of my life. My parents were big on planning our family vacations: Serbian mountains, Slovenian lakes, Bosnian villages, Croatian coast. Greek islands. 

I became painfully aware of the importance of having a Happy Place in my life one afternoon while in high school. The funniest yet the fiercest of all our professors - Biljana, our physics teacher – had just called my name. This involved me dragging myself from the third row to go stand in front of the blackboard while she dictated a problem I had to solve and would be marked on, in front of some 30+ students. "Multiple choice" has never been a part of my schooling and the 45-year-old me is grateful today: stuff I know - I know. But the 17-year-old me dreaded it. The problem had to do with fluid dynamics - there was a fountain of sorts with various diameters of pipes and water pressures and I was supposed to calculate how high the middle stream of the fountain would reach -- something I have never even attempted to understand. As much I try now to forget the profound discomfort of struggling in front of our otherwise charming teacher and my classmates - most of them hoping I take my sweet time so she wouldn’t have a chance to pick anyone else before the bell rang - I remember standing there, knowing only the first few moves, like in beginners' chess. I wrote some formula I knew kind of applied to a question like this. Then, while my hand was shakily scribbling with a chalk on the dry green painted board (I still get shivers thinking of that scratchy sound!) my mind suddenly jumped a track and I started calculating: it's April 20th... May 20th, June 20th, July 6th... in 77 days I would be in Parga! Double digits! Way under 100! Whoa!

Parga - a little village off the coast of Greece's Ionian Sea had been my personal first and favourite happy place. My parents prepared months in advance both financially and logistically for a 1400km road-trip from Belgrade, via Macedonia, through Thessaloniki (the quick gyros and shopping-laced sleepover) only to continue early the next day over the mighty Pindus mountains, testing the best homemade cheeses in the high altitude village of Metsovo (the memory of one with whole pepper seeds in it still makes my palate tingle) in hope that by 4 pm we would be rolling down the hills towards Ioannina and then pleading with our dad, the second he finished the famous cold Café Frappé, to go full throttle in that non-fancy yet durable LADA Samara so we could get to Parga just in time for a quick shower and a stroll on the boardwalk and an exciting first glimpse of who was there.  Oh, the sweet teenage memories!

The bell rang, jolting me out of my happy place and straight back to the front of the blackboard. Our teacher Biljana looked at me with disappointment yet also with a touch of humour: "I have no clue where you were, but you managed to finish 2/3 of this problem. You can't earn more than a skinny B minus for this work. Do you want to stay in at recess and complete it or take the mark as is?"

"I will take the skinny B minus!!!" - I sounded way too enthusiastic for a very mediocre mark as I shook my head in disbelief that I even got that far!

Welcome to SW Florida!

That is the definition of my happy place. The spot on the map where it is always sunny. Always fun. Always no physics. Or math. Or tests. The place where I get to be the best version of me – and in 1987, that meant me + make-up + getting to go out with her older and very popular sister every night to a disco club! Careless Whispers. Eighties rocked!!!

Growing our brand-new roots in Canada, for the first few years I forgot about the importance of my happy place. Life has been way too intense for me to remember the sweet afternoon siesta time when my only task was to put enough sunscreen on and slurp a Coca-Cola with all its 33g of sugar without a care in the world, and chill out with a group of internationally-assembled friends in the bamboo shade of the Tropicana Bar on the Valtos Beach. 

DaDa @1 With the arrival of Thing 1 and Thing 2, life became much gentler and time stretched more generously. Amazingly, when I least expected it, the happy place ended up finding me. It all started with spending big chunks of my maternity leave in the sunny state. When every street has either a coconut or a flamingo in it, life undoubtedly gets happier. JoJo @2 Bird lines! Seagulls on a popcorn hi-jacking mission Kids learnt how to walk and then swim while living the Florida life. They also experienced the gift of their parents and grandparents being around and enjoying everyone's undivided attention as they got to be kids the way nature intended it - free and naked and occupied with sand and shells and sticks. No fancy toy, electronic gadget or a smartphone app can replace what life in its organic form has to offer.  We build castles and airports and train stations in the sand. We sing silly songs while jumping on waves. We pretend to be speaking 'dolphin' (just like Dori spoke whale in Finding Nemo) as we attempt to attract our favourite mammals. Whether the noble ones understand our calling or dolphins simply feel the purity of two little hearts beating intently, incredibly they almost always come! Coincidentally, we get to attract  other animals too, so we have seen our fair share of turtles.There are protected nests along the beach from April through October and I love how careful my little boys are around them, Dolphin-calling works! understanding the importance of not disturbing the nature's ritual of the past 110 million years! We have seen angry ospreys protecting their nests; manatees travelling in a herd; pelicans' spectacular nosedives and seagulls' feeding frenzies. Back at home, we found a snake at our doorstep and after nudging her to move away into the garden with a water gun, we named her Bella. Both Bella and Gerry provided their fair share of adrenaline rush, so forgive me for not having the photos to share. Gerry is our lizard, dark in colour and neurotic in behaviour, who managed to hitch a ride into our home in a croc-shoe one of the kids had recklessly left outside, only to send me - the responsible parent – into  combat mode with a wooden blood orange crate in one hand and a Swiffer wet jet in another. As tall as JoJo! It took a while, but Gerry finally obliged, darting out the front door a few seconds before I slammed it shut, sliding exhausted onto the cool tile floor. Then while power-walking my favourite trail in order to relax, I met a 4-foot alligator that moved in to our deep lakes full of fish in search of a buffet-style meal. The thing with alligators that I tend to remember is that I am 'on their turf', not vice versa - so I feel privileged that I can witness their jaw-dropping presence and feel close with nature while watching my every step. And it is much the same with many animal sightings: they simply take your breath away, like the one time a whole flock of white pelicans invaded our lake. Albino Pelicans - photo credit P.Watkin

But animals are not the only gem. Just as Elizabeth Gilbert managed to portray the passionate love of botanics in her novel The Signature of All Things, I am in love with Florida's flora.

Ferns, moss' and palm trees

From species effortlessly coexisting to the alluring swamp habitats that are both mesmerizing and intimidating. There is something intrinsically frightening in the very aspect of swamp life.

Babcock Wildernes Park

Just try to imagine what it might look and sound like after the sun goes down should the water-bus break and one is forced to stay the night. Our favourite swamp has been featured in Hollywood - Sean Connery's thriller Just Cause was filmed where these photos were taken. Bone chilling.

Florida's spectacular sunsets are the perfect backdrop for the awe we feel for nature, and the gratitude for everything (other than the mosquitos who start their carnage about a second after the sun disappears behind the horizon!)

Naples Beach

Meditation space

The sunny state is also the only place on earth where I will by-pass my teenage propensity for sleeping in late in order to capture the rare opportunity for an early morning quiet time. My spiritual practice. Intention setting. And exercise!

And no matter how many times I witnessed the same miracle of the sunrise or the brief morning fog lifting off the ground or the dew caught on perfect spider webs, the flawless symmetry of unspoiled nature -- I feel inspired and somehow wealthy in an extraordinarily profound way.

Daily reflection time

Above all, I love what Florida is for my family. A giant playground - no matter the age!

Toddler to Teen

A welcome home-made clown parade even at meal-times and no matter the age!  Yup, that's Grandma'!

Where we have time for fun dates... ... and romantic walks Where kids are unaware these are their "childhood memories"

But we are aware of their BEFORE And their AFTER

And that we are very lucky indeed Lastly I feel relieved to have finally figured out the correct answer for that wretched fluid dynamics' question I sweated over in Grade 11. How tall is the middle stream of the water fountain? Tall enough!