There’s choices to be made, many many choices, starting with the very question of returning to work post-having-baby and suddenly finding yourself responsible for finding someone responsible for your child (this happening just as you’re finally getting used to being responsible for another human being). There’s questions of suitability and affordability, even, and guiltability (that’s what I call the 683 lbs of lead that sits in your stomach after dropping your child off at Some Place Other Than Home).  And there’s sustainability, moreso if you opt for the at-home daycare setting, which we have always done.

These past few weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind on my parental heart, as we’ve found ourselves needing to find new daycare for Kait, as her current (awesome) child provider is retiring (deservedly so, after 20 years) later this month. What has come to be a reassuring, comforting routine was broken, and we found ourselves in the world that many “new” parents find themselves in—where to go now?

I returned to work when Kait was 8 months old. I tell people that this decision came from financial need. We were living in Ontario at the time where houses cost a lot of money and gas is consumed like water. My place of employment offered zero maternity benefits and what the government gives you for mat leave is laughable, my friends. I joke that I would have been better off if I had been laid off and had to draw EI—a sad joke b/c mat benefits, by their very nature, assume another mouth to feed. So, the financial need factor was indeed true.

However, I would be lying if I didn’t say that I also returned to work for myself. I like to work, and 8 months being “at home” (I put this in quotation marks b/c we actually moved back and forth from Ontario to PEI during this time, to suit Allan’s army schedule) really drove home this point. I love my little girl, of course I do, but I am a much better mom to her when I work. This I know.

So, this meant finding daycare for an infant under 1, a statement that would cause many people to spit milk out their nose and choke from laughter. Good luck, I was told. Most places charge a mint for kids under the age of 1, too; not to mention, all the judgmental comments I received from those lucky enough to be able to stay at home with their kids for longer. “You’re not taking the full year?” I was asked many many times (to which I often replied, “what full year?” since, again, lack of benefits was gracing our bank account here).

Anyway, I was lucky. My SIL had a longtime family friend who looked after kids. My niece was actually going there, too (she’s 9 months older than K). She had attended family functions and even came to K’s baptism, held when K was 2 weeks’ old (a story for another time, wherein I was clearly delusional . . . we don’t display photos of this blessed event for a reason . . . let’s just say I was stupid to plan an event before the child was even born and assume that I could get myself dressed two weeks post-birth, let alone everything else that comes with this holy ceremony . . . gives me a good chuckle now).

In a nutshell: There was instant trust. No price could be associated with that. Still. There was guilt. And tears. And rearranged work schedules to allow for me to pick Kait up at the appropriate time, given the 45 km commute on the 401 that often ground to a halt. Let’s not even remember the challenges of breastfeeding during this time, given I would be away from my baby for 9 hours/day (um, ouch, is all I’ll say here).

It worked and it didn’t work, but at least our child care person was beyond what I could ask for. Especially for a fragile new mom. Heck, I almost felt like enrolling myself in her care at times! (wouldn’t that be an awesome concept for the new mom!)

When Kait was 10 months old, I got laid off from work. Therein started our trek back to PEI, where I found a new job and a new life, and I needed daycare for a then 1-year-old. A little easier to find, given her age, but not so much given the environment. I was moving back “home,” sure, but I’d never lived in PEI with a child before. I had no idea where to begin to look. Add in the extra challenge of not having transportation (our car was still in Ontario with A and our house), and I was a slight mess.

But, again, I lucked out. A friend told me about a place where she had her daughter, and even offered to help carpool, since we both worked at the same place. Kait was a little older and the adjustment happened a little more slowly than at place #1 and so the guilt grew. She was also sick a lot during this time, meaning more than one call at work letting me know she was sick and more than a few scrambles having to be made in order to (a) pick her up and (b) get her to a doctor. Let’s just say these were not my most favourite months. The care she got was excellent; the environment revolving it was anything but.

Six months into this situation, and my life started to make sense again. I had a husband who did not live in another province and I had a car—sweet merciful heaven, I had a car! With a child, a car really does mean independence and ease of living. I was beginning to feel like such a burden on basically everyone I knew by this point. We moved outside of town, and given that it would be A who would have the car most days and he would be working from home, we decided that it made more sense to look for a daycare closer to our home, rather than my place of employment.

Enter daycare #3. For the first time, I had no recommendations. No links. Nothing that even rhymed with trust. What I had was an ad I found online. We set up an interview and decided to give it a go, based on what we saw. There was a lot of anxiety though, given that trust (both ways) was being built as we went, as opposed to my previous situations wherein I had had some kind of knowledge beforehand.

It worked. Heck, it more than worked. Kait has thrived and become a different child. She received all the nurturing that she needed early on, and then, later, the encouragement to come out of her shell. She’s been at her current daycare for almost three years, and most likely now doesn’t really remember her previous placements.

We’ve not only trusted this woman with our child, but we’ve formed connections with her family. Her children babysit for us. One of them works, in one capacity, with Allan. We think of her as the heart of our town and often call her for recommendations for such and such. It’s been quite comfortable these past 3 years. Oh, yes, there are days when we hear that our child bite another – when she was younger – or didn’t listen, etc., which are less than comfortable, but overall, it’s been great.

This will change this month, and we’ve been thrown into topsy turvey in-need-of-childcare-and-it’s-scary land. Compounding this fear is Kait’s age. She’s 4 and will start school September 2013 (she’s a January baby), so for me, it’s important she spends her last year before school with kids her age/older kids . . . not with infants, as per some offers we received. I’d like her to learn some things, tho’ exact content is not that important to me right now. I’d actually just like her to get used to the idea of learning and structure (loose structure mind, but some).

The two local centres are booked up until at least 2022. (not really, but it feels that way.) So, we found ourselves looking at what exists privately. I didn’t really entertain other areas b/c we really try to monitor our carbon footprint. We have one car and we schedule trips to “town” so they don’t happen often.

Two weeks into the search left me crying at the drop of a hat, I was so stressed out. And yes, I do work from home now, but if any of you have ever met my wild child, you would soon realize that she isn’t one to let Mommy do much work. I was just starting to figure out how I could at least rent another kid to entertain her when my lovely SIL came to my rescue . . . again.

Let’s note my SIL lives in Ontario. She’s magical though and seriously gets things done. It really doesn’t matter that she lives in another province—leave it to her to know of a place! And not just “a place,” but one that was highly recommended by a kindergarten teacher at the school Kait will be attending and that just happens to have spots available. What the heck? Cue the choir of angels here.

This week we took Kait to visit this place. It’s next to a school and one of the best playgrounds in the entire province. The person has her Early Childhood Diploma, and at least 5 of the kids will all be starting school at the same time. Within approximately 4 seconds into our visit, Kait was playing with the other girls (the girls were having a turn with the dress-up clothes, while the boys were busy at the block station), laughing up a storm. She asked to go back and play soon.

So we took the spot.

Change happens, yes. And we all adapt, form new plans, move on. Sometimes the change is easier than others. We’re on the cusp of change here, and I find myself wondering what will this next month be like. We haven’t told Kait yet how things will go down these last 2 weeks she has at her current daycare. I’ll get to that. (If anyone has a way to explain “retirement” to a 4-year-old, I’d love to hear it!) But, the coil of knots that have been in my stomach is starting to relax. I’m even going so far as to let myself think, she’ll be fine.

It won’t be too long and I’ll be gearing her myself up for kindergarten.

This past week was something, as well. I was fighting a cold most of the week and I was pretty happy that my magic formula worked and kicked the cold to the curb. (My magic formula is not a secret one: when you feel a cold coming on, pop 2-3 oregano oil tablets per day + 3 Vit C + 1 Vit D. C’est ca. Works like a charm.)

But my energy levels were down and I only worked out once . . . all week. I would panic the hour before each meal b/c I hadn’t planned a thing. Somehow we survived, but it left me pretty worn out, cranky, and not wanting to do that again.

Knowing that the week coming up is going to be even busier, I’ve decided to take action this weekend. And how does a Type A take action, you ask?

She cleans.

My house has been neglected this week. Fur from the dogs have gathered, unswept, forming balls so big I had to look twice to make sure I wasn’t actually sweeping up Ryder or Echo. Laundry? HA HA HA. And let’s not even discuss the bathrooms.

The sun is shining today, meaning I couldn’t help but be in a good mood. I have wood floors and the sun shines on them brilliantly, a gorgeous effect . . . when said floors are clean. When they are dirty, the sun acts like a constant guilt fairy, illuminating every single speck of dust I have not cleaned.

So, out came the rags and my giant bottle of vinegar (I clean with vinegar) and away I went. I attacked the kitchen first, cleaning all cupboards, appliances, and every surface you can imagine. I even emptied out the Lazy Susan (a.k.a., the place where I throw anything to get it out of sight), cleaned that out, and organized it so it makes sense. My kitchen is my sanctuary, so I figured if I could keep that clean, at least this week will see a safe haven for me.

My father was here this week plastering sections of my ceiling that had collapsed last year (thanks, winter), so I was also cleaning bits o’plaster that had found their way pretty much everywhere (even on the bottom of my kitchen chairs—what the heck?). Apparently that cup of coffee I spilled last month had spilled onto the walls. And has anyone looked behind the pellet stove lately?

(At this point, you might be thinking I am a slob. I’m really, not, really, and my house usually looks okay . . . it’s just really hard to do all those extra cleaning stuff you are supposed to do when you can barely remember to feed the fish—oh, crap . . . )

As I write this, I have about a quarter of my house cleaned and two loads of laundry complete. Both Allan and I were able to get in individual workouts, giving our bodies a boost. We entertained Kait by letting her put on a summer princess nighty over top her flannel, dinosaur PJ pants (over which she put on her bright orange soccer shin guards to complete the outfit), and gave her a wet cloth so she could clean like me (don’t judge—I got a lot of window sills cleaned this way!).

Kait wearing possibly every thing she could find in my closet, including a Kate Spade purse cover on her head and my slippers. Those bright orange things? Shin guards.

But, mentally, I feel like I’ve cleaned an entire city. Getting clutter out really does empty the mind, and (at least to me) a clean house = a clean soul. I can face most deadlines, as long as my house is clean. My house is often the most clean when I am the most stressed (or angry—I’m also an emotional cleaner).

I’m sitting down to get a few hours of work done now as Allan takes Kait out to the library, but I honestly believe that taking time to clean the house, plan the weekly meals, and schedule in exercise time for the week, will be just as helpful to mitigate stress for the upcoming week than simply getting a jump on the week’s work.

It helps that the sun is shining on my clean floors.

How do you get back on track when you start to feel overwhelmed?

Time for Zen

Hey everyone,

You’re probably surprised to actually hear from me about Edwards, since it’s been a while since I’ve sent anything out. For that, I sincerely apologize. For too long I’ve been trying to figure out a system to juggle all my stuff; wear all my hats, if you will.

It’s become clear to me, however, that I just can’t do everything. Many have tried to tell me this, and I scoffed, snorted, maybe gaffawed—”Oh, I’ll fit it all in, no worries!”

For you reviewers who came on board Edwards in the last few years, I say an extra sorry to you. You missed its hay-day. I once was organized. I once did manage to get reviews published, maintain publisher relations, and provide timely updates on the whole publication.

To you reviewers who have been there since the beginning, I first say thank you so much for continuing to spread the love of good books. I’m sincerely sorry I am not able to carry on.

Recent years have seen me take some pretty big steps . . . embark on some pretty new roles . . . and instead of doing nothing with Edwards, hoping that one day I may just have a few minutes to spare, I feel the only fair thing to do is admit that I just can’t continue with this book club any longer. I simply do not have a lot of spare time these days, and I really have to prioritize how I spend it.

It breaks my heart, it really does. I’ve done some amazing things with Edwards, and made some pretty great connections. I’ve learned about some pretty awesome new reads, and I encouraged kids across the country to read through the two literacy programs I ran. I presented at a book conference, and I’ve had some fabulous doors open up professionally because of Edwards.

So, to admit that I no longer can carry this on is not a decision I’ve come to overnight.

If any of you would like to take over the book club, I would be more than happy to transfer it to you. At present, there is no cost to the book club (just time), and I’d be happy to show you how it all works.

Again, a huge thank you for all your support and participation in the Edwards Book Club over the last 5 years. Big hugs to you all.

Christine.

I read it over, clicked send, and proceeded to wipe out every promotional tool I’ve been using to send people to EBC.

I started Edwards Magazine in 2005, with a friend, and ran it solo (with beacoup de help from my fabulous writers!) from 2006–2010. Edwards was named after a pretty amazing woman, Henrietta Muir Edwards, and I encourage you all to read about all the fabulous things she did. After spending considerable time doing some market research, contacting a descendant of H.Muir Edwards to get permission to use the name, and solicit writers for story ideas, the magazine was launched all fancy like, at the old 42nd Street Lounge, complete with nibbles, guest speakers, presentations, and tons of love and support from friends, family, and community members, on December 6 (date chosen on purpose), 2005.

In 2006, I got the idea of running an online book club. I began forming relationships with publishers and soliciting reviewers. I find it hilarious to think, now, how I painstakingly created individually sized jpgs of book covers and used Dreamweaver (yes, Dreamweaver!) to place each cover image Just So, insert text, and link to appropriate places using code. Each review probably took 186 hours, but it was worth it.

I never was able to secure funding for the magazine though, and I could only ask people to volunteer their time so much before I feared the pitchforks. To my surprise, many people were more than willing to keep writing (for free) because they believed it was so important. A community formed and grew and it was good.

Then I had a child and oh boy . . . things got messy in more ways than one, and the magazine and the Book Club suffered. I asked a friend to take over the Book Club for a while, so I could try to figure out this whole motherhood thing, and for that, I will remain grateful b/c if I had not done this, it surely would have folded then. The magazine was paused.

I revived both Edwards and the Book Club briefly in 2009 when I was introduced to the magic that is WordPress. No more cutting/pasting/manipulating, and reviews/stories probably went from taking 186 hours to no more than 92. Awesome! I re-grouped and managed to get back on track for a little bit with new volunteers, new story ideas, and new relationships in the publishing world.

I was so proud to publish the 5-year celebration issue of Edwards Magazine in December 2010, the issue that remains live today. I didn’t know at the time that it would be my last issue, but that’s what happened. Early 2011 saw me focus more on the Book Club, which was taking off in leaps and bounds with literacy programs in two provinces, presentations, new formats for reviews, and even a make-over. On the side, I was making major changes in my personal career that kept me more than a little busy, and the magazine just sat.

There was a brief moment this summer/fall when I thought I could manage it, still. Conference calls took place; new logos were discussed. But, after sitting on these “new” ideas for over 6 months now, I’ve had to realize the truth. I’m not “admitting defeat” so much as recognizing the time to move on. I just can’t do everything, as I explained in my email to my loyal reviewers.

Both Edwards and the Book Club were, and always will be, dear to me. I put so much of myself into both of them. Countless late nights and weekends spent soliciting story ideas, editing articles/reviews, and publishing issues (not to mention PR). I’m proud of all of this, but I’m also proud of where I am now and the need to release some of that 372 lb weight of guilt that has been sitting on my shoulders for most of the past 2 years.

I am a partner in my own business. I have a child and a family. I am committed to good health and exercise—both of which take time. I could keep listing all of my “I am/haves,” but I won’t. Let’s just say I recognize where my focus needs to be  now.

I sincerely hope that someone sees the good in Edwards and takes me up on my offer to take it over. That magazine and Book Club have been fantastic for me. I’ve gotten gigs because of it—both paid, full-time positions (at a publishing company, no less) and freelance opportunities. I’ve met numerous people I wouldn’t have otherwise met. I’ve had beyond mind-blowing conversations with brilliant people. It’s been such a door-opener that I really hope I don’t have to close it entirely, but just install a new door, so to speak (or, pass that door on? Hmm, this analogy isn’t working out well, but I think you know what I mean!)

But if that doesn’t happen, I’m still at peace. It did what it needed to do for when it needed to do it. I know the time is right to move on, but I’ll always remember my little under-funded venture with smiles and pride.

Thanks to everyone who has been a part of this over the years. I remain speechless at your generousity, commitment, encouragement, and support.

I’ll end this weepy tribute with one of my favourite cartoons my good friend LA created just for Edwards.  Thanks for the ride y’all—it’s been awesome.

So, it was really important for upper-class gentlemen and ladies to be accepted by their peers and Society, capital “S.” Think of it as high school that just went on and on. Unlike my experience with high school, however, the eighteenth century came with helpful guides, explaining the rules and expectations of fitting in. (Someone should really write one of these babies for surviving high school.)

I’ve talked about what was stated in conduct books regarding appearance and behaviour expectations for men. Funny enough (or maybe not funny at all), very little was written in conduct books about women’s appearance. Perhaps it was just assumed that women knew how to dress . . . or that most upper-class female socialites would have domestic help getting dressed. Talk of what was in fashion on any given season happened as frequently as we now talk of the weather, so it’s probably a case of stating the obvious with respect to women (no offence, men).

The Analysis of The London Ball-Room backs me up here:

to the ladies we can suggest no improvement, it is at once elegant, tasteful, and appropriate, but with the gentlemen we are not on such good terms. (p.64)

While, then, it was assumed that ladies knew how to dress for an assembly, the conduct books were not so kind regarding expectations of behaviour.

Ladies were told:

when a gentleman offers to dance with you do not, unless for some very special reason, refuse. If you can establish what you consider a valid objection, such refusal by no means hinders you from accepting the next more auspicious invitation. (Etiquette for the Ladies,1837, pp.8-9)

They were also guided to:

• not dance too often
• choose a partner “worthy of so close an intimacy” (but, also, not to refuse dancing partners too often—is your head spinning yet from all these rules?) (How To Dance, p. 13)

I may use my brain cells tomorrow or Sunday, but for now, enjoy some lovely pictures of my week! And, why yes, most of them do pertain to food—really, you should not be shocked at this by now. Happy weekend everyone!

My helper in the kitchen—I do believe she has a not-so-secret motive for her "helpfulness"

homemade granola bars filled with all kinds of yumminess and no bad things

Sending some tomatoes, onions, and red peppers in to roast

Kait helps me to make meatballs for our Italian tomato meatball soup

After the roast, lazing in the sunlight

roasted red pepper and tomato meatball soup

Moroccan chickpea stew

This is what army nights often look like at our house: banana blueberry pancakes topped with plain yogurt and a raspberry sauce

And so you don’t think I’m totally food obsessed, one of my favourite moments of the week involved these beautiful faces:

Exchanging belated Christmas presents . . . taken just before the Manns and Manleys sat down to an amazing homemade Indian feast (we ate too fast to take any pictures)

How was your week?

I had a hard time when I first started my MA in history, having just completed beacoup de work in the field of English literature. I kept trying to analyze words and look for hidden themes—much to the frustration of my MA head of department and, ultimately, myself (especially when I was told to basically rewrite the first three papers I submitted . . . sigh). I just loved looking at literature of the day so much, and so I had to come up with a way of incorporating this genre into my research through a historical lens. It took a while, but I finally figured out how to switch focus: to look at works of literature as clues to social history and forego exploration of the story itself, so to speak. Once this clicked, I was more at peace.

So most of my papers bring in fictional works of the day to back up the historical non-fiction tracts and newspapers I also dug into. I found the blending of the fictional with the non-fictional fascinating and I also didn’t want to give up my English student self.

So, with that in mind, back to dancing, and specifically, the dancing gentleman and what I found by looking at Fanny Burney’s Evelina and Jane Austin’s Northanger Abbey.

Evelina’s Lord Orville and Northanger Abbey’s Mr. Tilney illustrate the perfect ideal gentlemen by their behaviour at the assembly balls. Burney and Austen took great care to present the reader with a character who embodied all the polished manners of a gentleman, and who exhibited them in all social situations, including the assembly. Basically, Lord Orville and Mr. Tilney were the it man—the Brad Pitt or Prince William of their day I guess.

Evelina‘s Lord Orville

Lord Orville is a very attentive dance partner to Evelina, conversing with her in various conversational topics, and (as expected by ballroom decorum) asking if she wants any refreshments. Lord Orville’s gallantry does not go unnoticed, as Evelina observes “that the rank of Lord Orville was his least recommendation, his understanding and his manners being far more distinguished.” Despite Evelina’s ignorance of the etiquette of the ballroom (she was new to London high society), Lord Orville shows respect and politeness to his dancing partner and rescues her from a humiliating situation declaring to her that he “shall ever think [his] name honored by [Evenlia’s] making use of it.” By showing a high regard and obedience to all the etiquette of the ballroom, Lord Orville proves himself a worthy gentlemen overall in eighteenth-century society.

Northhanger Abbey’s Mr. Tilney

Similarly, Mr. Tilney gives Catherine Morland the honour of being a most graceful and well-mannered dancing partner. While attracted to Catherine, Mr. Tilney maintains an awareness of proper ballroom etiquette. He says to her shortly after finishing a dance,

I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions
of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been
in Bath, whether you were ever her before, whether you have been at
the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert, and how you like the
place altogether. I have been very negligent. (p.53)

Although it can be speculated that Mr. Tilney uses the ballroom etiquette to mock social conventions and thus increase his intimacy with Catherine Morland, he is still quite observant of what kind of behaviour is expected of him. Mr. Tilney’s knowledge of the ballroom extends beyond his own manners to that of others. When Mr. Thorpe attempts to engage Catherine in a conversation, despite her attention being with Mr. Tilney, the latter comments:

He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me.
We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space
of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other
for that time. … I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principle duties of both; and those
men who do not chuse to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours. (p.54)

Romantic or what?

So, here, Mr. Tilney draws upon convention to advance his own situation and courtship with Catherine Morland.

So?

The conduct books and the novels combine to illustrate the ideal “dancing gentleman,” as being an active participant in the dance. At an assembly, he took the initiative in asking a lady to dance, he took the lead on the dance floor, and he was responsible for requesting the lady’s honour of dancing again.

Unless accompanying a lady, a gentleman was usually found standing, exemplifying his position as ever-ready to serve his duty at the ball.

Just as the gentleman was the more aggressive figure in many arenas of the eighteenth-century, so, too, did he remain the dominant force in the assembly room.

Next up: the dancing lady!

First, on January 17, 2011, I officially became part-time at UPEI, taking a closer step to the full-time self-employment status I adopted in July 2011. I started a whole new work-week schedule that saw me doing my own stuff during the day a few days a week and not all late at night or on weekends (I say “not all” here fully aware that a lot of stuff still happened in those hours). I was taking more ownership of my life, who I was, and what (and where) I wanted to end up. Those days where I was working for the Mann and the Manley were the best days of my work week. That told me a lot.

Second to note, sometime the second week of January last year (I’m not sure of the official date), I gave up eating at fast-food burger joints. I wasn’t a frequent visitor of these places anyway, but I do remember picking up a jr. hamburger at Wendy’s for lunch after a business meeting, where I was racing from Place A to Place B. I remember eating it and feeling so unsatisfied and thinking why? I remember saying, that’s the last time I eat a hamburger at a fast-food restaurant.

I’m no saint. I like the odd taste of greasy food, but I could not justify the prices of fast-food places when you factor in chemicals, fats, and long-term satisfaction. I was also very concerned about what was in these things to keep them from not breaking down (have you seen those studies? talk about an eye-opener!). I decided that if I ever craved a burger, I would either (a) make it myself—and dang, I make some yummy ones! or (b) go to a sit-down proper restaurant where I knew something of their food processes.

Full disclosure: Since Boom Burger (Cornwall) has opened, I’ve been there twice. Am I a hypocrite for bragging that I have not eaten at Wendy’s or McDonald’s in over a year, but I’ve been there? Maybe . . . but I don’t think so. BB uses local products (which I totally try to support anyway I can): everything from the beef to the cheese to the butter and the potatoes are from good ol’ PEI. That’s important to me. They’re also a quote unquote high-end burger joint, which means you do get better quality than what the fast food places offer.

Here’s the thing I found interesting: when BB first opened, they were getting a lot of flack about their prices. They were perceived as high. I actually think they are fine, but the problem is that our society is so ingrained with the fast-food combo culture of Burger-Fries-Drink that that’s what we expect. The times I’ve been there, I’ve split an order of fries between 2 adults and a child AND I’ve ordered tap water. Yes, there is still some grease in the burger, I know, but it’s still not as bad. Plus, I like that it’s priced high b/c it keeps us from going too often!

Anyway, like I said, I’ve really cut back on the number of times we eat out and where. I’m not trying to stand here and say how perfect I am (hey, at a business meeting today I ate a slice of pizza AND had cake!), but I do like to make a note of the changes I do make. Plus, keeping track counts. I won’t lie: there have been days where it would have been so easy for me to pick up some fast-food but then I would think about how long I’ve gone and how I wanted to keep that up.

It’s all about the choices we do make and how it all adds up. My child is four and she’s never had pop or eaten a Happy Meal. She doesn’t even really know what McDonald’s is. We’ve taken her there twice to play in the indoor playground area before the place really grossed me out and I decided to never go back (plus when she was 2.5, a boy kept trying to kiss her, which I believe freaked Allan out a little).

Food choices, work choices, family choices. Do you celebrate the anniversary of such choices? We celebrate wedding anniversaries, but sometimes the anniversaries of other choices we make have just as much of an impact on our day-to-day lives.

Do you keep track of the choices you make and their long-term effects?

So, assemblies began to get increasingly popular in the eighteenth century, and since this was an era where conduct literature was everywhere, it wasn’t long before dancing etiquette made its way into this prescriptive literature.

And suddenly, the idea of the dancing gentleman emerged. Men of the eighteenth century really weren’t that different from a lot of men today: they danced to meet women, as shown in this piece from The Gentlemen’s Magazine (1736):

I find Myself a Kind of unsociable Animal, especially among the Women. I
never was as ashamed as I was the other Evening, when by mere Accident
I fell into some Company who were just going to Dancing; I would’ve retir’d;
but that was impossible. You must know, Sir, that I never learn’d to dance, my
Father always thinking it Folly beneath the Dignity of a Man of Learning. …it is
beyond my Power to express the Confusion I was in when a beautiful young
Lady asked me to be her Partner in a Country Dance – I pleaded to be excused,
which made her insist the more on her Request; but when I vow’d my real
Ignorance, she left me with a Disdain which shew’d her Contempt of me. …
But, if you are of an Opinion that this Dancing is a reasonable Recreation, and
that it would not betray my Folly too much to learn this Diversion in  the 30th
year of my Age, I would endevour to make myself more agreeable to the
Ladies, especially that pretty one I have offended.

How to dance

Early eighteenth-century manuals targeted toward men focused on the technical aspects of dancing (so basically how to dance), while manuals written later in the century focused more on the social elements of the assembly. Discussion frequently included topics of conversation at a dance, appropriate dress, and how to ask a partner to dance.

While dancing instructions would have been helpful to our scorned male friend above, many upper-class gentlemen had their own dancing instructors (called “dancing masters”).  The dancing master would also give helpful social etiquette tips concerning the assembly.

What to wear

To know how to dance was to know how to fit in with society. In a letter to his son dated September 27, 1748 Lord Chesterfield stated that, “the greatest advantage of dancing well is, that is necessarily teaches you to present yourself to sit, stand, and walk genteelly; all which are of real importance to a man of fashion”
(Roberts, Lord Chesterfield’s Letters, p.99).

And fashionable, you should be, indeed. A gentlemen was advised to:

• wear black (How to Dance, p. 15)
• have “nicely but not pretentiously trimmed” hair (I love that and totally want to tell someone that their hair is “pretentiously trimmed!”) (How to Dance, p. 15)
• have a tidy beard (an “extreme” beard was said to be “vulgar”—I wholeheartedly agree)
• not wear boots or spurs (How to Dance, p. 71)
• leave their cane or walking stick at home (um, I’m guessing they weren’t so big on accessibility practices back then) (Polite Arts, p. 220)

How to act

There were many many rules about how to act with a lady at the assembly. When he first arrived, a gentleman was supposed to first escort his lady friend to a seat, once they had received a card that outlined the order of the dances.

While dancing, he was supposed to be attentive, but not too much! He was warned against pressing too closely against a lady’s waist for “lest [he] leave a disagreeable impression”(How to Dance, p.16).

Once the dance was over, he was supposed to lead his dancing partner back to her seat and then offer to go get refreshments. While sitting beside her, he was supposed to ask which of the dances listed on the card she wanted to dance with him, and then he was allowed to find other dancing partners for the dances in between (a couple wasn’t supposed to dance too many dances together—scandal!).

Were these rules actually followed? Novels and other literature of the time suggest that they, indeed, were. (It would be a strange coincidence, don’t you think, for a writer of the time to pen a dancing scene that had characters adhering to the same rules set out in conduct books, if these mannerisms weren’t actually followed through?). Stay tuned for Part 5 wherein I bring in two novels from this era: Fanny Burney’s Evelina and Jane Austin’s Northanger Abbey.

My last post talked a bit about the assembly culture in Bath. Most of the year, high society lived in London, and participated in assemblies there, on average, 2-3 times a week. As mentioned in the last post, these balls tended to happen much later at night. I seriously don’t know how these folk maintained such an active social life, but I guess that was their primary job—being seen—and many upper class folk had help handling the domestic side of their lives.  The working class who, you know, had to work and take care of their house and family were not, usually, heading out to 2-3 balls every week.

Anyway, my paper was about the assembly, not about feeling bad for the working class, so let’s shift the focus back to the dancing folk.

One of the fabulous things about the 18th century that is especially useful for historians is that they tended to be quite literal in their titles of various tracks. Imagine my glee when I got my hands on this lovely gem: Analysis of the London Ball-Room. Perfect! My paper was half-written! (kidding).

Anyway, mocking aside, this tract noted how important the assembly was for networking purposes, the Facebook or Twitter of the 18th C:

few occasions present themselves of forming associations beyond
our domestic circle . . . now a Ball-Room appears to supply the
deficiency we complain of in a manner from its publicity
the most unexceptionable, possessing the advantage of uniting
with congenial amusement and innocent a rational intercourse
that propriety of conduct which none can be more desirous of
promoting than ourselves.

The ball was exciting, you see, because many leisure opportunities operated on segregating the sexes. Men went hunting; women played cards. Most debating clubs involved men (although there were some all-female clubs and—gasp!—clubs for both sexes . . . the subject of my dissertation), and the coffee houses were primarily inhabited by men. Women did a lot of visiting . . . with each other. So, a change to mingle was something to get excited about!

At the assembly, either a Master of Ceremonies or a Queen would be the official host. After 1780 (ish), more often than not, it would be a male MC who would direct the activities of the evening. He would often distinguish himself as being different (a.k.a. more important) from everyone else by wearing a colourful sash. It was the MC’s job to arrange the dances and, often, dance partners. For example, if a young gentleman wanted to dance with a certain young lady, he would request the help of the MC. It wasn’t proper for the young gentleman to approach the young lady herself. Apparently, this would frighten the young lady. (It goes without saying that it would be scandalous for the lady to approach the gentleman.)

The MC would give everyone a number upon arrival, so it was also expected that attendees would not switch numbers or leave without first telling the MC (so he could “retire” that number from the assembly). It was all quite structured and I’m guessing this avoided what often happens at junior-high school dances, with boys on one side of the wall, girls on the other, and nobody dancing.

Here are a few of the expectations when attending a London assembly:

• Each dance was expected to commence with the polite demonstration of bows and courtesies.
• Typically, partners should be changed every two dances; however, this rule was irregular and was altered depending on the dance partner and the particular dance.
• Two ladies or two gentleman could not dance together if there were others available wishing to dance without partners. Also, if such an arrangement was desired, they had to first check with the Master of the Ceremonies.
• It was considered ill-mannered to leave the “set” until the dance was completed (so if your partner is a horrible dancer or just dull, I guess you were stuck with him/her).

Note: assemblies happened in places other than Bath and London, but these two leisure centres did serve as models as they were quite popular. Therefore, more is written about these two specific places.

Anyone feel like dusting off their dancing shoes yet?

So, a thing to do when you lived in high society 18th-century London, was take off to Bath at certain times of the year. Think of it as heading to Cuba or Florida nowadays. Bath was the place to be to relax. Aside from the healing spa waters, the Bath season was filled with assembly balls. Many of Jane Austin’s stories (19th C) were set in Bath and included assembly scenes (probably b/c Jane, herself, lived in Bath for a while . . . just a hunch.).

Apparently, Bath’s reputation as a leisure centre had much to do with a certain Richard “Beau” Nash moving there in 1705 and changing its reputation from one of debauchery and disorder to one of polite society. In order to include as many residents as possible in these dances, and to ensure that everyone remained civil and didn’t resort back to their crazy, wild, ways (which I’m actually really interested in knowing more about—kind of picturing the City of Gotham here), Nash actually drew up a list of rules he expected the people of Bath to obey.

(Not a lot is known about Nash’s entrance to Bath and exactly what gave him the authority to do this. He must have known the right people though b/c I can’t imagine a stranger entering a town of wild folk and telling them how to behave and what to do going over so well . . ., but apparently the people were receptive and even called him the “Master of Ceremonies.” )

The Circus, still remains today, as noted by the double decker buses you can see in this picture

Most of Nash’s rules pertained to the assembly. I guess you do need some sense of order at a venue that includes, on average, between 800-1200 people. There were rules on dress code (no swords gentlemen and ladies, leave your aprons at home please), attendance (how many ticketholders there were, etc.), and social etiquette. One thing I’ll say about Nash: he liked to treat people equally. If he saw someone simply “grazing” the back of a social inferior’s hand (instead of clasping it properly), he would get mad and call the offender to order. Huh. That’s kind of nice, actually. Good for Nash!

Nash didn’t like late nights. Instead of hosting assemblies like they did in London, not starting until 10-11PM (I’m having flashbacks to my undergrad years), he liked to begin them around 6PM, at a more “civilized” hour and have them end by 1oPM or so (kind of like my married-with-child years now).

In the next post, I’ll give a little history about the London assembly before we start dissecting them and making all kinds of judgements, assertions, and fabulous generalizations. Let the fun begin!