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Showing posts with label behaviour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label behaviour. Show all posts
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
Past Deadline: Mid-Year Progress Report
Here is Past Deadline from the July 11/13 issue of The Perth Courier.
Mid-year progress report
I am famous for making self-improvement pledges/resolutions that often fall by the wayside. You may recall such classics as: 1. I am going to get up early and exercise! 2. I am going to eat less! 3. I am going to exercise more!
Gah. A resolution that wasn’t on the list this year was: “Replace entire wardrobe with clothes that fit!” Perhaps I should add that so I can feel as if I have accomplished something.
Anyway…something that has been working out a bit better despite Mother Nature’s best efforts to “dampen our spirits” is a resolution to spend more time outside with the kids.
This resolution has morphed a little, though, to combine with another one that was contemplated but unspoken. It may sound a bit odd coming from someone who works from home, but I want to try to spend more quality time with the kids.
I’ve long gotten over the fact that working from home automatically means I will be a Domestic Diva and Super Mom. (Ha.) My house is definitely not the cleanest on the block. In fact, I think that being here most of the time actually turns me off of making things spotless.
I can live with that. (Sort of.) Something that truly bugs me, though, is that even though I have excelled at seeing the kids off to school in the morning and greeting them when they come home, sometimes I am not really “here.”
Computer games and the TV have been babysitters over the years whilst I slave away at work deadlines in the home office. While I know there is value to having been physically here for them, it hasn’t always been quality time.
Summer is here. (It is. Really. Don’t let the monsoon rains fool you.) Yes, there will be times when I have to tune out the kids and get some work done, but I’ve got to make time to do fun stuff.
When the kids were babies, I worked weird hours – e.g., when they were sleeping. Chopping up my day so that we can spend time at the beach or on a hike or playing badminton or going to the playground or traipsing around in swamps isn’t far-fetched.
It has become increasingly clear over the years that, sometimes, kids don’t know how to play the way my generation did. With all those screen temptations, why bother going outside? So, I’ll continue to teach them.
We have a provincial park annual pass for day use – look out, Murphys Point, here we come!
Once exception to the “outside” rule is the Perth indoor pool. There is public swimming Monday through Saturday from 1 to 3 p.m. (free on Wednesdays thanks to Tim Hortons and Saturdays thanks to the Perth Fire Fighters Association). The kids and I went for our first summer excursion last Friday.
It was great. The day camp kids were there so Girlchild knew a whole pile of girls. They were having a blast – there was music and they were singing and even dancing – great entertainment at a low price!
Aside from the day camp counsellors and lifeguards, I was the only “adult” in the pool. My kids can both swim and they immediately migrated towards their friends, so they didn’t really “need” me there.
No matter. I did scissor kicks for a straight hour! (Exercise! Yes!) I enjoyed the music. I could definitely make a habit of this – and the kids had fun.
Time is marching on. The kids are growing up so fast. It’s never too late for quality time.
Next stop: the swamp!
Mid-year progress report
I am famous for making self-improvement pledges/resolutions that often fall by the wayside. You may recall such classics as: 1. I am going to get up early and exercise! 2. I am going to eat less! 3. I am going to exercise more!
Gah. A resolution that wasn’t on the list this year was: “Replace entire wardrobe with clothes that fit!” Perhaps I should add that so I can feel as if I have accomplished something.
Anyway…something that has been working out a bit better despite Mother Nature’s best efforts to “dampen our spirits” is a resolution to spend more time outside with the kids.
This resolution has morphed a little, though, to combine with another one that was contemplated but unspoken. It may sound a bit odd coming from someone who works from home, but I want to try to spend more quality time with the kids.
I’ve long gotten over the fact that working from home automatically means I will be a Domestic Diva and Super Mom. (Ha.) My house is definitely not the cleanest on the block. In fact, I think that being here most of the time actually turns me off of making things spotless.
I can live with that. (Sort of.) Something that truly bugs me, though, is that even though I have excelled at seeing the kids off to school in the morning and greeting them when they come home, sometimes I am not really “here.”
Computer games and the TV have been babysitters over the years whilst I slave away at work deadlines in the home office. While I know there is value to having been physically here for them, it hasn’t always been quality time.
Summer is here. (It is. Really. Don’t let the monsoon rains fool you.) Yes, there will be times when I have to tune out the kids and get some work done, but I’ve got to make time to do fun stuff.
When the kids were babies, I worked weird hours – e.g., when they were sleeping. Chopping up my day so that we can spend time at the beach or on a hike or playing badminton or going to the playground or traipsing around in swamps isn’t far-fetched.
It has become increasingly clear over the years that, sometimes, kids don’t know how to play the way my generation did. With all those screen temptations, why bother going outside? So, I’ll continue to teach them.
We have a provincial park annual pass for day use – look out, Murphys Point, here we come!
At Hogg Bay Beach, Murphys Point.
Once exception to the “outside” rule is the Perth indoor pool. There is public swimming Monday through Saturday from 1 to 3 p.m. (free on Wednesdays thanks to Tim Hortons and Saturdays thanks to the Perth Fire Fighters Association). The kids and I went for our first summer excursion last Friday.
It was great. The day camp kids were there so Girlchild knew a whole pile of girls. They were having a blast – there was music and they were singing and even dancing – great entertainment at a low price!
Aside from the day camp counsellors and lifeguards, I was the only “adult” in the pool. My kids can both swim and they immediately migrated towards their friends, so they didn’t really “need” me there.
No matter. I did scissor kicks for a straight hour! (Exercise! Yes!) I enjoyed the music. I could definitely make a habit of this – and the kids had fun.
Time is marching on. The kids are growing up so fast. It’s never too late for quality time.
Next stop: the swamp!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Past Deadline: We Went "Outside"!
Here’s the May 2/13 edition of Past Deadline published in The Perth Courier.
We Went “Outside!
On Sunday (April 28), I got to play in ponds! It made me eight again.
Get ready. I’m gonna tell you another “back in the day” story.
When I was a kid, my brother and I spent a lot of time gallivanting near the river not far from our house. This was “back in the day” when kids would leave in the morning and, except for meals, only return when the street lights went on.
Back in the day we had the BEST toy. It was called “Outside.”
We played Outside in every season. If it rained, we wore “puddle suits.” We had gear for all weather. We built forts with whatever we could find and made up stories and acted them out – on stages Outside – instead of watching them on TV.
It was mahvellous.
One of my favourite things to do Outside was to catch stuff at the river. Fish, frogs, snakes, tadpoles, crayfish – I was forever peering under rocks and looking for critters and bringing them home in buckets and jars until I was told to take them back.
There was always something to do Outside.
I am pleased to report that Outside is still here!
That Sunday, Boychild, Girlchild, Girlchild’s friend and I joined some others for one of the Super Kids In Parks programs hosted by the Friends of Murphys Point. It was a pond study led by park naturalist Tobi Kiesewalter at the park and it was coolio!
It was a simple plan. We walked along the main road from the entrance to the park store and stopped at a couple of “vernal pools” along the way. These are ponds that form from runoff and melt water in the spring and gradually dry up over the summer, and they are the nursery for all sorts of wonderful things.
Tobi scooped some water into a container and showed us many tiny creatures. My favourite by far was something I had no idea even existed here – fairy shrimp. Shrimp! Here! At Murphys Point!
Now, these aren’t the type of shrimp you would find at a grocery store – it would take about a half a billion to make a meal, I would think. They are translucent crustaceans with an orange tinge to them. The ones we saw were less than a centimetre long and had so many appendages they almost looked fluffy on the sides. These were the adults, and they lay eggs that can remain dormant for years – which is really handy when your vernal pool keeps drying up and you need to procreate.
Fairy shrimp are neato mosquito. Speaking of mosquitoes, did you know that mosquito larvae, which we found in the water samples, breathe using a snorkel-like appendage attached to their rears?
Other larvae get around by shooting water out of their butts.
We also learned that some water beetles have a little air bubble (Scuba tank!) on their butts that they use to breathe?
Butts are important.
No matter how much I hang around Murphys Point, I am always learning something new.
Once we finished looking at vernal pools, we headed to a little bay off of Loon Lake behind the park store, where we spent a good hour catching and examining all manner of critters: minnows, tadpoles, baby fish, lots of different larvae, various water beetles, snails, clams, gelatinous goo that was some sort of algae and little houses built in the water by certain insect larvae.
We saw snakes, heard hawks, geese and various song birds and generally enjoyed the sunshine and the opportunity to wear rubber boots, stomp around with nets and, basically, play Outside.
Man, would I love to be eight again.
We Went “Outside!
On Sunday (April 28), I got to play in ponds! It made me eight again.
Get ready. I’m gonna tell you another “back in the day” story.
When I was a kid, my brother and I spent a lot of time gallivanting near the river not far from our house. This was “back in the day” when kids would leave in the morning and, except for meals, only return when the street lights went on.
Back in the day we had the BEST toy. It was called “Outside.”
We played Outside in every season. If it rained, we wore “puddle suits.” We had gear for all weather. We built forts with whatever we could find and made up stories and acted them out – on stages Outside – instead of watching them on TV.
It was mahvellous.
One of my favourite things to do Outside was to catch stuff at the river. Fish, frogs, snakes, tadpoles, crayfish – I was forever peering under rocks and looking for critters and bringing them home in buckets and jars until I was told to take them back.
There was always something to do Outside.
I am pleased to report that Outside is still here!
That Sunday, Boychild, Girlchild, Girlchild’s friend and I joined some others for one of the Super Kids In Parks programs hosted by the Friends of Murphys Point. It was a pond study led by park naturalist Tobi Kiesewalter at the park and it was coolio!
It was a simple plan. We walked along the main road from the entrance to the park store and stopped at a couple of “vernal pools” along the way. These are ponds that form from runoff and melt water in the spring and gradually dry up over the summer, and they are the nursery for all sorts of wonderful things.
Tobi scooped some water into a container and showed us many tiny creatures. My favourite by far was something I had no idea even existed here – fairy shrimp. Shrimp! Here! At Murphys Point!
Fairy shrimp! Stephanie Gray photo
Fairy shrimp are neato mosquito. Speaking of mosquitoes, did you know that mosquito larvae, which we found in the water samples, breathe using a snorkel-like appendage attached to their rears?
Other larvae get around by shooting water out of their butts.
We also learned that some water beetles have a little air bubble (Scuba tank!) on their butts that they use to breathe?
Checking out the water beetles. Stephanie Gray photo
No matter how much I hang around Murphys Point, I am always learning something new.
Once we finished looking at vernal pools, we headed to a little bay off of Loon Lake behind the park store, where we spent a good hour catching and examining all manner of critters: minnows, tadpoles, baby fish, lots of different larvae, various water beetles, snails, clams, gelatinous goo that was some sort of algae and little houses built in the water by certain insect larvae.
We saw snakes, heard hawks, geese and various song birds and generally enjoyed the sunshine and the opportunity to wear rubber boots, stomp around with nets and, basically, play Outside.
Man, would I love to be eight again.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Past Deadline: Fratricide Averted
Here is the Dec. 6 edition of "Past Deadline," published in The Perth Courier.
Fratricide averted
The other day I phoned my mom and thanked her for not killing my brother and me when we were kids.
It’s not the first time I have said it. I don’t know how she did it.
Boychild, almost 11, and Girlchild, 7, have been fighting like the proverbial cats and dogs these days. They can’t seem to be in a room together for more than 14 seconds before some sort of ridiculous squabble erupts.
Often it is screen related. Someone is invariably watching something the other doesn’t want to watch. Or maybe they will agree to play a game together, and then start screaming about a) the choice of game or b) the particular strategy employed or c) the rules of the game, etc.
I have already had to set up a schedule about which days which kid gets to choose which game, and they know the next step is for the screen-related items to be declared off limits for both.
The frustrating thing is, I can relate. It is often the Way of Siblings to disagree about pretty much everything merely on principle.
When we were kids, my parents had to set up a schedule for my brother and me when it came to doing dishes. We started off doing them together, but when it devolved into arguments about who was doing what and who could inflict the most skin damage with a tea towel, we were soon segregated to doing them individually on alternating nights.
I was mean to my brother (sorry, Doug). I was four and a half years older than he, and for a long time I was bigger and thought I was smarter. The physical part of our sibling rivalry ended fairly quickly when he got bigger and started pushing back.
No problem. I always had the psychological warfare thing going on, so I just leaned a little more heavily on that. (Girls often excel at this.)
I think I have related the Darth Vader story, but here’s a recap to illustrate a point.
Picture it: Sicily, 1947. Wait…wrong rerun. Picture it: Perth, circa 1980. I am about 10, my brother is around five. Star Wars is popular. I hadn’t seen it, but knew who the good guys and bad guys were and that Princess Leia’s hair looked like earmuffs.
At the time our basement was only partially finished, and I was down there playing with my little brother. The furnace tended to make weird, gaspy, rumbly sounds, and I thought it would be fun to scare the bejeebers out of my brother by telling him it was Darth Vader. I told him to hide under a desk in the dark, then I crept upstairs and rolled on the floor laughing as he came screaming up the stairs, terrified, a few minutes later.
(Yes, he still speaks to me.)
It backfired. He claimed to be “afraid” to go downstairs for what seemed like years afterward, so basement-related errands had to be done by me. (Well played, little bro.)
Anyway, I remember this as I listen to the shrieking and clamour around me as Boychild and Girlchild navigate the world of sibling rivalry. I see the trickery and the power plays and the supposed “hatred,” and as much as I sometimes want to set up schedules so that they are never in the same room together for anything, ever, I know this is all part of a complex social something er other.
Besides, when I see things like Girlchild being sad about something that has happened at school and Boychild offering to go and “talk to the kid” or “keep an eye on things,” I know everything is going to be fine.
Fratricide averted
The other day I phoned my mom and thanked her for not killing my brother and me when we were kids.
It’s not the first time I have said it. I don’t know how she did it.
Boychild, almost 11, and Girlchild, 7, have been fighting like the proverbial cats and dogs these days. They can’t seem to be in a room together for more than 14 seconds before some sort of ridiculous squabble erupts.
Often it is screen related. Someone is invariably watching something the other doesn’t want to watch. Or maybe they will agree to play a game together, and then start screaming about a) the choice of game or b) the particular strategy employed or c) the rules of the game, etc.
I have already had to set up a schedule about which days which kid gets to choose which game, and they know the next step is for the screen-related items to be declared off limits for both.
The frustrating thing is, I can relate. It is often the Way of Siblings to disagree about pretty much everything merely on principle.
When we were kids, my parents had to set up a schedule for my brother and me when it came to doing dishes. We started off doing them together, but when it devolved into arguments about who was doing what and who could inflict the most skin damage with a tea towel, we were soon segregated to doing them individually on alternating nights.
I was mean to my brother (sorry, Doug). I was four and a half years older than he, and for a long time I was bigger and thought I was smarter. The physical part of our sibling rivalry ended fairly quickly when he got bigger and started pushing back.
No problem. I always had the psychological warfare thing going on, so I just leaned a little more heavily on that. (Girls often excel at this.)
I think I have related the Darth Vader story, but here’s a recap to illustrate a point.
Picture it: Sicily, 1947. Wait…wrong rerun. Picture it: Perth, circa 1980. I am about 10, my brother is around five. Star Wars is popular. I hadn’t seen it, but knew who the good guys and bad guys were and that Princess Leia’s hair looked like earmuffs.
At the time our basement was only partially finished, and I was down there playing with my little brother. The furnace tended to make weird, gaspy, rumbly sounds, and I thought it would be fun to scare the bejeebers out of my brother by telling him it was Darth Vader. I told him to hide under a desk in the dark, then I crept upstairs and rolled on the floor laughing as he came screaming up the stairs, terrified, a few minutes later.
(Yes, he still speaks to me.)
It backfired. He claimed to be “afraid” to go downstairs for what seemed like years afterward, so basement-related errands had to be done by me. (Well played, little bro.)
Anyway, I remember this as I listen to the shrieking and clamour around me as Boychild and Girlchild navigate the world of sibling rivalry. I see the trickery and the power plays and the supposed “hatred,” and as much as I sometimes want to set up schedules so that they are never in the same room together for anything, ever, I know this is all part of a complex social something er other.
Besides, when I see things like Girlchild being sad about something that has happened at school and Boychild offering to go and “talk to the kid” or “keep an eye on things,” I know everything is going to be fine.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Past Deadline: Hey! Look! A Distraction!
I'm old school. And I am easily amused.
When I go on car trips I like to look around. Yes, I have been known to play with my phone when I am a passenger, but other than that I prefer to scope out my varied surroundings.
That's not the case with some of the short people I live with. When we go on long car trips we go armed to the teeth with amusements. Various electronics, books, dolls, etc. I've probably mentioned before that I used to watch for white horses (they were worth a nickel if spotted) and I kept a long list of licence plate numbers. It was my collection.
Okay. Yes. Maybe I was a bit odd (see "easily amused" above).
Anyway, every time we travel with the kids this variance in amusement levels becomes quite evident.
Picture this. Sicily, 1932. Oops, wrong sitcom. Picture this. We're travelling along Hwys. 7 and 401, 2012. I am in the front seat yakking like a tour guide. "Ooh! Look at that cliff of feldspar! Say, these swamps aren't as dry as at home. Look! Turtles on a log! Hey, there's a whole heard of running horses! Wow - look how flat the face of that cliff is! Oh - there's a big hawk!"
Meanwhile, the audience in the back row is watching a flick or taking figurines and pretending they're voodoo dolls or playing elaborate pretend games. Okay, well, the pretending stuff is okay because they are using their imaginations, but hey! "Look! There's Lake Ontario!"
Do you remember years ago when the province had a wildflower-planting project happening in medians and along the edges of Hwy. 401? I spent a great amount of time watching flashes of occasionally recognizable colour flashing by and trying to identify flowers. (I'm telling you, easily amused.)
"Oh and here comes the Northumberland County Materials Recycling Facility!" I say, taking a picture with my phone to send to my friend who used to be the waste management coordinator at home. I start babbling excitedly about that time way back when I worked at the paper and I went on a bus trip with a whole bunch of Lanark County councillors to that MRF and the landfill site to see how their waste management system worked.
"It was a great field trip!" I say.
"Maybe you should just keep that information to yourself," Groom-boy mumbles.
"And we ate at the Big Apple restaurant and there were bunnies hopping all over the place outside!"
I never get tired of looking at scenery. (Maybe I would feel differently driving through the prairies, but I doubt it.)
Now, to be fair, when we passed the nuclear power plant and I pointed it out, there was some interest and a number of questions from one of my worryworts about nuclear safety. My response that everything would be fine "as long as it doesn't blow up" was unhelpful, but then a handy eastbound freight train came along.
"Hey! Look! A train!"
I suppose that's what it all comes back to, actually - distraction. We had no choice but amuse ourselves on car rides in the '70s, which was a distraction from the fact that, for example, it was a very long drive to see our grandparents in Elliot Lake. If I remember correctly, I got a lot of licence plate numbers collected on that trip. I also wrote down the name of every, single community we passed through and followed along with a road map. Remember road maps? They were made of paper!
And can we say: "Hey! Look! Canadian Shield!" much?
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 16/12
When I go on car trips I like to look around. Yes, I have been known to play with my phone when I am a passenger, but other than that I prefer to scope out my varied surroundings.
That's not the case with some of the short people I live with. When we go on long car trips we go armed to the teeth with amusements. Various electronics, books, dolls, etc. I've probably mentioned before that I used to watch for white horses (they were worth a nickel if spotted) and I kept a long list of licence plate numbers. It was my collection.
Okay. Yes. Maybe I was a bit odd (see "easily amused" above).
Anyway, every time we travel with the kids this variance in amusement levels becomes quite evident.
Picture this. Sicily, 1932. Oops, wrong sitcom. Picture this. We're travelling along Hwys. 7 and 401, 2012. I am in the front seat yakking like a tour guide. "Ooh! Look at that cliff of feldspar! Say, these swamps aren't as dry as at home. Look! Turtles on a log! Hey, there's a whole heard of running horses! Wow - look how flat the face of that cliff is! Oh - there's a big hawk!"
Meanwhile, the audience in the back row is watching a flick or taking figurines and pretending they're voodoo dolls or playing elaborate pretend games. Okay, well, the pretending stuff is okay because they are using their imaginations, but hey! "Look! There's Lake Ontario!"
Do you remember years ago when the province had a wildflower-planting project happening in medians and along the edges of Hwy. 401? I spent a great amount of time watching flashes of occasionally recognizable colour flashing by and trying to identify flowers. (I'm telling you, easily amused.)
"Oh and here comes the Northumberland County Materials Recycling Facility!" I say, taking a picture with my phone to send to my friend who used to be the waste management coordinator at home. I start babbling excitedly about that time way back when I worked at the paper and I went on a bus trip with a whole bunch of Lanark County councillors to that MRF and the landfill site to see how their waste management system worked.
"It was a great field trip!" I say.
"Maybe you should just keep that information to yourself," Groom-boy mumbles.
"And we ate at the Big Apple restaurant and there were bunnies hopping all over the place outside!"
I never get tired of looking at scenery. (Maybe I would feel differently driving through the prairies, but I doubt it.)
Now, to be fair, when we passed the nuclear power plant and I pointed it out, there was some interest and a number of questions from one of my worryworts about nuclear safety. My response that everything would be fine "as long as it doesn't blow up" was unhelpful, but then a handy eastbound freight train came along.
"Hey! Look! A train!"
I suppose that's what it all comes back to, actually - distraction. We had no choice but amuse ourselves on car rides in the '70s, which was a distraction from the fact that, for example, it was a very long drive to see our grandparents in Elliot Lake. If I remember correctly, I got a lot of licence plate numbers collected on that trip. I also wrote down the name of every, single community we passed through and followed along with a road map. Remember road maps? They were made of paper!
And can we say: "Hey! Look! Canadian Shield!" much?
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 16/12
Past Deadline: Gone Buggy
I like snakes and turtles and frogs and toads and salamanders and such, but I readily admit I have trouble with the insect world.
I try not to pass this squeamishness on to the kids. I have seen the effect this can have – for instance, children notice when parents who loathe snakes kill them on sight. Not good for snakes.
My dislike of insects has mellowed a little over the years, so I am not as likely to squeal when a bug creeps up on me. This was not always the case, however.
When earwigs first invaded this part of the country, I was a kid. I think, actually, earwigs are to blame for my squeamishness. They were everywhere. They didn’t bite (at least not me), but those pincers made it look like they would.
Earwigs love to be under things, so I had a ritual of inspecting my bed – even under the mattress – before climbing in. If I ever found something, the neighbours heard me shriek.
That was a long day ago, though. Now I am more likely to gasp, and perhaps curse, if an unwelcome insect surprises me.
Up until recently, my six-year-old daughter has been fine with creepy crawlies. She likes to keep earthworms and caterpillars as pets and has been known to commune with frogs and water snakes.
This summer, however, she has shown some distressing “girlie” tendencies. She worries about swimming with fish in lakes. She won’t get into our wading pool if there is any sign of an earwig (there are lots) or spider (yes, I know they’re not insects, but they still fall under the “Ew!” category) or any other bug – even though they are usually drowned.
Our wading pool is located under a very old apple tree. We love this tree – it’s shady and fruity and quite pretty. It can also be messy, though. We’re constantly fishing apples and leaves out of the water. Because it is old and because it isn’t sprayed with pesticides, it can also be a bit buggy. Woodpeckers love this insect haven.
Girlchild is convinced the little pale worms that fall from the tree are maggots. Somehow telling her that they are worms – not to mention dead – does not improve their appeal. I cannot imagine why. There is much shrieking.
Perhaps her issues will be restricted to watery things. After all, she has been known to pluck and dispose of the little green worms that devour our rose bushes with nary a qualm – which beats my track record.
The first summer I worked at Murphys Point Provincial Park (about a million years ago), one of my tasks was to help with the gypsy moth monitoring program: the invasive species du jour.
A few different species of trees had burlap sacks wrapped around their trunks. I had to check the trees at a certain frequency and count the number of gypsy moth caterpillars under each sack and record them. I think this was to determine which tree they liked best.
Oh, how I loathed this task – purposefully seeking the buggy surprise. I cringed each time. Then, to top it off, I was instructed to kill the caterpillars. After all, they were devouring the forests.
The study area was located in a hollow next to the in-road to the gatehouse. I can still remember the strange look on the faces of one couple as they drove in and saw the skinny girl in a park uniform standing in a gully, beating a tree with a big stick and squealing when caterpillar guts flew in her face.
“Yes, I’m fine. Nothing to see here. Move along, please.”
Bugs. Just one more thing that brings out the best in me.
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 2/12
I try not to pass this squeamishness on to the kids. I have seen the effect this can have – for instance, children notice when parents who loathe snakes kill them on sight. Not good for snakes.
My dislike of insects has mellowed a little over the years, so I am not as likely to squeal when a bug creeps up on me. This was not always the case, however.
When earwigs first invaded this part of the country, I was a kid. I think, actually, earwigs are to blame for my squeamishness. They were everywhere. They didn’t bite (at least not me), but those pincers made it look like they would.
Earwigs love to be under things, so I had a ritual of inspecting my bed – even under the mattress – before climbing in. If I ever found something, the neighbours heard me shriek.
That was a long day ago, though. Now I am more likely to gasp, and perhaps curse, if an unwelcome insect surprises me.
Up until recently, my six-year-old daughter has been fine with creepy crawlies. She likes to keep earthworms and caterpillars as pets and has been known to commune with frogs and water snakes.
This summer, however, she has shown some distressing “girlie” tendencies. She worries about swimming with fish in lakes. She won’t get into our wading pool if there is any sign of an earwig (there are lots) or spider (yes, I know they’re not insects, but they still fall under the “Ew!” category) or any other bug – even though they are usually drowned.
Our wading pool is located under a very old apple tree. We love this tree – it’s shady and fruity and quite pretty. It can also be messy, though. We’re constantly fishing apples and leaves out of the water. Because it is old and because it isn’t sprayed with pesticides, it can also be a bit buggy. Woodpeckers love this insect haven.
Girlchild is convinced the little pale worms that fall from the tree are maggots. Somehow telling her that they are worms – not to mention dead – does not improve their appeal. I cannot imagine why. There is much shrieking.
Perhaps her issues will be restricted to watery things. After all, she has been known to pluck and dispose of the little green worms that devour our rose bushes with nary a qualm – which beats my track record.
The first summer I worked at Murphys Point Provincial Park (about a million years ago), one of my tasks was to help with the gypsy moth monitoring program: the invasive species du jour.
A few different species of trees had burlap sacks wrapped around their trunks. I had to check the trees at a certain frequency and count the number of gypsy moth caterpillars under each sack and record them. I think this was to determine which tree they liked best.
Oh, how I loathed this task – purposefully seeking the buggy surprise. I cringed each time. Then, to top it off, I was instructed to kill the caterpillars. After all, they were devouring the forests.
The study area was located in a hollow next to the in-road to the gatehouse. I can still remember the strange look on the faces of one couple as they drove in and saw the skinny girl in a park uniform standing in a gully, beating a tree with a big stick and squealing when caterpillar guts flew in her face.
“Yes, I’m fine. Nothing to see here. Move along, please.”
Bugs. Just one more thing that brings out the best in me.
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 2/12
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Past Deadline: Working on the Beach
“What are you doing with the kids this summer?” I have been asked numerous times.
“I have no idea,” I usually respond.
As I write this, there are only two days of school left. The good news is that’s only two more bagged lunches to make!
The bad news is that’s about 69 days of hanging out with Mama, who works from home.
There will be swimming lessons, play dates and possibly some day camps, but a lot of our summer is unstructured.
The cool beans this year is that Mama has wheels! This means if an unexpected pocket of time opens up, I may be able to be spontaneous!
“To the beach!”
Because I work from home, sometimes I can adjust my schedule a bit and just pull some all nighters while we go to said beach. (Haha funny joke about the all nighters. Ahem.)
Kids are always at a new stage of development – they are cute that way with this “growing” thing. I’m never really sure what summer is going to hold for me, so I often approach it with trepidation. Somehow, though, the freedom of wheels is making it a bit less daunting.
Often my work is portable. I can edit on the patio. I can write at the beach.
This year, because the kids are a bit older, I am optimistic they will be quite helpful at home so I can get some work in during the day – because we won’t always be going to the beach.
But – you never know. For instance, on those days that were really super disgustingly hot recently, tempers flared and tiffs predominated and I thought to myself, “This is going to be the longest summer ever. Omigod.”
On one of those days, Girlchild brought home a flyer from a box in front of a home that is for sale on the way to school. “Here, Mom,” she said. “This place has a backyard that is big enough for a pool.”
Seems the wading pool only has so much charm.
There always comes a point in the summer when my last nerve gets frayed and exposed. I’m not there yet – which is darned good considering vacation hasn’t even started as I write this.
I am reminded, though, that a few years ago Groom-boy and I invented a magical place called “Lost Harbour Summer School and Military Camp.”
Lost Harbour is a faraway place where kids stay for many weeks and where the program consists of four hours of school each day followed by lots of marching and building walls out of heavy rocks. Probably they have to do laundry and dishes and tidying there, too.
The kids are on to us now, I think. You can only threaten to send them to a place like that without actually making it happen so many times before they figure it out. I definitely dropped the ball on the classic parenting advice to not make empty threats and to follow through on whatever you utter.
Besides, I never did get the Lost Harbour flyer designed to leave casually on the kitchen table.
Instead, I think I may have made a deal with our neighbour down the street to send the kids over to help him with some renos on the outside of his house. There is scraping and painting and digging and fun stuff like that. Har har.
Actually, I think I have finally come up with a concept that will work. I told the kids just the other day that during the summer, the more they help around the house, the more time Mom will have to take them to the beach.
Could be good! Thank you, wheels!
Published in The Perth Courier, June 28/12
“I have no idea,” I usually respond.
As I write this, there are only two days of school left. The good news is that’s only two more bagged lunches to make!
The bad news is that’s about 69 days of hanging out with Mama, who works from home.
There will be swimming lessons, play dates and possibly some day camps, but a lot of our summer is unstructured.
The cool beans this year is that Mama has wheels! This means if an unexpected pocket of time opens up, I may be able to be spontaneous!
“To the beach!”
Because I work from home, sometimes I can adjust my schedule a bit and just pull some all nighters while we go to said beach. (Haha funny joke about the all nighters. Ahem.)
Kids are always at a new stage of development – they are cute that way with this “growing” thing. I’m never really sure what summer is going to hold for me, so I often approach it with trepidation. Somehow, though, the freedom of wheels is making it a bit less daunting.
Often my work is portable. I can edit on the patio. I can write at the beach.
This year, because the kids are a bit older, I am optimistic they will be quite helpful at home so I can get some work in during the day – because we won’t always be going to the beach.
But – you never know. For instance, on those days that were really super disgustingly hot recently, tempers flared and tiffs predominated and I thought to myself, “This is going to be the longest summer ever. Omigod.”
On one of those days, Girlchild brought home a flyer from a box in front of a home that is for sale on the way to school. “Here, Mom,” she said. “This place has a backyard that is big enough for a pool.”
Seems the wading pool only has so much charm.
There always comes a point in the summer when my last nerve gets frayed and exposed. I’m not there yet – which is darned good considering vacation hasn’t even started as I write this.
I am reminded, though, that a few years ago Groom-boy and I invented a magical place called “Lost Harbour Summer School and Military Camp.”
Lost Harbour is a faraway place where kids stay for many weeks and where the program consists of four hours of school each day followed by lots of marching and building walls out of heavy rocks. Probably they have to do laundry and dishes and tidying there, too.
The kids are on to us now, I think. You can only threaten to send them to a place like that without actually making it happen so many times before they figure it out. I definitely dropped the ball on the classic parenting advice to not make empty threats and to follow through on whatever you utter.
Besides, I never did get the Lost Harbour flyer designed to leave casually on the kitchen table.
Instead, I think I may have made a deal with our neighbour down the street to send the kids over to help him with some renos on the outside of his house. There is scraping and painting and digging and fun stuff like that. Har har.
Actually, I think I have finally come up with a concept that will work. I told the kids just the other day that during the summer, the more they help around the house, the more time Mom will have to take them to the beach.
Could be good! Thank you, wheels!
Published in The Perth Courier, June 28/12
Friday, June 22, 2012
Past Deadline: He Did WHAT to my Car
You know, I’m sure we’ve all done some dumb stuff in our lives. Probably some of that stuff happened when we were young and goofy. Possibly someone yelled: “Hey-you-kids-get-offa-my-lawn” or “Shut-up-and-go-home” or some such thing.
I understand why people yell those things at roving gangs of idiots. Actually, I have understood this for a long time, at least since I started having to pay for things with my own money.
My tolerance for “stupid” is getting lower.
Here’s a little story.
Not long ago I wrote a column about how we have become a two-car family. We bought a shiny, pretty, new car that Groom-boy uses to commute to his job in Ottawa.
Our driveway is tiny. When we had a van, it barely fit. Even with a small car we have to suck in our guts to get between the car and the neighbouring house if we are carrying groceries.
Needless to say, there is nowhere to park a second car. In the winter, when parking on the street is prohibited, we have made arrangements to share the in-laws’ driveway, but now that spring is here we have been parking across from our house on the street.
Our neighbourhood is residential, but it is sandwiched between two very busy streets. We are a block from a high school and about three blocks from the downtown core.
During the school year, large groups of kids travel between downtown and the high school. I can’t tell you how many gravy-coated/pizza-stained Styrofoam plates I have retrieved from my front lawn. Recycling bins have been known to get booted down the street like impromptu rectangular soccer balls.
On the weekends, we are often awakened by throngs of morons hooting and screeching down our street on their way home from the bars. Once our car was “tagged” by someone with a marker. We’ve had mats and planters stolen off of our porch.
It’s charming.
The Perth police routinely patrol our street. I see them often. It’s just that even the dumbest of stupid people don’t tend to do bad things when the police are watching.
Case in point. Sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. on Sunday, May 20, I awoke to the sound of voices and banging. In my foggy-headed sleepiness, I equated the sounds to someone kicking something. Someone yelled, “Hey!” I got up and looked out a window, but by then could only see one guy walking down the street. I went back to bed and heard nothing else.
The next morning, one of our neighbours came to the door. He had been awakened, too, except he went right to his front door and saw a group of young people walking by. He says one of them jumped on the hood of another neighbour’s car, which was parked on the street. He climbed onto the roof and then the trunk.
Then this genius jumped from that trunk onto the hood of the car parked directly behind it.
Our car. The shiny pretty two-month-old one.
He jumped onto the roof before jumping off.
At some point our neighbour yelled “Hey!” and the kids carried on around the corner.
(I would like to mention here that because this is a family newspaper, I am not allowed to use the word or supporting adjectives I would like to use to describe this person who did this thing.)
Sigh. It’s one thing if the first ding or scratch on your new car is caused by a random stone chip or a careless action on your part, but when some butthead comes along and, in mere seconds, manages to damage property with a thoughtless act, it’s beyond annoying.
There are several dents on the hood and roof of our car. We contacted the Perth police and an officer collected evidence. There are witnesses. We’ll see what comes of it. (By all means, call the police at 613-267-3131 if you know anything about it.)
Now I get to take time away from work to look into repairs, not to mention what it may ultimately cost. Thank you, butthead.
Now get offa my street.
I understand why people yell those things at roving gangs of idiots. Actually, I have understood this for a long time, at least since I started having to pay for things with my own money.
My tolerance for “stupid” is getting lower.
Here’s a little story.
Not long ago I wrote a column about how we have become a two-car family. We bought a shiny, pretty, new car that Groom-boy uses to commute to his job in Ottawa.
Our driveway is tiny. When we had a van, it barely fit. Even with a small car we have to suck in our guts to get between the car and the neighbouring house if we are carrying groceries.
Needless to say, there is nowhere to park a second car. In the winter, when parking on the street is prohibited, we have made arrangements to share the in-laws’ driveway, but now that spring is here we have been parking across from our house on the street.
Our neighbourhood is residential, but it is sandwiched between two very busy streets. We are a block from a high school and about three blocks from the downtown core.
During the school year, large groups of kids travel between downtown and the high school. I can’t tell you how many gravy-coated/pizza-stained Styrofoam plates I have retrieved from my front lawn. Recycling bins have been known to get booted down the street like impromptu rectangular soccer balls.
On the weekends, we are often awakened by throngs of morons hooting and screeching down our street on their way home from the bars. Once our car was “tagged” by someone with a marker. We’ve had mats and planters stolen off of our porch.
It’s charming.
The Perth police routinely patrol our street. I see them often. It’s just that even the dumbest of stupid people don’t tend to do bad things when the police are watching.
Case in point. Sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. on Sunday, May 20, I awoke to the sound of voices and banging. In my foggy-headed sleepiness, I equated the sounds to someone kicking something. Someone yelled, “Hey!” I got up and looked out a window, but by then could only see one guy walking down the street. I went back to bed and heard nothing else.
The next morning, one of our neighbours came to the door. He had been awakened, too, except he went right to his front door and saw a group of young people walking by. He says one of them jumped on the hood of another neighbour’s car, which was parked on the street. He climbed onto the roof and then the trunk.
Then this genius jumped from that trunk onto the hood of the car parked directly behind it.
Our car. The shiny pretty two-month-old one.
He jumped onto the roof before jumping off.
At some point our neighbour yelled “Hey!” and the kids carried on around the corner.
(I would like to mention here that because this is a family newspaper, I am not allowed to use the word or supporting adjectives I would like to use to describe this person who did this thing.)
Sigh. It’s one thing if the first ding or scratch on your new car is caused by a random stone chip or a careless action on your part, but when some butthead comes along and, in mere seconds, manages to damage property with a thoughtless act, it’s beyond annoying.
There are several dents on the hood and roof of our car. We contacted the Perth police and an officer collected evidence. There are witnesses. We’ll see what comes of it. (By all means, call the police at 613-267-3131 if you know anything about it.)
Now I get to take time away from work to look into repairs, not to mention what it may ultimately cost. Thank you, butthead.
Now get offa my street.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Past Deadline: Gastronomical Epic Milestones
I love egg salad.
I really do. I can’t actually remember a time when I didn’t. That goes for devilled eggs, too, which are basically egg salad without the bread.
When my kids were toddlers, I used to try to convince them egg salad was the cat’s pyjamas. I was almost personally offended when they refused to eat it.
Kids have this amazing tendency to wear you down about food. And other things. But we’re going to talk about food today.
When confronted with a new, untested food, a friend of ours used to tell her kids that they would have to try it 10 times before they would like it. We adopted the idea around our house, too. Sometimes it worked. I think I gave up after five or six tries with egg salad, though.
One day back in March, I made myself an egg salad sandwich. This doesn’t happen very often because I am the only one in the house who likes it. (Groom-boy will eat devilled eggs, but not egg salad. Go figure.)
On a whim, I kept a little aside and when the kids got home from school I said, “Here. Try this. I want to know if you like it.” It had been a couple of years since the last tasting.
Lo and behold, they not only liked it, they loved it! They licked the dishes clean and wanted more. I was shocked, surprised and thrilled. I made egg salad sandwiches for school lunches the next day.
This was an Epic Milestone™ in School Lunch Choices, but I warned myself not to overdo it because then they would get sick of it. Too much of a good thing, you know.
When Girlchild asked me to make egg salad sandwiches for lunch this past week, it got me to thinking about how much our relationship with food evolves over time.
I remember as a kid that it took me a long time to grow into my palate for some foods, but now I’ll eat pretty much anything that is put in front of me (which is a problem to cover another day). I still have a bit of trouble with Brussels sprouts – they have to be done just so, usually with maple syrup.
As I continue navigating this wonderful (sarcasm) era of being in my 40s, I am starting to realize that just because one’s palate has grown and evolved, doesn’t mean the rest of the body appreciates the flavour.
For instance, I love French onion soup, but if I eat it, I should plan to stay home the next day.
I am learning a lot of new and interesting things about soluble and insoluble fibres, and how the flesh of a fruit can be kinder than its skin. I think about bran.
I had a delicious meal recently that included rapini – something I don’t have very often. I immediately thought of my friend who has trouble with kidney stones and how she eats rapini to help.
Yes, I am perusing the menu and thinking about kidney stones. I look at an apple and wonder if the skin has too much insoluble fibre.
Gawd.
Life was easier when all you had to remember was that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I miss being able to eat anything and everything and not gain an ounce and not worry about all the sinister things food might be doing to my body.
That was a long day ago.
One night a week Girlchild has dance lessons right around suppertime, so it has become our tradition to have some sort of quick pasta casserole – usually macaroni and cheese.
Mmmm. Mac and cheese (the way Mom made it) has always been comfort food for me.
Unfortunately, it was on the menu around the time back in February or March when our household was afflicted by the barfies. Now I can barely stand to make it, let alone it eat it. It’s another Epic Milestone™, but I’m not so thrilled about this one.
Fortunately, we can turn to egg salad for comfort now.
Published in The Perth Courier, April 12/12
I really do. I can’t actually remember a time when I didn’t. That goes for devilled eggs, too, which are basically egg salad without the bread.
When my kids were toddlers, I used to try to convince them egg salad was the cat’s pyjamas. I was almost personally offended when they refused to eat it.
Kids have this amazing tendency to wear you down about food. And other things. But we’re going to talk about food today.
When confronted with a new, untested food, a friend of ours used to tell her kids that they would have to try it 10 times before they would like it. We adopted the idea around our house, too. Sometimes it worked. I think I gave up after five or six tries with egg salad, though.
One day back in March, I made myself an egg salad sandwich. This doesn’t happen very often because I am the only one in the house who likes it. (Groom-boy will eat devilled eggs, but not egg salad. Go figure.)
On a whim, I kept a little aside and when the kids got home from school I said, “Here. Try this. I want to know if you like it.” It had been a couple of years since the last tasting.
Lo and behold, they not only liked it, they loved it! They licked the dishes clean and wanted more. I was shocked, surprised and thrilled. I made egg salad sandwiches for school lunches the next day.
This was an Epic Milestone™ in School Lunch Choices, but I warned myself not to overdo it because then they would get sick of it. Too much of a good thing, you know.
When Girlchild asked me to make egg salad sandwiches for lunch this past week, it got me to thinking about how much our relationship with food evolves over time.
I remember as a kid that it took me a long time to grow into my palate for some foods, but now I’ll eat pretty much anything that is put in front of me (which is a problem to cover another day). I still have a bit of trouble with Brussels sprouts – they have to be done just so, usually with maple syrup.
As I continue navigating this wonderful (sarcasm) era of being in my 40s, I am starting to realize that just because one’s palate has grown and evolved, doesn’t mean the rest of the body appreciates the flavour.
For instance, I love French onion soup, but if I eat it, I should plan to stay home the next day.
I am learning a lot of new and interesting things about soluble and insoluble fibres, and how the flesh of a fruit can be kinder than its skin. I think about bran.
I had a delicious meal recently that included rapini – something I don’t have very often. I immediately thought of my friend who has trouble with kidney stones and how she eats rapini to help.
Yes, I am perusing the menu and thinking about kidney stones. I look at an apple and wonder if the skin has too much insoluble fibre.
Gawd.
Life was easier when all you had to remember was that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I miss being able to eat anything and everything and not gain an ounce and not worry about all the sinister things food might be doing to my body.
That was a long day ago.
One night a week Girlchild has dance lessons right around suppertime, so it has become our tradition to have some sort of quick pasta casserole – usually macaroni and cheese.
Mmmm. Mac and cheese (the way Mom made it) has always been comfort food for me.
Unfortunately, it was on the menu around the time back in February or March when our household was afflicted by the barfies. Now I can barely stand to make it, let alone it eat it. It’s another Epic Milestone™, but I’m not so thrilled about this one.
Fortunately, we can turn to egg salad for comfort now.
Published in The Perth Courier, April 12/12
Friday, February 3, 2012
Past Deadline: Night Owl No More?
I have always been a night owl.
I prefer to get things done before bed so I don’t lie awake worrying about them. Some folks prefer to get up early to do unfinished things, but I like my snooze button too much for that to be effective.
I’m no early bird. Long ago I concluded any pledge to get up early to exercise would fail. Since I work from home and the kids walk to school, I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to commute. Consequently, the night owl thing has worked.
When my kids were wee, it was a perfect system. I’d be busy with them during the day, which meant I might not get as much business done, but they went to bed super early. This opened up several hours in the evening to work. In those days, my brain was alert and creative and good to go at night. I’ve always been that way.
Until now.
Is this another “perk” of turning 40? I see why people pretend they are 39 for a decade or so. Perhaps denial would solve a few issues. (Would it work on my stupid foot, do you think?)
Anyway, I’ll be the first to admit that I probably haven’t been getting enough sleep since about 1989, but it appears my body doesn’t want to put up with my guff anymore.
For example, you’d think the temptation to nap could be a huge issue for someone who works from home. I’ll admit, I did take a few naps when I was pregnant and when the kids were wee babies, but generally the thought doesn’t cross my mind at all. In the last few months, however, I’ll walk past the bedroom and look at my cosy bed and experience an intense pull of longing for a nap. So far I have resisted.
A big factor in this is the fact the kids are older and stay up later. The younger one in particular has an exceptional talent for stalling at bedtime, which she (ahem) comes by naturally. She’ll try every trick in the book – water, Band Aids, lotion, some sort of medication, stories, bad dreams, general goofiness, etc.
Have you heard of the hilarious bestselling “children’s book for adults” by Adam Mansbach called Go the F*** to Sleep? I wept when I read it. This is my life.
Peace and solitude in the evening have been replaced by homework and housework and noise and corralling. The time available for getting things done has shrunk dramatically, especially if one desires even a little bit of time to unwind, which is kind of important in that whole work-life balance equation. (Work-life what?)
So now there is a short period of time once the kids are settled when Groom-boy and I fall into chairs and go over the day’s events and watch a little TV. Woohoo!
There is, however, still this need of mine to get things done before bed. The lunches get made and the schoolbags get packed, but then there is “the list.” This is the other stuff: volunteer work, unanswered phone calls or e-mails from friends, etc. In the short window available the brain refuses to fire enough to get it all done anymore.
Why? Apparently I am tired. Go figure.
I’m putting on my pyjamas about three hours earlier than usual, but I’m staying up just as late and getting less done.
The other night I put on my pyjamas and said to Groom-boy, “You know, I think I understand now why some grown-ups go to bed at 9:30.” Of course those people are probably up at 5.
I suppose that’s not much different from my current reality. Now, instead of lying awake late worrying about what isn’t done, I stay up too late and go right to sleep, only to wake up too early to worry about what isn’t done.
Perhaps if I went to bed earlier, I would just get up when I wake up. D’ya think?
This means I should...gulp...change my routine.
I hate changing my routine.
Imagine getting more rest! Ridiculous. Well, if I must...zzzzzz....
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 2/12
I prefer to get things done before bed so I don’t lie awake worrying about them. Some folks prefer to get up early to do unfinished things, but I like my snooze button too much for that to be effective.
I’m no early bird. Long ago I concluded any pledge to get up early to exercise would fail. Since I work from home and the kids walk to school, I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to commute. Consequently, the night owl thing has worked.
When my kids were wee, it was a perfect system. I’d be busy with them during the day, which meant I might not get as much business done, but they went to bed super early. This opened up several hours in the evening to work. In those days, my brain was alert and creative and good to go at night. I’ve always been that way.
Until now.
Is this another “perk” of turning 40? I see why people pretend they are 39 for a decade or so. Perhaps denial would solve a few issues. (Would it work on my stupid foot, do you think?)
Anyway, I’ll be the first to admit that I probably haven’t been getting enough sleep since about 1989, but it appears my body doesn’t want to put up with my guff anymore.
For example, you’d think the temptation to nap could be a huge issue for someone who works from home. I’ll admit, I did take a few naps when I was pregnant and when the kids were wee babies, but generally the thought doesn’t cross my mind at all. In the last few months, however, I’ll walk past the bedroom and look at my cosy bed and experience an intense pull of longing for a nap. So far I have resisted.
A big factor in this is the fact the kids are older and stay up later. The younger one in particular has an exceptional talent for stalling at bedtime, which she (ahem) comes by naturally. She’ll try every trick in the book – water, Band Aids, lotion, some sort of medication, stories, bad dreams, general goofiness, etc.
Have you heard of the hilarious bestselling “children’s book for adults” by Adam Mansbach called Go the F*** to Sleep? I wept when I read it. This is my life.
Peace and solitude in the evening have been replaced by homework and housework and noise and corralling. The time available for getting things done has shrunk dramatically, especially if one desires even a little bit of time to unwind, which is kind of important in that whole work-life balance equation. (Work-life what?)
So now there is a short period of time once the kids are settled when Groom-boy and I fall into chairs and go over the day’s events and watch a little TV. Woohoo!
There is, however, still this need of mine to get things done before bed. The lunches get made and the schoolbags get packed, but then there is “the list.” This is the other stuff: volunteer work, unanswered phone calls or e-mails from friends, etc. In the short window available the brain refuses to fire enough to get it all done anymore.
Why? Apparently I am tired. Go figure.
I’m putting on my pyjamas about three hours earlier than usual, but I’m staying up just as late and getting less done.
The other night I put on my pyjamas and said to Groom-boy, “You know, I think I understand now why some grown-ups go to bed at 9:30.” Of course those people are probably up at 5.
I suppose that’s not much different from my current reality. Now, instead of lying awake late worrying about what isn’t done, I stay up too late and go right to sleep, only to wake up too early to worry about what isn’t done.
Perhaps if I went to bed earlier, I would just get up when I wake up. D’ya think?
This means I should...gulp...change my routine.
I hate changing my routine.
Imagine getting more rest! Ridiculous. Well, if I must...zzzzzz....
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 2/12
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Past Deadline: Six O'clock Seating
I do a terrible thing.
Yes, just one. (Shhh.)
Every night, almost without fail, I have supper on the table for the family at six o’clock.
I know! It’s ridiculous!
Allow me to explain.
Regular readers have probably heard me mention before that I am rather Type A. I am a creature of habit. I like things to be just so. I like to think I am not a control freak (ahem), but I readily admit I like routines.
My kids are still young and at school they eat lunch pretty early, so 6 p.m. is about as late as I like to push it otherwise they end up grazing on snacks.
Also, eating at six allows time to finish homework, play, have sibling screaming fights, wage light sabre battles or do whatever else needs to be done before bedtime.
Because I have been cooking meals for what feels like a millennium, I have it down pat. I know how to time things so we are sitting at the table by six.
I just can’t help it.
Maybe that’s another reason I was attracted to journalism: I am deadline oriented. If the story wasn’t filed by a certain time, it would miss the press. If the student newscast wasn’t ready by six, we had dead air. And an F.
Don’t worry. I know I won’t flunk if I don’t have food on the table by a certain time. I do think, though, that good timing is a rather important part of good cooking. (This would be an excellent argument if the food critics in the household always gave good reviews.)
Anyway, if I were charged with this horrible crime of having a six o’clock seating, I would feel compelled to plead not guilty by reason of insanity because I have been cooking meals for a millennium. No...wait...I mean because I honestly didn’t realize there was anything wrong with it.
Apparently, however, I am odd. I have been called “inflexible,” too, although I am perfectly capable of adjusting mealtimes to accommodate various activities.
Groom-boy and I have had this discussion a few times, even though he is usually not home in time for supper anymore now that he commutes. (No, I am not waiting until 7:30 to sit down with the kids at the table to eat.)
I will admit that I have been known to get a little high strung when, on the occasions that he is home, he decides to “run to the store” at 5:40 to get some little extra thing for the meal, and doesn’t manage to return until 6:15, even though he knows the meal will be ready at six.
“Oh, I got talking to someone,” he’ll say, referencing my inflexibility as I peel overdone pasta out of a pot.
Sigh. He went to journalism school, too. Perhaps they had a rotating deadline at his school.
Maybe this whole issue/problem/crime/weirdness stretches right back to my childhood. I remember when my brother and I were little that we ate sometime between five and six. It was consistent. Later, I know we were all around the table by 6 because my dad liked to have the news on in the background while we ate. I remember we were always being shushed when it was time to hear the weather.
The thing is we almost always ate together. Sometimes my dad would be working shifts and, later, my brother and I had part-time jobs after school, but for the most part we had supper as a family. It was a nice ritual. We always knew what time we would be eating, so we knew when to be home. Simple.
So I won’t apologize for this weirdness of mine, and I’ll keep doing it as often as we can, realizing kids’ activity schedules can interfere with this utopian supper timing.
If I get sent to jail for enforcing consistent family time, so be it. After all, I bet they have pretty rigid mealtime schedules in jail, not to mention someone else does the cooking.
With my luck I’d be put on kitchen duty, to cook meals for millennia. At least they would be on time.
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 26/12
Yes, just one. (Shhh.)
Every night, almost without fail, I have supper on the table for the family at six o’clock.
I know! It’s ridiculous!
Allow me to explain.
Regular readers have probably heard me mention before that I am rather Type A. I am a creature of habit. I like things to be just so. I like to think I am not a control freak (ahem), but I readily admit I like routines.
My kids are still young and at school they eat lunch pretty early, so 6 p.m. is about as late as I like to push it otherwise they end up grazing on snacks.
Also, eating at six allows time to finish homework, play, have sibling screaming fights, wage light sabre battles or do whatever else needs to be done before bedtime.
Because I have been cooking meals for what feels like a millennium, I have it down pat. I know how to time things so we are sitting at the table by six.
I just can’t help it.
Maybe that’s another reason I was attracted to journalism: I am deadline oriented. If the story wasn’t filed by a certain time, it would miss the press. If the student newscast wasn’t ready by six, we had dead air. And an F.
Don’t worry. I know I won’t flunk if I don’t have food on the table by a certain time. I do think, though, that good timing is a rather important part of good cooking. (This would be an excellent argument if the food critics in the household always gave good reviews.)
Anyway, if I were charged with this horrible crime of having a six o’clock seating, I would feel compelled to plead not guilty by reason of insanity because I have been cooking meals for a millennium. No...wait...I mean because I honestly didn’t realize there was anything wrong with it.
Apparently, however, I am odd. I have been called “inflexible,” too, although I am perfectly capable of adjusting mealtimes to accommodate various activities.
Groom-boy and I have had this discussion a few times, even though he is usually not home in time for supper anymore now that he commutes. (No, I am not waiting until 7:30 to sit down with the kids at the table to eat.)
I will admit that I have been known to get a little high strung when, on the occasions that he is home, he decides to “run to the store” at 5:40 to get some little extra thing for the meal, and doesn’t manage to return until 6:15, even though he knows the meal will be ready at six.
“Oh, I got talking to someone,” he’ll say, referencing my inflexibility as I peel overdone pasta out of a pot.
Sigh. He went to journalism school, too. Perhaps they had a rotating deadline at his school.
Maybe this whole issue/problem/crime/weirdness stretches right back to my childhood. I remember when my brother and I were little that we ate sometime between five and six. It was consistent. Later, I know we were all around the table by 6 because my dad liked to have the news on in the background while we ate. I remember we were always being shushed when it was time to hear the weather.
The thing is we almost always ate together. Sometimes my dad would be working shifts and, later, my brother and I had part-time jobs after school, but for the most part we had supper as a family. It was a nice ritual. We always knew what time we would be eating, so we knew when to be home. Simple.
So I won’t apologize for this weirdness of mine, and I’ll keep doing it as often as we can, realizing kids’ activity schedules can interfere with this utopian supper timing.
If I get sent to jail for enforcing consistent family time, so be it. After all, I bet they have pretty rigid mealtime schedules in jail, not to mention someone else does the cooking.
With my luck I’d be put on kitchen duty, to cook meals for millennia. At least they would be on time.
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 26/12
Friday, December 23, 2011
Past Deadline: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas 2011
Christmas already? Why, that can only mean it’s time to extend my heartfelt apologies once again to Clement Clark Moore as I embark upon my annual butchering of his beloved classic, ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. After all, what would the holidays be without some wreaking of literary havoc upon poor, hapless poets and readers?
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
The children used light sabres in order to joust.
The stockings were buried under debris
And Mama looked a bit like she wanted to flee.
The company would be coming
The turkey soon thawed
And Mama hoped everyone would be truly awed.
“Your house is divine,” Mama hoped they would say,
“It should be on the house tour – book it today!” [That would be the Hoarders house tour, maybe?]
She snapped out of her daydream when she heard such a clatter
And ran to the next room to see what was the matter.
Boychild and Girlchild were standing alarmed
As the Christmas tree toppled – but no one was harmed. [This didn’t really happen – but I often imagine it could when the light sabre fights get going.]
“What are you doing?” Mama shrieked and she hollered,
And then Groom-boy came in and the kitty cats follered. [Ha. “Follered” is not a real word, but some people say it that way.]
“It’s her fault!” “It’s his fault!” the arguments started
But Mama just stood there, feeling all broken-hearted.
“The ornaments,” she whispered. “So many are broken.
“Some were real treasures and beautiful tokens.”
The room grew solemn and Groom-boy jumped in
Promising to make things as neat as a pin.
The children were worried. Would Santa still come?
Would they get any presents after what they had done?
Everyone pitched in while Mama went off
To work in the kitchen and, um, started to cough.
When what to her grateful eyes should appear
But the Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™! What cheer!
“You’re late!” Mama cried. “I have been so stressed out
“That I can’t even remember what Christmas is about!
“The cooking, the cleaning, the buying, the wrapping
“It just leaves me feeling as if I should be napping.
“And now the tree’s ruined and the company’s coming
“I’m just not sure how I can keep it all humming!”
The fairy, of course, sprite that she is
Gave a wink and conjured a drink with some fizz.
“Take a deep breath and then take a wee sip,
“And before too long you’ll have plenty of zip!”
The drink was quite yummy and before Mama knew it
She’d sipped and she’d sipped and got all the way through it.
Meanwhile the fairy got quickly to work,
Waving her wand as if she’d gone berserk.
Soon the clutter was gone and the meal prep completed
And best of all was the tree accident was deleted.
“Good as new!” cried the fairy. “Everything will be fine
“And you must remember to enjoy this grand time!”
With a wink and grin and a twinkling eye
She blew Mama a kiss and took to the sky.
Mama peeked in the room and to her delight
Saw the family and kitties basking in the tree’s light.
“Everything good?” she asked with a smile
And knew she’d be thanking her fairy for a while.
Phew. You gotta love that Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™. Have you seen her? I’m still hoping. Anyway, Boychild, Girlchild, Groom-boy and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and all the best in 2012!
Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 22/11
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
The children used light sabres in order to joust.
The stockings were buried under debris
And Mama looked a bit like she wanted to flee.
The company would be coming
The turkey soon thawed
And Mama hoped everyone would be truly awed.
“Your house is divine,” Mama hoped they would say,
“It should be on the house tour – book it today!” [That would be the Hoarders house tour, maybe?]
She snapped out of her daydream when she heard such a clatter
And ran to the next room to see what was the matter.
Boychild and Girlchild were standing alarmed
As the Christmas tree toppled – but no one was harmed. [This didn’t really happen – but I often imagine it could when the light sabre fights get going.]
“What are you doing?” Mama shrieked and she hollered,
And then Groom-boy came in and the kitty cats follered. [Ha. “Follered” is not a real word, but some people say it that way.]
“It’s her fault!” “It’s his fault!” the arguments started
But Mama just stood there, feeling all broken-hearted.
“The ornaments,” she whispered. “So many are broken.
“Some were real treasures and beautiful tokens.”
The room grew solemn and Groom-boy jumped in
Promising to make things as neat as a pin.
The children were worried. Would Santa still come?
Would they get any presents after what they had done?
Everyone pitched in while Mama went off
To work in the kitchen and, um, started to cough.
When what to her grateful eyes should appear
But the Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™! What cheer!
“You’re late!” Mama cried. “I have been so stressed out
“That I can’t even remember what Christmas is about!
“The cooking, the cleaning, the buying, the wrapping
“It just leaves me feeling as if I should be napping.
“And now the tree’s ruined and the company’s coming
“I’m just not sure how I can keep it all humming!”
The fairy, of course, sprite that she is
Gave a wink and conjured a drink with some fizz.
“Take a deep breath and then take a wee sip,
“And before too long you’ll have plenty of zip!”
The drink was quite yummy and before Mama knew it
She’d sipped and she’d sipped and got all the way through it.
Meanwhile the fairy got quickly to work,
Waving her wand as if she’d gone berserk.
Soon the clutter was gone and the meal prep completed
And best of all was the tree accident was deleted.
“Good as new!” cried the fairy. “Everything will be fine
“And you must remember to enjoy this grand time!”
With a wink and grin and a twinkling eye
She blew Mama a kiss and took to the sky.
Mama peeked in the room and to her delight
Saw the family and kitties basking in the tree’s light.
“Everything good?” she asked with a smile
And knew she’d be thanking her fairy for a while.
Phew. You gotta love that Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™. Have you seen her? I’m still hoping. Anyway, Boychild, Girlchild, Groom-boy and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and all the best in 2012!
Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 22/11
Friday, November 4, 2011
Past Deadline: You Want Me to What?
Okay. Here’s something weird.
One evening last week I was scrambling (that’s not the weird part) to finish work and shovel through the kitchen in order to start supper.
Of course the doorbell rang. It always does when you are scrambling.
When the doorbell rings at suppertime I always take a deep breath and steel myself to say “No, thank you!” to someone trying to sell me something energy related. (I have learned it is easier to say no to an energy guy up front than it is to say no later.)
Anyway, I opened the door with, I presume, my best scowly face on. There were two teenaged girls standing there. One was holding a box of chocolate Pop Tarts. Must be a school fundraiser, I thought.
I opened the door. One girl smiled and said something like, “Okay…this is going to sound like a really weird question, but could you toast a couple of these for us?”
Huh?
“We won’t come into your house,” she continued, “but we’re stuck in Perth and we’re hoping someone could toast these for us.”
I honestly don’t remember my exact initial response, but it was something like, “Really?”
Meanwhile, my brain was spinning. I tend to be a charming combination of completely gullible mixed with incredibly suspicious (that last part comes from my dad, the retired conservation officer, I think), which means I do my best analysis of a situation after it is over.
I looked at the girls, who were polite, smiling and did not seem intoxicated or stoned. I tentatively crossed “home invasion” off my mental list, but kept “scam?” highlighted for the moment.
Really, though, my prevailing thought was: “How can I say no to such nerve?”
I shrugged. “Okay. I guess so,” I said.
They smiled and thanked and I took the box into the kitchen while they waited on the porch, door closed.
Girlchild, who had been hovering nearby during the exchange, was quite intrigued by the whole thing. “Can I go and see if they are still there?” she asked.
I was busy fiddling with the unopened box and preparing to get toasting. “Okay,” I said absently. (It later occurred to me that I should probably add “kidnapping?” to my list.)
Meanwhile, the girls had a grand chat. They complimented Girlchild on our Halloween decorations (which I figure may have attracted them to the house to begin with – it is obviously child friendly). They also discussed how good my spaghetti sauce smelled. “Your mom must be a good cook,” one of the girls said.
Despite the blatant flattery, I didn’t invite them in for supper.
I loaded the two Pop Tarts onto paper towels and returned to the door. A third girl had materialized – perhaps she was shy and hid behind a tree at first? I didn’t take time to toast a third one.
They thanked and I asked why they were “stranded” in Perth and the spokesperson explained something about having to go work and then youth group (or vice versa), so I got the idea they were between gigs. Anyway, they wandered off, munching on warm chocolate Pop Tarts.
So weird.
As a teenager, I never would have had the nerve to walk up to a stranger’s door – even a friendly looking stranger – and ask them to toast Pop Tarts for me. I would have eaten them cold. And I would have walked uphill both ways in the snow in bare feet…yadda yadda yadda.
To be honest, I still can’t decide whether I admire them for having the nerve to ask or am flabbergasted by their boldness. Maybe a bit of both.
I have since learned they visited at least one other neighbour on their quest, and were turned down.
So it doesn’t appear as if they were scoping the joint or invading the home or kidnapping the children or running a scam. Maybe it was a dare? Or a psychological experiment for a high school class? Or a random-act-of-kindness survey?
I have no idea. Whatever it was, I suppose it’s kind of neat that they felt comfortable enough in this little town to reach out to a stranger for…um…the use of a toaster.
Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 3/11
One evening last week I was scrambling (that’s not the weird part) to finish work and shovel through the kitchen in order to start supper.
Of course the doorbell rang. It always does when you are scrambling.
When the doorbell rings at suppertime I always take a deep breath and steel myself to say “No, thank you!” to someone trying to sell me something energy related. (I have learned it is easier to say no to an energy guy up front than it is to say no later.)
Anyway, I opened the door with, I presume, my best scowly face on. There were two teenaged girls standing there. One was holding a box of chocolate Pop Tarts. Must be a school fundraiser, I thought.
I opened the door. One girl smiled and said something like, “Okay…this is going to sound like a really weird question, but could you toast a couple of these for us?”
Huh?
“We won’t come into your house,” she continued, “but we’re stuck in Perth and we’re hoping someone could toast these for us.”
I honestly don’t remember my exact initial response, but it was something like, “Really?”
Meanwhile, my brain was spinning. I tend to be a charming combination of completely gullible mixed with incredibly suspicious (that last part comes from my dad, the retired conservation officer, I think), which means I do my best analysis of a situation after it is over.
I looked at the girls, who were polite, smiling and did not seem intoxicated or stoned. I tentatively crossed “home invasion” off my mental list, but kept “scam?” highlighted for the moment.
Really, though, my prevailing thought was: “How can I say no to such nerve?”
I shrugged. “Okay. I guess so,” I said.
They smiled and thanked and I took the box into the kitchen while they waited on the porch, door closed.
Girlchild, who had been hovering nearby during the exchange, was quite intrigued by the whole thing. “Can I go and see if they are still there?” she asked.
I was busy fiddling with the unopened box and preparing to get toasting. “Okay,” I said absently. (It later occurred to me that I should probably add “kidnapping?” to my list.)
Meanwhile, the girls had a grand chat. They complimented Girlchild on our Halloween decorations (which I figure may have attracted them to the house to begin with – it is obviously child friendly). They also discussed how good my spaghetti sauce smelled. “Your mom must be a good cook,” one of the girls said.
Despite the blatant flattery, I didn’t invite them in for supper.
I loaded the two Pop Tarts onto paper towels and returned to the door. A third girl had materialized – perhaps she was shy and hid behind a tree at first? I didn’t take time to toast a third one.
They thanked and I asked why they were “stranded” in Perth and the spokesperson explained something about having to go work and then youth group (or vice versa), so I got the idea they were between gigs. Anyway, they wandered off, munching on warm chocolate Pop Tarts.
So weird.
As a teenager, I never would have had the nerve to walk up to a stranger’s door – even a friendly looking stranger – and ask them to toast Pop Tarts for me. I would have eaten them cold. And I would have walked uphill both ways in the snow in bare feet…yadda yadda yadda.
To be honest, I still can’t decide whether I admire them for having the nerve to ask or am flabbergasted by their boldness. Maybe a bit of both.
I have since learned they visited at least one other neighbour on their quest, and were turned down.
So it doesn’t appear as if they were scoping the joint or invading the home or kidnapping the children or running a scam. Maybe it was a dare? Or a psychological experiment for a high school class? Or a random-act-of-kindness survey?
I have no idea. Whatever it was, I suppose it’s kind of neat that they felt comfortable enough in this little town to reach out to a stranger for…um…the use of a toaster.
Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 3/11
Monday, January 14, 2008
Return of the Banshee
A while ago, I wrote about how Girlchild (she who is most definitely two) had started a freaky new trick that involved a someone-is-sawing-my-arm-off kind of screaming at bedtime and naptime. You can read about those good old days here.
It was, as predicted, a fairly short-lived phase. Once groom-boy and I stopped running into her room breathlessly fearing the worst and ready to bludgeon some armed torturer, she got tired of yelling. After about a week life returned to its non-shrieking normalcy - whatever that is.
Well, guess what? The banshee's back and she's as bloodcurdling as ever.
Bedtime used to be my absolute favourite time of the day because I knew I would soon have some quality time to spend with my computer - I mean with myself or with groom-boy. Seriously, though, as fine as the quiet time is, I love bedtime for the ritual of it. We started developing a good routine with both kids when they were babies and it is a lovely time featuring a nice bath, cosy PJs, a bit of milk for Girlchild, brushing the teeth, a few stories, tuck in, kiss kiss, good night. It's all so warm and sweet and innocent and aw shucks hot chocolaty.
I miss those days.
We're at the stage with Girlchild where she bucks every routine. She doesn't want to get into the tub and then she doesn't want to get out. She sometimes struggles over donning her diaper and fights the PJ choice. If there's time for two stories she'll pick six. Now she insists upon reading them to me (which is actually kind of cute). Then we struggle over brushing teeth. Then we have to decide which books and friends will join her in her crib. Oh, did I say "we" and "decide" in the same sentence? Silly me.
By the time I dole out hugs and kisses, say goodnight and close the door I feel as if I have run a mile while having an argument, which actually isn't saying much since I'm so out of shape. You get the idea, though.
Then the screaming starts. (Not mine, hers - although I'm tempted.)
It can be for various reasons - a drink, another hug, to retrieve dropped books, to "snugaminute" (which is hard to resist), but it sounds as if she is being hung upside down by her toenails. We usually end up making at least a couple of return visits. Our responses have varied from complying with her request to merely peeking in the door and telling her "goodnight" again to doing the old timer trick (waiting five minutes, ten minutes and so on before going in).
That girl has stamina, though, not to mention lungs, and the sitting-it-out strategy isn't working so well this time. Groom-boy and I have often commented - rather - shouted to each other over the noise that we expect her head is spinning around in circles and perhaps we should have the exorcist on speed dial. She is LOUD! And a bit scary, too.
Her brother, Vern, who is a newly minted six-year-old, says we should go in, tell her we're going to get what she wants and then never come back and she'll fall asleep while she waits. Uh huh. I'm afraid to try it due to the psychological implications: "And they NEVER came back," she'll be telling some therapist in 20 years. "I waited and waited for my sippy cup, but they NEVER brought it." I also suspect someone this fiery is unlikely to just drift off to sleep while waiting. You never know, though. Sometimes Vern has her pegged. He also has to try to sleep through the Din That Never Ends, so I feel for him and applaud his efforts to find a solution.
Hopefully this little bump in the bedtime routine will iron itself quickly like the last time - and before we all go deaf.
It was, as predicted, a fairly short-lived phase. Once groom-boy and I stopped running into her room breathlessly fearing the worst and ready to bludgeon some armed torturer, she got tired of yelling. After about a week life returned to its non-shrieking normalcy - whatever that is.
Well, guess what? The banshee's back and she's as bloodcurdling as ever.
Bedtime used to be my absolute favourite time of the day because I knew I would soon have some quality time to spend with my computer - I mean with myself or with groom-boy. Seriously, though, as fine as the quiet time is, I love bedtime for the ritual of it. We started developing a good routine with both kids when they were babies and it is a lovely time featuring a nice bath, cosy PJs, a bit of milk for Girlchild, brushing the teeth, a few stories, tuck in, kiss kiss, good night. It's all so warm and sweet and innocent and aw shucks hot chocolaty.
I miss those days.
We're at the stage with Girlchild where she bucks every routine. She doesn't want to get into the tub and then she doesn't want to get out. She sometimes struggles over donning her diaper and fights the PJ choice. If there's time for two stories she'll pick six. Now she insists upon reading them to me (which is actually kind of cute). Then we struggle over brushing teeth. Then we have to decide which books and friends will join her in her crib. Oh, did I say "we" and "decide" in the same sentence? Silly me.
By the time I dole out hugs and kisses, say goodnight and close the door I feel as if I have run a mile while having an argument, which actually isn't saying much since I'm so out of shape. You get the idea, though.
Then the screaming starts. (Not mine, hers - although I'm tempted.)
It can be for various reasons - a drink, another hug, to retrieve dropped books, to "snugaminute" (which is hard to resist), but it sounds as if she is being hung upside down by her toenails. We usually end up making at least a couple of return visits. Our responses have varied from complying with her request to merely peeking in the door and telling her "goodnight" again to doing the old timer trick (waiting five minutes, ten minutes and so on before going in).
That girl has stamina, though, not to mention lungs, and the sitting-it-out strategy isn't working so well this time. Groom-boy and I have often commented - rather - shouted to each other over the noise that we expect her head is spinning around in circles and perhaps we should have the exorcist on speed dial. She is LOUD! And a bit scary, too.
Her brother, Vern, who is a newly minted six-year-old, says we should go in, tell her we're going to get what she wants and then never come back and she'll fall asleep while she waits. Uh huh. I'm afraid to try it due to the psychological implications: "And they NEVER came back," she'll be telling some therapist in 20 years. "I waited and waited for my sippy cup, but they NEVER brought it." I also suspect someone this fiery is unlikely to just drift off to sleep while waiting. You never know, though. Sometimes Vern has her pegged. He also has to try to sleep through the Din That Never Ends, so I feel for him and applaud his efforts to find a solution.
Hopefully this little bump in the bedtime routine will iron itself quickly like the last time - and before we all go deaf.
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