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Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Sunday, December 1, 2013
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.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Past Deadline: Do You Need a Cat Scarf?
Here’s the latest Past Deadline, published March 28/13.
Do you need a cat scarf?
I have inadvertently taken up knitting. It’s because I need more things to occupy my time. (Not.)
Back about a million and a half years ago, my Nan taught me how to knit. She also taught me crochet, rug hooking, needlepoint and baking. She was talented. I miss my Nan.
The baking definitely stuck with me, needlepoint eventually morphed into an interest in cross-stitching, but the rest kind of fell away.
Many years later I came to regret my abandonment of knitting. You may recall me writing in the past about a beloved knit toy that had been passed on to Boychild from my brother. My Nan made “Ducky,” who is bright yellow with an orange beak, for my brother. It must have been almost 30 years old when Boychild got him, and over the years he required some, shall we say, maintenance.
On several occasions my bestie, Cindy, has knit odd-shaped “patches” for me to then sew onto Ducky’s thin, worn areas. Over the years he has acquired, essentially, an entirely new patch-worked skin (see above).
Recently, Girlchild has expressed an interest in learning how to sew. This is another skill that has fallen away. I haven’t touched a sewing machine since about Grade 8. I can manage buttons and can sew patches onto things, but beyond that I need to turn to others. My dad, actually, is the sewing machine expert in the family, while my mom is the go-to-person for hems.
Girlchild asked about knitting. I suggested we bake. No, she wanted to learn how to knit. Ask Cindy, I said.
So, sure enough, when Cindy and her gang were over for supper last Friday, Girlchild ambushed her. Cindy was glad (or seemed glad?) to oblige.
Fortunately I still have a craft bag filled with long-neglected items, including samples of abandoned knitting and several balls of yarn (particularly yellow for duck repairs).
I found two sets of knitting needles. I grabbed one seriously warped pair and said, “You’d better teach me, too, because if you’re not here and something goes awry, I am going to have to deal with the Wrath of Girlchild.”
(Shudder.)
And so began the great knitting projects: cat scarves. MacGregor, our indoor cat, has been coveting a knit scarf for years. (Ahem.)
The next day we trooped off to the craft store to acquire a couple of pretty balls of colourful yarn, along with a set of larger, wooden needles that might work well for small, learning hands. I managed to cast enough stitches onto the new needles to commence a third project: a blanket for a small stuffed toy.
I see dishcloths in my future. Seriously.
Over the last few days I have been able to rescue a few stitches and come up with creative excuses when mistakes are made in the knitting of cat scarves and toy blankets, such as: “That’s a peephole” and “We can cover that with some sort of fun patch.”
MacGregor won’t mind. I’m sure of it.
Girlchild wouldn’t let Cindy leave the house until they had scheduled another knitting lesson. I will be attending, too, since I have to learn how to cast off once these scarves and blankies reach their desired length.
The good thing is, when our crews get together, which usually happens weekly, her boys and mine can all go off and do guy stuff, and Girlchild, the lone female kid in the bunch, can bring her projects and we three ladies can convene the Knitting Club. After all, the world is sadly lacking in cat scarves, toy blankets and dishcloths.
Do you need a cat scarf?
I have inadvertently taken up knitting. It’s because I need more things to occupy my time. (Not.)
Back about a million and a half years ago, my Nan taught me how to knit. She also taught me crochet, rug hooking, needlepoint and baking. She was talented. I miss my Nan.
The baking definitely stuck with me, needlepoint eventually morphed into an interest in cross-stitching, but the rest kind of fell away.
Many years later I came to regret my abandonment of knitting. You may recall me writing in the past about a beloved knit toy that had been passed on to Boychild from my brother. My Nan made “Ducky,” who is bright yellow with an orange beak, for my brother. It must have been almost 30 years old when Boychild got him, and over the years he required some, shall we say, maintenance.
Ducky
Recently, Girlchild has expressed an interest in learning how to sew. This is another skill that has fallen away. I haven’t touched a sewing machine since about Grade 8. I can manage buttons and can sew patches onto things, but beyond that I need to turn to others. My dad, actually, is the sewing machine expert in the family, while my mom is the go-to-person for hems.
Girlchild asked about knitting. I suggested we bake. No, she wanted to learn how to knit. Ask Cindy, I said.
So, sure enough, when Cindy and her gang were over for supper last Friday, Girlchild ambushed her. Cindy was glad (or seemed glad?) to oblige.
Fortunately I still have a craft bag filled with long-neglected items, including samples of abandoned knitting and several balls of yarn (particularly yellow for duck repairs).
I found two sets of knitting needles. I grabbed one seriously warped pair and said, “You’d better teach me, too, because if you’re not here and something goes awry, I am going to have to deal with the Wrath of Girlchild.”
(Shudder.)
And so began the great knitting projects: cat scarves. MacGregor, our indoor cat, has been coveting a knit scarf for years. (Ahem.)
The next day we trooped off to the craft store to acquire a couple of pretty balls of colourful yarn, along with a set of larger, wooden needles that might work well for small, learning hands. I managed to cast enough stitches onto the new needles to commence a third project: a blanket for a small stuffed toy.
The new projects.
I see dishcloths in my future. Seriously.
Over the last few days I have been able to rescue a few stitches and come up with creative excuses when mistakes are made in the knitting of cat scarves and toy blankets, such as: “That’s a peephole” and “We can cover that with some sort of fun patch.”
MacGregor won’t mind. I’m sure of it.
Girlchild wouldn’t let Cindy leave the house until they had scheduled another knitting lesson. I will be attending, too, since I have to learn how to cast off once these scarves and blankies reach their desired length.
The good thing is, when our crews get together, which usually happens weekly, her boys and mine can all go off and do guy stuff, and Girlchild, the lone female kid in the bunch, can bring her projects and we three ladies can convene the Knitting Club. After all, the world is sadly lacking in cat scarves, toy blankets and dishcloths.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Past Deadline: I Don't Hear Anything
Here is Past Deadline from Jan. 31/13 published in The Perth Courier.
I don’t hear anything
Saturday at my house is laundry day. Sometimes I like to squeeze in a load or two during the week, but in this particular week I saved it all up like any good hoarder and made Saturday an official Laundry Event™. My life is exciting that way.
Ahem.
I loaded up Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine and was somewhat alarmed as it kicked into gear. It was making a strange noise. I stood there for a couple of minutes, hands on hips, scowling, and listened. Oh, dear.
Maybe it was because I hadn’t used it for a week and it was feeling sluggish? Maybe the water was a bit more frigid than usual (quite likely!) and it was complaining a little?
What to do? Do I stop the machine? Call upon Groom-boy? Call upon someone who might actually know what to do? Panic?
So I did what any high-functioning adult does these days – I turned to social media. I posted: “If I pretend I don’t hear the funny sound my washing machine is making, it’ll go away, right?”
I had a variety of responses, such as “Yes” and “Think positively.” One suggestion was to give it a “good kick” and another was to “stop doing laundry.”
My favourite by far was from the Rising King of One Liners, my little bro: “Turn the radio up. It works with my car.”
Yessss!
I may be regressing into my teenage years because more and more I am finding loud music to be a tonic for a lot of things. I have always liked to listen to music while working. When I need to do something terribly cerebral I turn to classical, but lately I have been relying on my running playlist to get the job done.
Back when my Stupid Foot™ wasn’t so stupid and I was happily engrossed in the adrenalin rush/stress-release that was running, I compiled a great collection of music on a playlist I call “Run Forrest Run.”
The title is inspired by the movie Forrest Gump – the part when Forrest decides to run across the country. See, running was never effortless for me, so sometimes 5K felt a bit like a marathon. “Run Forrest Run” is quite a mixed bag. It includes nostalgia stuff from the ’80s and ’90s, some unusual stuff, songs that remind me of dancing up a storm with friends at university and enough new stuff that if my kids stumble upon it they might say, “Hey, Mom’s not as dorky as we thought!” It has a lot of fast-paced material and a smattering of slower stuff in strategic spots to enable one to catch one’s breath as they pound out a 5K.
These days it is good walking music and also decent for the stationary bike, but I find I am turning to it often as I toil at my desk. If I am working on a big deadline or a large document, sticking in the earphones and playing “Run Forrest Run” is an excellent way to pass the miles. I mean time.
It also works well if one is trying to meet a deadline while a boisterous play date is happening elsewhere in the house, but this is only recommended if there is another competent adult in the vicinity who is paying attention to the chaos.
Just as I was about ready to crank up the tunes on laundry day, the washer stopped making the funny noise and all was well.
Phew.
For at least the foreseeable future, it appears my Laundry Events will carry on as usual. Given the sheer volume of the task, however, I might do the loud music thing anyway….
I don’t hear anything
Saturday at my house is laundry day. Sometimes I like to squeeze in a load or two during the week, but in this particular week I saved it all up like any good hoarder and made Saturday an official Laundry Event™. My life is exciting that way.
Ahem.
I loaded up Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine and was somewhat alarmed as it kicked into gear. It was making a strange noise. I stood there for a couple of minutes, hands on hips, scowling, and listened. Oh, dear.
Maybe it was because I hadn’t used it for a week and it was feeling sluggish? Maybe the water was a bit more frigid than usual (quite likely!) and it was complaining a little?
What to do? Do I stop the machine? Call upon Groom-boy? Call upon someone who might actually know what to do? Panic?
So I did what any high-functioning adult does these days – I turned to social media. I posted: “If I pretend I don’t hear the funny sound my washing machine is making, it’ll go away, right?”
I had a variety of responses, such as “Yes” and “Think positively.” One suggestion was to give it a “good kick” and another was to “stop doing laundry.”
My favourite by far was from the Rising King of One Liners, my little bro: “Turn the radio up. It works with my car.”
Yessss!
I may be regressing into my teenage years because more and more I am finding loud music to be a tonic for a lot of things. I have always liked to listen to music while working. When I need to do something terribly cerebral I turn to classical, but lately I have been relying on my running playlist to get the job done.
Back when my Stupid Foot™ wasn’t so stupid and I was happily engrossed in the adrenalin rush/stress-release that was running, I compiled a great collection of music on a playlist I call “Run Forrest Run.”
The title is inspired by the movie Forrest Gump – the part when Forrest decides to run across the country. See, running was never effortless for me, so sometimes 5K felt a bit like a marathon. “Run Forrest Run” is quite a mixed bag. It includes nostalgia stuff from the ’80s and ’90s, some unusual stuff, songs that remind me of dancing up a storm with friends at university and enough new stuff that if my kids stumble upon it they might say, “Hey, Mom’s not as dorky as we thought!” It has a lot of fast-paced material and a smattering of slower stuff in strategic spots to enable one to catch one’s breath as they pound out a 5K.
These days it is good walking music and also decent for the stationary bike, but I find I am turning to it often as I toil at my desk. If I am working on a big deadline or a large document, sticking in the earphones and playing “Run Forrest Run” is an excellent way to pass the miles. I mean time.
It also works well if one is trying to meet a deadline while a boisterous play date is happening elsewhere in the house, but this is only recommended if there is another competent adult in the vicinity who is paying attention to the chaos.
Just as I was about ready to crank up the tunes on laundry day, the washer stopped making the funny noise and all was well.
Phew.
For at least the foreseeable future, it appears my Laundry Events will carry on as usual. Given the sheer volume of the task, however, I might do the loud music thing anyway….
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Past Deadline: Resolutions Revisited
Here is the latest “Past Deadline,” published in The Perth Courier on Jan. 10/13.
Resolutions revisited
As I write this, we are about a week into the new year and I feel inclined to provide an update on how those fantastic New Year’s “Revolutions” are working out.
Or not working out, as the case may be.
I decided to do this in part because it is snowing again. See, last week I wrote about snow and how much I like it in the winter. One of the brilliant gems I uttered was this: “Another reason I prefer snow is because it’s easier to get the kids outside. It has been awesome lately for fort building – those chunks of snow make great blocks.”
It all sounds very good, and the theory is solid, but the practice is proving to be, well, let’s just say my kids rarely decide on their own to just go outside – they usually have to be told. This is especially true for the oldest one, who sometimes needs to be pried away from the computer. (To her credit, Girlchild recently built a beautiful snow girl and snow dog who gaze happily at me when I am at the kitchen window.)
On a bright sunny day near the end of the Christmas break, I herded the youngsters outside by suggesting we build a snow mountain in the back yard that they could slide down. This led to a second snow pile that Girlchild used to make a fort. Suddenly the magic and versatility of snow was revealed and they spent two hours outside. You’d think they’d been living in Florida for the last decade.
I saw something on the Interwebs recently – can’t remember where – that said: “When I was a kid I only had one toy. It was called ‘outside.’”
So true. This is such a lost generation. It is up to us to teach our children “the Old Ways,” and that means opening the back door and gesturing broadly to the back yard. “Look, little ones! Grass! Trees! Flowers! Birds! Fresh air! Take these sticks and build something! Take this broom and pretend it is a horse and ride it! Stare at the clouds! Climb a tree! Make a mud pie! Ride a bike!”
I know I have no one to blame but myself for letting it come to this, although I also know I am not alone. Many parents are tackling the “nature deficit.”
That all said, I am inclined to add an addendum to my resolutions: “Get the kids outside!” My goal is for them to want to choose to go outside – not for it to be a chore that Mommy makes them do. And maybe that means unplugging a few screens around the house and meaning business about it.
Wish me luck.
As for the rest of the “revolutions,” my progress on that front has been…well…poor. I am going to blame the holidays because, as I write this, the kids are still off and routines are disrupted. Our sleep patterns are weird and we are still confronted with a variety of Christmas goodies lying around. It would be a crime to waste them.
Still…my pants are shrinking. I have to do something about this because a new wardrobe will break the budget. By the time you read this, I hope I will have done some form of decent exercise every day this week – something other than shovelling.
Also, here’s another addendum that was glaringly omitted from the list: “Eat less.” Seriously. Get a grip, woman! The number on the scale is startling!
The remaining resolution was “Don’t freak out in the face of change, conflict or difficulty.” Perhaps I should amend that to add: “but DO freak out about not going outside, not exercising and not eating less.”
Okay, everyone! Let’s go make a snow fort!
Resolutions revisited
As I write this, we are about a week into the new year and I feel inclined to provide an update on how those fantastic New Year’s “Revolutions” are working out.
Or not working out, as the case may be.
I decided to do this in part because it is snowing again. See, last week I wrote about snow and how much I like it in the winter. One of the brilliant gems I uttered was this: “Another reason I prefer snow is because it’s easier to get the kids outside. It has been awesome lately for fort building – those chunks of snow make great blocks.”
It all sounds very good, and the theory is solid, but the practice is proving to be, well, let’s just say my kids rarely decide on their own to just go outside – they usually have to be told. This is especially true for the oldest one, who sometimes needs to be pried away from the computer. (To her credit, Girlchild recently built a beautiful snow girl and snow dog who gaze happily at me when I am at the kitchen window.)
On a bright sunny day near the end of the Christmas break, I herded the youngsters outside by suggesting we build a snow mountain in the back yard that they could slide down. This led to a second snow pile that Girlchild used to make a fort. Suddenly the magic and versatility of snow was revealed and they spent two hours outside. You’d think they’d been living in Florida for the last decade.
I saw something on the Interwebs recently – can’t remember where – that said: “When I was a kid I only had one toy. It was called ‘outside.’”
So true. This is such a lost generation. It is up to us to teach our children “the Old Ways,” and that means opening the back door and gesturing broadly to the back yard. “Look, little ones! Grass! Trees! Flowers! Birds! Fresh air! Take these sticks and build something! Take this broom and pretend it is a horse and ride it! Stare at the clouds! Climb a tree! Make a mud pie! Ride a bike!”
I know I have no one to blame but myself for letting it come to this, although I also know I am not alone. Many parents are tackling the “nature deficit.”
That all said, I am inclined to add an addendum to my resolutions: “Get the kids outside!” My goal is for them to want to choose to go outside – not for it to be a chore that Mommy makes them do. And maybe that means unplugging a few screens around the house and meaning business about it.
Wish me luck.
As for the rest of the “revolutions,” my progress on that front has been…well…poor. I am going to blame the holidays because, as I write this, the kids are still off and routines are disrupted. Our sleep patterns are weird and we are still confronted with a variety of Christmas goodies lying around. It would be a crime to waste them.
Still…my pants are shrinking. I have to do something about this because a new wardrobe will break the budget. By the time you read this, I hope I will have done some form of decent exercise every day this week – something other than shovelling.
Also, here’s another addendum that was glaringly omitted from the list: “Eat less.” Seriously. Get a grip, woman! The number on the scale is startling!
The remaining resolution was “Don’t freak out in the face of change, conflict or difficulty.” Perhaps I should amend that to add: “but DO freak out about not going outside, not exercising and not eating less.”
Okay, everyone! Let’s go make a snow fort!
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Past Deadline: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas
Wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas. Hope you enjoy my annual contribution for the season! (Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 20/12).
’Twas the Night Before Christmas
Christmas is mere moments away, which means it’s time to butcher a classic poem once again and conjure up my favourite seasonal sprite for the 2012 version! My apologies, as always, to Clement Clark Moore….
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Mama searched for a rhyme that was not the word “grouse.”
“Galldarnit!” she cried. “There is so much to do! What’s with all these deadlines? I need a whole crew!
“There’s writing and marking and editing – oh my!
“December’s so busy I might break down and cry!”
She gazed all around at the state of the home
And as the clock ticked she started to moan.
The Christmas cards waited, the presents weren’t wrapped
It might have to be done while everyone napped.
The groceries weren’t purchased, the eggnog not bought,
And without all those goodies one could be overwrought.
There were stockings to hang, some garland to string, a turkey to thaw and carols to sing.
At least with a Girlchild whose patience was low, the tree was a-glitter and ready to go. (Thanks to ample nagging in November.)
And just as the panic started to rise,
A wonderful sight came to Mama’s eyes.
In the kitchen she started to see a small glow,
And as she looked on it continued to grow.
Mama smiled. “Could it be?” she asked the thin air.
“Has my fairy returned? Do I hope? Do I dare?”
And with a loud pop her wish became true:
The Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™ in a kitchen near you!
With a wink and a grin she tapped Mama’s arm,
“Your annual struggle never loses its charm!
“I do like to visit and help you all out,
“But your ability to learn leaves me in doubt.”
Mama looked puzzled and felt slightly perplexed.
“But what do you mean? I hope you’re not vexed!” (Cool! Perplexed and vexed!)
“Not at all!” said the fairy, “I’m just trying to help
“Because your annual problem is as common as kelp.
“The issue, you see, comes down to routine. I see that you’ve got one, but it’s far from pristine.”
And with that the Fairy brandished her wand
And conjured a date book for now and beyond.
“You see in October your workload is steady,
“But not so busy that you cannot get ready.
“Plan ahead, my dear, so when December comes,
“You won’t have to panic – you won’t have the glums.”
“Pshaw!” Mama said. “I’ll never succeed
“In thinking of Christmas when it’s autumn indeed!
“Besides,” she said smugly, “there’s something about
“All those early shoppers that gives me the gout.”
The Fairy just stood there. “You’re being a goof.
“You’re just being stubborn, and I’ve had enoof.” (Sometimes the Fairy has a Scottish accent, you know.)
“I’ll help you this time and I’ll be back next year,
“But it would be a nice change if it were for some cheer!”
With that the Fairy lifted her wand
And before Mama knew it she’d already gone.
The presents, the groceries – everything was ready
And suddenly Mama felt a lot more steady.
She smiled when she heard the last call of the sprite,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Boychild, Girlchild, Groom-boy and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and all the best in 2013!
’Twas the Night Before Christmas
Christmas is mere moments away, which means it’s time to butcher a classic poem once again and conjure up my favourite seasonal sprite for the 2012 version! My apologies, as always, to Clement Clark Moore….
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Mama searched for a rhyme that was not the word “grouse.”
“Galldarnit!” she cried. “There is so much to do! What’s with all these deadlines? I need a whole crew!
“There’s writing and marking and editing – oh my!
“December’s so busy I might break down and cry!”
She gazed all around at the state of the home
And as the clock ticked she started to moan.
The Christmas cards waited, the presents weren’t wrapped
It might have to be done while everyone napped.
The groceries weren’t purchased, the eggnog not bought,
And without all those goodies one could be overwrought.
There were stockings to hang, some garland to string, a turkey to thaw and carols to sing.
At least with a Girlchild whose patience was low, the tree was a-glitter and ready to go. (Thanks to ample nagging in November.)
And just as the panic started to rise,
A wonderful sight came to Mama’s eyes.
In the kitchen she started to see a small glow,
And as she looked on it continued to grow.
Mama smiled. “Could it be?” she asked the thin air.
“Has my fairy returned? Do I hope? Do I dare?”
And with a loud pop her wish became true:
The Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™ in a kitchen near you!
With a wink and a grin she tapped Mama’s arm,
“Your annual struggle never loses its charm!
“I do like to visit and help you all out,
“But your ability to learn leaves me in doubt.”
Mama looked puzzled and felt slightly perplexed.
“But what do you mean? I hope you’re not vexed!” (Cool! Perplexed and vexed!)
“Not at all!” said the fairy, “I’m just trying to help
“Because your annual problem is as common as kelp.
“The issue, you see, comes down to routine. I see that you’ve got one, but it’s far from pristine.”
And with that the Fairy brandished her wand
And conjured a date book for now and beyond.
“You see in October your workload is steady,
“But not so busy that you cannot get ready.
“Plan ahead, my dear, so when December comes,
“You won’t have to panic – you won’t have the glums.”
“Pshaw!” Mama said. “I’ll never succeed
“In thinking of Christmas when it’s autumn indeed!
“Besides,” she said smugly, “there’s something about
“All those early shoppers that gives me the gout.”
The Fairy just stood there. “You’re being a goof.
“You’re just being stubborn, and I’ve had enoof.” (Sometimes the Fairy has a Scottish accent, you know.)
“I’ll help you this time and I’ll be back next year,
“But it would be a nice change if it were for some cheer!”
With that the Fairy lifted her wand
And before Mama knew it she’d already gone.
The presents, the groceries – everything was ready
And suddenly Mama felt a lot more steady.
She smiled when she heard the last call of the sprite,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Boychild, Girlchild, Groom-boy and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and all the best in 2013!
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
Past Deadline: Take Cover Immediately
I understand why people might not want to watch or read the news.
I am not one of those people. I like the news or, more accurately, I like to be informed. I like to know if it’s time to evacuate.
You may have noticed the news isn’t always good. In fact, it seems to be usually bad. Bad news gets the most play. There are many reasons for this – all coming back to what humans respond to and what sells the advertising and makes the money, of course. Not to mention the fact people can’t seem to get along, which makes for plenty of bad news.
My empathy for people who don’t bother to watch/read the news has grown a little since becoming a parent. It’s hard to reassure children about this big, bad world after they’ve wandered through the room and heard a snippet of bad news about movie theatre shootings or tornadoes or droughts or bush fires. I can understand why there would be news blackouts in some homes.
Frankly, I have found it to be much nicer to eat supper on the patio and listen to the birds and have conversations about non-violent or non-scary things than to have the news droning in the background.
When I was growing up, my parents always had the news on during supper. It was mostly just background noise, but when the weather came on we would have to hush. I’m not sure why – maybe because Dad was a conservation officer and worked outside a lot.
The news was bad back then, too. There was, after all, a Cold War and acid rain and the Middle East (always). But the world was a little different.
I don’t think we “felt” the news with the same intensity as we do today. Things that were far away were usually really far away. Now, with Twitter and Facebook and other social media, we can instantly know when bad things happen far away to people we don’t know. We quickly learn what those strangers think about the things that have happened. Sometimes we get told how we should feel about these things.
I don’t think the news affected me in any profound way when I was the age my kids are now. It droned in the background. We didn’t have to evacuate. In fact, I don’t remember my parents looking particularly concerned over anything except the weather. (You’d think we were farmers.)
To this day, though, I find myself desperately wanting to listen to the weather when it is presented on the news, only to glaze over during the report and promptly forget it. I suspect this is some sort of residual effect from my childhood.
I am much more likely to just look out the window and deal with whatever weather is happening.
Besides, if I need to know how the weather is expected to change in the next few hours, I can always go online.
On Twitter, I have subscribed to @OntarioWarnings (see “knowing when to evacuate,” above). It frequently issues weather warnings – in ALL CAPS. They always say something like: “SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING ISSUED FOR EAR FALLS, PERRAULT FALLS, WESTERN LAC SEUL, PIKANGIKUM, POPLAR HILL, MACDOWELL. TAKE COVER IMMEDIATELY.”
I keep watch for our area and I wonder if I should go hide in the basement if I see “LANARK COUNTY.” “Take cover” is not really defined – it could mean “Don’t stand under a tree, dork” or it could mean “Head for the storm cellar, Dorothy,” which would make for a fairly unproductive day.
The ALL CAPS…so intimidating and shouty.
Maybe I should just unfollow and go sit on the patio.
Like I say…I understand why people might not want to watch or read the news.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 26/12
I am not one of those people. I like the news or, more accurately, I like to be informed. I like to know if it’s time to evacuate.
You may have noticed the news isn’t always good. In fact, it seems to be usually bad. Bad news gets the most play. There are many reasons for this – all coming back to what humans respond to and what sells the advertising and makes the money, of course. Not to mention the fact people can’t seem to get along, which makes for plenty of bad news.
My empathy for people who don’t bother to watch/read the news has grown a little since becoming a parent. It’s hard to reassure children about this big, bad world after they’ve wandered through the room and heard a snippet of bad news about movie theatre shootings or tornadoes or droughts or bush fires. I can understand why there would be news blackouts in some homes.
Frankly, I have found it to be much nicer to eat supper on the patio and listen to the birds and have conversations about non-violent or non-scary things than to have the news droning in the background.
When I was growing up, my parents always had the news on during supper. It was mostly just background noise, but when the weather came on we would have to hush. I’m not sure why – maybe because Dad was a conservation officer and worked outside a lot.
The news was bad back then, too. There was, after all, a Cold War and acid rain and the Middle East (always). But the world was a little different.
I don’t think we “felt” the news with the same intensity as we do today. Things that were far away were usually really far away. Now, with Twitter and Facebook and other social media, we can instantly know when bad things happen far away to people we don’t know. We quickly learn what those strangers think about the things that have happened. Sometimes we get told how we should feel about these things.
I don’t think the news affected me in any profound way when I was the age my kids are now. It droned in the background. We didn’t have to evacuate. In fact, I don’t remember my parents looking particularly concerned over anything except the weather. (You’d think we were farmers.)
To this day, though, I find myself desperately wanting to listen to the weather when it is presented on the news, only to glaze over during the report and promptly forget it. I suspect this is some sort of residual effect from my childhood.
I am much more likely to just look out the window and deal with whatever weather is happening.
Besides, if I need to know how the weather is expected to change in the next few hours, I can always go online.
On Twitter, I have subscribed to @OntarioWarnings (see “knowing when to evacuate,” above). It frequently issues weather warnings – in ALL CAPS. They always say something like: “SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING ISSUED FOR EAR FALLS, PERRAULT FALLS, WESTERN LAC SEUL, PIKANGIKUM, POPLAR HILL, MACDOWELL. TAKE COVER IMMEDIATELY.”
I keep watch for our area and I wonder if I should go hide in the basement if I see “LANARK COUNTY.” “Take cover” is not really defined – it could mean “Don’t stand under a tree, dork” or it could mean “Head for the storm cellar, Dorothy,” which would make for a fairly unproductive day.
The ALL CAPS…so intimidating and shouty.
Maybe I should just unfollow and go sit on the patio.
Like I say…I understand why people might not want to watch or read the news.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 26/12
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Past Deadline: The Trouble with Giant Teeth
When babies grow teeth, it’s a big deal in many ways. It opens the door to changes in diet, as in you can immediately introduce things like steak, hard candies and whole apples to your toddler. Don’t forget to provide steak knives on their high chair trays. (Sarcasm alert!)
Good mothers dutifully record the arrival of baby teeth in special books, and also make note of their departure. Mediocre mothers do so for the first child for a while, remember to do so occasionally for the second child, and casually wonder what the Tooth Fairy could possibly do with all those teeth she collects. Jewellery? Castles in the sky? Buttons? Does she...uh...keep them forever?
Anyway, this mediocre mother watched with interest (and occasionally recorded) as Boychild’s adult teeth started to emerge. It was a bit like looking in a mirror 30 years ago.
“Groom-boy,” I said one night as the children sweetly slumbered or read with flashlights or plotted their next bedtime-stalling tactic, “Boychild’s teeth are too big for his face. Mark my words, there will be trouble.” Or something like that.
Sure enough, the dentist confirmed my suspicion. Some baby teeth were hauled out to make room for adult ones and, before long, a referral to the orthodontist was made.
Long story short, Boychild will be getting braces, and soon. One of the most memorable comments by the orthodontist was about one particular adult tooth that is ready to bust through and line up with all the others. It’s 7 millimetres wide, and there is a 2-mm space for it.
Oy.
One look at his X-ray demonstrates the calamity of teeth just waiting to jostle into line. Without braces our Guy Smiley would have teeth on top of teeth. This crowding could lead to cavities, not to mention bite problems and, possibly, a smile phobia.
When it was first suggested that Boychild might need braces or appliances, he was...shall we say...less than overjoyed. I explained how I had to wear appliances to expand my jaw when I was a kid to make room for my giant chompers and how it really wasn’t so bad. He is, of course, thrilled to inherit my teeth. I expect he will soon be thanking me for the wonky ankles, too.
Anyway, once we got to the orthodontist’s and she explained what would happen and he saw how happy the smiley children with braces were in the pictures, he was okay with the concept.
In a helpful turn of events, his six-year-old sister thinks it is the ultimate in coolness and awesomeness that big bro is getting braces. In fact (don’t tell the orthodontist) she has braces envy and hopes to someday have them, too. (Get a job, Girlchild, then we’ll talk.)
So I have been spending time in the orthodontist’s waiting room, where there is an interesting collection of vintage circus artifacts on display. There are giant antique-framed black and white photographs of circuses from pre-World War II, along with a variety of artifacts under glass or behind ropes.
Have you read the book or seen the movie Water for Elephants? The story is set during the Great Depression and centres around a travelling circus. In those days the circus moved from place to place by train, and part of the story involves something called “redlighting.”
See, the unsavoury circus owner would have certain workers thrown off the train in the middle of the night (redlight them) rather than pay them.
I couldn’t help but wonder about the vintage circus motif in that waiting room as I pondered our new braces expense – were they sending a subtle message about prompt payment?
Gulp.
Nah...I just have an overactive imagination, right?
Published in The Perth Courier, July 12/12
Good mothers dutifully record the arrival of baby teeth in special books, and also make note of their departure. Mediocre mothers do so for the first child for a while, remember to do so occasionally for the second child, and casually wonder what the Tooth Fairy could possibly do with all those teeth she collects. Jewellery? Castles in the sky? Buttons? Does she...uh...keep them forever?
Anyway, this mediocre mother watched with interest (and occasionally recorded) as Boychild’s adult teeth started to emerge. It was a bit like looking in a mirror 30 years ago.
“Groom-boy,” I said one night as the children sweetly slumbered or read with flashlights or plotted their next bedtime-stalling tactic, “Boychild’s teeth are too big for his face. Mark my words, there will be trouble.” Or something like that.
Sure enough, the dentist confirmed my suspicion. Some baby teeth were hauled out to make room for adult ones and, before long, a referral to the orthodontist was made.
Long story short, Boychild will be getting braces, and soon. One of the most memorable comments by the orthodontist was about one particular adult tooth that is ready to bust through and line up with all the others. It’s 7 millimetres wide, and there is a 2-mm space for it.
Oy.
One look at his X-ray demonstrates the calamity of teeth just waiting to jostle into line. Without braces our Guy Smiley would have teeth on top of teeth. This crowding could lead to cavities, not to mention bite problems and, possibly, a smile phobia.
When it was first suggested that Boychild might need braces or appliances, he was...shall we say...less than overjoyed. I explained how I had to wear appliances to expand my jaw when I was a kid to make room for my giant chompers and how it really wasn’t so bad. He is, of course, thrilled to inherit my teeth. I expect he will soon be thanking me for the wonky ankles, too.
Anyway, once we got to the orthodontist’s and she explained what would happen and he saw how happy the smiley children with braces were in the pictures, he was okay with the concept.
In a helpful turn of events, his six-year-old sister thinks it is the ultimate in coolness and awesomeness that big bro is getting braces. In fact (don’t tell the orthodontist) she has braces envy and hopes to someday have them, too. (Get a job, Girlchild, then we’ll talk.)
So I have been spending time in the orthodontist’s waiting room, where there is an interesting collection of vintage circus artifacts on display. There are giant antique-framed black and white photographs of circuses from pre-World War II, along with a variety of artifacts under glass or behind ropes.
Have you read the book or seen the movie Water for Elephants? The story is set during the Great Depression and centres around a travelling circus. In those days the circus moved from place to place by train, and part of the story involves something called “redlighting.”
See, the unsavoury circus owner would have certain workers thrown off the train in the middle of the night (redlight them) rather than pay them.
I couldn’t help but wonder about the vintage circus motif in that waiting room as I pondered our new braces expense – were they sending a subtle message about prompt payment?
Gulp.
Nah...I just have an overactive imagination, right?
Published in The Perth Courier, July 12/12
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: Hairdos in my Future
I remember one time, years ago, we went to our friend’s house and Girlchild happened to have braids in her hair. My friend expressed her great relief that she has two boys and didn’t have to deal with things like braids.
I laughed. One of her boys is very much into hockey. My boy is not. I expressed my great relief that I don’t have to deal with hockey equipment. So many laces and straps and stuff.
I couldn’t help but think of this conversation as I volunteered on Friday night at Girlchild’s dance recital.
For the past four years, Girlchild has been a student at Arts In Motion-Perth School of Dance run by Svetlana Timtsenko. The year of lessons culminates in the whole school participating in a great stage production – an elaborate affair complete with fantastic costumes. Svetlana and her team develop the show over many months.
Girlchild took ballet with Svetlana and Alize Abele for her first three years. In her first recital she was an adorable chick, complete with fluffy yellow feathers. In the second one she was “Austria.” Last year she was a snowy owl, wearing a shimmery white body suit, a white tutu and a feathery headband – she looked like a real ballerina!
This year Girlchild decided to try highland dancing at the school with Samantha Shaw, which delighted our Scottish-rooted relatives on all sides of the family. For this year’s recital, “The Adventures of Mary Mitty,” she was a Loch Ness Monster – wearing a slick body suit complete with a ridge of scales and a long tail. She loved it.
For the last few years I have volunteered for one of the two nights of the recital. Until this year, I helped in the cafeteria at Perth & District Collegiate Institute, where all of the primary students congregated until it was time to go on stage.
The primary area was always interesting. We helped with final costume adjustments, led group expeditions to the bathrooms (which, depending on the complexity of the costume and the size of the child, could be quite a process), administered snacks, helped with crafts, organized video watching and consoled nervous little ones.
Eventually another volunteer would come to the cafeteria to retrieve whatever group was next to dance.
It was always a busy night.
This year, Girlchild’s class was grouped in with the older classes, so I got to spend the evening in Gym 3, which is much closer to the backstage area.
And that was really cool!
I’ve never been involved with stage productions in the past, so beyond knowing a good show takes a tremendous amount of hard work and coordination behind the scenes, I didn’t have much of a clue.
I stand in awe.
From my new vantage point, I was able to see how the dance behind the scenes made for the show onstage. It was like a well-oiled machine, with quick changes and hairdos and make-up and things to keep little people busy in between. (One of my big jobs involved pinning tails on Funky Dragons.)
Watching how the things came together behind the scenes on Friday night made it all that much more interesting to soak in the show on Saturday night.
I remember standing in the hallway near Gym 3 at one point while another volunteer was quizzing one of the senior students about what hair-do she was supposed to be wearing. Meanwhile, “Twisted Fairies” were walking in and out of the area with their jazzy costumes and their freaky hair standing up all over the place. (My hair looks that way most mornings, but they had to work at it.)
I couldn’t help but think of my conversation with my friend about braids. Braids are easy! Heck, with this costume all Girlchild needed was a pony tail and some hairspray because her hair was tucked into a hood.
For a moment I wondered what I would be doing a few years from now if Girlchild continues to dance – could I handle Twisted Fairy hair and Funky Dragon tails?
Oh, yeah!
Congrats to everyone at AIM for yet another awesome show!
Published in The Perth Courier, May 31/12
I laughed. One of her boys is very much into hockey. My boy is not. I expressed my great relief that I don’t have to deal with hockey equipment. So many laces and straps and stuff.
I couldn’t help but think of this conversation as I volunteered on Friday night at Girlchild’s dance recital.
For the past four years, Girlchild has been a student at Arts In Motion-Perth School of Dance run by Svetlana Timtsenko. The year of lessons culminates in the whole school participating in a great stage production – an elaborate affair complete with fantastic costumes. Svetlana and her team develop the show over many months.
Girlchild took ballet with Svetlana and Alize Abele for her first three years. In her first recital she was an adorable chick, complete with fluffy yellow feathers. In the second one she was “Austria.” Last year she was a snowy owl, wearing a shimmery white body suit, a white tutu and a feathery headband – she looked like a real ballerina!
This year Girlchild decided to try highland dancing at the school with Samantha Shaw, which delighted our Scottish-rooted relatives on all sides of the family. For this year’s recital, “The Adventures of Mary Mitty,” she was a Loch Ness Monster – wearing a slick body suit complete with a ridge of scales and a long tail. She loved it.
For the last few years I have volunteered for one of the two nights of the recital. Until this year, I helped in the cafeteria at Perth & District Collegiate Institute, where all of the primary students congregated until it was time to go on stage.
The primary area was always interesting. We helped with final costume adjustments, led group expeditions to the bathrooms (which, depending on the complexity of the costume and the size of the child, could be quite a process), administered snacks, helped with crafts, organized video watching and consoled nervous little ones.
Eventually another volunteer would come to the cafeteria to retrieve whatever group was next to dance.
It was always a busy night.
This year, Girlchild’s class was grouped in with the older classes, so I got to spend the evening in Gym 3, which is much closer to the backstage area.
And that was really cool!
I’ve never been involved with stage productions in the past, so beyond knowing a good show takes a tremendous amount of hard work and coordination behind the scenes, I didn’t have much of a clue.
I stand in awe.
From my new vantage point, I was able to see how the dance behind the scenes made for the show onstage. It was like a well-oiled machine, with quick changes and hairdos and make-up and things to keep little people busy in between. (One of my big jobs involved pinning tails on Funky Dragons.)
Watching how the things came together behind the scenes on Friday night made it all that much more interesting to soak in the show on Saturday night.
I remember standing in the hallway near Gym 3 at one point while another volunteer was quizzing one of the senior students about what hair-do she was supposed to be wearing. Meanwhile, “Twisted Fairies” were walking in and out of the area with their jazzy costumes and their freaky hair standing up all over the place. (My hair looks that way most mornings, but they had to work at it.)
I couldn’t help but think of my conversation with my friend about braids. Braids are easy! Heck, with this costume all Girlchild needed was a pony tail and some hairspray because her hair was tucked into a hood.
For a moment I wondered what I would be doing a few years from now if Girlchild continues to dance – could I handle Twisted Fairy hair and Funky Dragon tails?
Oh, yeah!
Congrats to everyone at AIM for yet another awesome show!
Published in The Perth Courier, May 31/12
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
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Past Deadline: So That Was Family Week
On Sunday, I nursed a coffee and even contemplated leaving the house. Let me tell you why this was a Really Big Deal.
It all started after the long weekend. We had a lovely time – got lots of work done around the house and went to Ottawa to look at ice sculptures and use up some gift certificates.
Tuesday rolled around and everyone went off in their usual separate directions – for a while.
A couple of hours into the day I got The Call From The School (oh, how I loathe the call). It was about Girlchild. She had a sore tummy.
I hate the sore tummy. We have been afflicted by the sore tummy several times this school year and it is a tough one to treat as the chief symptom is something you cannot see and there is no fever. One could argue that is a good thing, but at least physical evidence is decisive when you are trying to discern whether someone is being overly dramatic. Not that THAT would ever happen around here.
Anyway, within minutes of getting home, Girlchild produced physical evidence. Hurray.
A couple of hours later and I got The Call again. (Are you KIDDING me?) Boychild had a sore throat, chills and a headache. “Can you come and get him?”
Stuck at home with Miss Physical Evidence, I called reinforcements. Nan generously picked up Boychild and deposited him at the front door. Oddly, she didn’t seem to want to come in, preferring to linger in the driveway.
Tuesday ground into Wednesday. Short people were still ailing and my hands were raw from washing.
Thursday dawned with me firing at about 50 per cent, but my Denial App was fully functional. Girlchild was still down, but Boychild was school-bound.
Sensing imminent doom, Groom-boy offered to stay home and hold down the fort while I dealt with some work commitments, which would also mean not having to bring in reinforcements and expose them the vileness that had infiltrated our abode. We do love our extended family.
I lasted until mid-afternoon and then slept with my BlackBerry. (I know this takes my relationship with Mr. George BlackBerry, Executive Assistant, to a whole new level, but I couldn’t help myself. Usually I keep him out of bed, but his helpful little bicycle bell chime alerting me to work messages was very useful on Thursday.)
There are no paid sick days when one is self-employed, so taking time off is a bit of a mental game. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), working electronically can be a good cover. That said I had pretty much resigned myself to defeat: “I’ll never catch up, but this flannel blankie is so awesome.”
Overnight, Boychild decided to try out what his sister and mother had been doing. Groom-boy flew into action – on the hour every hour. I tried to help, but whenever I showed up I felt dizzy, so I figured it was better for me to just stay in bed than to pass out in the bathroom and add to the excitement.
So we all stayed home on Friday and decided to make it Family Week. We also covered the outside of the house with plastic wrap, sprayed it with Lysol™ and plastered a “quarantine” sign on the door.
You know, it’s times like these when I truly stand in awe of single parents who don’t have support networks. Thankfully I was able to take naps and hand duties over to Groom-boy, who saved the day(s) and ran the household. I was glad I didn’t have to expose grandparents to any of this pestilence.
Fortunately Groom-boy got some slack on meal preparation as there really wasn’t a lot of eating happening.
And I must thank him for letting me sleep. Stay well.
By Saturday, we were all sitting upright for longer periods of time and appetites were returning. I was starting to panic about all the work I hadn’t been able to do, so I figured I must be on the mend.
Next year for Family Week maybe we should just go far away.
Published in The Perth Courier, March 1/12
It all started after the long weekend. We had a lovely time – got lots of work done around the house and went to Ottawa to look at ice sculptures and use up some gift certificates.
Tuesday rolled around and everyone went off in their usual separate directions – for a while.
A couple of hours into the day I got The Call From The School (oh, how I loathe the call). It was about Girlchild. She had a sore tummy.
I hate the sore tummy. We have been afflicted by the sore tummy several times this school year and it is a tough one to treat as the chief symptom is something you cannot see and there is no fever. One could argue that is a good thing, but at least physical evidence is decisive when you are trying to discern whether someone is being overly dramatic. Not that THAT would ever happen around here.
Anyway, within minutes of getting home, Girlchild produced physical evidence. Hurray.
A couple of hours later and I got The Call again. (Are you KIDDING me?) Boychild had a sore throat, chills and a headache. “Can you come and get him?”
Stuck at home with Miss Physical Evidence, I called reinforcements. Nan generously picked up Boychild and deposited him at the front door. Oddly, she didn’t seem to want to come in, preferring to linger in the driveway.
Tuesday ground into Wednesday. Short people were still ailing and my hands were raw from washing.
Thursday dawned with me firing at about 50 per cent, but my Denial App was fully functional. Girlchild was still down, but Boychild was school-bound.
Sensing imminent doom, Groom-boy offered to stay home and hold down the fort while I dealt with some work commitments, which would also mean not having to bring in reinforcements and expose them the vileness that had infiltrated our abode. We do love our extended family.
I lasted until mid-afternoon and then slept with my BlackBerry. (I know this takes my relationship with Mr. George BlackBerry, Executive Assistant, to a whole new level, but I couldn’t help myself. Usually I keep him out of bed, but his helpful little bicycle bell chime alerting me to work messages was very useful on Thursday.)
There are no paid sick days when one is self-employed, so taking time off is a bit of a mental game. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), working electronically can be a good cover. That said I had pretty much resigned myself to defeat: “I’ll never catch up, but this flannel blankie is so awesome.”
Overnight, Boychild decided to try out what his sister and mother had been doing. Groom-boy flew into action – on the hour every hour. I tried to help, but whenever I showed up I felt dizzy, so I figured it was better for me to just stay in bed than to pass out in the bathroom and add to the excitement.
So we all stayed home on Friday and decided to make it Family Week. We also covered the outside of the house with plastic wrap, sprayed it with Lysol™ and plastered a “quarantine” sign on the door.
You know, it’s times like these when I truly stand in awe of single parents who don’t have support networks. Thankfully I was able to take naps and hand duties over to Groom-boy, who saved the day(s) and ran the household. I was glad I didn’t have to expose grandparents to any of this pestilence.
Fortunately Groom-boy got some slack on meal preparation as there really wasn’t a lot of eating happening.
And I must thank him for letting me sleep. Stay well.
By Saturday, we were all sitting upright for longer periods of time and appetites were returning. I was starting to panic about all the work I hadn’t been able to do, so I figured I must be on the mend.
Next year for Family Week maybe we should just go far away.
Published in The Perth Courier, March 1/12
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Past Deadline: Skating Around the Issue
I have a confession to make. (Possibly you are saying, “Oh, great. Another one?”)
It seems we over here, as parents, have dropped the ball on a fairly significant developmental issue. (“Just one?” Yes. For now.)
We have skated around this issue – or not skated, actually – for years.
It’s actually about skating, and how we don’t do it. Much. Hardly ever. And we don’t do hockey, either.
I know. It’s crazy! And we were all born and raised here in Canada and everything!
I am pleased to say we do like Tim Hortons and regularly complain about the weather, so all is not lost on us as Canadians.
So how did this skating fiasco come to pass? Well, I think it’s a bit of monkey see monkey do. Or not see, not do, as the case may be.
We’re not a terribly sporty bunch (although dancin’ Girlchild may break the mold). I think a big part of being sporty is learned by example. If being active is a family thing, then it comes naturally for kids.
Skating and hockey are just not on our family radar. I took figure skating lessons for a few years when I was a kid, but by the time I got to university in Ottawa, where skating on the canal was almost a pre-requisite, I was rusty.
They declined even further after that.
By the time we had kids, skating was practically a distant memory for me, and Groom-boy, who skated even less, was no help in that department.
The rare times we do go are heart-pounding affairs involving wobbly ankles and fear. I fall a lot farther and harder than I used to.
I remember being pretty excited a few years back when I had to buy some new skates and decided to try rec skates. They were comfortable and offered awesome ankle support and as I strode around the store I was sure this was the Answer to Everything.
This excitement literally came to a crashing halt the moment I stepped onto the ice. I kind of forgot that crucial part about how rec skates don’t have picks. I learned on figure skates. I use the pick to stop, go, turn...everything.
I fell so hard I smashed my watch that day.
I went out and got figure skates soon after. They are still very shiny and new.
Anyway, because the short people in the family have not shown a huge interest in skating or hockey, it never became a priority. Sometimes it is awkward when friends ask the kids to go skating and they are not interested – partly because they are not strong skaters.
So one day recently it suddenly occurred to me that I have done a complete disservice to my children by not attaching blades to their feet from the time they could walk.
Oh, woe.
After all, skating in Canada is as natural as walking, biking, drinking Timmies or talking about the weather. How could so many years have passed without my kids being able to skate comfortably?
So, naturally, because I am so “content and secure with who I am and what I am doing,” I panicked and phoned my bestie.
She has two boys, one of whom is an avid hockey player. They all skate. They are very sporty – constantly frolicking. Just hearing about all of the stuff they do in a day makes me break out into a sweat and feel tired.
Anyway, they often go to the public skating at the arena and I asked (begged) for her to please take my eldest next time they go. An occasion is coming up that requires him to skate, and I want him to go, have fun and not fret about the mechanics.
Since I currently have a wonky foot I am not overly eager to shove it into a skate – even one with a pick – and wobble around on ice, so I am grateful to others who are more competent and keen.
I should add that my dahlinks are quite good swimmers, so at least we put on a good show in summer.
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 16/12
It seems we over here, as parents, have dropped the ball on a fairly significant developmental issue. (“Just one?” Yes. For now.)
We have skated around this issue – or not skated, actually – for years.
It’s actually about skating, and how we don’t do it. Much. Hardly ever. And we don’t do hockey, either.
I know. It’s crazy! And we were all born and raised here in Canada and everything!
I am pleased to say we do like Tim Hortons and regularly complain about the weather, so all is not lost on us as Canadians.
So how did this skating fiasco come to pass? Well, I think it’s a bit of monkey see monkey do. Or not see, not do, as the case may be.
We’re not a terribly sporty bunch (although dancin’ Girlchild may break the mold). I think a big part of being sporty is learned by example. If being active is a family thing, then it comes naturally for kids.
Skating and hockey are just not on our family radar. I took figure skating lessons for a few years when I was a kid, but by the time I got to university in Ottawa, where skating on the canal was almost a pre-requisite, I was rusty.
They declined even further after that.
By the time we had kids, skating was practically a distant memory for me, and Groom-boy, who skated even less, was no help in that department.
The rare times we do go are heart-pounding affairs involving wobbly ankles and fear. I fall a lot farther and harder than I used to.
I remember being pretty excited a few years back when I had to buy some new skates and decided to try rec skates. They were comfortable and offered awesome ankle support and as I strode around the store I was sure this was the Answer to Everything.
This excitement literally came to a crashing halt the moment I stepped onto the ice. I kind of forgot that crucial part about how rec skates don’t have picks. I learned on figure skates. I use the pick to stop, go, turn...everything.
I fell so hard I smashed my watch that day.
I went out and got figure skates soon after. They are still very shiny and new.
Anyway, because the short people in the family have not shown a huge interest in skating or hockey, it never became a priority. Sometimes it is awkward when friends ask the kids to go skating and they are not interested – partly because they are not strong skaters.
So one day recently it suddenly occurred to me that I have done a complete disservice to my children by not attaching blades to their feet from the time they could walk.
Oh, woe.
After all, skating in Canada is as natural as walking, biking, drinking Timmies or talking about the weather. How could so many years have passed without my kids being able to skate comfortably?
So, naturally, because I am so “content and secure with who I am and what I am doing,” I panicked and phoned my bestie.
She has two boys, one of whom is an avid hockey player. They all skate. They are very sporty – constantly frolicking. Just hearing about all of the stuff they do in a day makes me break out into a sweat and feel tired.
Anyway, they often go to the public skating at the arena and I asked (begged) for her to please take my eldest next time they go. An occasion is coming up that requires him to skate, and I want him to go, have fun and not fret about the mechanics.
Since I currently have a wonky foot I am not overly eager to shove it into a skate – even one with a pick – and wobble around on ice, so I am grateful to others who are more competent and keen.
I should add that my dahlinks are quite good swimmers, so at least we put on a good show in summer.
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 16/12
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, January 6, 2012
Past Deadline: Headaches Past and Present
On New Year’s Eve morning, I had a pounding sinus headache. I had gone to bed with it, woke up with it and spent the day with it, and as I struggled to stay awake until midnight to usher in 2012, I knew there would be no champagne for me.
Fortunately I am not a big champagne fan anyway.
So the new year began with a monster headache, which seemed like a major rip off considering I didn’t earn it by partying the night before.
As I popped headache meds and lay down with an ice pack, I mused for a while upon the symbolism of all of this. Leaving 2011 with a headache seemed appropriate in some ways, but waking up with one in the brand new year – was that foreboding?
Nah. Waking up with a headache on New Year’s Day is far from unusual.
It occurred to me on New Year’s Eve that there was something very familiar about this scenario, and then I remembered.
Ten years ago on that very night I was lying in bed with ice packs and missing out on a New Year’s Eve party, thanks to a brutal headache. The big difference that year, and I do mean “big,” is that I was rather enormously pregnant at the time with my first child.
That night, instead of tackling the monster with various drugs to make it go away, I was lying there wishing I could take something – anything! To make matters worse, I was worrying about what the headache could mean. High blood pressure? Preeclampsia? Some other mysterious bad-news pregnancy ailment that would inflict doom upon us all?
(I worried a lot with the first pregnancy. I am a worrier. It is what I do.)
Despite a learned friend’s advice that Tylenol was okay, I opted for suffering to be on the safe side. After all, I was on the brink of this amazing thing called motherhood and I was trying to go by the book: no drugs, no alcohol, no caffeine and only good food. (Probably I ate too much good food – but I would pay later (still) for that.)
Anyway, before midnight we decided to telephone the maternity ward at the hospital (where we would be headed mere days later) to ask for advice. The nurses basically said, “You’re 40 weeks? Duh. Take some Tylenol and get on with your life.”
I think the fact I hadn’t taken any sort of pain relief medication in nine months made that Tylenol something of a miracle drug. It worked really fast and I felt immensely better almost right away.
Different times, different headache 10 years later, but what hasn’t changed is the fact I still feel as if I am on the brink of something amazing and mysterious – and it’s still motherhood.
By the time this is published I will have been a mother for 10 years – a whole decade – and even though I feel as if I am a pro at some things (such as tying shoes and helping with homework and soothing booboos), just like 10 years ago I realize I have so much still to learn, so many challenges to face, lots of new and different and as-yet-unknown worries to navigate.
Such is motherhood.
Fortunately, with the current set of New Year’s resolutions I discussed last week, I feel somewhat prepared to embrace the next decade of motherhood.
Let’s see how I am doing a few days in:
1. Get more exercise – Unless you count lifting heavy holiday food from the plate to one’s mouth as exercise, then this one needs a little work.
2. Hair Management Program™ – Cut and coloured in time for my New Year’s Eve headache! Yes! Now I will look great in the face of the motherhood challenges on the horizon.
3. Don’t freak out in the face of change – So far so good, mostly because of my hair.
4. Save the world – I think part of my strategy will be to groom the 10-year-old to help accomplish this.
Happy birthday, Boychild!
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 5/12
Fortunately I am not a big champagne fan anyway.
So the new year began with a monster headache, which seemed like a major rip off considering I didn’t earn it by partying the night before.
As I popped headache meds and lay down with an ice pack, I mused for a while upon the symbolism of all of this. Leaving 2011 with a headache seemed appropriate in some ways, but waking up with one in the brand new year – was that foreboding?
Nah. Waking up with a headache on New Year’s Day is far from unusual.
It occurred to me on New Year’s Eve that there was something very familiar about this scenario, and then I remembered.
Ten years ago on that very night I was lying in bed with ice packs and missing out on a New Year’s Eve party, thanks to a brutal headache. The big difference that year, and I do mean “big,” is that I was rather enormously pregnant at the time with my first child.
That night, instead of tackling the monster with various drugs to make it go away, I was lying there wishing I could take something – anything! To make matters worse, I was worrying about what the headache could mean. High blood pressure? Preeclampsia? Some other mysterious bad-news pregnancy ailment that would inflict doom upon us all?
(I worried a lot with the first pregnancy. I am a worrier. It is what I do.)
Despite a learned friend’s advice that Tylenol was okay, I opted for suffering to be on the safe side. After all, I was on the brink of this amazing thing called motherhood and I was trying to go by the book: no drugs, no alcohol, no caffeine and only good food. (Probably I ate too much good food – but I would pay later (still) for that.)
Anyway, before midnight we decided to telephone the maternity ward at the hospital (where we would be headed mere days later) to ask for advice. The nurses basically said, “You’re 40 weeks? Duh. Take some Tylenol and get on with your life.”
I think the fact I hadn’t taken any sort of pain relief medication in nine months made that Tylenol something of a miracle drug. It worked really fast and I felt immensely better almost right away.
Different times, different headache 10 years later, but what hasn’t changed is the fact I still feel as if I am on the brink of something amazing and mysterious – and it’s still motherhood.
By the time this is published I will have been a mother for 10 years – a whole decade – and even though I feel as if I am a pro at some things (such as tying shoes and helping with homework and soothing booboos), just like 10 years ago I realize I have so much still to learn, so many challenges to face, lots of new and different and as-yet-unknown worries to navigate.
Such is motherhood.
Fortunately, with the current set of New Year’s resolutions I discussed last week, I feel somewhat prepared to embrace the next decade of motherhood.
Let’s see how I am doing a few days in:
1. Get more exercise – Unless you count lifting heavy holiday food from the plate to one’s mouth as exercise, then this one needs a little work.
2. Hair Management Program™ – Cut and coloured in time for my New Year’s Eve headache! Yes! Now I will look great in the face of the motherhood challenges on the horizon.
3. Don’t freak out in the face of change – So far so good, mostly because of my hair.
4. Save the world – I think part of my strategy will be to groom the 10-year-old to help accomplish this.
Happy birthday, Boychild!
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 5/12
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
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