Regular readers know how much I dwell on sleep and the fact I’m not getting enough. Between working the night shift long after I should be in bed and kids and cats sporadically rousing me from slumber, I get a bit twitchy.
It would seem someone in the state of Utah has joined the conspiracy to make sure something or someone wakes me up every night.
It all started last week. I returned home one afternoon to find two messages on my answering machine – both of which consisted of three beeps. I checked the call display and saw that I had received two unknown calls that morning from two slightly different phone numbers.
“Telemarketer,” I thought. Whatever. In our house we tend to just ignore the telemarketers and eventually they go away.
That night, however, the game changed.
The phone rang at 2:15 a.m. In our world, a phone ringing in the middle of the night is rarely good news – it’s either an emergency or a drunk guy calling the wrong number. I shot up in bed and grabbed the phone, staring sleepily at the display. It looked like a 1-800 number. I was annoyed, but set the phone down without answering it. I was sleepy.
The message left was those three tones again.
Groom-boy and I fell back to sleep, only to be awakened by the ringing phone 45 minutes later at 3 a.m. This time I grabbed it and answered it right away – and was greeted by the squeal of a fax machine.
The home office has a fax machine, but it’s a different phone number. I quickly pressed a code to transfer the call to the fax (not bad for 3 a.m.) and received – a blank page.
The next morning (which felt like moments later) I looked closer at the number. It was not a 1-800 – the area code was 801. Utah. Some telemarketer in Utah is trying to fax blank pages to us in the middle of the night.
Awesome.
There were no calls the next day. Oh, no...they waited until that night – again at 2:15 and 3 a.m.
We don’t like to turn our phone off at night in case someone needs us urgently, but we turned off the ringer.
Since then, every night at almost exactly the same times, a Utah fax machine calls us twice and leaves beeps on our answering machine. And you can be sure that if we don’t hear the call, one of our children will wake us up instead.
I am so tired.
Needless to say, I made contact with the national do-not-call registry. I also lodged a formal complaint, providing all the dates and times of these calls, along with the six or seven different numbers emanating from the autodialler in Utah.
I tried calling the numbers myself and got a recording stating something like: “Two, one, five – test successful.” That is freaky. What test? Did I just activate some kind of telephone virus? At the very least they now know we officially exist. I tried faxing the numbers, but only got a rapid busy signal.
I got in touch with Bell Telephone and will be blocking the numbers. The nice Bell guy and I spent some time trying to figure out who was actually calling. We narrowed it down to the city of Ogden, Utah, but this is apparently a nameless, faceless entity.
Spooky.
I turned to Google University but had no luck, other than to learn we are not the only ones getting calls in the middle of the night from these numbers, too. Although misery loves company, I’m not feeling overly cheered by this fact.
My complaints about this issue have registered a lot of sympathy and many similar stories. One friend reported the same thing happened to her and continued for a year! I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear that news.
I’ll tell you this – if I ever find out what Utah is trying to sell to me, I won’t be buying it. Not only that, but I’m very close to taking a road trip down there with a baseball bat to smash up some fax machines. Wanna come along?
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 30/10
Edited to add: Our call screening service did not immediately work as the number was rejected. After a couple more calls to Bell, we not only lodged an annoyance complaint with them, but we were able to successfully block one of the numbers through call screening (thanks to some advice from a helpful Bell technician). We haven't had any calls for almost a week. Fingers crossed!
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Past Deadline: The End of Plan A
Do I need to just suck it up and get over the fact that parenting is generally a perpetual state of uncertainty and self-doubt? Would I sleep better if I were to just get this truth out of the way once and for all and get over it?
Sigh.
There is a lot of pressure as a parent to Do The Right Thing So Your Family Does Not End Up On The News. So far so good, but I think I watch too much news.
The start of school has been a mixture of unbridled joy and random chaos. The lunches, the homework, the morning ritual of prodding and/or harassing people to get up and get ready, the feeble attempts to remember who is going where when and what they need when they get there – it has all been an adjustment.
On top of this, something unexpected happened this year and, because I am who I am, I worry that I’m not more worried about it.
This year, ladies and gentlemen, when I dropped my youngest off at school I didn’t shed any tears.
My daughter is now going to school all day every day. She’s in alternate-day Senior Kindergarten and attends one of the new Ready2Learn programs on the other day.
At first I resisted the idea of her going every day because it was always in our family’s long-term plan that I would work from home so I could be here for the kids. That meant I would get one more year at home with Girlchild every other day.
In principle, the work-from-home idea is a great concept and, in fact, I think it has benefitted the kids. No, I didn’t have them reading Tolstoy by age two, but we had lots of time together to play games and make muffins and go for walks and stuff. That said there was also a good chunk of time spent watching television while Mommy was distracted with work-related tasks. In addition, Mommy often had to work at night in order to stay on top of things – which sometimes grew a little thin and made her tired and cranky and no fun to be around.
Overall, though, I think it worked out fairly well.
When the opportunity arose to send Girlchild to school every day at no cost we signed her up right away, thinking we’d take the summer to decide for sure.
Circumstances over the last year or so led me to take on a lot more work, and I have to admit the idea of having both kids in school full time brought with it a degree of relief.
There were pangs of regret, though, because I thought of those days spent walking with my littlest one or making muffins or working in the garden and I realized that this was it. This was the end of something. What would you call it? The end of the Alternate Days? The end of Pre-Full-Time School?
I suppose it was an early end to our Plan A, whereupon I would have been home with both kids part time until they hit Grade 1.
So August came and it was time to confirm that Girlchild would attend Ready2Learn. Groom-boy and I discussed it. We considered that Girlchild is one of the most social creatures we have ever known – friendly, bubbly, chatty, willing to make friends, eager to explore, happy to feed frogs to snakes – whatever. So what would keeping her home with me to make muffins accomplish?
Arguably lots of things but (if one is feeling testy and argumentative) it could also be seen as a selfish and nostalgic move on my part. True, Girlchild wouldn’t realize that she was missing an additional chance to learn and socialize, but I would know.
Is she mature enough to handle all-day every day? I think so. Would she like it? I think so. Is she fond of school? Yes.
And so, when I dropped her off for the first day of the rest of her full-time school career, I didn’t weep. I might have even danced a little. I thought about singing a song.
Maybe it just hasn’t hit me yet.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 23/10
Sigh.
There is a lot of pressure as a parent to Do The Right Thing So Your Family Does Not End Up On The News. So far so good, but I think I watch too much news.
The start of school has been a mixture of unbridled joy and random chaos. The lunches, the homework, the morning ritual of prodding and/or harassing people to get up and get ready, the feeble attempts to remember who is going where when and what they need when they get there – it has all been an adjustment.
On top of this, something unexpected happened this year and, because I am who I am, I worry that I’m not more worried about it.
This year, ladies and gentlemen, when I dropped my youngest off at school I didn’t shed any tears.
My daughter is now going to school all day every day. She’s in alternate-day Senior Kindergarten and attends one of the new Ready2Learn programs on the other day.
At first I resisted the idea of her going every day because it was always in our family’s long-term plan that I would work from home so I could be here for the kids. That meant I would get one more year at home with Girlchild every other day.
In principle, the work-from-home idea is a great concept and, in fact, I think it has benefitted the kids. No, I didn’t have them reading Tolstoy by age two, but we had lots of time together to play games and make muffins and go for walks and stuff. That said there was also a good chunk of time spent watching television while Mommy was distracted with work-related tasks. In addition, Mommy often had to work at night in order to stay on top of things – which sometimes grew a little thin and made her tired and cranky and no fun to be around.
Overall, though, I think it worked out fairly well.
When the opportunity arose to send Girlchild to school every day at no cost we signed her up right away, thinking we’d take the summer to decide for sure.
Circumstances over the last year or so led me to take on a lot more work, and I have to admit the idea of having both kids in school full time brought with it a degree of relief.
There were pangs of regret, though, because I thought of those days spent walking with my littlest one or making muffins or working in the garden and I realized that this was it. This was the end of something. What would you call it? The end of the Alternate Days? The end of Pre-Full-Time School?
I suppose it was an early end to our Plan A, whereupon I would have been home with both kids part time until they hit Grade 1.
So August came and it was time to confirm that Girlchild would attend Ready2Learn. Groom-boy and I discussed it. We considered that Girlchild is one of the most social creatures we have ever known – friendly, bubbly, chatty, willing to make friends, eager to explore, happy to feed frogs to snakes – whatever. So what would keeping her home with me to make muffins accomplish?
Arguably lots of things but (if one is feeling testy and argumentative) it could also be seen as a selfish and nostalgic move on my part. True, Girlchild wouldn’t realize that she was missing an additional chance to learn and socialize, but I would know.
Is she mature enough to handle all-day every day? I think so. Would she like it? I think so. Is she fond of school? Yes.
And so, when I dropped her off for the first day of the rest of her full-time school career, I didn’t weep. I might have even danced a little. I thought about singing a song.
Maybe it just hasn’t hit me yet.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 23/10
Past Deadline: Summer, We Need to Talk
Dear Summer. We need to talk.
I can’t do this anymore. I think we need to break up. It’s not you, really. It’s me. I feel differently about you now, and I’m sorry.
I know you’re thinking this is about the weather – those alternating hot stinky smoggy days versus cool drizzly times. It’s not that, although the last-gasp heat waves of 40-plus degrees followed by a dramatic drop to 14 are a bit harsh.
Actually, I’ve been concerned about our relationship for a number of years now. I remember those carefree days when we first met, back in the 1970s, when I could strip down to a bathing suit and frolic day in and day out without a care in the world.
Oh, how I loved you, Summer!
You were warm and loving. We were about playing outside and eating Jell-O popsicles and running through sprinklers and splashing in pools and catching frogs and building forts and looking for fireflies and camping and everything fun.
As our relationship matured, we still had a great time. Even though I had part-time jobs in high school and university, you still meant a break from school. The jobs were fun and I worked with friends and we could still gallivant and play.
In fact, even when I became a grown-up you weren’t so bad – at least at first. I still had holidays during which I could enjoy your offerings. There was still travelling and patios and swimming and hiking and camping and gardening. There still seemed to be ample free time to do these things.
But something has changed, Summer, and I’m not sure if there’s any going back. Maybe it’s because I have kids now and that makes life busier in general, but you just aren’t what you used to be. You’re hot and humid and I’m – well – less willing to gallivant in a bathing suit these days. The longer I run my air conditioner the more expensive you become.
Really, though, it’s less about the weather and more about how I set myself up for failure with my own expectations of you. Every year as you approach I say, “This time I’m going to” and out flows a litany of things to do. The list encompasses everything from changes in routine to make sure we get outside to enjoy you more to travel plans to things we hope to get done around the house and so much more.
It’s too much. The list never ends.
Soon we’re busy shoehorning all these wonderful plans around work because, unlike our kids, we don’t have eight or more weeks off the way we used to. A myriad of unexpected things pop up because everyone has weird schedules during these holidays – which can be good, but not always.
As the halfway mark passes in a flash I have to resign myself to the fact I’ll probably never accomplish everything I wanted to do. This annoys me and I start to kick dirt. And then, in a blink, the end of August appears and school is around the corner and lo and behold I’m one of those moms heaving a huge sigh of relief because everyone is getting back into a routine.
I guess I’m just not that fun-loving, spontaneous, bathing-suit-wearing girl I used to be.
Even though I have felt this way for years, I think the time has come to publicly acknowledge the end of our love affair. Summer, I have fallen for someone else: Autumn.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end this way, but Autumn offers so much more for me: routine, nicer temperatures, no pressure to wear a bathing suit, the ability to use my oven more to make the comfort foods I love and, most importantly, lowered expectations.
Sure, there are things I want to do in Autumn, but even though it’s busy as stink it’s expected to be that way. I have no illusions about languishing around on deck chairs sipping margueritas or spending countless hours gardening or swimming or hiking. Autumn doesn’t fool me like you do every year.
So, goodbye, Summer. I’m sorry, but it’s over. Here’s your sunhat. I hope we can still be friends.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 16/10
I can’t do this anymore. I think we need to break up. It’s not you, really. It’s me. I feel differently about you now, and I’m sorry.
I know you’re thinking this is about the weather – those alternating hot stinky smoggy days versus cool drizzly times. It’s not that, although the last-gasp heat waves of 40-plus degrees followed by a dramatic drop to 14 are a bit harsh.
Actually, I’ve been concerned about our relationship for a number of years now. I remember those carefree days when we first met, back in the 1970s, when I could strip down to a bathing suit and frolic day in and day out without a care in the world.
Oh, how I loved you, Summer!
You were warm and loving. We were about playing outside and eating Jell-O popsicles and running through sprinklers and splashing in pools and catching frogs and building forts and looking for fireflies and camping and everything fun.
As our relationship matured, we still had a great time. Even though I had part-time jobs in high school and university, you still meant a break from school. The jobs were fun and I worked with friends and we could still gallivant and play.
In fact, even when I became a grown-up you weren’t so bad – at least at first. I still had holidays during which I could enjoy your offerings. There was still travelling and patios and swimming and hiking and camping and gardening. There still seemed to be ample free time to do these things.
But something has changed, Summer, and I’m not sure if there’s any going back. Maybe it’s because I have kids now and that makes life busier in general, but you just aren’t what you used to be. You’re hot and humid and I’m – well – less willing to gallivant in a bathing suit these days. The longer I run my air conditioner the more expensive you become.
Really, though, it’s less about the weather and more about how I set myself up for failure with my own expectations of you. Every year as you approach I say, “This time I’m going to” and out flows a litany of things to do. The list encompasses everything from changes in routine to make sure we get outside to enjoy you more to travel plans to things we hope to get done around the house and so much more.
It’s too much. The list never ends.
Soon we’re busy shoehorning all these wonderful plans around work because, unlike our kids, we don’t have eight or more weeks off the way we used to. A myriad of unexpected things pop up because everyone has weird schedules during these holidays – which can be good, but not always.
As the halfway mark passes in a flash I have to resign myself to the fact I’ll probably never accomplish everything I wanted to do. This annoys me and I start to kick dirt. And then, in a blink, the end of August appears and school is around the corner and lo and behold I’m one of those moms heaving a huge sigh of relief because everyone is getting back into a routine.
I guess I’m just not that fun-loving, spontaneous, bathing-suit-wearing girl I used to be.
Even though I have felt this way for years, I think the time has come to publicly acknowledge the end of our love affair. Summer, I have fallen for someone else: Autumn.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end this way, but Autumn offers so much more for me: routine, nicer temperatures, no pressure to wear a bathing suit, the ability to use my oven more to make the comfort foods I love and, most importantly, lowered expectations.
Sure, there are things I want to do in Autumn, but even though it’s busy as stink it’s expected to be that way. I have no illusions about languishing around on deck chairs sipping margueritas or spending countless hours gardening or swimming or hiking. Autumn doesn’t fool me like you do every year.
So, goodbye, Summer. I’m sorry, but it’s over. Here’s your sunhat. I hope we can still be friends.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 16/10
Past Deadline: Shiny Happy Pathetic Fallacy
One of my favourite literary devices – and come on, I know you all have one – is pathetic fallacy. This is when inanimate objects, such as weather, are endowed with human emotions. It’s often used as a tool to foreshadow a foreboding event or to punctuate a murder with a thunderclap, for example.
Pathetic fallacy played a role in the first night of our recent vacation at a cottage. (I know I keep dwelling on this, but can you blame me? It was a vacation!)
We arrived after a long day of packing and lugging. We set up the beds, stowed the provisions and checked out the scenery. It took a long time for the kids to get to sleep, partly because of the newness of it all, but also because they were sleeping together in a double bed which, as you can imagine, led to much giggling and whispering and the occasional poke and kick.
It took the grown-ups a long while to get to sleep, too, being the first night in a new place. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case because I was reeeallly tired. Eventually, though, everyone slumbered – until about 4 a.m. – when the first of about a half million thunderstorms started to roll through. (I also like hyperbole, you might have noticed.)
I awoke to pounding rain.
Then Boychild came to.
Then lightning flashed.
Thunder rolled.
Then Girlchild joined in and the kids started chit chatting again. The walls are thin.
There was scolding and shushing.
Then Boychild said, “I see a bat in the cottage.”
We paused. I was too tired to move. Oh, please let this be a dream.
Lightning flashed...thunder rumbled...pathetic fallacy....
“Oh,” I mumbled sleepily, “it’s probably just a big moth, Boychild. Don’t worry about it.”
More lightning. More thunder.
“No, it’s a bat,” he insisted. He knows from bats.
So Groom-boy and I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the main room, where the roof peaks and the ceiling is about 20-feet high and, sure enough, a waaaaay up there a little bat happily circled around.
Lightning flash! Boom!
Groom-boy and I stood there, gazing to the heavens (lightning...thunder...pounding rain) arms folded across our chests. I’m pleased to report there were no hysterics.
“What the heck do we do about this?” I mumbled.
Lightning! Thunder!
I was so tired I felt a momentary panic – but not so much about the bat. It was more like: “Is this how the vacation is going to go? Is this some sort of karmic thing? Will I ever sleep again?”
In the end we decided there wasn’t really anything we could do at 4:30 in the morning during a thunderstorm, so we went back to bed, secured the curtains over the doors to the bedrooms and told the kids we’d deal with it in the morning. You know, in a few minutes.
Boychild called out, “Do bats bite?”
“No!” I said immediately. I was groggy and wanted it all to go away.
Flash! Boom!
Then I hear Boychild whisper to Girlchild, “Well, if the bat comes in here, we’ll pick it up and take it out....”
Inner groan. Flash! Boom!
“Actually,” I call out, “you shouldn’t pick up a bat because then it would be scared that you are going to hurt it, since you are much bigger, and then it might bite you to defend itself.”
With my son there is absolutely no way I am going to get into a discussion about rabies at 4:30 in the morning. He would be a basket case and keep us up all night. Which would be…like…so totally different from the way the night was already going.
As it turns out, we could have held a workshop about bats and rabies because we were up for the rest of the night. The thunderstorms were relentless, the kids were chatty and I lay there with one eye open on bat alert. The bat was the quietest one in the building, though.
The next day the sun came out. Groom-boy eventually trapped the bat and released it to the wilds. The rest of the holiday was lovely and featured good sleeps at night with both eyes closed.
I much prefer the happy-sunny sort of pathetic fallacy.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 9/10
Pathetic fallacy played a role in the first night of our recent vacation at a cottage. (I know I keep dwelling on this, but can you blame me? It was a vacation!)
We arrived after a long day of packing and lugging. We set up the beds, stowed the provisions and checked out the scenery. It took a long time for the kids to get to sleep, partly because of the newness of it all, but also because they were sleeping together in a double bed which, as you can imagine, led to much giggling and whispering and the occasional poke and kick.
It took the grown-ups a long while to get to sleep, too, being the first night in a new place. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case because I was reeeallly tired. Eventually, though, everyone slumbered – until about 4 a.m. – when the first of about a half million thunderstorms started to roll through. (I also like hyperbole, you might have noticed.)
I awoke to pounding rain.
Then Boychild came to.
Then lightning flashed.
Thunder rolled.
Then Girlchild joined in and the kids started chit chatting again. The walls are thin.
There was scolding and shushing.
Then Boychild said, “I see a bat in the cottage.”
We paused. I was too tired to move. Oh, please let this be a dream.
Lightning flashed...thunder rumbled...pathetic fallacy....
“Oh,” I mumbled sleepily, “it’s probably just a big moth, Boychild. Don’t worry about it.”
More lightning. More thunder.
“No, it’s a bat,” he insisted. He knows from bats.
So Groom-boy and I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the main room, where the roof peaks and the ceiling is about 20-feet high and, sure enough, a waaaaay up there a little bat happily circled around.
Lightning flash! Boom!
Groom-boy and I stood there, gazing to the heavens (lightning...thunder...pounding rain) arms folded across our chests. I’m pleased to report there were no hysterics.
“What the heck do we do about this?” I mumbled.
Lightning! Thunder!
I was so tired I felt a momentary panic – but not so much about the bat. It was more like: “Is this how the vacation is going to go? Is this some sort of karmic thing? Will I ever sleep again?”
In the end we decided there wasn’t really anything we could do at 4:30 in the morning during a thunderstorm, so we went back to bed, secured the curtains over the doors to the bedrooms and told the kids we’d deal with it in the morning. You know, in a few minutes.
Boychild called out, “Do bats bite?”
“No!” I said immediately. I was groggy and wanted it all to go away.
Flash! Boom!
Then I hear Boychild whisper to Girlchild, “Well, if the bat comes in here, we’ll pick it up and take it out....”
Inner groan. Flash! Boom!
“Actually,” I call out, “you shouldn’t pick up a bat because then it would be scared that you are going to hurt it, since you are much bigger, and then it might bite you to defend itself.”
With my son there is absolutely no way I am going to get into a discussion about rabies at 4:30 in the morning. He would be a basket case and keep us up all night. Which would be…like…so totally different from the way the night was already going.
As it turns out, we could have held a workshop about bats and rabies because we were up for the rest of the night. The thunderstorms were relentless, the kids were chatty and I lay there with one eye open on bat alert. The bat was the quietest one in the building, though.
The next day the sun came out. Groom-boy eventually trapped the bat and released it to the wilds. The rest of the holiday was lovely and featured good sleeps at night with both eyes closed.
I much prefer the happy-sunny sort of pathetic fallacy.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 9/10
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Past Deadline: The Fine Art of Vacationing
Since having kids (and sometimes even before then), I have approached vacations with a certain amount of dread. There is all the work-related preparation required to actually be able to go, then the fearsome amount of work awaiting one’s return, not to mention the planning and packing required to actually leave the building.
This is especially true when camping or cottaging, I find, as provisions are required that one wouldn’t necessarily need if going on, say, a cruise.
Once you arrive there is a fine art to vacationing properly and I seldom achieve it. I’ve heard it said that the ideal length for a holiday is three weeks: one week to unwind, one to enjoy and one to feel bored enough to return.
Because my holidays tend to be crammed into seven- to 10-day stretches, it tends to go more like this: During the first two or three days I stress about not being able to relax. For the next couple of days I might actually be able to forget about work, but the last few days are usually punctuated by little pesky stabs of worry about what lies in wait for me in my inbox.
Good times.
All that aside, though, having a week to reconnect with nature at a cottage really is a blessing, even if I can’t get my addled brain to rest in the moment for more than a couple of days. I am always reminded how much I truly need a few days in the outdoors to feel “right” again.
I think we all need this more than we realize.
For the better part of a year I have been involved with a children’s program at Murphys Point called Super Kids In Parks, which was designed as a way to get kids like mine off the computer once a week and teach them a thing or two about nature. A kazillion or so studies show a huge disconnect between kids and nature, which is leading to all sorts of nasty things like sleep deprivation, low self-esteem and behavioural problems.
Getting kids outside helps them to understand how the planet works and to identify with the environment. It helps them to solve problems. It’s relaxing. It can be an elixir to some modern woes. It also gets them moving and combating childhood obesity.
As much time as I have spent understanding this and helping to create this program for children so that good people can show them a few things about the outdoors, I often forget that I, too, need to unplug and enjoy the fresh air and catch frogs with the kids and take pictures of critters and even read a book while sitting on a dock.
It’s basic but essential, and so many of us are missing it.
A friend of mine who used to live in the country invited me and the kids over one time to see her new home. It featured woods and water and I breathed it all in. She looked at me and said, “I can see you relaxing even as you stand here.” And it’s true.
Why is it so hard for us to unplug? And what has happened that has made kids favour screen time over outside time? Sometimes I practically need a crowbar to wedge my short people out the door and into the backyard, where they claim there is “nothing to do.” Why don’t they build forts and ride bikes and make “soup” out of pulled-up grass in a mud puddle like we used to?
Of course these are mostly rhetorical questions. Things are different now. Parents have been conditioned to be alarmingly protective and in doing so we run the risk of nurturing a bunch of zombies who shun the outdoors and don’t understand their own environment.
So when I see the way my own kids respond and bloom when we go camping or cottaging, and how they remind me of myself at that age when they’re busy frolicking, it is good.
Now I just need to find a way to make this type of “vacationing” part of our everyday, and maybe we’d all feel more “right.”
Wish me luck.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 2/10.
This is especially true when camping or cottaging, I find, as provisions are required that one wouldn’t necessarily need if going on, say, a cruise.
Once you arrive there is a fine art to vacationing properly and I seldom achieve it. I’ve heard it said that the ideal length for a holiday is three weeks: one week to unwind, one to enjoy and one to feel bored enough to return.
Because my holidays tend to be crammed into seven- to 10-day stretches, it tends to go more like this: During the first two or three days I stress about not being able to relax. For the next couple of days I might actually be able to forget about work, but the last few days are usually punctuated by little pesky stabs of worry about what lies in wait for me in my inbox.
Good times.
All that aside, though, having a week to reconnect with nature at a cottage really is a blessing, even if I can’t get my addled brain to rest in the moment for more than a couple of days. I am always reminded how much I truly need a few days in the outdoors to feel “right” again.
I think we all need this more than we realize.
For the better part of a year I have been involved with a children’s program at Murphys Point called Super Kids In Parks, which was designed as a way to get kids like mine off the computer once a week and teach them a thing or two about nature. A kazillion or so studies show a huge disconnect between kids and nature, which is leading to all sorts of nasty things like sleep deprivation, low self-esteem and behavioural problems.
Getting kids outside helps them to understand how the planet works and to identify with the environment. It helps them to solve problems. It’s relaxing. It can be an elixir to some modern woes. It also gets them moving and combating childhood obesity.
As much time as I have spent understanding this and helping to create this program for children so that good people can show them a few things about the outdoors, I often forget that I, too, need to unplug and enjoy the fresh air and catch frogs with the kids and take pictures of critters and even read a book while sitting on a dock.
It’s basic but essential, and so many of us are missing it.
A friend of mine who used to live in the country invited me and the kids over one time to see her new home. It featured woods and water and I breathed it all in. She looked at me and said, “I can see you relaxing even as you stand here.” And it’s true.
Why is it so hard for us to unplug? And what has happened that has made kids favour screen time over outside time? Sometimes I practically need a crowbar to wedge my short people out the door and into the backyard, where they claim there is “nothing to do.” Why don’t they build forts and ride bikes and make “soup” out of pulled-up grass in a mud puddle like we used to?
Of course these are mostly rhetorical questions. Things are different now. Parents have been conditioned to be alarmingly protective and in doing so we run the risk of nurturing a bunch of zombies who shun the outdoors and don’t understand their own environment.
So when I see the way my own kids respond and bloom when we go camping or cottaging, and how they remind me of myself at that age when they’re busy frolicking, it is good.
Now I just need to find a way to make this type of “vacationing” part of our everyday, and maybe we’d all feel more “right.”
Wish me luck.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 2/10.
Past Deadline: Snake Girl
We just spent a marvellous week at a cottage close to home (read: within commuting distance for those who had work-related commitments). The best part was watching the kids’ backs as they ran out the door in the morning, returning only for meals sporadically during the day. The rest of their time was spent frolicking in the lake or patrolling the shoreline looking for beasties.
As a kid, I was a dandy frog/snake/fish/turtle catcher, and I still think it is an important part of growing up to check out critters, learn how to treat them nice and let them go.
So that’s what we did all week.
At this cottage there is a large frog population and all of the kids (including my own) spent the day tracking them down, creating a habitat for them in a cooler, observing them for a while and then letting them go, only to do it all again later. We were also graced by the presence of two northern water snakes. The big one arrived each morning to dine on frogs near our docks, and a littler one would come by in the afternoon to do the same.
Everyone was fascinated by this. A crowd gathered to watch.
And then my daughter, the four-year-old pixie with the blonde hair and big blue eyes, tossed a frog to the big snake and we all watched in amazement as it snapped it up with lightning speed, expanded its jaw and swallowed it whole in two minutes.
We ooohed and aaahed.
I waded in with a camera to take close-up pictures, Girlchild right beside me, while men and women herded their children onto shore. “Isn’t she brave!” they said of Girlchild. She responded, “I’m not afraid of snakes. I’m like my mom!”
Oh, how my heart swelled!
Boychild was in on the action, too, but it wasn’t as noticeable because, well, it’s kind of expected that eight-year-old boys are intrigued by reptiles, amphibians and fish.
Later, Girlchild asked if she could touch the snake, but the critter wasn’t as keen on that idea, and swam away quickly upon approach. That was a good demonstration for those who were a bit nervous around the snakes: as soon as anyone got close or towered above one, it swam in the other direction. We’re bigger than snakes are. They think we might eat them, so they go away.
To repeat the old cliché: They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.
Not only that, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re too big for a northern water snake to eat. It’s only likely to bite you as a defence mechanism if you try to pick it up and, even if it does bite you, it’s non-venomous and would probably feel a bit like a scratch – not even as bad as a horsefly bite.
While some folks still seemed a little uncertain about the whole thing and probably assumed I should be charged with reckless endangerment for letting my young child wander amongst the beasties, I am pleased to report that no one ran screaming from the water and no snakes were hacked to tiny bits during the course of our stay, although they did eat a few frogs. Such is the nature of nature.
Other daily amphibian- and reptile-related activities included swimming past the turtle log several times, wearing goggles and swimming with the fishes (and not in a Sopranos way), discovering the myriad of bread products little fish will eat (graham crackers are a hit), observing how crayfish like to grab at things with their claws and learning the correct way to release fish caught with a rod and reel.
Another delight was watching two adult loons teach two babies how to dive and fish. They spent many hours drifting in the little bay near the cottage – which was very obviously a great fishing ground. Girlchild does a pretty good loon call, too, and could often be heard answering the adults. “The Blonde Loon,” we called her.
Now, if only I could figure out how to install a lake in my backyard, we’d be able to pitch the TV and computer games for sure!
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 26/10.
As a kid, I was a dandy frog/snake/fish/turtle catcher, and I still think it is an important part of growing up to check out critters, learn how to treat them nice and let them go.
So that’s what we did all week.
At this cottage there is a large frog population and all of the kids (including my own) spent the day tracking them down, creating a habitat for them in a cooler, observing them for a while and then letting them go, only to do it all again later. We were also graced by the presence of two northern water snakes. The big one arrived each morning to dine on frogs near our docks, and a littler one would come by in the afternoon to do the same.
Everyone was fascinated by this. A crowd gathered to watch.
And then my daughter, the four-year-old pixie with the blonde hair and big blue eyes, tossed a frog to the big snake and we all watched in amazement as it snapped it up with lightning speed, expanded its jaw and swallowed it whole in two minutes.
We ooohed and aaahed.
I waded in with a camera to take close-up pictures, Girlchild right beside me, while men and women herded their children onto shore. “Isn’t she brave!” they said of Girlchild. She responded, “I’m not afraid of snakes. I’m like my mom!”
Oh, how my heart swelled!
Boychild was in on the action, too, but it wasn’t as noticeable because, well, it’s kind of expected that eight-year-old boys are intrigued by reptiles, amphibians and fish.
Later, Girlchild asked if she could touch the snake, but the critter wasn’t as keen on that idea, and swam away quickly upon approach. That was a good demonstration for those who were a bit nervous around the snakes: as soon as anyone got close or towered above one, it swam in the other direction. We’re bigger than snakes are. They think we might eat them, so they go away.
To repeat the old cliché: They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.
Not only that, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re too big for a northern water snake to eat. It’s only likely to bite you as a defence mechanism if you try to pick it up and, even if it does bite you, it’s non-venomous and would probably feel a bit like a scratch – not even as bad as a horsefly bite.
While some folks still seemed a little uncertain about the whole thing and probably assumed I should be charged with reckless endangerment for letting my young child wander amongst the beasties, I am pleased to report that no one ran screaming from the water and no snakes were hacked to tiny bits during the course of our stay, although they did eat a few frogs. Such is the nature of nature.
Other daily amphibian- and reptile-related activities included swimming past the turtle log several times, wearing goggles and swimming with the fishes (and not in a Sopranos way), discovering the myriad of bread products little fish will eat (graham crackers are a hit), observing how crayfish like to grab at things with their claws and learning the correct way to release fish caught with a rod and reel.
Another delight was watching two adult loons teach two babies how to dive and fish. They spent many hours drifting in the little bay near the cottage – which was very obviously a great fishing ground. Girlchild does a pretty good loon call, too, and could often be heard answering the adults. “The Blonde Loon,” we called her.
Now, if only I could figure out how to install a lake in my backyard, we’d be able to pitch the TV and computer games for sure!
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 26/10.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Past Deadline: More Bad News About Fish
I’ve learned a thing or two about neon tetras in the last six months.
There are many schools (schools – get it? Fish joke) of thought out there about these little fish and I’m tending to agree with those who say they are extremely sensitive. For those of you who have been following my Fish Tank of Doom saga, there’s more. I’m hoping some sort of fish police don’t pull up to my front door and cart me away to rehab for well-meaning fish keepers.
Neon tetras are silver with red and blue racing stripes and they are quite lovely. They zoom around the tank and are such fun to watch.
Unless they’re dead.
The whole saga started after the last of Boychild’s long-lived goldfish floated to the proverbial aquarium in the sky. We decided on neon tetras because they’re so flashy and because I had kept some years ago with no problem or fuss.
The story of our first batch of 14 ended badly. Some rather serious water chemistry issues led to 100 per cent mortality within 24 hours. We learn from our mistakes, though, and when we purchased a fresh dozen (from a different store – too embarrassed to go back to the first), we were certain we had solved all problems.
This is a great theory if you follow basic fish-introduction rules, primarily: float the bag, you idiot! Floating the bag is literally that. You put the bag of fish in your tank for a while so they get used to the temperature and so that you can slowly exchange the water. Dumping new fish directly into a tank results in shock. Their bellies puff up (swim bladders) and they swim funny and float to the top. If you’re lucky, like I was, they will survive the Fish Tank of Doom.
For a long time things went merrily along with our 12 tetras and two algae eaters. Then they got ick – a charming fish illness. I nursed all but two of them back to good health.
Over the past several months a few have died off for no discernable reason and I’m willing to speculate it is because it was simply their time. After all, I have learned a lot. I change water and clean tanks and use special stuff to keep things healthy and I test the water frequently and watch the fish almost as compulsively as I check e-mail.
When we got down to five, I suggested to Boychild that maybe we could replenish the population a little, so we went to a fish store that had come highly recommended. We got eight new neon tetras and four little peppered corys that look like spotted catfish and comb through the pebbles looking for debris with their whiskers. Very cute.
The tank was ready. I tested the water. I floated the bag. I tested the bag water. I exchanged the water. I slowly and carefully released the new fish. I tested the water again.
And we watched.
Things looked great. The new fish (which were frighteningly tiny) schooled with the old fish. They zoomed around. They ate. There was no sign of shock and no sign of ick – no sign of anything.
And then, one by one over 48 hours, each of the new little tetras went off by itself and, within half an hour of doing so, died.
Groan.
Everyone else was fine, though, including the corys. A knowledgeable friend says it sounds as if I did everything right. I even chatted with a guy at a local bait shop who has been rearing minnows for decades, and he says fish stocks aren’t what they used to be.
I turned to the Internet, where you can always find reassurance if you look in the right places. I quickly discovered many websites and blogs proclaiming the hardships of neon tetra ownership. I have concluded that these fish are likely to die if you look at them funny.
Boychild is taking it well – better than I am. He is used to Bad News About Fish. My friend says that someday, years from now, he’ll say, “Hey, Mom, remember that time when you kept killing all of my fish?”
Good times.
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 19/10
There are many schools (schools – get it? Fish joke) of thought out there about these little fish and I’m tending to agree with those who say they are extremely sensitive. For those of you who have been following my Fish Tank of Doom saga, there’s more. I’m hoping some sort of fish police don’t pull up to my front door and cart me away to rehab for well-meaning fish keepers.
Neon tetras are silver with red and blue racing stripes and they are quite lovely. They zoom around the tank and are such fun to watch.
Unless they’re dead.
The whole saga started after the last of Boychild’s long-lived goldfish floated to the proverbial aquarium in the sky. We decided on neon tetras because they’re so flashy and because I had kept some years ago with no problem or fuss.
The story of our first batch of 14 ended badly. Some rather serious water chemistry issues led to 100 per cent mortality within 24 hours. We learn from our mistakes, though, and when we purchased a fresh dozen (from a different store – too embarrassed to go back to the first), we were certain we had solved all problems.
This is a great theory if you follow basic fish-introduction rules, primarily: float the bag, you idiot! Floating the bag is literally that. You put the bag of fish in your tank for a while so they get used to the temperature and so that you can slowly exchange the water. Dumping new fish directly into a tank results in shock. Their bellies puff up (swim bladders) and they swim funny and float to the top. If you’re lucky, like I was, they will survive the Fish Tank of Doom.
For a long time things went merrily along with our 12 tetras and two algae eaters. Then they got ick – a charming fish illness. I nursed all but two of them back to good health.
Over the past several months a few have died off for no discernable reason and I’m willing to speculate it is because it was simply their time. After all, I have learned a lot. I change water and clean tanks and use special stuff to keep things healthy and I test the water frequently and watch the fish almost as compulsively as I check e-mail.
When we got down to five, I suggested to Boychild that maybe we could replenish the population a little, so we went to a fish store that had come highly recommended. We got eight new neon tetras and four little peppered corys that look like spotted catfish and comb through the pebbles looking for debris with their whiskers. Very cute.
The tank was ready. I tested the water. I floated the bag. I tested the bag water. I exchanged the water. I slowly and carefully released the new fish. I tested the water again.
And we watched.
Things looked great. The new fish (which were frighteningly tiny) schooled with the old fish. They zoomed around. They ate. There was no sign of shock and no sign of ick – no sign of anything.
And then, one by one over 48 hours, each of the new little tetras went off by itself and, within half an hour of doing so, died.
Groan.
Everyone else was fine, though, including the corys. A knowledgeable friend says it sounds as if I did everything right. I even chatted with a guy at a local bait shop who has been rearing minnows for decades, and he says fish stocks aren’t what they used to be.
I turned to the Internet, where you can always find reassurance if you look in the right places. I quickly discovered many websites and blogs proclaiming the hardships of neon tetra ownership. I have concluded that these fish are likely to die if you look at them funny.
Boychild is taking it well – better than I am. He is used to Bad News About Fish. My friend says that someday, years from now, he’ll say, “Hey, Mom, remember that time when you kept killing all of my fish?”
Good times.
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 19/10
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