(This post is pretty localized, but anyone who has had to endure major construction in a small town can probably relate.)
Folks in Perth now have something to talk about besides the weather: Wilson Street. It’s always nice to have new things to talk about, yes?
Did you realize there are exciting side opportunities to this construction? I’m talking about things beyond the promise of a street that won’t wreck your car or knock your teeth out as you drive it, not to mention having water pipes updated from the 1920s and the addition of an inviting gateway to our downtown. The reduced risk of being swallowed up by a sinkhole and sucked into the depths of heck is good, too.
Still, there is no arguing the fact the construction is massively inconvenient and, for some, quite a hardship. It’s also not ideal that the town had to act quickly with a project that was “shovel ready” (as opposed to one requiring massive, lengthy studies like a bypass) in order to receive provincial and federal grants. It definitely limited choices. However, Wilson Street very obviously needed work and if someone else will pay for most of it, that’s not too shabby.
So what to do about that inconvenience? I figure our choices are to a) leave town for the duration or b) find the silver lining.
For those of us for whom leaving town is not a viable option, my take on the silver lining is three “Remarkable Opportunities.” The silver lining came to me last week, when the ribbon of pylons stretched from Isabella to the mall for the first time and drivers were forced to actually try to pay attention as they drove (which was not overly successful based on the number of people I saw brazenly driving the wrong way).
I see three Remarkable Opportunities:
1) Wilson Street can make us physically fit.
2) The construction provides a nice community social experience.
3) The congestion helps us to appreciate why we don’t choose to live in Toronto.
The Wilson Street Fitness Plan occurred to me when I realized I could walk home from my kids’ school faster than I could drive. We don’t drive every day to school, but I informed the kids we would be driving even less, at least on my watch. I’m lucky enough to live within walking distance of anything I need on Wilson Street and, since I have taken up running, I can get there much faster. Okay, um, slightly faster.
I’m also going to use my bike more even though I have been “recovering” from a fall since 1988 and still have anxiety issues about biking. Since Drummond Street is busier with the detour traffic, though, I can sneak around on side streets when I have to go farther afield. Last week I rode to and from Algonquin College and SURVIVED! (Not a big deal to most, but a cause for celebration for me.)
This resolve to walk, run and bike to get around has benefits beyond fitness, too. It means one less vehicle adding to the congestion and pollution while idling in a line-up.
Secondly, and this is a nice segue into my next Remarkable Opportunity, it’s more social. As I spend more time on foot along the affected roadways I have the chance to chat with other walkers and even the drivers who are waiting, windows down, to get somewhere. It’s a lovely way to get to know people or connect with friends – and to commiserate about these woes.
I often chat with Lloyd the Crossing Guard at the corner of Wilson and Isabella and get updates on the silly things he has seen drivers do. (Hopefully that whole “driving the wrong way on the southbound lane” thing will be resolved soon. Maybe in another column I’ll think of some potential solutions to that problem, such as spike belts.)
My final Remarkable Opportunity is that perhaps the construction will help to remind us of why we choose to live here. Yes, we have to add extra time to our travels these days, but ultimately we’ll have a beautiful street to show for it. In Toronto, you add time to your trip just because – construction or not.
My favourite is still the fitness aspect, though. I’m hoping to have lost a good 10 pounds by fall.
Published in The Perth Courier, April 29/10.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Past Deadline: Hair-Raising Tales
There’s a great children’s story by Robert Munsch called Stephanie’s Ponytail that I like not only because of the fantastically fabulous first name it features, but also because of that character’s gumption.
In it, Stephanie asks her mom to put her hair in a “nice ponytail coming right out the back” because none of the other kids in her class have one. When she gets to school all the kids say, “Ugly, ugly, very ugly.” Stephanie retorts, “It’s my ponytail and I like it.”
Atta girl.
Wouldn’t you know it, the next day when she shows up at school all the other girls have lovely ponytails, too. Stephanie calls them copycats. The next morning she asks for a ponytail on the side. The “ugly” stuff is repeated and, you guessed it, the very next day all the girls and even some of the boys copy her.
This continues with a ponytail on the top of her head and in the front of her face. Then Stephanie loses it and yells, “You are a bunch of brainless copycats. You just do whatever I do. When I come tomorrow, I am going to have…SHAVED MY HEAD!”
So the next day (spoiler alert!) the teacher and the students show up bald, while Stephanie arrives with “a nice little ponytail coming right out the back.”
I was no “Stephanie” in elementary school. Blending in was my strongest desire, next to wanting a horse, that is. I’m not sure that I would have gone so far as to shave my head like everyone else, but if I had phoned all my friends the night before and was assured that, yes, that was what must be done in order to fit in then, possibly, I might have done it.
Yeah, yeah, yeah and if all my friends jumped off a cliff….
I see a lot of me in Boychild, but his hair is not long enough to put in a ponytail. Yet.
Girlchild, though, is another story. I stand in awe of her gumption. It terrifies me a little, too, because when she’s a teenager – yikes! Anyway, for now I can tell you (and so can the neighbourhood since we’ve opened our windows to the spring weather) that Girlchild knows what she likes and what she wants and has no problem expressing it.
A couple of Saturdays ago I asked Girlchild if she would like some braids in her hair. She wanted eight. No problem. The braids were looking a little rough on Sunday so I offered to redo them. She brought me 10 elastics. I like braiding. I learned how to do it in Brownies and it has obviously become a life skill.
When we ventured out that weekend we got lots of compliments on the braids, and she was quite pleased. On Monday she wanted to wear braids to school. I asked if she would like two (one on each side) or one at the back.
“Three!” was the answer.
I suggested that normally girls wear one or two to school. (Shades of my conformist past.)
“Three!” was the answer.
So I did three nicely spaced braids – one on each side and one at the back.
The next day she got her hair trimmed, and the hairdresser put her hair into two French braids.
So the diva wore her fancy braids to school on Wednesday. I was quick to explain to her fans that I am not that talented, despite having practised and practised on my Barbies years ago. She didn’t have school on Thursday and that night we had to undo the braids and wash the crinkly hair.
On Friday Mama was out of commission and the getting-kids-ready-for-school tasks were left to Daddy, who not only left Girlchild’s hair unadorned, but forgot to brush it entirely.
Ahem. So it was a week of extremes.
The point of all this is that I find it thrilling (most of the time) that Girlchild bucks these conventions and does what she likes. Maybe no one in Kindergarten has told her it’s unusual to wear three, eight or 10 braids to school, but I sure hope that if anyone does she’ll say, “They’re my braids and I like them!”
Published in The Perth Courier, April 22/10.
In it, Stephanie asks her mom to put her hair in a “nice ponytail coming right out the back” because none of the other kids in her class have one. When she gets to school all the kids say, “Ugly, ugly, very ugly.” Stephanie retorts, “It’s my ponytail and I like it.”
Atta girl.
Wouldn’t you know it, the next day when she shows up at school all the other girls have lovely ponytails, too. Stephanie calls them copycats. The next morning she asks for a ponytail on the side. The “ugly” stuff is repeated and, you guessed it, the very next day all the girls and even some of the boys copy her.
This continues with a ponytail on the top of her head and in the front of her face. Then Stephanie loses it and yells, “You are a bunch of brainless copycats. You just do whatever I do. When I come tomorrow, I am going to have…SHAVED MY HEAD!”
So the next day (spoiler alert!) the teacher and the students show up bald, while Stephanie arrives with “a nice little ponytail coming right out the back.”
I was no “Stephanie” in elementary school. Blending in was my strongest desire, next to wanting a horse, that is. I’m not sure that I would have gone so far as to shave my head like everyone else, but if I had phoned all my friends the night before and was assured that, yes, that was what must be done in order to fit in then, possibly, I might have done it.
Yeah, yeah, yeah and if all my friends jumped off a cliff….
I see a lot of me in Boychild, but his hair is not long enough to put in a ponytail. Yet.
Girlchild, though, is another story. I stand in awe of her gumption. It terrifies me a little, too, because when she’s a teenager – yikes! Anyway, for now I can tell you (and so can the neighbourhood since we’ve opened our windows to the spring weather) that Girlchild knows what she likes and what she wants and has no problem expressing it.
A couple of Saturdays ago I asked Girlchild if she would like some braids in her hair. She wanted eight. No problem. The braids were looking a little rough on Sunday so I offered to redo them. She brought me 10 elastics. I like braiding. I learned how to do it in Brownies and it has obviously become a life skill.
When we ventured out that weekend we got lots of compliments on the braids, and she was quite pleased. On Monday she wanted to wear braids to school. I asked if she would like two (one on each side) or one at the back.
“Three!” was the answer.
I suggested that normally girls wear one or two to school. (Shades of my conformist past.)
“Three!” was the answer.
So I did three nicely spaced braids – one on each side and one at the back.
The next day she got her hair trimmed, and the hairdresser put her hair into two French braids.
So the diva wore her fancy braids to school on Wednesday. I was quick to explain to her fans that I am not that talented, despite having practised and practised on my Barbies years ago. She didn’t have school on Thursday and that night we had to undo the braids and wash the crinkly hair.
On Friday Mama was out of commission and the getting-kids-ready-for-school tasks were left to Daddy, who not only left Girlchild’s hair unadorned, but forgot to brush it entirely.
Ahem. So it was a week of extremes.
The point of all this is that I find it thrilling (most of the time) that Girlchild bucks these conventions and does what she likes. Maybe no one in Kindergarten has told her it’s unusual to wear three, eight or 10 braids to school, but I sure hope that if anyone does she’ll say, “They’re my braids and I like them!”
Published in The Perth Courier, April 22/10.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Past Deadline: Teenaged Fish
Now that I am (allegedly) a grown-up, not to mention a parent, I often marvel over the fact my own parents seemed to know what they were doing. How did that happen?
Maybe after my brother and I went to bed my parents broke out the tequila and had a good cry over the misery of it all – the “how will we ever cope with all the questions and anxiety” of it all. But I doubt it.
This, naturally, brings me to my fish.
I don’t know how my mother learned how to take care of tropical fish. Maybe someone taught her or maybe she did her research. I know that is what you should do when you get involved with a new hobby – especially one involving sustaining life. Thinking that you know what you’re doing because you kinda sorta did it before and nothing bad happened doesn’t always cut it. That’s just luck.
You may recall my 15-gallon Fish Tank of Doom has had its ups and downs. It is currently home to 10 neon tetras, two algae eaters and a surprise snail I’ve named Andy Sipowicz, because on the TV cop drama NYPD Blue Det. Andy Sipowicz had an elaborate aquarium at the precinct and he took exceptional care of it.
“You keep a healthy tank, you call yourself a guy who knows fish,” he said on the show. It was a metaphor for life. My snail helps to keep the tank clean.
A friend of mine also keeps tropical fish. She did her research. She has live plants in the aquarium, a variety of fish species, snails and algae eaters. She tests the water and knows the real honest-to-goodness meaning of things like “cycling the tank.” She buys her fish from a store that interrogates you before they will sell you their fish.
I’d probably be in jail right now if I had bought my fish from that store. But let’s not rehash the sad tale of the accidentally toxic water and the loss of the first batch of pretty little neon tetras. (Sniff.)
You may recall that with this current crop I didn’t realize I needed to “float the bag” when I put them in, so they all went into shock. They recovered.
Then, probably because of that shock, they developed ich. Two died, but with careful treatment and much hand wringing the rest recovered.
The other day I noticed a build-up of some whitish crud in one corner of the tank, so I set about changing water, cleaning stones and ornaments, scrubbing walls, etc. Basically, I dove in while the fish weren’t expecting it and completely rearranged their room. Some of them were ticked and showed symptoms of shock.
This time, instead of hand wringing, I laughed. No, I’m not evil. It’s just I can sympathize.
My mother used to wait until everyone left the house and she’d rearrange furniture. Upon our return from school, my brother and I would hear ABBA thumping away on the stereo.
“Oh oh. That’s Mom’s rearranging music.”
Sure enough, there would be changes. Sometimes it was the living room. Sometimes she would rearrange things in one or both of our bedrooms. Sometimes she would switch the rooms completely and I’d go from sleeping at the front of the house to the back or vice versa.
Most of the time it was disorienting but no big deal. In fact, sometimes the change was kinda neat – it was like getting a whole new room. As I got older, though, the rearranging became a territorial thing. My stuff was moved. It could be stressful.
Fish are like teenagers, it seems. Sensitive. Easily stressed. I wasn’t necessarily prone to doing a weird vertical dippy dive swimmy thing like the fish do, but I probably had something to say about it.
The fish eventually settled down and everything was fine, except the water was a tiny bit cloudy. So, thinking I now know the drill, I added some of the stuff to clear the water – except it made it worse.
What the heck? Should I call my mother? What would Sipowicz do? I’m guessing he would not be impressed. He might even put me in jail.
Published in The Perth Courier, April 15/10
Maybe after my brother and I went to bed my parents broke out the tequila and had a good cry over the misery of it all – the “how will we ever cope with all the questions and anxiety” of it all. But I doubt it.
This, naturally, brings me to my fish.
I don’t know how my mother learned how to take care of tropical fish. Maybe someone taught her or maybe she did her research. I know that is what you should do when you get involved with a new hobby – especially one involving sustaining life. Thinking that you know what you’re doing because you kinda sorta did it before and nothing bad happened doesn’t always cut it. That’s just luck.
You may recall my 15-gallon Fish Tank of Doom has had its ups and downs. It is currently home to 10 neon tetras, two algae eaters and a surprise snail I’ve named Andy Sipowicz, because on the TV cop drama NYPD Blue Det. Andy Sipowicz had an elaborate aquarium at the precinct and he took exceptional care of it.
“You keep a healthy tank, you call yourself a guy who knows fish,” he said on the show. It was a metaphor for life. My snail helps to keep the tank clean.
A friend of mine also keeps tropical fish. She did her research. She has live plants in the aquarium, a variety of fish species, snails and algae eaters. She tests the water and knows the real honest-to-goodness meaning of things like “cycling the tank.” She buys her fish from a store that interrogates you before they will sell you their fish.
I’d probably be in jail right now if I had bought my fish from that store. But let’s not rehash the sad tale of the accidentally toxic water and the loss of the first batch of pretty little neon tetras. (Sniff.)
You may recall that with this current crop I didn’t realize I needed to “float the bag” when I put them in, so they all went into shock. They recovered.
Then, probably because of that shock, they developed ich. Two died, but with careful treatment and much hand wringing the rest recovered.
The other day I noticed a build-up of some whitish crud in one corner of the tank, so I set about changing water, cleaning stones and ornaments, scrubbing walls, etc. Basically, I dove in while the fish weren’t expecting it and completely rearranged their room. Some of them were ticked and showed symptoms of shock.
This time, instead of hand wringing, I laughed. No, I’m not evil. It’s just I can sympathize.
My mother used to wait until everyone left the house and she’d rearrange furniture. Upon our return from school, my brother and I would hear ABBA thumping away on the stereo.
“Oh oh. That’s Mom’s rearranging music.”
Sure enough, there would be changes. Sometimes it was the living room. Sometimes she would rearrange things in one or both of our bedrooms. Sometimes she would switch the rooms completely and I’d go from sleeping at the front of the house to the back or vice versa.
Most of the time it was disorienting but no big deal. In fact, sometimes the change was kinda neat – it was like getting a whole new room. As I got older, though, the rearranging became a territorial thing. My stuff was moved. It could be stressful.
Fish are like teenagers, it seems. Sensitive. Easily stressed. I wasn’t necessarily prone to doing a weird vertical dippy dive swimmy thing like the fish do, but I probably had something to say about it.
The fish eventually settled down and everything was fine, except the water was a tiny bit cloudy. So, thinking I now know the drill, I added some of the stuff to clear the water – except it made it worse.
What the heck? Should I call my mother? What would Sipowicz do? I’m guessing he would not be impressed. He might even put me in jail.
Published in The Perth Courier, April 15/10
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Past Deadline: Shoving a Kid Over the Wall
Sometimes it’s hard for kids to realize they should try new things. I speak from experience. I was that kid. I’m really not sure what I thought would happen if I tried something new – the world would end? The sky would fall? I would be left abandoned and alone?
Maybe not having an exact idea of the end result was the problem. What bad thing might happen if I stuck my neck out and went to camp or tried that game all the other kids were playing or whatever? For whatever reason, though, I was convinced it would end badly.
Sure, sometimes I was right. Sometimes when we try new things we fail miserably, but other times it turns out to be the Best Thing Ever. It’s a risk that is often worth taking.
As a parent there’s a fine line between knowing how hard to push a kid into to trying something new and when to leave it alone. Sometimes they just need a little bit of time to decide on their own that, yes, this is something worth trying and it could be lots of fun. Other times, pushing too hard just results in tears, tantrums and resentment along with a long-lasting dislike or fear of whatever it was you forced him or her into trying. Like eating Brussels sprouts. Or jumping into a swimming pool.
Summer camp is an example. I was a shy kid, but I really enjoyed being in Girl Guides – especially the cookies. I was brave enough to venture off with my company to occasional overnight camp-outs, but you couldn’t make me go to summer camp. If I remember correctly it was a week or two in length and located quite some distance from home – like Pluto. I balked.
Part of me really wanted to go, but I was nervous about being that far from home for that long with a lot of people I didn’t know (not unreasonable fears, I suppose).
I think deep down I knew I would love it, though. A friend used to go and she raved about it and pined for camp when she returned. But I had this wall of fear in my head that I couldn’t breach. If my parents had pushed me I’m quite certain I would not only have survived, but I would have loved camp as much as my friend did. How could they have known that, though? My anxiety about it was pretty real – and since going to camp was not necessary for good health and survival, what would be the point of pushing?
I think my parents had pretty good ideas about when to push. Take my brother, for instance, who was nervous about water. I still remember the screaming after they suited him up in enough PFDs to float a boat and pried him off the ladder in our backyard swimming pool. He floated, by gum, and it turns out he LIKED the water. After that he and I practically lived in the pool all summer every summer for years.
There are many times, particularly with Boychild, when I struggle with the dilemma of pushing versus not pushing. (Girlchild doesn’t need any prodding – she tends to embrace every life situation with gusto. I stand in awe of this fearlessness, although I’m sure it will cause different dilemmas in the future.)
Anyway, I was reminded of this parenting issue on the weekend in a minor way. Boychild got a new bike because his old one was too small. He even told us he needed a new one. When presented with the new, bigger one, however, he balked. It was “too big.” We prodded him to climb on. He tried it for about a half a millisecond, struggled and stormed off in disgust. (He’s a “stomp stomp stomp slam” kinda person, like his mama.)
We prodded and reasoned and explained the features of the new bike and, with some time and persistence, by the end of the day he was riding it and loving it.
I doubt we’ll be shipping him off to camp anytime soon, but maybe he’ll slowly learn that if he tries something, he just might like it. Like Brussels sprouts.
Published in The Perth Courier, April 8/10
Maybe not having an exact idea of the end result was the problem. What bad thing might happen if I stuck my neck out and went to camp or tried that game all the other kids were playing or whatever? For whatever reason, though, I was convinced it would end badly.
Sure, sometimes I was right. Sometimes when we try new things we fail miserably, but other times it turns out to be the Best Thing Ever. It’s a risk that is often worth taking.
As a parent there’s a fine line between knowing how hard to push a kid into to trying something new and when to leave it alone. Sometimes they just need a little bit of time to decide on their own that, yes, this is something worth trying and it could be lots of fun. Other times, pushing too hard just results in tears, tantrums and resentment along with a long-lasting dislike or fear of whatever it was you forced him or her into trying. Like eating Brussels sprouts. Or jumping into a swimming pool.
Summer camp is an example. I was a shy kid, but I really enjoyed being in Girl Guides – especially the cookies. I was brave enough to venture off with my company to occasional overnight camp-outs, but you couldn’t make me go to summer camp. If I remember correctly it was a week or two in length and located quite some distance from home – like Pluto. I balked.
Part of me really wanted to go, but I was nervous about being that far from home for that long with a lot of people I didn’t know (not unreasonable fears, I suppose).
I think deep down I knew I would love it, though. A friend used to go and she raved about it and pined for camp when she returned. But I had this wall of fear in my head that I couldn’t breach. If my parents had pushed me I’m quite certain I would not only have survived, but I would have loved camp as much as my friend did. How could they have known that, though? My anxiety about it was pretty real – and since going to camp was not necessary for good health and survival, what would be the point of pushing?
I think my parents had pretty good ideas about when to push. Take my brother, for instance, who was nervous about water. I still remember the screaming after they suited him up in enough PFDs to float a boat and pried him off the ladder in our backyard swimming pool. He floated, by gum, and it turns out he LIKED the water. After that he and I practically lived in the pool all summer every summer for years.
There are many times, particularly with Boychild, when I struggle with the dilemma of pushing versus not pushing. (Girlchild doesn’t need any prodding – she tends to embrace every life situation with gusto. I stand in awe of this fearlessness, although I’m sure it will cause different dilemmas in the future.)
Anyway, I was reminded of this parenting issue on the weekend in a minor way. Boychild got a new bike because his old one was too small. He even told us he needed a new one. When presented with the new, bigger one, however, he balked. It was “too big.” We prodded him to climb on. He tried it for about a half a millisecond, struggled and stormed off in disgust. (He’s a “stomp stomp stomp slam” kinda person, like his mama.)
We prodded and reasoned and explained the features of the new bike and, with some time and persistence, by the end of the day he was riding it and loving it.
I doubt we’ll be shipping him off to camp anytime soon, but maybe he’ll slowly learn that if he tries something, he just might like it. Like Brussels sprouts.
Published in The Perth Courier, April 8/10
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Past Deadline: What I've Been Missing on TV
Every once in a while I am reminded that pop culture is rarely part of my lexicon. And “lexicon” is a word we really don’t use often enough, don’t you think?
Anyway, I’m thinking specifically of television shows, although there are lots of other things that escape me, too. For example, who or what is a Bieber? (I now know. I looked him up because everyone was talking about him, and I fully expect my four-year-old daughter will soon be able to enlighten me on these things.)
I’ve also become quite a nerd when it comes to grown-up music. By the time I discovered “I’ve Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas they had already retired and moved to Arizona.
Since the 2000s my music and television intake has been largely dominated by the preferences of my children. Yes, I’m one of THOSE mothers who exposed her children to more than the 0.83 minutes of TV recommended per month. So far they’re not in jail, but it’s early yet.
Anyway, my glamorous lifestyle of being an at-home mother by day and work-from-home drone at night left a dearth of time for grown-up TV viewing. (“Dearth” – there’s another word that is scarcely used.) Now that both kids are in school, though, my evenings are freeing up a teeny bit.
Things in TV land have changed, though. Over time, all the dramas I used to like either ran their course and left the airwaves or were shuffled to an 8 p.m. time slot, which doesn’t bode well for those of us busy putting pre- and primary schoolers to bed, especially since I can’t be bothered to fiddle with recording them and watching later. By the time I discovered the awesomeness of House, they’d moved him to 8 p.m. You can also catch reruns at midnight somewhere, but that doesn’t always work for me.
The 10 p.m. time slot is now filled with a whole bunch of unfamiliar shows. Probably some of them are good, but forming relationships with new characters requires a solid commitment and investment of time. Sometimes I’d just rather read a book.
Groom-boy recently rejigged our viewing package, which cancelled some channels we don’t watch often and added some new ones, including a slate of retro stations. He is delighted. He loves sitcom reruns.
I don’t mind occasional reruns, but when it comes to the shows we lived with in the ’80s and ’90s, like Three’s Company and Roseanne, once I’ve stumbled on an episode for the sixth or 11th time then that’s enough – I’d rather smash my thumb with a hammer. (Back in those days we watched reruns in part because we didn’t have as many channels and options to peruse.)
Since I don’t share in this particular enthusiasm, it was a great tonic for Groom-boy when a friend of ours, Herbert, visited on the weekend. Herbert is a veritable catalogue of television trivia, so he and Groom-boy luxuriated in 20-year-old sitcoms for hours. Not only that, but they gave me a taste of that current pop culture sensation, Family Guy. I was previously only vaguely aware of its existence simply from the perspective of: “This cartoon is not suitable for primary schoolers.”
So Herbert and Groom-boy sat there and guffawed over Family Guy, with Herbert occasionally casting glances my way to gauge my reaction. I’m not saying parts weren’t funny, but I think I could carry on without ever seeing it again. I would be especially content to live without ever seeing a rerun of the episode that features the baby calling “Mama” about 100 times. Groom-boy and Herbert think it is quite amusing to imitate this episode in my presence because we all know that, like the mother in the show, I am liable to turn around and yell “WHAT!” to the kid, too.
Art imitates life….
So now we can rest assured Groom-boy’s television-viewing needs are covered, but there is a distinct possibility my efforts to stay in tune with pop culture will continue to evolve with my children.
On the other hand, nice, quiet books that don’t say “Mama” over and over again are good, too. And maybe I’ll start recording House.
Published in The Perth Courier on April 1/10.
Anyway, I’m thinking specifically of television shows, although there are lots of other things that escape me, too. For example, who or what is a Bieber? (I now know. I looked him up because everyone was talking about him, and I fully expect my four-year-old daughter will soon be able to enlighten me on these things.)
I’ve also become quite a nerd when it comes to grown-up music. By the time I discovered “I’ve Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas they had already retired and moved to Arizona.
Since the 2000s my music and television intake has been largely dominated by the preferences of my children. Yes, I’m one of THOSE mothers who exposed her children to more than the 0.83 minutes of TV recommended per month. So far they’re not in jail, but it’s early yet.
Anyway, my glamorous lifestyle of being an at-home mother by day and work-from-home drone at night left a dearth of time for grown-up TV viewing. (“Dearth” – there’s another word that is scarcely used.) Now that both kids are in school, though, my evenings are freeing up a teeny bit.
Things in TV land have changed, though. Over time, all the dramas I used to like either ran their course and left the airwaves or were shuffled to an 8 p.m. time slot, which doesn’t bode well for those of us busy putting pre- and primary schoolers to bed, especially since I can’t be bothered to fiddle with recording them and watching later. By the time I discovered the awesomeness of House, they’d moved him to 8 p.m. You can also catch reruns at midnight somewhere, but that doesn’t always work for me.
The 10 p.m. time slot is now filled with a whole bunch of unfamiliar shows. Probably some of them are good, but forming relationships with new characters requires a solid commitment and investment of time. Sometimes I’d just rather read a book.
Groom-boy recently rejigged our viewing package, which cancelled some channels we don’t watch often and added some new ones, including a slate of retro stations. He is delighted. He loves sitcom reruns.
I don’t mind occasional reruns, but when it comes to the shows we lived with in the ’80s and ’90s, like Three’s Company and Roseanne, once I’ve stumbled on an episode for the sixth or 11th time then that’s enough – I’d rather smash my thumb with a hammer. (Back in those days we watched reruns in part because we didn’t have as many channels and options to peruse.)
Since I don’t share in this particular enthusiasm, it was a great tonic for Groom-boy when a friend of ours, Herbert, visited on the weekend. Herbert is a veritable catalogue of television trivia, so he and Groom-boy luxuriated in 20-year-old sitcoms for hours. Not only that, but they gave me a taste of that current pop culture sensation, Family Guy. I was previously only vaguely aware of its existence simply from the perspective of: “This cartoon is not suitable for primary schoolers.”
So Herbert and Groom-boy sat there and guffawed over Family Guy, with Herbert occasionally casting glances my way to gauge my reaction. I’m not saying parts weren’t funny, but I think I could carry on without ever seeing it again. I would be especially content to live without ever seeing a rerun of the episode that features the baby calling “Mama” about 100 times. Groom-boy and Herbert think it is quite amusing to imitate this episode in my presence because we all know that, like the mother in the show, I am liable to turn around and yell “WHAT!” to the kid, too.
Art imitates life….
So now we can rest assured Groom-boy’s television-viewing needs are covered, but there is a distinct possibility my efforts to stay in tune with pop culture will continue to evolve with my children.
On the other hand, nice, quiet books that don’t say “Mama” over and over again are good, too. And maybe I’ll start recording House.
Published in The Perth Courier on April 1/10.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Past Deadline: Motivated by What, Exactly?
No matter how old we get, we are always learning about ourselves, don’t you think?
Our reactions to events change depending on our age and experience. I am, for example, less likely than my four-year-old daughter to fly into a rage when I can’t get my tights to go on right because I have learned this is not the end of the world and life will continue. That said, I don’t like tights and often have many unkind things to say about them and their ilk.
Over the years I have realized I need to spend more time outdoors than I do, especially because I work from home. This fresh air and change of scenery helps prevent me from being snarly with the big, little and furry people with whom I reside. I have also learned the health of our fish tank directly (and dramatically) affects my mood. And did you know I am likely to erupt into a stinkin’ tantrum when my work e-mail goes down? This involves Dramatic Pacing About and Stomping of Feet if the kids are in the vicinity; otherwise you are likely to hear a bad word. Maybe two. Uttered loudly. I have learned that no matter how often I tell myself it’s pointless to do this and that this is the way of technology, I can’t seem to help becoming overwhelmed by the frustration of it all.
One thing I am still having trouble figuring out, though, is the changing nature of motivation, especially in the context of taking care of myself. I generally don’t need to think about motivation when it comes to doing a good job in my work. I just do it because I like to. A paycheque doesn’t hurt, but really it comes down to doing good work that makes other people happy, too.
Why, though, is it so hard to motivate myself to stay fit and eat good food?
You’d think that, as humans, we would be hard wired to take excellent care of ourselves. It might even be instinctual if you factor in survival of the fittest, species preservation, etc. So why is it that we (or I in particular) sometimes have to argue with ourselves to ensure we exercise and follow good nutrition?
I have been motivated to exercise more for a number of reasons:
1) A family history of a bunch of things I’d prefer to avoid.
2) I’d like to be around to see how my kids turn out.
3) I happen to like it – once I get into the habit of doing it, that is.
And that’s the kicker – habit. As long as I’m on the bandwagon I’m a pretty good passenger. For example, I’ve ramped up the running again after a hiatus from December through February. I’m back to the point now where I miss it if I can’t go. But if something throws me off that wagon for any length of time (as it did this winter), it’s ridiculously difficult to climb back on.
Now, if I could only get to the driver’s seat by eating better, then maybe I’d make some progress in the pound-droppage area.
Of course I know that a big part of my problem is the temptation of quick, easy, processed meals as opposed to choosing healthier whole foods that take longer to prepare but, the point is, I know that. If I know that, why can’t I just follow through with action?
Fear is a good motivator, such as being told you have high cholesterol or high blood pressure or diabetes or that you are at risk for any of these or other things, but why does it have to come down to fear for your life?
I know for sure I am no longer motivated by my Skinny Jeans. I had some vain hope of eventually fitting into those token mid-’90s-era pants that predate babies, but I now suspect I won’t ever be that svelte thing again. As a result, they were dismissed in a fit of rabid closet decluttering last week.
So now I suppose I’ll have to rely on that old faithful annual motivator: bathing suit season. [Shudder.] Wish me luck.
Published in The Perth Courier, March 25/10
Our reactions to events change depending on our age and experience. I am, for example, less likely than my four-year-old daughter to fly into a rage when I can’t get my tights to go on right because I have learned this is not the end of the world and life will continue. That said, I don’t like tights and often have many unkind things to say about them and their ilk.
Over the years I have realized I need to spend more time outdoors than I do, especially because I work from home. This fresh air and change of scenery helps prevent me from being snarly with the big, little and furry people with whom I reside. I have also learned the health of our fish tank directly (and dramatically) affects my mood. And did you know I am likely to erupt into a stinkin’ tantrum when my work e-mail goes down? This involves Dramatic Pacing About and Stomping of Feet if the kids are in the vicinity; otherwise you are likely to hear a bad word. Maybe two. Uttered loudly. I have learned that no matter how often I tell myself it’s pointless to do this and that this is the way of technology, I can’t seem to help becoming overwhelmed by the frustration of it all.
One thing I am still having trouble figuring out, though, is the changing nature of motivation, especially in the context of taking care of myself. I generally don’t need to think about motivation when it comes to doing a good job in my work. I just do it because I like to. A paycheque doesn’t hurt, but really it comes down to doing good work that makes other people happy, too.
Why, though, is it so hard to motivate myself to stay fit and eat good food?
You’d think that, as humans, we would be hard wired to take excellent care of ourselves. It might even be instinctual if you factor in survival of the fittest, species preservation, etc. So why is it that we (or I in particular) sometimes have to argue with ourselves to ensure we exercise and follow good nutrition?
I have been motivated to exercise more for a number of reasons:
1) A family history of a bunch of things I’d prefer to avoid.
2) I’d like to be around to see how my kids turn out.
3) I happen to like it – once I get into the habit of doing it, that is.
And that’s the kicker – habit. As long as I’m on the bandwagon I’m a pretty good passenger. For example, I’ve ramped up the running again after a hiatus from December through February. I’m back to the point now where I miss it if I can’t go. But if something throws me off that wagon for any length of time (as it did this winter), it’s ridiculously difficult to climb back on.
Now, if I could only get to the driver’s seat by eating better, then maybe I’d make some progress in the pound-droppage area.
Of course I know that a big part of my problem is the temptation of quick, easy, processed meals as opposed to choosing healthier whole foods that take longer to prepare but, the point is, I know that. If I know that, why can’t I just follow through with action?
Fear is a good motivator, such as being told you have high cholesterol or high blood pressure or diabetes or that you are at risk for any of these or other things, but why does it have to come down to fear for your life?
I know for sure I am no longer motivated by my Skinny Jeans. I had some vain hope of eventually fitting into those token mid-’90s-era pants that predate babies, but I now suspect I won’t ever be that svelte thing again. As a result, they were dismissed in a fit of rabid closet decluttering last week.
So now I suppose I’ll have to rely on that old faithful annual motivator: bathing suit season. [Shudder.] Wish me luck.
Published in The Perth Courier, March 25/10
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Past Deadline: Stocking Up on Decoy Fruit
It’s March Break, which means I don’t have to make lunches for a whole week! Hurray! I’m a night-time lunch maker because I don’t move fast enough in the morning, and there’s nothing worse than realizing at a quarter to midnight on a school night that, [insert naughty word], I forgot to get started on the lunches.
My creativity definitely ebbs and flows when it comes to lunch making. Girlchild is pretty good about eating a variety of foods, but her brother is not so versatile, especially when it comes to fruit.
A typical bagged lunch in my house might consist of a sandwich, juice, yogurt, fruit and a snack such as crackers, cheese or a homemade muffin. Most of that stuff is palatable to my darlings, but if anything is going to get rejected in Boychild’s lunch, it’s the fruit.
Go figure.
He likes fruit and he’ll eat it at home, but it rarely gets consumed when I send it in his lunch.
(I should also mention I long ago conceded defeat when it comes to sending vegetables in the lunches. Maybe someday, but for now I figure getting fruit down their gullets is a victory.) On the fruit front I’ve tried lots of different things – from a variety of fresh fruit to tinned options and even things like applesauce. I draw the line at the rubbery fruit snacks – I just can’t get my head around those. On rare occasions I will send one, but it’s always accompanied by real fruit.
I have even tried sending extra fruit in place of the snack, but that just means more fruit comes home.
As you can imagine, I spend a great deal of time standing despondently in the kitchen, staring woefully at a selection of fruit and fighting the inner demon that is telling me to just forget about it. It’s like having the imaginary angel and devil on each shoulder.
Devil: Just skip it. What’s the point? He won’t eat it.
Angel: Don’t give up! You must send the fruit! Occasionally he eats it – he might surprise you!
Devil: Don’t be silly. He’ll ignore it and it’ll come home limp and yucky and there goes all that good money into the composter.
Angel: You must send the fruit! It’s in the Good Mother contract, section 9: “Good mothers send fruit in their children’s lunch bags.”
Devil: Good mothers don’t waste food.
Angel: Someone will notice you haven’t sent nutritious fruit in his bag!
Sigh. It always comes back to that. I imagine all the teachers gathering in the hallway at lunch time, tsking and shaking their wise heads. “Can you believe that Gray woman didn’t send fruit in Boychild’s lunch AGAIN? What an awful, hideous woman.”
So I always send the fruit.
Don’t tell anyone – but sometimes I cheat.
A while back Boychild was on a kick that he liked canned fruit cups. I was all over that. It’s fruit, it comes in a recyclable container and he’s eating it. All good things must come to an end, however, and the fruit cups fell out of favour. That left us with a small, lonely supply left over. We’re down to one tin, actually.
Sometimes, when it’s a quarter to midnight and my heart’s not in the whole lunch-making thing, I reach for that lonely tin and toss it in the bag. It’s the fruit decoy. He’s not likely to eat it, but he’s not likely to eat any other fruit, so what the heck. More importantly, I am not in breach of section 9 of the Good Mother contract AND there will be no need for anyone to tsk about the glaring lack of fruit in the lunch bag.
Phew.
Soon I will have to invest in a new batch of decoys as the label is getting a bit worn on “Fruit Cup: The Last,” not to mention I am mindful of expiry dates. One day Boychild actually ate one of the decoys, which was a joyous and wonderful surprise.
Now if you will excuse me, I have to go and polish my Mother of the Year award. Where did that thing get to….
Published in The Perth Courier on March 18/10.
My creativity definitely ebbs and flows when it comes to lunch making. Girlchild is pretty good about eating a variety of foods, but her brother is not so versatile, especially when it comes to fruit.
A typical bagged lunch in my house might consist of a sandwich, juice, yogurt, fruit and a snack such as crackers, cheese or a homemade muffin. Most of that stuff is palatable to my darlings, but if anything is going to get rejected in Boychild’s lunch, it’s the fruit.
Go figure.
He likes fruit and he’ll eat it at home, but it rarely gets consumed when I send it in his lunch.
(I should also mention I long ago conceded defeat when it comes to sending vegetables in the lunches. Maybe someday, but for now I figure getting fruit down their gullets is a victory.) On the fruit front I’ve tried lots of different things – from a variety of fresh fruit to tinned options and even things like applesauce. I draw the line at the rubbery fruit snacks – I just can’t get my head around those. On rare occasions I will send one, but it’s always accompanied by real fruit.
I have even tried sending extra fruit in place of the snack, but that just means more fruit comes home.
As you can imagine, I spend a great deal of time standing despondently in the kitchen, staring woefully at a selection of fruit and fighting the inner demon that is telling me to just forget about it. It’s like having the imaginary angel and devil on each shoulder.
Devil: Just skip it. What’s the point? He won’t eat it.
Angel: Don’t give up! You must send the fruit! Occasionally he eats it – he might surprise you!
Devil: Don’t be silly. He’ll ignore it and it’ll come home limp and yucky and there goes all that good money into the composter.
Angel: You must send the fruit! It’s in the Good Mother contract, section 9: “Good mothers send fruit in their children’s lunch bags.”
Devil: Good mothers don’t waste food.
Angel: Someone will notice you haven’t sent nutritious fruit in his bag!
Sigh. It always comes back to that. I imagine all the teachers gathering in the hallway at lunch time, tsking and shaking their wise heads. “Can you believe that Gray woman didn’t send fruit in Boychild’s lunch AGAIN? What an awful, hideous woman.”
So I always send the fruit.
Don’t tell anyone – but sometimes I cheat.
A while back Boychild was on a kick that he liked canned fruit cups. I was all over that. It’s fruit, it comes in a recyclable container and he’s eating it. All good things must come to an end, however, and the fruit cups fell out of favour. That left us with a small, lonely supply left over. We’re down to one tin, actually.
Sometimes, when it’s a quarter to midnight and my heart’s not in the whole lunch-making thing, I reach for that lonely tin and toss it in the bag. It’s the fruit decoy. He’s not likely to eat it, but he’s not likely to eat any other fruit, so what the heck. More importantly, I am not in breach of section 9 of the Good Mother contract AND there will be no need for anyone to tsk about the glaring lack of fruit in the lunch bag.
Phew.
Soon I will have to invest in a new batch of decoys as the label is getting a bit worn on “Fruit Cup: The Last,” not to mention I am mindful of expiry dates. One day Boychild actually ate one of the decoys, which was a joyous and wonderful surprise.
Now if you will excuse me, I have to go and polish my Mother of the Year award. Where did that thing get to….
Published in The Perth Courier on March 18/10.
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