Dear Blog:
I know it's been awhile since we last spoke. Thanks for being so understanding and giving me some space.
You've always been there for me through thick and thin and I'm afraid I've treated you rather shabbily, haven't I? I know I've been neglectful and while you've been mostly silent in your reproaches, this has only served to increase my feelings of guilt.
There are so many things which have been happening in my life lately and I've failed to share them with you. I didn't mean to shut you out but I suppose I did.
I guess every couple reaches a point where the comfortable silences in between conversation become greater and greater in length. At what point does it become uncomfortable and unbearable?
I know our friends are wondering what has been happening with us lately; don't think I haven't heard the gossipy whispers of those who wonder whether we are on the verge of dissolving our relationship. I don't think I'm ready to let go of you just yet but neither am I ready for a full-fledged commitment. Please don't expect me to be with you every moment of the day or to think of you constantly when we are not together. The bloom of our relationship has faded; the excitement and obsessive passion of our early courtship days has waned but has been replaced by the knowledge and comfort that you are always there for me, watching and waiting patiently. Is that asking too much of you?
You must know that I've been faithful to you throughout. Not everyone is monogamous; some people bounce back and forth between their main blog and the OTHER blog. And then there are those friends of mine who have moved on and are onto their second, third or fourth blog. Not me. I may have been oblivious to your needs, but I've not been out there servicing the needs of others.
Please continue to be patient. I promise to come home for good when the time is right and hopefully we can pick up where we left off. Until then though, you will have to just satisfy yourself with our brief and infrequent conjugal visits. Please don't lash out again and compare yourself to a McDonald's drive through window -- I can't bear the hurtful comments you hurl at me.
Affectionately,
your loving partner
Earth Mother
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Rip Van Winkle
Goodness ... has it been over a month since I've last posted?? Where does the time go?
Friday, December 22, 2006
Season's Greetings
I've been so incredibly swamped and scarily busy these past few weeks, so I haven't had much of an opportunity to post anything.
I wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! Enjoy the break and try to survive any family gatherings.
I wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! Enjoy the break and try to survive any family gatherings.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Ripples
I was sickened by the late news last night about the woman who threw her young child over the rail of the 401 and then jumped immediately after.
As tragic and incomprehensible this act may be, I always wonder about the other stories that never get any media attention. How horrible it must have been for the drivers on the highway to have inadvertently hit a falling child. How can those people continue their lives without constantly replaying the awful sound of the thud which the bodies must have made against their vehicles?
I once sold a house which was located in a very swanky neighbourhood and was surrounded by million dollar homes. Despite its location however, this house sold for only half a million dollars because it was in a serious state of disrepair. Another agent informed me that the owner of the house was divorced, and that her ex-husband had been one of the pathologists who had worked on a horrific multiple homicide case in which the young teenage victims had been tortured, sexually assaulted and then dismembered. Apparently, he never got over the horrors of what he had seen and turned to alcohol for solace. As a result, his marriage disintegrated and he became estranged from his wife and children. Following the dissolution of his career and relationships, he fell further apart and wasn't able to support his family. His two sons suffered immensely as they struggled to school themselves, maintain a modicum of normalcy and help support their mother.
For every hair raising news story, there are so many more victims than we care to contemplate. I wish the media would just once acknowledge that fact.
As tragic and incomprehensible this act may be, I always wonder about the other stories that never get any media attention. How horrible it must have been for the drivers on the highway to have inadvertently hit a falling child. How can those people continue their lives without constantly replaying the awful sound of the thud which the bodies must have made against their vehicles?
I once sold a house which was located in a very swanky neighbourhood and was surrounded by million dollar homes. Despite its location however, this house sold for only half a million dollars because it was in a serious state of disrepair. Another agent informed me that the owner of the house was divorced, and that her ex-husband had been one of the pathologists who had worked on a horrific multiple homicide case in which the young teenage victims had been tortured, sexually assaulted and then dismembered. Apparently, he never got over the horrors of what he had seen and turned to alcohol for solace. As a result, his marriage disintegrated and he became estranged from his wife and children. Following the dissolution of his career and relationships, he fell further apart and wasn't able to support his family. His two sons suffered immensely as they struggled to school themselves, maintain a modicum of normalcy and help support their mother.
For every hair raising news story, there are so many more victims than we care to contemplate. I wish the media would just once acknowledge that fact.
The winner takes all
When my youngest child was about three months old, I was ambushed and subsequently interviewed for a local TV parenting show. Several questions were posed, the most memorable of which was "Do you think that parents today are competitve when it comes to their kids". I think at the time since I was incredibly sleep deprived I probably flubbed the question and chattered on incoherently, but my answer was essentially "yes".
Through the years I've been amazed by how parents choose to compete with one another. During the baby stages, competition appears to exist mainly between the mothers. Sometimes it begins as early as the day after the birth of their precious one -- "Well, I had natural childbirth despite the fact that I had the most excruciatingly painful back labour the entire time. It's too bad you caved in and had the epidural".
And it doesn't stop there; it goes on to encompass feeding, sleeping and pooping schedules. "My little guy goes down for five hours straight and he's only six weeks old. You must be doing something wrong if your four month old still isn't settling down for long stretches of time".
The other divisions of competition includes when the babies uttered their first words, who cut their first tooth, who started eating solids first, who crawled first, who rolled over first, who started walking first, who smiled first ...
Enter the toilet training years ... "My sweet darling is soooo smart ... she potty trained herself by the time she was eighteen months old. We only had two accidents and since then we've never looked back". "Your son sits down to pee? My guy always stands up like a big boy".
There are endless tasks at which one's child could be the best. Is your child an early reader? Did he or she learn to write his or her name by the time he or she was two? What about the alphabet song? Did they express an interest in the arts from the time they could talk and walk? Does he or she have a great sense of humour? Play the piano or violin? No? Well, you better get on that one. They say it's never too early to start. It helps boost their math skills. And on that topic, can your little one count to thirty yet?
I spent this past weekend at a squash tournament for my eldest son. He is and has always been fairly athletic and has a keen interest in sports of any kind. I guess at a certain age it's not enough to just play squash now and again; one wants to see how one ranks against the masses. So at his request and upon the direction of the raquets pro, I registered him for a junior silver tournament.
It was a marathon event, running from Friday until Sunday evening, and fortunately, it dovetailed quite nicely with our hockey schedule. J. was pumped for the whole event. He had been practising since September and he felt that his game had improved dramatically since last year.
I was a bit nervous about the whole thing because I knew that he would be playing against some of the province's top-ranked kids and I didn't want him to lose his love for the game if he got crushed early on. Fortunately, he held his own fairly well and although he didn't win, he did get the satisfaction of knowing that he was just as good as most of the kids there.
What fascinated me however, throughout the tourney was the dynamic between dads and lads. The squash courts were designed in such a way that the back wall was almost competely bulit of glass. This permitted a second floor viewing gallery where most parents opted to sit. As the tournament progressed however, parents began sitting downstairs so that they could pop open the court door at any given time and yell out instructins to their child.
I noticed that each boy would either look up towards the gallery or directly past the door at his dad when he missed a shot. The dads would often be making grimaces, wildly gesticulating while mouthing instructions "Go deep. Don't get sloppy with your backhand. Use your head".
Most of the moms on the other hand, simply smiled encouragingly and waved. Not that we women aren't sports fans ourselves, or don't engage in the game of squash. I had a number of tips I could have given my son had he asked, but I wasn't about to start screaming them out between games. It's interesting that while women appear to be competitive when our kids are babies, we often don't exhibit that streak of cmopetitiveness in the arena of sports. I guess it's because the dads step in with their pride of their sons in this regard. During the tournament, I heard so many fathers trying to one-up the other "My son is only eight and he's already got a killer serve." "Oh yeah? Well both my boys have been told that they could be number one in Ontario by next year".
Of course, I would have been delighted if my son had won, or at least made it into the finals. I wanted this not because I harbour a deep seated hope that he will be a squash champion, but because I wanted him to be rewarded for his hard work and I wanted to see him happy. One of the toughest moments of the tournaments was watching him lose his fifth and final game of an amazing, crowd-drawing match. He came off the court in tears, upset at the ref for missing an important shot, angry at the other player for being dishonest and just generally frustrated with himself for failing to return balls he felt he should have easily gotten. Inconsolable, he refused the hugs offered by the entire family and sobbed in a corner. Albeit seemingly unwillingly, he listened to me tell him that sports, and life itself, was all about focussing on the positive moments, that he just had to acknowledge any of the mistakes he made and just move on, without the negative feelings colouring any future games. He stared bleakly past me as I told him that the whole point of the tournament wasn't simply to waltz in and win, but to get some valuable feedback about oneself and to learn how to play against others in a respectful and sportsmanlike manner. In the end, I concluded, despite his loss, it was a postive event; he had learned that he could stand up against some of the best players and give them a worthy match.
What people forget when they try to establish that their children, and themselves by extension, are the best of blah-blah-blah is that these titles are meaningless. The glory of being Numero Uno is a worthless one really. The journey to get there however, regardless of whether one achieves the actual goal, is what counts. My son may never be among the top ranked squash players in Ontario, he may never make it to the finals in a tournament and he may never improve his strokes, but I hope that he will grow up with a great deal of character and that he will learn that it's important to always keep trying. Along the way, I hope he also remembers to conduct himself with respect.
For myself, I hope that I won't consider my children's victories to be my own and that I won't ever steal their thunder. I hope that I won't ever hope to bolster my own ego by looking to my children's accomplishments.
Through the years I've been amazed by how parents choose to compete with one another. During the baby stages, competition appears to exist mainly between the mothers. Sometimes it begins as early as the day after the birth of their precious one -- "Well, I had natural childbirth despite the fact that I had the most excruciatingly painful back labour the entire time. It's too bad you caved in and had the epidural".
And it doesn't stop there; it goes on to encompass feeding, sleeping and pooping schedules. "My little guy goes down for five hours straight and he's only six weeks old. You must be doing something wrong if your four month old still isn't settling down for long stretches of time".
The other divisions of competition includes when the babies uttered their first words, who cut their first tooth, who started eating solids first, who crawled first, who rolled over first, who started walking first, who smiled first ...
Enter the toilet training years ... "My sweet darling is soooo smart ... she potty trained herself by the time she was eighteen months old. We only had two accidents and since then we've never looked back". "Your son sits down to pee? My guy always stands up like a big boy".
There are endless tasks at which one's child could be the best. Is your child an early reader? Did he or she learn to write his or her name by the time he or she was two? What about the alphabet song? Did they express an interest in the arts from the time they could talk and walk? Does he or she have a great sense of humour? Play the piano or violin? No? Well, you better get on that one. They say it's never too early to start. It helps boost their math skills. And on that topic, can your little one count to thirty yet?
I spent this past weekend at a squash tournament for my eldest son. He is and has always been fairly athletic and has a keen interest in sports of any kind. I guess at a certain age it's not enough to just play squash now and again; one wants to see how one ranks against the masses. So at his request and upon the direction of the raquets pro, I registered him for a junior silver tournament.
It was a marathon event, running from Friday until Sunday evening, and fortunately, it dovetailed quite nicely with our hockey schedule. J. was pumped for the whole event. He had been practising since September and he felt that his game had improved dramatically since last year.
I was a bit nervous about the whole thing because I knew that he would be playing against some of the province's top-ranked kids and I didn't want him to lose his love for the game if he got crushed early on. Fortunately, he held his own fairly well and although he didn't win, he did get the satisfaction of knowing that he was just as good as most of the kids there.
What fascinated me however, throughout the tourney was the dynamic between dads and lads. The squash courts were designed in such a way that the back wall was almost competely bulit of glass. This permitted a second floor viewing gallery where most parents opted to sit. As the tournament progressed however, parents began sitting downstairs so that they could pop open the court door at any given time and yell out instructins to their child.
I noticed that each boy would either look up towards the gallery or directly past the door at his dad when he missed a shot. The dads would often be making grimaces, wildly gesticulating while mouthing instructions "Go deep. Don't get sloppy with your backhand. Use your head".
Most of the moms on the other hand, simply smiled encouragingly and waved. Not that we women aren't sports fans ourselves, or don't engage in the game of squash. I had a number of tips I could have given my son had he asked, but I wasn't about to start screaming them out between games. It's interesting that while women appear to be competitive when our kids are babies, we often don't exhibit that streak of cmopetitiveness in the arena of sports. I guess it's because the dads step in with their pride of their sons in this regard. During the tournament, I heard so many fathers trying to one-up the other "My son is only eight and he's already got a killer serve." "Oh yeah? Well both my boys have been told that they could be number one in Ontario by next year".
Of course, I would have been delighted if my son had won, or at least made it into the finals. I wanted this not because I harbour a deep seated hope that he will be a squash champion, but because I wanted him to be rewarded for his hard work and I wanted to see him happy. One of the toughest moments of the tournaments was watching him lose his fifth and final game of an amazing, crowd-drawing match. He came off the court in tears, upset at the ref for missing an important shot, angry at the other player for being dishonest and just generally frustrated with himself for failing to return balls he felt he should have easily gotten. Inconsolable, he refused the hugs offered by the entire family and sobbed in a corner. Albeit seemingly unwillingly, he listened to me tell him that sports, and life itself, was all about focussing on the positive moments, that he just had to acknowledge any of the mistakes he made and just move on, without the negative feelings colouring any future games. He stared bleakly past me as I told him that the whole point of the tournament wasn't simply to waltz in and win, but to get some valuable feedback about oneself and to learn how to play against others in a respectful and sportsmanlike manner. In the end, I concluded, despite his loss, it was a postive event; he had learned that he could stand up against some of the best players and give them a worthy match.
What people forget when they try to establish that their children, and themselves by extension, are the best of blah-blah-blah is that these titles are meaningless. The glory of being Numero Uno is a worthless one really. The journey to get there however, regardless of whether one achieves the actual goal, is what counts. My son may never be among the top ranked squash players in Ontario, he may never make it to the finals in a tournament and he may never improve his strokes, but I hope that he will grow up with a great deal of character and that he will learn that it's important to always keep trying. Along the way, I hope he also remembers to conduct himself with respect.
For myself, I hope that I won't consider my children's victories to be my own and that I won't ever steal their thunder. I hope that I won't ever hope to bolster my own ego by looking to my children's accomplishments.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar
The naivete and sheer innocence of children often reminds me of how jaded we adults are. Two stories come to mind whenever I think about how far and away from our childhood:
1. Within our household, we are fairly careful with our language. Not only do we refrain from using profanity, but we also discourage our children from employing words like "hate", "fart", "stupid", etc. Our children have been instructed to try to be positive in their thinking and in their speech. We've tried to impress upon them the adage that "if you've nothing good to say to someone, then don't say anything at all".
When my eldest son J., began grade one, he was exposed to all sorts of children, a few of whose parents didn't necessarily subscribe to the same school of thought as we did. Indeed, their philosophy appeared to be more along the lines of the blurt-whatever-comes-to-your-mind-however-inappropriate-it-may-be variety. J. was horrified that kids would say some of the things that he would never dare to utter.
On our way home from school one day, J. announced from the back of the car that one of his classmates constantly used the "S-word". While I thought that this language was somewhat inappropriate for a boy on the verge of his sixth birthday, I also knew that there was a small faction of kids within the school who consistently used what we deemed 'bad' language. The difficulty was how to keep our kids from employing obnoxious or inappropriate terms when others used it regularly.
While J. was expounding on the evils of employing the "S-word", his little sister suddenly piped up "What IS the S-word?" to which J. replied "You don't want to know ... it's SOOOOOOOOOOO bad". Of course, this just piqued her interest and she kept pressing him to tell her what the word was. After many refusals on J.'s part, she finally asked him to tell her what the word meant. J. hesitated and asked me to help him out with the definition, so I said "It's a not very nice word for poo". At this, J. said "It is? I thought it was the opposite of smart". Uh oh ...
I asked J. what exactly was the S-word and he leaned in and whispered in my ear "Stupid. What word were you thinking of?"
"Um ... never mind ..."
2. A few years ago, I was speaking with a close friend of J. This particular boy is utterly endearing; half-Parisian with a mop of hair, he possesses a charmingly earnest demeanour. On this particular occasion, he was walking alongside me and my children as we exited the school.
At one point, I glanced down at his feet and noticed that his shoes appeared to be several sizes larger than J's. Since J. has always asked me if he is of average height or not, I enquired as to the size of his friend's shoes. As it turned out his shoe size was probably only about two sizes smaller than my own -- large if you consider the fact that he was in grade two at the time.
When I exclaimed "Wow ... you have big feet for a kid your age", he replied with a "Well you know what they say about people with big shoes, right?"
I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart pounding, all the while thinking "Oh no ... this kid not only has way larger feet than J., he is clearly so much more precocious". After the boy prompted me again with his question, I then felt compelled to respond with a weak "Um well I've heard of something but I can't really remember ... so, WHAT do they say about people with big shoes?"
The answer with a lovely French lilt followed immediately, "Well, that they are fraidy cats. And that's not true because my cousin has really big feet and she's so brave. She's not scared of anything". He then followed it up with an innocent "Is that what you were told?" I smiled down at his big brown eyes and managed to stammer out "Why yes, I think I remember hearing something likethat".
1. Within our household, we are fairly careful with our language. Not only do we refrain from using profanity, but we also discourage our children from employing words like "hate", "fart", "stupid", etc. Our children have been instructed to try to be positive in their thinking and in their speech. We've tried to impress upon them the adage that "if you've nothing good to say to someone, then don't say anything at all".
When my eldest son J., began grade one, he was exposed to all sorts of children, a few of whose parents didn't necessarily subscribe to the same school of thought as we did. Indeed, their philosophy appeared to be more along the lines of the blurt-whatever-comes-to-your-mind-however-inappropriate-it-may-be variety. J. was horrified that kids would say some of the things that he would never dare to utter.
On our way home from school one day, J. announced from the back of the car that one of his classmates constantly used the "S-word". While I thought that this language was somewhat inappropriate for a boy on the verge of his sixth birthday, I also knew that there was a small faction of kids within the school who consistently used what we deemed 'bad' language. The difficulty was how to keep our kids from employing obnoxious or inappropriate terms when others used it regularly.
While J. was expounding on the evils of employing the "S-word", his little sister suddenly piped up "What IS the S-word?" to which J. replied "You don't want to know ... it's SOOOOOOOOOOO bad". Of course, this just piqued her interest and she kept pressing him to tell her what the word was. After many refusals on J.'s part, she finally asked him to tell her what the word meant. J. hesitated and asked me to help him out with the definition, so I said "It's a not very nice word for poo". At this, J. said "It is? I thought it was the opposite of smart". Uh oh ...
I asked J. what exactly was the S-word and he leaned in and whispered in my ear "Stupid. What word were you thinking of?"
"Um ... never mind ..."
2. A few years ago, I was speaking with a close friend of J. This particular boy is utterly endearing; half-Parisian with a mop of hair, he possesses a charmingly earnest demeanour. On this particular occasion, he was walking alongside me and my children as we exited the school.
At one point, I glanced down at his feet and noticed that his shoes appeared to be several sizes larger than J's. Since J. has always asked me if he is of average height or not, I enquired as to the size of his friend's shoes. As it turned out his shoe size was probably only about two sizes smaller than my own -- large if you consider the fact that he was in grade two at the time.
When I exclaimed "Wow ... you have big feet for a kid your age", he replied with a "Well you know what they say about people with big shoes, right?"
I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart pounding, all the while thinking "Oh no ... this kid not only has way larger feet than J., he is clearly so much more precocious". After the boy prompted me again with his question, I then felt compelled to respond with a weak "Um well I've heard of something but I can't really remember ... so, WHAT do they say about people with big shoes?"
The answer with a lovely French lilt followed immediately, "Well, that they are fraidy cats. And that's not true because my cousin has really big feet and she's so brave. She's not scared of anything". He then followed it up with an innocent "Is that what you were told?" I smiled down at his big brown eyes and managed to stammer out "Why yes, I think I remember hearing something likethat".
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Walk a mile in my shoes ... or not
Wow, I'm running so far behind in everything! I had a completely packed and busy week last week because of my son's tenth birthday followed immediately by Hallowe'en. Tons of baking went on in my house (I used a total of twenty cups of flour) as well as lots of binging.
I absolutely love Hallowe'en. When I was younger, that day was all about getting candy as my parents never had junk food or sweets in our house, so the 31st was our one day to make a big score and ration it out through the year. As I got older, I think I just got more and more enamoured with the whole idea of getting dressed up and cutting loose that one night. Once I had kids, I think I got off on the process of making the most creative, unique and fun costumes for them.
What is funny is that my kids -- the boys especially -- are not so into trick-or-treating. (This despite the fact that they drive me crazy in the weeks beforehand with the stress of finding or making the perfect costume). I suppose it's because, unlike my childhood household, my cupboards are bursting to the seams with all kinds of goodies and my kids can pick and choose between their treats.
We went trick-or-treating with one of my friends and her two sons who are both best friends with my two sons. Our whole experience didn't last beyond an hour though before our boys were clamouring to go home (die hard candy addict that she is, my daughter wanted to keep going for another hour or two). On our way home, my friend and I both declared loudly that our kids were just way too soft and that "back in our day, we would go trick-or-treating for four hours ... in minus fifteen degree weather ... and uh ... with no shoes ..."
Kids today ... they got it easy!
I absolutely love Hallowe'en. When I was younger, that day was all about getting candy as my parents never had junk food or sweets in our house, so the 31st was our one day to make a big score and ration it out through the year. As I got older, I think I just got more and more enamoured with the whole idea of getting dressed up and cutting loose that one night. Once I had kids, I think I got off on the process of making the most creative, unique and fun costumes for them.
What is funny is that my kids -- the boys especially -- are not so into trick-or-treating. (This despite the fact that they drive me crazy in the weeks beforehand with the stress of finding or making the perfect costume). I suppose it's because, unlike my childhood household, my cupboards are bursting to the seams with all kinds of goodies and my kids can pick and choose between their treats.
We went trick-or-treating with one of my friends and her two sons who are both best friends with my two sons. Our whole experience didn't last beyond an hour though before our boys were clamouring to go home (die hard candy addict that she is, my daughter wanted to keep going for another hour or two). On our way home, my friend and I both declared loudly that our kids were just way too soft and that "back in our day, we would go trick-or-treating for four hours ... in minus fifteen degree weather ... and uh ... with no shoes ..."
Kids today ... they got it easy!
Monday, October 23, 2006
Those outfits aren't just aerodynamic ... they're waterproof, too
Once again, i've been so bogged down that I haven't had much of a chance to post. It's funny how blogging, which began as a pleasurable activity, has sometimes descended into the ranks of burdenous commitment! I suppose I should ease up on the pressure which I place upon myself if I don't post as regularly as I used to.
While I privately sort out my neurosis surrounding blogging, let me leave you with this amusing little anecdote:
My youngest child has a tendency to sleep with possessions that are brand new. When he got his first pair of running shoes, he insisted on putting them upon his bare feet before climbing into his crib for the night. When he got a new basketball that went into his crib as well.
Yesterday I bought him his Hallowe'en costume. Unlike my other two children, he is not interested in exploring the fun of homemade costumes. He's very much a commercially driven child who enjoys the canned pop culture version of life. His costume choice this year was Batman. For the whopping price of $35.00 we got a one-piece grey and black Batman jumpsuit, a yellow power belt and a fabulous black cape with the Batman mask attached. It was a veritable polyster-wrought masterpiece; in other words a young child's dream come to life. Of course, he had to don his superhero ensemble as soon as we'd cashed out of the store. (God forbid anyone should see him in his civvies).
No surprise that after his shower that night, rather than jumping into his pyjamas, he opted for his costume instead. His only concession to my concerns of nocturnal overheating was to abstain from wearing the cape and mask, although he insisted that they be placed next to him in bed. I guess he was anticipating that Toronto might have some emergency in the dead of the night which would require Batman's services.
At about 6:00 a.m. I was awakened by a very agitated mini Batman. Our young superhero was hopping back and forth from one foot to the other performing his best rendition of what is known in our household as The Pee Dance. Apparently, he awoke with a very full bladder but somehow couldn't negotiate his way out of his costume in order to relieve himself. Ironically, as soon as he was freed from the shackles of his nylon duds, he ran with superhero-like speed to the washroom. My husband and I chuckled throughout our little one's entire three minute-long pee session, and then laughed even harder when he very solemnly put his outfit on again before going back to bed.
God bless my kids ... without them I'd have absolutely nothing to blog about!
While I privately sort out my neurosis surrounding blogging, let me leave you with this amusing little anecdote:
My youngest child has a tendency to sleep with possessions that are brand new. When he got his first pair of running shoes, he insisted on putting them upon his bare feet before climbing into his crib for the night. When he got a new basketball that went into his crib as well.
Yesterday I bought him his Hallowe'en costume. Unlike my other two children, he is not interested in exploring the fun of homemade costumes. He's very much a commercially driven child who enjoys the canned pop culture version of life. His costume choice this year was Batman. For the whopping price of $35.00 we got a one-piece grey and black Batman jumpsuit, a yellow power belt and a fabulous black cape with the Batman mask attached. It was a veritable polyster-wrought masterpiece; in other words a young child's dream come to life. Of course, he had to don his superhero ensemble as soon as we'd cashed out of the store. (God forbid anyone should see him in his civvies).
No surprise that after his shower that night, rather than jumping into his pyjamas, he opted for his costume instead. His only concession to my concerns of nocturnal overheating was to abstain from wearing the cape and mask, although he insisted that they be placed next to him in bed. I guess he was anticipating that Toronto might have some emergency in the dead of the night which would require Batman's services.
At about 6:00 a.m. I was awakened by a very agitated mini Batman. Our young superhero was hopping back and forth from one foot to the other performing his best rendition of what is known in our household as The Pee Dance. Apparently, he awoke with a very full bladder but somehow couldn't negotiate his way out of his costume in order to relieve himself. Ironically, as soon as he was freed from the shackles of his nylon duds, he ran with superhero-like speed to the washroom. My husband and I chuckled throughout our little one's entire three minute-long pee session, and then laughed even harder when he very solemnly put his outfit on again before going back to bed.
God bless my kids ... without them I'd have absolutely nothing to blog about!
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
It's all about you ...
I've been so busy lately and haven't been moved to post at all.
I was at a social gathering on the weekend and a question was asked to the group at large which I still haven't been able to answer yet. Curious and interested enough to poll all you bloggers.
If you had to pick someone famous (and living) to spend one hour with, who would it be and why?
I was at a social gathering on the weekend and a question was asked to the group at large which I still haven't been able to answer yet. Curious and interested enough to poll all you bloggers.
If you had to pick someone famous (and living) to spend one hour with, who would it be and why?
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Both ends of the spectrum
My youngest son just keeps hitting those milestones mercilessly.
Within the first week of having begun first grade, he lost his first tooth. As if that wasn't a painful enough reminder that my baby is growing up, his sister came home from school last Thursday and announced that during recess that day, he had kissed a girl. On the lips, no less.
While I gazed down at him incredulously, my baby at least had the good sense to look shyly down and colour slightly. Still, when I enquired as to what his opinion was regarding how the whole event went, he responded cheerily "It was good". I was only moderately comforted by my daughter's remarks that the girl had been far more willing to participate than he had.
The following day when I picked up my kids from school, my daughter reported that this time, he had kissed a boy on the lips. Not sure who had made the first move although I have a fair idea.
My husband and I used to speculate on what life would be like when our children got older. He always described our eldest son as being more of a lover and the younger one a "banger" (his choice of words, not mine). We always imagined that our eldest would finally bring home a girl and that over the course of dinner, our youngest would make a play for her and charm her pants off.
Funny, even though I think of myself as a liberal and open-minded parent, I had had never considered the scenario in which my daughter's boyfriends might get stolen by her younger brother.
The next few years should be interesting ones ...
Within the first week of having begun first grade, he lost his first tooth. As if that wasn't a painful enough reminder that my baby is growing up, his sister came home from school last Thursday and announced that during recess that day, he had kissed a girl. On the lips, no less.
While I gazed down at him incredulously, my baby at least had the good sense to look shyly down and colour slightly. Still, when I enquired as to what his opinion was regarding how the whole event went, he responded cheerily "It was good". I was only moderately comforted by my daughter's remarks that the girl had been far more willing to participate than he had.
The following day when I picked up my kids from school, my daughter reported that this time, he had kissed a boy on the lips. Not sure who had made the first move although I have a fair idea.
My husband and I used to speculate on what life would be like when our children got older. He always described our eldest son as being more of a lover and the younger one a "banger" (his choice of words, not mine). We always imagined that our eldest would finally bring home a girl and that over the course of dinner, our youngest would make a play for her and charm her pants off.
Funny, even though I think of myself as a liberal and open-minded parent, I had had never considered the scenario in which my daughter's boyfriends might get stolen by her younger brother.
The next few years should be interesting ones ...
Friday, September 29, 2006
All we need to know, we should have learned in kindergarten
I am often fascinated by how easily children, boys especially, can get together and play.
It's as though all they say is "I'm a kid, you're a kid. Great, we have so much in common. Now let's go tussle out back".
A couple of years ago, I got back in touch with a university friend. We had been quite close during our undergrad years, but then drifted apart and lost touch with each other subsequently.
Upon our reunion, we discovered that our sons were about four months apart in age so we arranged an impromptu playdate. Without consulting her son, we arrived at her house with my eldest guy in tow. We discovered her son in the basement playing basketball by himself. As we stood awkwardly in the doorway watching him, my friend made the introductions, during which time our sons remained completely silent.
While my friend started chattering about how we had been best friends for years, her son suddenly bounce passed the ball to my son who, without missing a beat, caught it, entered the room, shot the ball and then bounce passed it back. Immediately, they fell into a rhythm of taking shots on net and passing the ball back to the other. All this went on wordlessly for several minutes. My friend and I watched this, shrugged our shoulders and went upstairs for a cup of coffee, leaving our children to their own devices.
I'm not sure at what point one of them finally spoke, and what was said exactly. But the two boys got on like a house on fire and hours later when they emerged from the basement, they were giggling and chatting as though they'd always known each other.
I've observed this kind of easy acceptance and camaraderie amongst other children on many occasions, and I'm constantly amazed by it. Many adults tend to complicate things in that they spend more time and energy sizing each other up and deciding if another person is the right gender, religion, personality type, intelligence level, etc. before they can decide if they want to go forward and extend any kind of friendship or friendly gesture.
Maybe we need to take a leaf out of our children's books and just learn to relax.
It's as though all they say is "I'm a kid, you're a kid. Great, we have so much in common. Now let's go tussle out back".
A couple of years ago, I got back in touch with a university friend. We had been quite close during our undergrad years, but then drifted apart and lost touch with each other subsequently.
Upon our reunion, we discovered that our sons were about four months apart in age so we arranged an impromptu playdate. Without consulting her son, we arrived at her house with my eldest guy in tow. We discovered her son in the basement playing basketball by himself. As we stood awkwardly in the doorway watching him, my friend made the introductions, during which time our sons remained completely silent.
While my friend started chattering about how we had been best friends for years, her son suddenly bounce passed the ball to my son who, without missing a beat, caught it, entered the room, shot the ball and then bounce passed it back. Immediately, they fell into a rhythm of taking shots on net and passing the ball back to the other. All this went on wordlessly for several minutes. My friend and I watched this, shrugged our shoulders and went upstairs for a cup of coffee, leaving our children to their own devices.
I'm not sure at what point one of them finally spoke, and what was said exactly. But the two boys got on like a house on fire and hours later when they emerged from the basement, they were giggling and chatting as though they'd always known each other.
I've observed this kind of easy acceptance and camaraderie amongst other children on many occasions, and I'm constantly amazed by it. Many adults tend to complicate things in that they spend more time and energy sizing each other up and deciding if another person is the right gender, religion, personality type, intelligence level, etc. before they can decide if they want to go forward and extend any kind of friendship or friendly gesture.
Maybe we need to take a leaf out of our children's books and just learn to relax.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Copycat
Have any of you ever seen the movie Single White Female? It's about a woman who advertises for a roommate. Said roommate turns out to have a few screws loose, fixates upon the woman and ultimately tries to get rid of everyone important in her life so as to have an exclusive and close relationship. At one point, the deranged roommate from hell deliberately tries to look and dress just like the object of her obsession.
There is a young woman who used to teach my eldest son a couple of years ago. She is on the verge of turning thirty and is in all respects a very attractive person. For whatever reason, she has always liked me and my family, and that feeling has been mutually reciprocated.
A couple of weeks ago, she approached me and commented favourably on the outfit I was wearing. Among her gushing comments was the confession that she felt herself to be a "safe dresser" while she perceived me to be edgy and willing to take risks in the fashion arena. I suppose in a sea of Lulu Lemon clad women gingerly clutching Starbucks coffee cups so as not to ruin their French manicures, I might appear a little different, bur I'm hardly way out there.
Last week, the teacher sidled up to me in the courtyard and started fishing for compliments with regards to her outfit. I couldn't help but think that her ensemble seemed like an attempt to recreate the look that I'd had the week before, especially since her opening line was "I'm trying really hard to be a little edgier today". I complimented her nevertheless and said that as always, she looked wonderful.
On Friday of last week, I was dressed fairly conservatively as I'd been meeting with new clients. Still, my outfit had a bit of punch in that my skirt was of an unusual shape and was a beautiful shade of hot pink. That afternoon, the same teacher approached me, complimented me yet again on my look. She then went on to say that she had the exact same skirt and that she was "taking notes on my outfit".
Yesterday, as I entered the courtyard to pick up my children, I did a double take. Standing about twenty feet from me was the teacher clad in a virtually identical outfit as I had been wearing on Friday.
It's funny. That kind of thing always happened in high school. In every high school, I think there is always at least one girl who has a certain je ne sais quoi about her. Hand in hand with that girl is at least one friend who is mildly adoring and wants to be like her in every respect possible. Generally, that desire to emulate is expressed in terms of clothing. But for whatever reason, the obsessor can never quite pull it off.
During the summer, I was sitting in a coffee shop one day when in strolled these two young girls. They were probably about fifteen years old and they had that I-am-the-cat's-pyjamas-confidence that only a young teen can possess. I had to stifle a giggle watching them as they were dressed virtually identically in brown tank tops, fashionably frayed jean minis, flip flops and clutch purses. But even though they were fashion's answer to the Bobsey Twins, it was still obvious who was the trendsetter and who was the follower. I wanted to shake the second girl and say "What are you doing? Why do you want to be a clone? Wouldn't you rather be unique?"
I'm way past my high school years, but I have to admit that it does bother me to have a clone out there. It must be genetic because my daughter, who expresses herself by her own completely creative and unique sense of fashion, gets upset if anyone copies her.
Update: This afternoon when picking up my children, I was approached yet again by the teacher who asked where I got a particular item of clothing I was wearing today. She said that coincidentally she had just been flipping through a magazine this afternoon and had wanted to create the very same look I was sporting. Wondering if this means that tomorrow I will be greeted with a version of myself?
There is a young woman who used to teach my eldest son a couple of years ago. She is on the verge of turning thirty and is in all respects a very attractive person. For whatever reason, she has always liked me and my family, and that feeling has been mutually reciprocated.
A couple of weeks ago, she approached me and commented favourably on the outfit I was wearing. Among her gushing comments was the confession that she felt herself to be a "safe dresser" while she perceived me to be edgy and willing to take risks in the fashion arena. I suppose in a sea of Lulu Lemon clad women gingerly clutching Starbucks coffee cups so as not to ruin their French manicures, I might appear a little different, bur I'm hardly way out there.
Last week, the teacher sidled up to me in the courtyard and started fishing for compliments with regards to her outfit. I couldn't help but think that her ensemble seemed like an attempt to recreate the look that I'd had the week before, especially since her opening line was "I'm trying really hard to be a little edgier today". I complimented her nevertheless and said that as always, she looked wonderful.
On Friday of last week, I was dressed fairly conservatively as I'd been meeting with new clients. Still, my outfit had a bit of punch in that my skirt was of an unusual shape and was a beautiful shade of hot pink. That afternoon, the same teacher approached me, complimented me yet again on my look. She then went on to say that she had the exact same skirt and that she was "taking notes on my outfit".
Yesterday, as I entered the courtyard to pick up my children, I did a double take. Standing about twenty feet from me was the teacher clad in a virtually identical outfit as I had been wearing on Friday.
It's funny. That kind of thing always happened in high school. In every high school, I think there is always at least one girl who has a certain je ne sais quoi about her. Hand in hand with that girl is at least one friend who is mildly adoring and wants to be like her in every respect possible. Generally, that desire to emulate is expressed in terms of clothing. But for whatever reason, the obsessor can never quite pull it off.
During the summer, I was sitting in a coffee shop one day when in strolled these two young girls. They were probably about fifteen years old and they had that I-am-the-cat's-pyjamas-confidence that only a young teen can possess. I had to stifle a giggle watching them as they were dressed virtually identically in brown tank tops, fashionably frayed jean minis, flip flops and clutch purses. But even though they were fashion's answer to the Bobsey Twins, it was still obvious who was the trendsetter and who was the follower. I wanted to shake the second girl and say "What are you doing? Why do you want to be a clone? Wouldn't you rather be unique?"
I'm way past my high school years, but I have to admit that it does bother me to have a clone out there. It must be genetic because my daughter, who expresses herself by her own completely creative and unique sense of fashion, gets upset if anyone copies her.
Update: This afternoon when picking up my children, I was approached yet again by the teacher who asked where I got a particular item of clothing I was wearing today. She said that coincidentally she had just been flipping through a magazine this afternoon and had wanted to create the very same look I was sporting. Wondering if this means that tomorrow I will be greeted with a version of myself?
Monday, September 25, 2006
Tales from the fifth grade
Can't think,
Brain dumb,
Inspiration won't come.
Bum pen,
No ink,
Best wishes,
Amen.
That little rhymer was scribbled into my grade school autograph books on numerous occasions by various classmates.
In the third grade, the teasing began:
Not because you're dirty,
Not because you're clean,
But because you kissed a boy
Behind a magazine.
As we got older, the rhymes would take on a more lewd tone (at a third grade level, that is):
She offered her honour,
He honoured her offer,
And all night long,
He was on her and off her.
We tee-hee'd over that one, thinking we were so bad.
I haven't a clue why we persisted year after year, in ceremoniously making the rounds of the class in order to get each person's John Henry. We were very much a community school; there wasn't a single classmate that didn't walk to and from school. The day after school ended and every day during the summer, we would find each other at the neighbourhood public pool, so the point of bidding each other "adieu" in our Mickey Mouse autograph books was fairly pointless. I guess the idea was to hold onto the books on the off chance that one of our classmates would become a famous porn star or politician or both and then we'd have some priceless memorabilia. Unfortunately, i am the child of two completely unsentimental people who are the absolute anti-thesis of pack rats. Sigh ...
Brain dumb,
Inspiration won't come.
Bum pen,
No ink,
Best wishes,
Amen.
That little rhymer was scribbled into my grade school autograph books on numerous occasions by various classmates.
In the third grade, the teasing began:
Not because you're dirty,
Not because you're clean,
But because you kissed a boy
Behind a magazine.
As we got older, the rhymes would take on a more lewd tone (at a third grade level, that is):
She offered her honour,
He honoured her offer,
And all night long,
He was on her and off her.
We tee-hee'd over that one, thinking we were so bad.
I haven't a clue why we persisted year after year, in ceremoniously making the rounds of the class in order to get each person's John Henry. We were very much a community school; there wasn't a single classmate that didn't walk to and from school. The day after school ended and every day during the summer, we would find each other at the neighbourhood public pool, so the point of bidding each other "adieu" in our Mickey Mouse autograph books was fairly pointless. I guess the idea was to hold onto the books on the off chance that one of our classmates would become a famous porn star or politician or both and then we'd have some priceless memorabilia. Unfortunately, i am the child of two completely unsentimental people who are the absolute anti-thesis of pack rats. Sigh ...
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Bittersweet
Today was the first day of school. My youngest child began grade one. There are just way too many emotions to sort through.
I have a big lump in my throat.
I have a big lump in my throat.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Knit one, purl two
I've been so busy trying to soak up the last few weeks of summer that I've ignored the whole world of blogging. (Surprisingly the entire infrastructure did not collapse without my obsessive supervision).
I've also been spending a lot of time knitting. Throughout my life, I've tended to go off on these sporadic craft jags where I'll either knit, crochet or sew. Of the three, knitting is my favourite activity. There's something vaguely hypnotic and soothing about the whole thing. I'm endlessly fascinated by the fact that a fabulous creation can spring from two sticks and a ball of string.
Since I'm a fairly experienced and seasoned knitter, I tend to go on autopilot while completing a project. I find that I can just zone out and let my mind wander off on its own tangents. It's interesting where it sometimes meanders.
Most recently, for some reason, it played back a few scenes from my childhood. One of the earliest that kept flashing through my mind was a time when I was about two years old, if that. I remember that it was a crisp fall day and my father had taken me and my brother outside to play. The reason why we were dispatched into his charge was that my mother needed some peace and quiet within to finish sewing my new fall coat. My parents were both frugal people and always recycled things. Hence, the fabric for my coat came from one of my mother's maternity suits. My mother was very conscious of quality, so my coat was of a beautiful green wool pinstripe fabric.
I still remember how excited I was when my mother emerged from our apartment and presented me with the finished product. I immediately donned the coat and pranced around feeling incredibly grown-up.
At the time, i took for granted the fact that my mother is a creative genius. A number of items in my closet were hand-me-downs courtesy of my brother, but my mother always reworked them so that they looked nothing like boy's clothing. It never occurred to me at the time how much time and energy my mother expended on these tasks. Neither did I ever stop to consider how little of either precious commodity she had available.
The other memory that popped up was also from the same era; I may have even been younger than two years old because I seem to remember still being in diapers. My mother came home unexpectedly early one day and I ran to greet her excitedly. Since my mother went back to work within a month of giving birth, neither my brother nor I ever really had much play time with her and had to contend with a series of horrible babysitters. The prospect of having a little extra time with my mother was therefore, a thrilling one.
That particular day I was eating chocolate chip cookies and I had two, one clutched in each pudgy little fist. My hands and face were smeared with crumbs and chocolate. When I ran to hug my mother, she dropped down to her knees and gave me a hug, simultaneiously gracing me with a huge radiant smile. At some point, I remember looking down at one of my hands and seeing that the cookie had been bitten into. I was never sure if I'd eaten it, or if my mother had had a taste while I was busy chattering to her. I prefer the latter scenario because it makes me feel particularly close to my mom.
I've spent a lot of time on my blog here engaging in some form of therapy or another; sharing with the world at large some of the feelings that I've had with regards to my family and to my past. It's a new experience for me given that I spent my entire life keeping all of it secret and trying to invent a different family life than the one I had. I often feel guilty about the amount of indiscreet venting I've done with regards to both my childhood and to my family. A longtime friend of mine once made an idle comment about my lack of discretion online and I felt particularly ashamed because his mother passed away years ago while he was still far too young to be without a parent.
As I furiously and obsessively finished my sweater it occurred to me that perhaps I was doing more than just creating a fashion statement. As trivial and uneventful as my memories are, I hang onto them closely. I somehow believe that if I can just connect the dots between those types of moments, I can fashion a more positive and glowing view of my mother and overlook all the glaring problems that existed in our relationship.
And then like so many of the hang tags that accompany our store-bought garments, any deficiencies in the fabric would simply add to the beauty of the item itself.
I've also been spending a lot of time knitting. Throughout my life, I've tended to go off on these sporadic craft jags where I'll either knit, crochet or sew. Of the three, knitting is my favourite activity. There's something vaguely hypnotic and soothing about the whole thing. I'm endlessly fascinated by the fact that a fabulous creation can spring from two sticks and a ball of string.
Since I'm a fairly experienced and seasoned knitter, I tend to go on autopilot while completing a project. I find that I can just zone out and let my mind wander off on its own tangents. It's interesting where it sometimes meanders.
Most recently, for some reason, it played back a few scenes from my childhood. One of the earliest that kept flashing through my mind was a time when I was about two years old, if that. I remember that it was a crisp fall day and my father had taken me and my brother outside to play. The reason why we were dispatched into his charge was that my mother needed some peace and quiet within to finish sewing my new fall coat. My parents were both frugal people and always recycled things. Hence, the fabric for my coat came from one of my mother's maternity suits. My mother was very conscious of quality, so my coat was of a beautiful green wool pinstripe fabric.
I still remember how excited I was when my mother emerged from our apartment and presented me with the finished product. I immediately donned the coat and pranced around feeling incredibly grown-up.
At the time, i took for granted the fact that my mother is a creative genius. A number of items in my closet were hand-me-downs courtesy of my brother, but my mother always reworked them so that they looked nothing like boy's clothing. It never occurred to me at the time how much time and energy my mother expended on these tasks. Neither did I ever stop to consider how little of either precious commodity she had available.
The other memory that popped up was also from the same era; I may have even been younger than two years old because I seem to remember still being in diapers. My mother came home unexpectedly early one day and I ran to greet her excitedly. Since my mother went back to work within a month of giving birth, neither my brother nor I ever really had much play time with her and had to contend with a series of horrible babysitters. The prospect of having a little extra time with my mother was therefore, a thrilling one.
That particular day I was eating chocolate chip cookies and I had two, one clutched in each pudgy little fist. My hands and face were smeared with crumbs and chocolate. When I ran to hug my mother, she dropped down to her knees and gave me a hug, simultaneiously gracing me with a huge radiant smile. At some point, I remember looking down at one of my hands and seeing that the cookie had been bitten into. I was never sure if I'd eaten it, or if my mother had had a taste while I was busy chattering to her. I prefer the latter scenario because it makes me feel particularly close to my mom.
I've spent a lot of time on my blog here engaging in some form of therapy or another; sharing with the world at large some of the feelings that I've had with regards to my family and to my past. It's a new experience for me given that I spent my entire life keeping all of it secret and trying to invent a different family life than the one I had. I often feel guilty about the amount of indiscreet venting I've done with regards to both my childhood and to my family. A longtime friend of mine once made an idle comment about my lack of discretion online and I felt particularly ashamed because his mother passed away years ago while he was still far too young to be without a parent.
As I furiously and obsessively finished my sweater it occurred to me that perhaps I was doing more than just creating a fashion statement. As trivial and uneventful as my memories are, I hang onto them closely. I somehow believe that if I can just connect the dots between those types of moments, I can fashion a more positive and glowing view of my mother and overlook all the glaring problems that existed in our relationship.
And then like so many of the hang tags that accompany our store-bought garments, any deficiencies in the fabric would simply add to the beauty of the item itself.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Two sides of the same coin
I took my kids to see "Superman Returns". Most of the movie focussed on the relationship between Lois Lane and the tights-in-flight guy.
I know that it's fiction, but it's always bothered me that Lois Lane never gleans onto the fact that Clark Kent is really her super love interest. We are led to believe through our pop culture that love is all-encompassing and has the rare ability to change us. Yet, someone who claims to be in love with another being can't recognise him when he dons street clothes and geeky glasses.
In real life, are we really that superficial? Scarily, I sometimes think that we are indeed. People often fall in love with another, citing his or her good qualities, and fail to take into account that the less desirable qualities are simply the flip side of what we love. They also fail to realise that often you can't have one without the other. I think of my husband who is impulsive, spontaneous and has this incredible joy and passion for life. When I first met him, I was bowled over by his ability to be happy despite all odds. It was a novel concept for me since I grew up believing that enjoying life was frivolous and that planning was everything. What I later came to realise was that my husband is quite possibly also the single most disorganised person on the face of this earth. He would probably curl up and die if a strict nine-to-five regime was imposed upon him.
Am I charmed by the fact that his desk is constantly buried beneath a mountain of papers? Probably not, but I've come to realise that that comes hand in hand with his good qualities; he wouldn't be so able to give into the mood of the moment if he was an anal person.
At the heart of every plainly clothed person lies a superhero. I'm convinced of that fact. The hardest part is trying to love both the civilian and the hero equally.
I know that it's fiction, but it's always bothered me that Lois Lane never gleans onto the fact that Clark Kent is really her super love interest. We are led to believe through our pop culture that love is all-encompassing and has the rare ability to change us. Yet, someone who claims to be in love with another being can't recognise him when he dons street clothes and geeky glasses.
In real life, are we really that superficial? Scarily, I sometimes think that we are indeed. People often fall in love with another, citing his or her good qualities, and fail to take into account that the less desirable qualities are simply the flip side of what we love. They also fail to realise that often you can't have one without the other. I think of my husband who is impulsive, spontaneous and has this incredible joy and passion for life. When I first met him, I was bowled over by his ability to be happy despite all odds. It was a novel concept for me since I grew up believing that enjoying life was frivolous and that planning was everything. What I later came to realise was that my husband is quite possibly also the single most disorganised person on the face of this earth. He would probably curl up and die if a strict nine-to-five regime was imposed upon him.
Am I charmed by the fact that his desk is constantly buried beneath a mountain of papers? Probably not, but I've come to realise that that comes hand in hand with his good qualities; he wouldn't be so able to give into the mood of the moment if he was an anal person.
At the heart of every plainly clothed person lies a superhero. I'm convinced of that fact. The hardest part is trying to love both the civilian and the hero equally.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Maybe they're onto something ...
This past weekend, I was at the cottage entertaining our wonderful friends from Denmark (five of the loveliest individuals one could ever have the pleasure of meeting).
At the request of the matriarch of the Danish crew, we went to the market at St. Jacob's, which is a Mennonite town about a twenty-five minute drive from the cottage. Whilst there, the eldest son would discreetly point to some of the hard core Mennonites. In his charming European adolescent fashion, he would comment about how their lives must suck. On this point, he was obdurate despite my explanations that there could be some beauty in the simplicity of it all. (While lecturing him of course, I was trying to block out the depressing conflict and dreariness which I'd read about in Miriam Toewes "A Complicated Kindness").
My teenage friend kept waxing and waning about a life devoid of cars, electronics and good clothes. Since Denmark is a socialist country, his is certainly not a life jammed with the commercial pleasures into which we greedy North Americans regularly dip our gouty little fingers. Because of this, I thought he could relate to the lives of the Mennonites. From his perspective though, he couldn't figure out why a North American would choose to forego the luxries which he himself was forced to do without.
This weekend, my car broke down, followed by my traiterous cell phone which decided to just literally fall apart within my hands. Then my Palm Pilot started acting up and I oculdn't figure out which end was up in my life anymore. I realised that the Mennonites had one up on us; they could easily star in a Survivor series and thrive, while I would lie moaning on the ground complaining about the lack of electrical outlets for my hair dryer. Speaking of a no hair dryer existence, I think I just figured out why the Mennonite womenfolk sport those hideous black bonnets ...
At the request of the matriarch of the Danish crew, we went to the market at St. Jacob's, which is a Mennonite town about a twenty-five minute drive from the cottage. Whilst there, the eldest son would discreetly point to some of the hard core Mennonites. In his charming European adolescent fashion, he would comment about how their lives must suck. On this point, he was obdurate despite my explanations that there could be some beauty in the simplicity of it all. (While lecturing him of course, I was trying to block out the depressing conflict and dreariness which I'd read about in Miriam Toewes "A Complicated Kindness").
My teenage friend kept waxing and waning about a life devoid of cars, electronics and good clothes. Since Denmark is a socialist country, his is certainly not a life jammed with the commercial pleasures into which we greedy North Americans regularly dip our gouty little fingers. Because of this, I thought he could relate to the lives of the Mennonites. From his perspective though, he couldn't figure out why a North American would choose to forego the luxries which he himself was forced to do without.
This weekend, my car broke down, followed by my traiterous cell phone which decided to just literally fall apart within my hands. Then my Palm Pilot started acting up and I oculdn't figure out which end was up in my life anymore. I realised that the Mennonites had one up on us; they could easily star in a Survivor series and thrive, while I would lie moaning on the ground complaining about the lack of electrical outlets for my hair dryer. Speaking of a no hair dryer existence, I think I just figured out why the Mennonite womenfolk sport those hideous black bonnets ...
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Bend over ... trust me
Growing up, I was cautioned to trust no one. My parents were very suspicious of others, particularly those of the non-Korean persuasion. I suspect that their mistrust found its roots in the early days of their emigration to North America, and was no doubt fuelled by their parents' and fellow countrymen's cautions.
As I grew up, my parents constantly chastised my brother and I for our apparent naivete. The fact that we naturally instilled any trust and belief in our friends was considered sheer stupidity. I felt conflicted at the best of times.
When adolescent rebellion set in, I began thinking, in typical teenage fashion, that my parents didn't know much about anything. Therefore this whole mistrust of the world at large was clearly silly. I felt that my parents were too paranoid and needed to rethink their position on others' intentions; not everyone was out to take advantage of us at every turn. Surely some people were good.
"Not so", declared my father from within my head in a Norman Bates' mother-like way.
"Oh. do shut up please," I thought as I resolutely ignored him and continued on my merry way.
As the daughter of a theoretical scientist, I can't help but feel that every hypothesis must first be tested before one could declare it a theory. Therefore, I went to the lab so to speak, and set out to prove my parents wrong, all the while feeling the weight of my parents' disapproval.
About four years ago, I made the acquaintance of a young man in his early twenties. We met in the street right outside of my house. I live in a very quiet middle-class neighbourhood. This particular man was visiting his girlfriend who rented a room in a house two doors away from me. The initial jumping off point of our conversation revolved around the question of ownership of two well-groomed dogs which were wandering up and down the street. Somehow our conversation evolved and within weeks, he was doing some odd manual work for my husband around our house and at one of our investment properties. After work, he would often play basketball with my eldest son and would chat with me. As he was on his own, I sort of took him under my wing.
One day, D. asked me about my large book collection which he had seen in the living room. After we had chatted about what types of books he preferred to read, I then selected several from my shelves and pressed them upon him. It was obvious that he was interested in reading them all, but he was quite reticient and suggested that I lend him one at a time rather than all three at once. I insisted that they were essential reads and that he should take them all at once as I had read them already and wouldn't need them back for awhile. He cautioned me several times that he was an extremely slow reader and that it would take him some time before he would be finished with them.
Shortly thereafter, D's girlfriend moved away from our street and out of neighbourhood. As I never go D's phone number, I lost touch with him.
Now, it should be known that the one possesion about which I am slightly obsessive is my books. Through the years, I have lent out many of my books to various people and have never gotten them back. Since I have a nearly photographic memory, I still remember to this day who has which book.
After D. stopped being a regular in our household, I would often have regrets about having been so reckless in my offer to him. One of the books in particular, had been given to me as a gift by my first love and had an inscription written in it. I felt a certain longing for a book that held a chunk of my past within its covers.
Several years later, I was going through my book shelves sorting through my collection. I thought fleetingly of D. and my lost books and silently cursed myself for having trusted a virtual stranger.
The next night as I was feeding my children dinner, I heard someone knocking at my front door. Our area is heavily canvassed by charities, schoolkids and Jehoval witnesses, so I'm somewhat leery about answering my door if I'm not expecting anyone. I peered out of the window and saw a tall man standing on my front stoop. He called out my name and although I couldn't place him, I thought it was someone I knew, so I opened the door. It took me a minute for the penny to drop before I realised it was D. He looked very different as he was dressed in a suit and had cut his dreadlocks off.
I invited him in and we began chatting about what he had been up to since we had last seen each other. Before we got very far in our conversation, he dashed out the door and ran to his car. He returned with my books and apologised for their late return. Apparently, he had moved many times over since we'd last spoken and had taken the books with him to each place. The most touching comment was that he'd felt honoured that I'd trusted a virtual stranger with my possessions and he had wanted to make sure they were returned to me.
At the time, I remember feeling that this was an important life lesson; that good feelings such as respect and trust which are given out to someone eventually boomerang and find their way home to you just as my precious books did. As I learned in my physics class, energy is never lost.
I'd like to end the story on a good note. Unfortunately, after our fuzzy reunion, D. ended up moving into an apartment in one of our investment properties and stiffed us for about four months' rent with neither an explanation nor an apology. The weird thing is that that did nothing to erase my feelings that he was a person with an honour code in place. (In fact, from what I learned afterwards from others, he was going through an extremely tough time in his life which no doubt contributed to his inability to pay). I suppose it's an indication of how much value I place upon my books.
As I grew up, my parents constantly chastised my brother and I for our apparent naivete. The fact that we naturally instilled any trust and belief in our friends was considered sheer stupidity. I felt conflicted at the best of times.
When adolescent rebellion set in, I began thinking, in typical teenage fashion, that my parents didn't know much about anything. Therefore this whole mistrust of the world at large was clearly silly. I felt that my parents were too paranoid and needed to rethink their position on others' intentions; not everyone was out to take advantage of us at every turn. Surely some people were good.
"Not so", declared my father from within my head in a Norman Bates' mother-like way.
"Oh. do shut up please," I thought as I resolutely ignored him and continued on my merry way.
As the daughter of a theoretical scientist, I can't help but feel that every hypothesis must first be tested before one could declare it a theory. Therefore, I went to the lab so to speak, and set out to prove my parents wrong, all the while feeling the weight of my parents' disapproval.
About four years ago, I made the acquaintance of a young man in his early twenties. We met in the street right outside of my house. I live in a very quiet middle-class neighbourhood. This particular man was visiting his girlfriend who rented a room in a house two doors away from me. The initial jumping off point of our conversation revolved around the question of ownership of two well-groomed dogs which were wandering up and down the street. Somehow our conversation evolved and within weeks, he was doing some odd manual work for my husband around our house and at one of our investment properties. After work, he would often play basketball with my eldest son and would chat with me. As he was on his own, I sort of took him under my wing.
One day, D. asked me about my large book collection which he had seen in the living room. After we had chatted about what types of books he preferred to read, I then selected several from my shelves and pressed them upon him. It was obvious that he was interested in reading them all, but he was quite reticient and suggested that I lend him one at a time rather than all three at once. I insisted that they were essential reads and that he should take them all at once as I had read them already and wouldn't need them back for awhile. He cautioned me several times that he was an extremely slow reader and that it would take him some time before he would be finished with them.
Shortly thereafter, D's girlfriend moved away from our street and out of neighbourhood. As I never go D's phone number, I lost touch with him.
Now, it should be known that the one possesion about which I am slightly obsessive is my books. Through the years, I have lent out many of my books to various people and have never gotten them back. Since I have a nearly photographic memory, I still remember to this day who has which book.
After D. stopped being a regular in our household, I would often have regrets about having been so reckless in my offer to him. One of the books in particular, had been given to me as a gift by my first love and had an inscription written in it. I felt a certain longing for a book that held a chunk of my past within its covers.
Several years later, I was going through my book shelves sorting through my collection. I thought fleetingly of D. and my lost books and silently cursed myself for having trusted a virtual stranger.
The next night as I was feeding my children dinner, I heard someone knocking at my front door. Our area is heavily canvassed by charities, schoolkids and Jehoval witnesses, so I'm somewhat leery about answering my door if I'm not expecting anyone. I peered out of the window and saw a tall man standing on my front stoop. He called out my name and although I couldn't place him, I thought it was someone I knew, so I opened the door. It took me a minute for the penny to drop before I realised it was D. He looked very different as he was dressed in a suit and had cut his dreadlocks off.
I invited him in and we began chatting about what he had been up to since we had last seen each other. Before we got very far in our conversation, he dashed out the door and ran to his car. He returned with my books and apologised for their late return. Apparently, he had moved many times over since we'd last spoken and had taken the books with him to each place. The most touching comment was that he'd felt honoured that I'd trusted a virtual stranger with my possessions and he had wanted to make sure they were returned to me.
At the time, I remember feeling that this was an important life lesson; that good feelings such as respect and trust which are given out to someone eventually boomerang and find their way home to you just as my precious books did. As I learned in my physics class, energy is never lost.
I'd like to end the story on a good note. Unfortunately, after our fuzzy reunion, D. ended up moving into an apartment in one of our investment properties and stiffed us for about four months' rent with neither an explanation nor an apology. The weird thing is that that did nothing to erase my feelings that he was a person with an honour code in place. (In fact, from what I learned afterwards from others, he was going through an extremely tough time in his life which no doubt contributed to his inability to pay). I suppose it's an indication of how much value I place upon my books.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
David and Goliath
One of my neighbours got married and had a child later in life. Said child is extremely petite; she weighs twenty-two pounds and is about the size of an average fourteen month-old, despite the fact that she is a couple months away from her third birthday. As the product of a long-harboured desire, she appears to be indulged in very interesting ways.
Yesterday, I was on my way to another neighbour's house with my children. We were going to go swimming. My daughter ran into Thumbelina and played with her briefly before telling her of our plans. Thumbelina then decided that she was going to come with us and ran down the street to tell her father that she needed to put on her bathing suit.
My daughter waited for her and after nearly fifteen minutes, she finally emerged from her house with her mother in tow. Mrs. Thumbelina advised us that her daughter had never really been in a pool and didn't know how to swim. She also said that she didn't know the pool-owning neighbours upon whom her daughter had foisted herself.
After about fifteen minutes of splashing about, during which time Thumbelina commanded my children to fetch and carry, Mrs. Thumbelina asked her daughter if she thought they should leave. As anyone with half a brain would guess, the little one volleyed back with a resounding "no". What kid would chirp "Yes, in fact, I'm ready to go now, Mother dearest"??!!
Then followed thirty minutes of painful dialogue between mother and child. As it turned out, the mother was expecting dinner guests and she kept asking the child if she didn't think she should come home to visit with the guests who had no doubt already arrived. I couldn't figure out what the hell the two were doing there in the first place if the mother knew guests were imminent. Why didn't she just refuse to bring her child swimming when she asked?
So I sat there and bore witness to a twenty pounder pushing around an adult who very willingly took it. It was all I could do not to scream out "Just bloody take your child out of the pool and TELL her it's time to go home!" Why on earth did the mother feel compelled to keep asking her daughter for permission to leave?
Now I'm not the world's most perfect parent, but I do believe in setting boundaries for my children. I can't imagine ever asking them repeatedly "Kids, do you think it's time for to stop all your fun and go home?" Instead, I usually give them the five minute warning, throw in a bonus two minutes and then tell them to pack it up. And yes, on occasion, I have gotten angry if they haven't cooperated.
I sometimes have to stop and wonder if I'm being too hard on my kids. I grew up in a family where no respect or consideration was ever given to one's children or to their feelings, lest said children got horribly spoiled. Because this was the norm for me growing up, I have nothing else to reference when searching for a good role model. Therefore, the task of finding a happy medium between authoritarian parent and jellyfish permissive parent is sometimes a difficult one. In this case however, there is no way I would ever aspire to be like this geriatric mom.
Yesterday, I was on my way to another neighbour's house with my children. We were going to go swimming. My daughter ran into Thumbelina and played with her briefly before telling her of our plans. Thumbelina then decided that she was going to come with us and ran down the street to tell her father that she needed to put on her bathing suit.
My daughter waited for her and after nearly fifteen minutes, she finally emerged from her house with her mother in tow. Mrs. Thumbelina advised us that her daughter had never really been in a pool and didn't know how to swim. She also said that she didn't know the pool-owning neighbours upon whom her daughter had foisted herself.
After about fifteen minutes of splashing about, during which time Thumbelina commanded my children to fetch and carry, Mrs. Thumbelina asked her daughter if she thought they should leave. As anyone with half a brain would guess, the little one volleyed back with a resounding "no". What kid would chirp "Yes, in fact, I'm ready to go now, Mother dearest"??!!
Then followed thirty minutes of painful dialogue between mother and child. As it turned out, the mother was expecting dinner guests and she kept asking the child if she didn't think she should come home to visit with the guests who had no doubt already arrived. I couldn't figure out what the hell the two were doing there in the first place if the mother knew guests were imminent. Why didn't she just refuse to bring her child swimming when she asked?
So I sat there and bore witness to a twenty pounder pushing around an adult who very willingly took it. It was all I could do not to scream out "Just bloody take your child out of the pool and TELL her it's time to go home!" Why on earth did the mother feel compelled to keep asking her daughter for permission to leave?
Now I'm not the world's most perfect parent, but I do believe in setting boundaries for my children. I can't imagine ever asking them repeatedly "Kids, do you think it's time for to stop all your fun and go home?" Instead, I usually give them the five minute warning, throw in a bonus two minutes and then tell them to pack it up. And yes, on occasion, I have gotten angry if they haven't cooperated.
I sometimes have to stop and wonder if I'm being too hard on my kids. I grew up in a family where no respect or consideration was ever given to one's children or to their feelings, lest said children got horribly spoiled. Because this was the norm for me growing up, I have nothing else to reference when searching for a good role model. Therefore, the task of finding a happy medium between authoritarian parent and jellyfish permissive parent is sometimes a difficult one. In this case however, there is no way I would ever aspire to be like this geriatric mom.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Forget the metaphysical questions ... these are far more pressing
I heard on the radio yesterday that Wireton Willy died after a bout of pneumonia or some such groundhog version of the ailment.
I was curious how they will go about picking Willy's successor. Do they hold auditions by shining a flashlight above the groundhog to see how they will react? Do they pick one of Willy's children? Did Willy have any say in who would follow in his hallowed footsteps? Do they attend some kind of metereology training academy? Will they announce it and have a great big press conference?
I was curious how they will go about picking Willy's successor. Do they hold auditions by shining a flashlight above the groundhog to see how they will react? Do they pick one of Willy's children? Did Willy have any say in who would follow in his hallowed footsteps? Do they attend some kind of metereology training academy? Will they announce it and have a great big press conference?
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