The weather has turned hot and humid here, and that means it's time to put all the sweaters and socks away and bring out the summer wardrobe.
Now, summer clothing around here tends to run the gamut from "slightly less fabric than in January" to "please enjoy my butt-crack!". LOTS of people have not realized that just because it's comfortable, that doesn't mean it's right. Hairy armpits and sweaty flesh should be covered at all times, I don't care how hot it is.
Thing 2's school has a dress code, which I totally understand: 14 year olds shouldn't be in charge of anything, let alone how they dress themselves. (Although, I do think it is the prerogative, nay, the duty, of every generation to look ridiculous to the one before them.) Their shorts have to be "mid-thigh" length, and halter tops and spaghetti straps are not allowed. Fair enough, as long as the rules apply to everyone, and they are clear from the outset.
Thing 2, as you can imagine, is not so acquiescent. She was sent to the office yesterday because her shorts are 2" shorter than they should be, and she would like to fire-bomb the school at her earliest convenience.
I told her that she should thank her lucky stars she even gets to wear shorts.....when I went to high school, in the olden days, we had to wear a uniform. Imagine the horror! For the first couple of years, we had to wear a blue and black plaid, acrylic kilt. We could wear black or navy blue knee socks or tights, a white blouse or turtle neck sweater and a navy or black sweater or jacket. Black shoes were the only option allowed. Later on, we could wear navy pants (YAY! No more blue knees in January! Although they did fit in with the uniform.) or skirts.
Thing 2 looked at me with incredulity and dismay. She asked me, in a whispery voice full of sympathy and admiration, how my classmates and I ever lived through such a thing, much like I imagine people asked Nelson Mandela how he survived 27 years in prison.
We did what I think most teenage girls would do: we wore our skirts alarmingly short and played fast and loose with the interpretation of the word "navy blue".
We also used to wear jeans or pants to school in the winter, because it we do live in Canada and there' no way I'm wearing an 8" long kilt outside in -20° weather. The problem was, we had only one girls bathroom per floor in which to change....let's see: 150 girls changing per floor + one bathroom the size of a fridge = everyone's late for class. So we changed in the hallways....you put your skirt on over your pants, then drop the pants and Bob's your uncle. Repeat the process in reverse when going home. The administration did not like this manoeuvre, they thought it was unseemly to have 1000 teenage girls changing their clothes out in public every morning, but since they didn't want to build 100 more bathrooms, they had to put up with it.
The kilts were made from an indestructible acrylic fabric that I think NASA should look into covering the Space Shuttle with. It was kind of itchy, but not terribly so, and it held a pleat for freaking years. It didn't stain, didn't wrinkle and didn't catch on fire. (And believe me, we tried. When my friend Kelly's older sister finally graduated from our high school, she had a commemorative "kilt burning" ceremony on the beach up at the lake. We built up a good bonfire and tossed the kilt onto it. That thing would NOT catch fire, in fact, it lay there for a disturbingly long time, completely unscathed, and then it melted. The next morning, all we found was a black lump of disintegrated plastic.) They were hot, though, and about as unflattering as a skirt could be. They gave everyone false hips and had a nasty habit of getting caught in your underwear without being noticed when you went to the bathroom.
I still like a nice, white blouse, but I'm pretty sure I've never owned another item of navy blue clothing since.
Thing 2 looked at me like I had just told her I had spent time in a Victorian orphanage, and never owned shoes.
She doesn't complain about her dress code so much now, and she's dialed way back on her plans for retaliation. I just hope she keeps her butt-crack to herself.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Kibbles and Bits
Praise be! Summer is finally here! I was beginning to think it might never happen. We've had the most miserable, relentless winter in recent memory, followed by the wettest, coldest, most tortured spring on record. It never. stopped raining.
When they were predicting the end of the world a few weeks ago, I was beginning to think it wasn't the worst idea I'd ever heard....anything to put us out of our misery.
But on the weekend, it got warm. And yesterday, it got HOT. And today it got torrid.
It was 31°C with a Humidex of 41°C. (Translation: 88°F that feels like 106°F. That's not a typo.) The cat thermometer is registering a record 10 feet of cat. It's a bit of getting used to, this "summer in an instant", but even though I sleep in front of a roaring fan and haven't the energy to boil water, I'm not complaining. It's all I've been wanting for the past 6 months.
Toby is the happiest cat ever.....there's furniture to sleep on! Outside! The people are out; I have company!! There are bushes to hide in to surprise the birds!! (The birds are not so happy.)
Long may it last.
Thing 2 and her school band went on a feild trip to Canada's Wonderland, a big amusement park, north of Toronto, full of roller coasters and hellishly expensive junk food.
I volunteered to go along, mostly because I thought they didn't need me, and also, because if they did, I would get to go on the roller coasters.
I absolutely LOVE roller coasters. I would go on just about any roller coaster, ever, except, maybe one that actually might kill me.
(There is one at Canada's Wonderland called the Behemoth that seriously nearly made me cry. It was awesome.)
I've been on school trips before, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that in comparison to the bus trip there and back, the amusement park is an oasis of calm and serenity. Seriously, those kids get on a bus and they lose their shit entirely. For hours and hours on end; they scream and shout and carry on at the top of their lungs, and love every minute of it.
I've come to realize that for the kids, the bus ride is every bit as exciting as the actual destination. In fact, they would be just as happy to drive around on the bus for an entire day as actually go anywhere. I see the bus ride as a means to an ends; for the 14 year olds, the transportation is part of the ends.
I brought ear plugs, the same ones I use to go to sleep, and I was a much, MUCH happier Mrs. Loudshoes at the end of it all.
Thing 2 is an appalling speller; truly, she cannot write a complete sentance without misspelling something. She comes by it honestly, my mother and myself cannot spell to save our lives. My mother writes letters with a dictionary beside her, and I stumble over the words "licence" and "probably" almost every time I have to write them. Thank God for spell-check.
I don't know how her terrible spelling, (which is usually hilarious) came up, but she declared, somewhat indignantly, that there are "LOTS of words that arent' spelled anything like how they sound".
"Give me and example", I said, and she promptly replied "psychology". (She came up with it pretty fast, like she'd been just waiting to complain about it.) "And 'colonel', and 'rhythm'....a whole BUNCH of animals....like 'penguin'! And 'giraffe'!"
Clearly, I had hit a nerve.
"So, what words ARE spelled like they sound?" I asked.
" 'Zoom', 'melt' and 'tomato' ", she said. "And 'ketchup'. 'Ketchup' is spelled exactly what it sounds like. You can count on 'ketchup'." she said, firmly.
Apparently, this was something she had been thinking about for a long time.
Teenagers and cats....who knows what goes on in their heads?
When they were predicting the end of the world a few weeks ago, I was beginning to think it wasn't the worst idea I'd ever heard....anything to put us out of our misery.
But on the weekend, it got warm. And yesterday, it got HOT. And today it got torrid.
It was 31°C with a Humidex of 41°C. (Translation: 88°F that feels like 106°F. That's not a typo.) The cat thermometer is registering a record 10 feet of cat. It's a bit of getting used to, this "summer in an instant", but even though I sleep in front of a roaring fan and haven't the energy to boil water, I'm not complaining. It's all I've been wanting for the past 6 months.
Toby is the happiest cat ever.....there's furniture to sleep on! Outside! The people are out; I have company!! There are bushes to hide in to surprise the birds!! (The birds are not so happy.)
Long may it last.
Thing 2 and her school band went on a feild trip to Canada's Wonderland, a big amusement park, north of Toronto, full of roller coasters and hellishly expensive junk food.
I volunteered to go along, mostly because I thought they didn't need me, and also, because if they did, I would get to go on the roller coasters.
I absolutely LOVE roller coasters. I would go on just about any roller coaster, ever, except, maybe one that actually might kill me.
(There is one at Canada's Wonderland called the Behemoth that seriously nearly made me cry. It was awesome.)
I've been on school trips before, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that in comparison to the bus trip there and back, the amusement park is an oasis of calm and serenity. Seriously, those kids get on a bus and they lose their shit entirely. For hours and hours on end; they scream and shout and carry on at the top of their lungs, and love every minute of it.
I've come to realize that for the kids, the bus ride is every bit as exciting as the actual destination. In fact, they would be just as happy to drive around on the bus for an entire day as actually go anywhere. I see the bus ride as a means to an ends; for the 14 year olds, the transportation is part of the ends.
I brought ear plugs, the same ones I use to go to sleep, and I was a much, MUCH happier Mrs. Loudshoes at the end of it all.
Thing 2 is an appalling speller; truly, she cannot write a complete sentance without misspelling something. She comes by it honestly, my mother and myself cannot spell to save our lives. My mother writes letters with a dictionary beside her, and I stumble over the words "licence" and "probably" almost every time I have to write them. Thank God for spell-check.
I don't know how her terrible spelling, (which is usually hilarious) came up, but she declared, somewhat indignantly, that there are "LOTS of words that arent' spelled anything like how they sound".
"Give me and example", I said, and she promptly replied "psychology". (She came up with it pretty fast, like she'd been just waiting to complain about it.) "And 'colonel', and 'rhythm'....a whole BUNCH of animals....like 'penguin'! And 'giraffe'!"
Clearly, I had hit a nerve.
"So, what words ARE spelled like they sound?" I asked.
" 'Zoom', 'melt' and 'tomato' ", she said. "And 'ketchup'. 'Ketchup' is spelled exactly what it sounds like. You can count on 'ketchup'." she said, firmly.
Apparently, this was something she had been thinking about for a long time.
Teenagers and cats....who knows what goes on in their heads?
Monday, May 16, 2011
Drive, She Said
Congratulations are in order; Thing 1 got her driver's licence last week!
Lots of people have asked me how I feel about it, and I reply, in a word, "thrilled". Not only am I no longer the "Driver of Choice" for Thing 2's frantic social life, I have one more person to drive me around when I want to have that second glass of wine. (The Mister is tired of being the "Driver of Choice" for that particular scenario.)
Thing 1 is a very good driver; she's responsible and cautious and entirely trustworthy. In fact, on her driver's test, the one thing she got marked down on was that she drove under the speed limit and she approached every intersection like she expected to be electrocuted at any minute.
I can appreciate her enthusiasm for getting behind the wheel of the car...I remember the feeling myself. The first few weeks of being able to go wherever you want, whenever you want, is heady. Taking the bus is a pain, especially when you don't really know how the bus system works. (A few weeks ago, Thing 1, Thing 2 and Thing 2's friend took the bus downtown to a frozen yogurt place they like near the salon. All went well until they realized, on the bus home, that they were headed the wrong way. It didn't occur to them that in order to go the way you came you have to cross the street and catch the bus there. It would have taken them days to get home, but the Mister took pity on them and told them to get off the bus and he'd pick them up.)
My father has been diagnosed with cataracts recently, and has been told not to drive. He offered us his car while he's waiting for surgery, and so Thing 1 has another car at her disposal. I think she might actually die of joy.
Of course, the downside is that I don't know where my children are at times. I'm used to them being where I left them, for the most part. It's a bit disconcerting to realize that they could have driven over the border, or be gone to Montreal without telling me. I try not to think of that stuff.
Thing 1 even figured out how to fill the car with gas, and pay for it herself. I can totally get behind this.
Lots of people have asked me how I feel about it, and I reply, in a word, "thrilled". Not only am I no longer the "Driver of Choice" for Thing 2's frantic social life, I have one more person to drive me around when I want to have that second glass of wine. (The Mister is tired of being the "Driver of Choice" for that particular scenario.)
Thing 1 is a very good driver; she's responsible and cautious and entirely trustworthy. In fact, on her driver's test, the one thing she got marked down on was that she drove under the speed limit and she approached every intersection like she expected to be electrocuted at any minute.
I can appreciate her enthusiasm for getting behind the wheel of the car...I remember the feeling myself. The first few weeks of being able to go wherever you want, whenever you want, is heady. Taking the bus is a pain, especially when you don't really know how the bus system works. (A few weeks ago, Thing 1, Thing 2 and Thing 2's friend took the bus downtown to a frozen yogurt place they like near the salon. All went well until they realized, on the bus home, that they were headed the wrong way. It didn't occur to them that in order to go the way you came you have to cross the street and catch the bus there. It would have taken them days to get home, but the Mister took pity on them and told them to get off the bus and he'd pick them up.)
My father has been diagnosed with cataracts recently, and has been told not to drive. He offered us his car while he's waiting for surgery, and so Thing 1 has another car at her disposal. I think she might actually die of joy.
Of course, the downside is that I don't know where my children are at times. I'm used to them being where I left them, for the most part. It's a bit disconcerting to realize that they could have driven over the border, or be gone to Montreal without telling me. I try not to think of that stuff.
Thing 1 even figured out how to fill the car with gas, and pay for it herself. I can totally get behind this.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Poop Deck.
I had coffee this morning with my friend, Mary, possibly one of the funniest women God ever created. She not only makes me laugh so loud that other people turn and look, she has an ear-splitting howl that makes me laugh all the harder, too.
Mary is a kindergarten teacher, and you'd be hard pressed to find someone better suited to the job. She adores the kids, takes everything in stride and, most important for a kindergarten teacher, has not one item of "dry clean only" clothing in her entire wardrobe.
She was telling me about a lo-o-ong day last week, where all the kids were behaving like raging meth addicts, and she was very much looking forward to the cold Blue Light she knew she had stashed in the fridge that morning. As the kids were getting their snow gear on, she became aware of a commotion in the coat room, with the phrase "I think it's poo" wafting through the little voices, spurring her on to get in there right smart.
She found two little ones on their hands and knees, inspecting a small brown thing at close range, one opining that it was a raisin, and the other concluding that it was a turd. Mary got them away from the offending article, and did a quick visual inspection of the rest of the classroom. Sure enough, another "raisin" was found behind the rocking chair, as well as some tracking evidence across the carpet. She called the custodian and started to try to figure out who the culprit was.
Naturally, no one was owning up to it; she said she'd have been surprised if anyone had. (Good God, can you imagine any 5 year old admitting to such a thing???? You'd spend the rest of your school career, nay, your life, as the kid who pooped in kindergarten. Even a little kid can see that right there would be a life-altering admission.) The girls in leotards were off the hook, that would take some fairly obvious manoevering to work that out in a hurry. Maybe a boy in boxer shorts and a fidgetly leg? Hard to tell.
When she was in the staff room when everyone was gone, one of the kids' parents came in and laughingly asked Mary about it, since her son told her there was a turd in the classroom and no one knew who it came from. (I think she was suspicious of her own offspring, in all honesty. )
Mary just told the mother "kids have so much fun in my class they just shit themselves. What can I say?"
My job is a piece of cake.
Mary is a kindergarten teacher, and you'd be hard pressed to find someone better suited to the job. She adores the kids, takes everything in stride and, most important for a kindergarten teacher, has not one item of "dry clean only" clothing in her entire wardrobe.
She was telling me about a lo-o-ong day last week, where all the kids were behaving like raging meth addicts, and she was very much looking forward to the cold Blue Light she knew she had stashed in the fridge that morning. As the kids were getting their snow gear on, she became aware of a commotion in the coat room, with the phrase "I think it's poo" wafting through the little voices, spurring her on to get in there right smart.
She found two little ones on their hands and knees, inspecting a small brown thing at close range, one opining that it was a raisin, and the other concluding that it was a turd. Mary got them away from the offending article, and did a quick visual inspection of the rest of the classroom. Sure enough, another "raisin" was found behind the rocking chair, as well as some tracking evidence across the carpet. She called the custodian and started to try to figure out who the culprit was.
Naturally, no one was owning up to it; she said she'd have been surprised if anyone had. (Good God, can you imagine any 5 year old admitting to such a thing???? You'd spend the rest of your school career, nay, your life, as the kid who pooped in kindergarten. Even a little kid can see that right there would be a life-altering admission.) The girls in leotards were off the hook, that would take some fairly obvious manoevering to work that out in a hurry. Maybe a boy in boxer shorts and a fidgetly leg? Hard to tell.
When she was in the staff room when everyone was gone, one of the kids' parents came in and laughingly asked Mary about it, since her son told her there was a turd in the classroom and no one knew who it came from. (I think she was suspicious of her own offspring, in all honesty. )
Mary just told the mother "kids have so much fun in my class they just shit themselves. What can I say?"
My job is a piece of cake.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Kibbles and Bits
There has been very little blog-worthy of late....the winter doldrums have rendered me mute. All I seem to want to do these days in live in my pajamas and eat chocolate. (Truthfully, I want to do that all the time, but I especially want to do it around now.)
We've had lots of cold and lots of snow this winter. And somehow, when February 1st comes, I feel like we are starting to see the beginning of the end, and spring is starting to become a possibility. And every year, I'm dead wrong. This year, I'm wronger than usual....we had another storm yesterday, which meant more snow, which means it will never, ever be spring again.
Thing 1 had exams last week, the end of first semester. She's a good student, has very little trouble in school and gets through things like exams without much drama. But on Monday morning, she came upstairs from her room all wild-eyed and panicky: "Is it REALLY 8 o'clock???", she gasped. I assured her that it was......"My alarm didn't go off!! My exam is in half an hour!" she croaked. You know, I've had this nightmare, I totally understood her panic. (Except, usually, when I'm having this nightmare, I'm naked and riding a camel.) I told her to get dressed and put in her contacts, and I'd make her a bagel and drive her to school. She got there in time, and wrote the exam. Except, in all the morning fuss, she forgot that she had a vocal exam right after, and missed that. (The teacher was very understanding and let her do that exam the next day.)
Toby does not like the cold weather, and has decided on voluntary incarceration for the duration. This means that I have been elected to the Entertainment Committee, of which I am the sole member. Toby is deeply disappointed in my performance, as I do not provide ample amusement, such as changing the bed linen daily, or feed him tuna endlessly. Naturally, this means that Toby has to prompt me to pay attention to him,usually when I'm typing, or reading the paper. But mostly, he shows his displeasure when I am sleeping; my sleeping is an abomination, and will not be tolerated. (Which is ironic, really, since he sleeps all the live long day.) This morning, Toby walked all around the pillow, while I was still using it, managing to stand on my hair with almost every step. Then, this afternoon, while I was napping, Toby decided the best place in the world to settle down and purr like a jet engine, was right on top of my head.....I had a "cat hat". Any appendage that pokes out of the bed covers must be ambushed at once. Drooling and head-butting at 4 a.m. is mandatory. If spring doesn't come soon, I'm going to have to take a leave of absence from my job.
I bought a treadmill a few weeks ago, because running outside in a foot of snow is out of the question. (I haven't been running since the snow started at the beginning of December. And you know what? I haven't noticed one, tiny little difference in my weight, my energy levels, my moods, nothing. One more piece of evidence in the "Exercise Is Crap" file.) Man, running on a treadmill is a bazillion times easier than running outside! No hills, no wind, no curbs to trip over, and your shoes don't get wet. One downside? I end up watching "E! True Hollywood Story" while working out, and that shit will dissolve your grey cells. The other day I found myself watching a show about Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown....I mean, what the hell? My quads will be in great shape when I'm in the Early Dementia wing of the nursing home.
Luckily, February is only 28 days long.
We've had lots of cold and lots of snow this winter. And somehow, when February 1st comes, I feel like we are starting to see the beginning of the end, and spring is starting to become a possibility. And every year, I'm dead wrong. This year, I'm wronger than usual....we had another storm yesterday, which meant more snow, which means it will never, ever be spring again.
Thing 1 had exams last week, the end of first semester. She's a good student, has very little trouble in school and gets through things like exams without much drama. But on Monday morning, she came upstairs from her room all wild-eyed and panicky: "Is it REALLY 8 o'clock???", she gasped. I assured her that it was......"My alarm didn't go off!! My exam is in half an hour!" she croaked. You know, I've had this nightmare, I totally understood her panic. (Except, usually, when I'm having this nightmare, I'm naked and riding a camel.) I told her to get dressed and put in her contacts, and I'd make her a bagel and drive her to school. She got there in time, and wrote the exam. Except, in all the morning fuss, she forgot that she had a vocal exam right after, and missed that. (The teacher was very understanding and let her do that exam the next day.)
Toby does not like the cold weather, and has decided on voluntary incarceration for the duration. This means that I have been elected to the Entertainment Committee, of which I am the sole member. Toby is deeply disappointed in my performance, as I do not provide ample amusement, such as changing the bed linen daily, or feed him tuna endlessly. Naturally, this means that Toby has to prompt me to pay attention to him,usually when I'm typing, or reading the paper. But mostly, he shows his displeasure when I am sleeping; my sleeping is an abomination, and will not be tolerated. (Which is ironic, really, since he sleeps all the live long day.) This morning, Toby walked all around the pillow, while I was still using it, managing to stand on my hair with almost every step. Then, this afternoon, while I was napping, Toby decided the best place in the world to settle down and purr like a jet engine, was right on top of my head.....I had a "cat hat". Any appendage that pokes out of the bed covers must be ambushed at once. Drooling and head-butting at 4 a.m. is mandatory. If spring doesn't come soon, I'm going to have to take a leave of absence from my job.
I bought a treadmill a few weeks ago, because running outside in a foot of snow is out of the question. (I haven't been running since the snow started at the beginning of December. And you know what? I haven't noticed one, tiny little difference in my weight, my energy levels, my moods, nothing. One more piece of evidence in the "Exercise Is Crap" file.) Man, running on a treadmill is a bazillion times easier than running outside! No hills, no wind, no curbs to trip over, and your shoes don't get wet. One downside? I end up watching "E! True Hollywood Story" while working out, and that shit will dissolve your grey cells. The other day I found myself watching a show about Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown....I mean, what the hell? My quads will be in great shape when I'm in the Early Dementia wing of the nursing home.
Luckily, February is only 28 days long.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Driving Miss Crazy.
Thing 1 had her first driving lesson this evening! Woo hoo! No one is more excited than me for her to get her driver's licence.....Thing 1 will be Thing 2's unofficial chauffeur when that happens, and I'm dying to give up the title myself.
Thing 1 is taking Driver's Ed, since the insurance savings is significant, and it's probably better that she learn to drive from someone who actually knows how to teach it, not just from your opinionated parents. She had the in-class stuff over the Christmas holidays, which she said was pretty boring. ("Oh, drinking and driving is bad?? You don't say! Please tell me more for another 5 hours!") Now she's doing the in-car stuff with her instructor.
I don't remember much about learning to drive. I didn't take driver's ed, so I just had some willing adults teach me how to drive. My parents were pretty good teachers, as well they should be, since they were both professional teachers at the time. (But teaching someone how to read and teaching someone how to drive are two different things.) My older brother was actually a pretty good teacher, when he was paying attention. (He tended to amuse himself when we were stopped at red lights by yelling pick-up lines at the most unattractive losers standing at bus stops, and then ducking out of sight so they thought it came from me. Good times.) I can't recall under what circumstances this happened, but a good friend of the family's, Paddy, took me out driving one day. Paddy's idea of essential driving wisdom was to point at some other, deficient driver and tell me "you want that whore in front of you, not behind you". (Note: "whore" is pronounced to rhyme with "sewer".) It must have all been good, because I've never had an accident or an infraction. (Except for one speeding ticket. I got it on my birthday when I was 26. The cop even had the balls to wish me "happy birthday" as he handed me my ticket.)
When I was 28 I bought my first car, a Toyota Tercel, which came with a manual transmission. My dad had to take it for the test run, because I'd only driven automatics. It was my brother's instruction that taught me how to drive a standard, and despite my deep misgivings, I did manage to drive that thing eventually. (It would take me ages to get home from work, usually a 15 minute drive, because I went miles out of my way to avoid a hill start. One of the women I worked with lived not too far from me, and when I'd offer her a ride home she'd sigh and give me a weary "sure", and then would call her husband to tell him she'd be late.) The only "payment" my brother wanted for teaching me how to drive a manual transmission was that I had to promise to teach someone else later; I have and extract the same promise from them.
Thing 1 is already a pretty good driver; she's cautious and responsible. She just needs a bit of practice. And I think that if you can learn to drive a minivan in a Canadian winter, you should be able to drive just about anywhere. Thing 2 in the car is a hurdle for another day.
Thing 1 is taking Driver's Ed, since the insurance savings is significant, and it's probably better that she learn to drive from someone who actually knows how to teach it, not just from your opinionated parents. She had the in-class stuff over the Christmas holidays, which she said was pretty boring. ("Oh, drinking and driving is bad?? You don't say! Please tell me more for another 5 hours!") Now she's doing the in-car stuff with her instructor.
I don't remember much about learning to drive. I didn't take driver's ed, so I just had some willing adults teach me how to drive. My parents were pretty good teachers, as well they should be, since they were both professional teachers at the time. (But teaching someone how to read and teaching someone how to drive are two different things.) My older brother was actually a pretty good teacher, when he was paying attention. (He tended to amuse himself when we were stopped at red lights by yelling pick-up lines at the most unattractive losers standing at bus stops, and then ducking out of sight so they thought it came from me. Good times.) I can't recall under what circumstances this happened, but a good friend of the family's, Paddy, took me out driving one day. Paddy's idea of essential driving wisdom was to point at some other, deficient driver and tell me "you want that whore in front of you, not behind you". (Note: "whore" is pronounced to rhyme with "sewer".) It must have all been good, because I've never had an accident or an infraction. (Except for one speeding ticket. I got it on my birthday when I was 26. The cop even had the balls to wish me "happy birthday" as he handed me my ticket.)
When I was 28 I bought my first car, a Toyota Tercel, which came with a manual transmission. My dad had to take it for the test run, because I'd only driven automatics. It was my brother's instruction that taught me how to drive a standard, and despite my deep misgivings, I did manage to drive that thing eventually. (It would take me ages to get home from work, usually a 15 minute drive, because I went miles out of my way to avoid a hill start. One of the women I worked with lived not too far from me, and when I'd offer her a ride home she'd sigh and give me a weary "sure", and then would call her husband to tell him she'd be late.) The only "payment" my brother wanted for teaching me how to drive a manual transmission was that I had to promise to teach someone else later; I have and extract the same promise from them.
Thing 1 is already a pretty good driver; she's cautious and responsible. She just needs a bit of practice. And I think that if you can learn to drive a minivan in a Canadian winter, you should be able to drive just about anywhere. Thing 2 in the car is a hurdle for another day.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Remembering
Tomorrow is November 11th, Remembrance Day. Most of us will never have to fight in a war, or see someone we love do it either, and I think it's good that we have to take a few minutes to remember those people who did.....what a miserable, awful, incredibly difficult thing it must have been. I'm very thankful that their service means that I will probably never have to.
There is always a Remembrance Day ceremony at school, no matter what kind of school you go to. I'm sure they have not changed much, they were always solemn and serious types of affairs, the urge to giggle didn't seem quite as overwhelming as at Mass. It was a bit bewilderingly sad and heavy to a bunch of kids; it was years before I figured out that we were not talking about a war that we were currently fighting, it was to remember ones we were all done with. They always handed out poppies for us to wear, which was a nice gesture, but a totally terrible idea....if you wanted 300 kids to sit quietly and reflect on the dignity of the situation, I suggest that you do NOT give them pins with which to stab each other, or little red felt flowers with which to fashion fake, clown lips.
We sang a few hymns, someone said a speech, a lucky couple of kids got to put the wreath on the cross (lucky because they got to move around when everyone else had to sit still) and the tallest girl in our class always, without fail, fainted. Every. Single. Year. And then we recited the poem "In Flanders Fields", which, I'm pretty sure, has to be memorized by every school child in Canada by law.
When Thing 1 was in Grade 1, I asked her about the Remembrance Day ceremony, and she told me it was "to remember the people who fought and died on the farm." Say what? The farm? "Yes" she said very seriously, "the people who fought and died on the farm", like I was both a moron and hard-of-hearing. It turns out she thought it had to to with farms because of the first line "In Flanders Field, the poppies grow..." I guess it makes as much sense as anything else when you're 6.
My favorite story about a Remembrance Day ceremony was told to me by one of my co-workers. She had 5 kids in her family, and as you can imagine, getting everyone out the door in the mornings was a bit of a challenge for her mother. My friend was in Grade 6, her older sister in Grade 8, and her two younger brothers in Grades 4 and 1. One Remembrance Day, which if you recall, is only 11 days after Halloween, her mother was getting everyone ready for school when the youngest one announced that he had to "dress up" for school today. Now, he was the kind of kid who wore his Halloween costume for a couple of weeks before Halloween, slept in it, and wore it afterwards until it disintegrated entirely. His mother, who had no idea what day it was, said "okay, go put on your costume then", and sent him off. The Grade 1's came into the gym last, when everyone else was already settled, and there was my friend's brother, marching into the gym for the Remembrance Day ceremony, dressed as Batman.
She said she nearly died, partly from embarrassment, but mostly because she wasn't allowed to laugh at a Remembrance Day ceremony. She says she and her sister still bring that up to her mother, who's only response is "but I was so tired".
Happy Rememberance Day.
There is always a Remembrance Day ceremony at school, no matter what kind of school you go to. I'm sure they have not changed much, they were always solemn and serious types of affairs, the urge to giggle didn't seem quite as overwhelming as at Mass. It was a bit bewilderingly sad and heavy to a bunch of kids; it was years before I figured out that we were not talking about a war that we were currently fighting, it was to remember ones we were all done with. They always handed out poppies for us to wear, which was a nice gesture, but a totally terrible idea....if you wanted 300 kids to sit quietly and reflect on the dignity of the situation, I suggest that you do NOT give them pins with which to stab each other, or little red felt flowers with which to fashion fake, clown lips.
We sang a few hymns, someone said a speech, a lucky couple of kids got to put the wreath on the cross (lucky because they got to move around when everyone else had to sit still) and the tallest girl in our class always, without fail, fainted. Every. Single. Year. And then we recited the poem "In Flanders Fields", which, I'm pretty sure, has to be memorized by every school child in Canada by law.
When Thing 1 was in Grade 1, I asked her about the Remembrance Day ceremony, and she told me it was "to remember the people who fought and died on the farm." Say what? The farm? "Yes" she said very seriously, "the people who fought and died on the farm", like I was both a moron and hard-of-hearing. It turns out she thought it had to to with farms because of the first line "In Flanders Field, the poppies grow..." I guess it makes as much sense as anything else when you're 6.
My favorite story about a Remembrance Day ceremony was told to me by one of my co-workers. She had 5 kids in her family, and as you can imagine, getting everyone out the door in the mornings was a bit of a challenge for her mother. My friend was in Grade 6, her older sister in Grade 8, and her two younger brothers in Grades 4 and 1. One Remembrance Day, which if you recall, is only 11 days after Halloween, her mother was getting everyone ready for school when the youngest one announced that he had to "dress up" for school today. Now, he was the kind of kid who wore his Halloween costume for a couple of weeks before Halloween, slept in it, and wore it afterwards until it disintegrated entirely. His mother, who had no idea what day it was, said "okay, go put on your costume then", and sent him off. The Grade 1's came into the gym last, when everyone else was already settled, and there was my friend's brother, marching into the gym for the Remembrance Day ceremony, dressed as Batman.
She said she nearly died, partly from embarrassment, but mostly because she wasn't allowed to laugh at a Remembrance Day ceremony. She says she and her sister still bring that up to her mother, who's only response is "but I was so tired".
Happy Rememberance Day.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
That Didn't Take Long
Aaaaand....we're back at it. School started today for both Thing 1 and Thing 2, and we are right back in the thick of it in less than 12 hours.
No dramas today. Thing 1 went to her third year of high school without batting an eyelash. She got her schedule last week, so knew where to go and what to do. Thing 2 started her last year of elementary school, Grade 8, and has all her friends in her class, as well as the teacher she wanted. So she gets to enjoy her one year as a big fish in a small pond.
Funnily enough, I was the one with the dodgy tummy this morning. As I was getting ready for work, I found myself getting all riled up, until I said "wait a minute, MY life doesn't change one little bit today, what am I all nervous about??". Hard to change some habits, I guess.
Both girls came home with a hemorrhage of paperwork for me to deal with this evening. I think I wrote out both of their health card numbers a bazillion times. I checked off dozens of boxes saying I'm okay with them having their pictures taken and I take full responsibility if they trash school property and I understand they are not allowed to dress like little prostitutes. I signed my name so many times it has lost all meaning for me. I stopped even reading what I was signing....I've joined them up to Al-Qaeda and donated their kidneys for all I know.
It's kind of remarkable that one day in, it's like we never left.
No dramas today. Thing 1 went to her third year of high school without batting an eyelash. She got her schedule last week, so knew where to go and what to do. Thing 2 started her last year of elementary school, Grade 8, and has all her friends in her class, as well as the teacher she wanted. So she gets to enjoy her one year as a big fish in a small pond.
Funnily enough, I was the one with the dodgy tummy this morning. As I was getting ready for work, I found myself getting all riled up, until I said "wait a minute, MY life doesn't change one little bit today, what am I all nervous about??". Hard to change some habits, I guess.
Both girls came home with a hemorrhage of paperwork for me to deal with this evening. I think I wrote out both of their health card numbers a bazillion times. I checked off dozens of boxes saying I'm okay with them having their pictures taken and I take full responsibility if they trash school property and I understand they are not allowed to dress like little prostitutes. I signed my name so many times it has lost all meaning for me. I stopped even reading what I was signing....I've joined them up to Al-Qaeda and donated their kidneys for all I know.
It's kind of remarkable that one day in, it's like we never left.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Away and Back.
Thing 2 has been at camp the past week, and Thing 1 and I went and picked her up this afternoon.
The camp is an hour away, on Lake Huron. Thing 2 went there last year, and loved it, and couldn't wait to go again this year. I'm happy she likes it so much; I was never a kid who could contemplate even the idea of going away to camp for a week....terminal homesickness would have finished me off for sure. It thrills me that she does not suffer similarly. Thing 1 never went away to camp, not so much because of the homesickness, she's savvy enough to be able to deal with that. It was more because, in her words, "there's too much nature at camp." That particular apple has not fallen far from the tree.
It's a bit disconcerting to be away from your child for a few days and not recognize them when you are reunited. I walked up to Thing 2's cabin, where all the girls were hanging out outside waiting for their parents, and I nearly kept going because I was looking for much younger kids. When a young woman almost as tall as me launched herself at me and hugged me for all she was worth, I was momentarily offended. Then I realized it was my own offspring. I'm glad I hugged her back, and didn't flip her over my shoulder in a Jackie Chan moment.
As we drove home, in a gold-dipped afternoon through the rolling green of southwestern Ontario, we chatted about her week, and our week, and Toby's week. (Toby caught a chipmunk....Thing 1 managed to free it from it's peril by gently hitting Toby in the head with a broom. Toby was so surprised he let go of the chipmunk and gave Thing 1 a perfec "what the hell???" look. Chipmunk wisely hightailed it out of there, and now Toby goes back to the spot every time he goes outside, like it might be there again. ) She did some archery and ate French toast for the first time and told her friends about the songs I sing to the cat. We got a new tv for the kitchen, and worked and noticed how quiet it was without her around.
She's had a shower, and dinner (with all the milk she could drink, because, apparently, they don't serve milk at camp) and after going on Facebook and watching tv, will climb into her own bed with clean sheets and can sleep as long as she likes.
I don't think it gets any better than that.
The camp is an hour away, on Lake Huron. Thing 2 went there last year, and loved it, and couldn't wait to go again this year. I'm happy she likes it so much; I was never a kid who could contemplate even the idea of going away to camp for a week....terminal homesickness would have finished me off for sure. It thrills me that she does not suffer similarly. Thing 1 never went away to camp, not so much because of the homesickness, she's savvy enough to be able to deal with that. It was more because, in her words, "there's too much nature at camp." That particular apple has not fallen far from the tree.
It's a bit disconcerting to be away from your child for a few days and not recognize them when you are reunited. I walked up to Thing 2's cabin, where all the girls were hanging out outside waiting for their parents, and I nearly kept going because I was looking for much younger kids. When a young woman almost as tall as me launched herself at me and hugged me for all she was worth, I was momentarily offended. Then I realized it was my own offspring. I'm glad I hugged her back, and didn't flip her over my shoulder in a Jackie Chan moment.
As we drove home, in a gold-dipped afternoon through the rolling green of southwestern Ontario, we chatted about her week, and our week, and Toby's week. (Toby caught a chipmunk....Thing 1 managed to free it from it's peril by gently hitting Toby in the head with a broom. Toby was so surprised he let go of the chipmunk and gave Thing 1 a perfec "what the hell???" look. Chipmunk wisely hightailed it out of there, and now Toby goes back to the spot every time he goes outside, like it might be there again. ) She did some archery and ate French toast for the first time and told her friends about the songs I sing to the cat. We got a new tv for the kitchen, and worked and noticed how quiet it was without her around.
She's had a shower, and dinner (with all the milk she could drink, because, apparently, they don't serve milk at camp) and after going on Facebook and watching tv, will climb into her own bed with clean sheets and can sleep as long as she likes.
I don't think it gets any better than that.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Beginning of an Era
Thing 1 turned 16 a month ago, and has been dying to get her driver's licence ever since. And today she did!
She got her G1 licence, which used to be called a "beginner's" licence in my day, back when the earth was cool and Oprah was poor. She can only drive with a licenced driver who is over 18 in the front seat, not between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m, not on major highways, and without playing "Nickleback" at any time. (Okay, that last one is my rule.)
Like all government-sanctioned activities in Canada, there is a determined and unwavering effort to make sure you do not enjoy yourself one bit while held captive in their offices. There is no where near enough seating, the air conditioner, like the staff, is testy, and the decorator clearly worked in a Soviet-era prison before emigrating to Canada.
After waiting about 40 minutes, it was finally Thing 1's turn. We went up to the counter and Thing 1 answered a couple of questions and did a vision test, and then she had to get her picture taken and sign her licence. Who knew that this would be the toughest part of the day?? She signed her name, but it had to match her passport's exactly. First of all, she signed that thing a year ago, and secondly, a 16 year old doesn't sign her name very often. (She also said she literally hadn't put pen to paper since school let out a month and a half ago!) The very nice man behind the counter let her give it a couple of goes, but honestly, it was very tense by the time she got it right. Then she had to have her picture taken, and she blinked. Twice. By the time we were on the third picture we were both laughing so hard, and I could detect that my darling girl was on the verge of really losing it and sinking into hysteria and possible seizures. Finally, she got a picture that did not make her look like she was sound asleep, a terrorist or under pharmaceutical influence.
After all that, she wrote the test and passed easily. Big smiles all around. (Just for the record, we saw three people who did not pass, one girl by just one wrong answer. I'll bet it was quiet around the dinner table at those houses tonight.)
I can't wait until Thing 1 has her full licence and can take over some of the ferrying and chauffering of her younger sister. And guess who will teach Thing 2 to drive? This is an era I'm going to like.
She got her G1 licence, which used to be called a "beginner's" licence in my day, back when the earth was cool and Oprah was poor. She can only drive with a licenced driver who is over 18 in the front seat, not between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m, not on major highways, and without playing "Nickleback" at any time. (Okay, that last one is my rule.)
Like all government-sanctioned activities in Canada, there is a determined and unwavering effort to make sure you do not enjoy yourself one bit while held captive in their offices. There is no where near enough seating, the air conditioner, like the staff, is testy, and the decorator clearly worked in a Soviet-era prison before emigrating to Canada.
After waiting about 40 minutes, it was finally Thing 1's turn. We went up to the counter and Thing 1 answered a couple of questions and did a vision test, and then she had to get her picture taken and sign her licence. Who knew that this would be the toughest part of the day?? She signed her name, but it had to match her passport's exactly. First of all, she signed that thing a year ago, and secondly, a 16 year old doesn't sign her name very often. (She also said she literally hadn't put pen to paper since school let out a month and a half ago!) The very nice man behind the counter let her give it a couple of goes, but honestly, it was very tense by the time she got it right. Then she had to have her picture taken, and she blinked. Twice. By the time we were on the third picture we were both laughing so hard, and I could detect that my darling girl was on the verge of really losing it and sinking into hysteria and possible seizures. Finally, she got a picture that did not make her look like she was sound asleep, a terrorist or under pharmaceutical influence.
After all that, she wrote the test and passed easily. Big smiles all around. (Just for the record, we saw three people who did not pass, one girl by just one wrong answer. I'll bet it was quiet around the dinner table at those houses tonight.)
I can't wait until Thing 1 has her full licence and can take over some of the ferrying and chauffering of her younger sister. And guess who will teach Thing 2 to drive? This is an era I'm going to like.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Nutrition-Free Week
One of the nice things about holidays is the suspension of routine; the normal rules of living are loosened somewhat, because no one has to be out the door at a particular time, meal and bed times can be fluid, everyone can sleep in. It's a "get out of jail free" card for the duration.
This has translated into a "nutrition-free" week at the cottage. It started when the girls were younger, and as part of the week away from routine, we would get considerably more "treat" food for our week away than we ever had any other time of the year. And as that meant that I was constantly trying to beat them out of the kitchen, and eternally being the "treat police" and it was distinctly unpleasant, mostly for me. After a while, I threw my hands up and figured "it's one week out of the year, have at it". You want Pringles and pudding for breakfast? Be my guest. Lunch is some licorice and a popsicle? Not a problem. Popcorn at 2 in the afternoon? Great idea. You're not hungry for dinner because you ate your weight in Pop-Tarts? Why didn't I think of that?
It's tradition.
I'll admit, I've had some sober second thoughts regarding this policy on more than one occasion. One morning, when Thing 2 was about 6 years old, I woke up to find her sitting on the couch, watching a DVD and eating vanilla icing straight out of the can with a spoon. I was mostly horrified, but a teeny bit impressed at her intestinal fortitude. And Thing 1 once ate an entire chocolate cream pie by herself over the course of a day.
And it's not just the kids, oh no. The Mister and I can hold our own in the "Red Dye Number 2 Festival"....I don't know what it is about sitting on the beach, but I crave potato chips like a meth addict when I'm there. I can not only eat a bag of chips every day, I have also been known to put a serious dent in a bag of cheezies, which is completely unheard of any other time of the year. The Mister, who usually never eats breakfast at all, will almost always have a bowl of whatever chocolate flavored, sugar coated, morally dubious cereal that's around, every day.
I do make dinner every night that week, and although I'm a bit more lax than usual, I do try to have something that gives everyone's pancreas a fighting chance. And I do have plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables around. It makes me feel a bit better to have some baby carrots with my lunch of bacon and egg bagels and a fudgesicle.
And I notice that 'round about Wednesday or Thursday of our week, someone will ask if there's going to be salad with our dinner, or if we have any apples. The nutrition-free week works itself out pretty nicely....eventually your body will start to demand fuel that has only one or two syllables in its name.
It's nice to have one week where you kick the rules to the curb and let loose. But truly, one week is enough.
This has translated into a "nutrition-free" week at the cottage. It started when the girls were younger, and as part of the week away from routine, we would get considerably more "treat" food for our week away than we ever had any other time of the year. And as that meant that I was constantly trying to beat them out of the kitchen, and eternally being the "treat police" and it was distinctly unpleasant, mostly for me. After a while, I threw my hands up and figured "it's one week out of the year, have at it". You want Pringles and pudding for breakfast? Be my guest. Lunch is some licorice and a popsicle? Not a problem. Popcorn at 2 in the afternoon? Great idea. You're not hungry for dinner because you ate your weight in Pop-Tarts? Why didn't I think of that?
It's tradition.
I'll admit, I've had some sober second thoughts regarding this policy on more than one occasion. One morning, when Thing 2 was about 6 years old, I woke up to find her sitting on the couch, watching a DVD and eating vanilla icing straight out of the can with a spoon. I was mostly horrified, but a teeny bit impressed at her intestinal fortitude. And Thing 1 once ate an entire chocolate cream pie by herself over the course of a day.
And it's not just the kids, oh no. The Mister and I can hold our own in the "Red Dye Number 2 Festival"....I don't know what it is about sitting on the beach, but I crave potato chips like a meth addict when I'm there. I can not only eat a bag of chips every day, I have also been known to put a serious dent in a bag of cheezies, which is completely unheard of any other time of the year. The Mister, who usually never eats breakfast at all, will almost always have a bowl of whatever chocolate flavored, sugar coated, morally dubious cereal that's around, every day.
I do make dinner every night that week, and although I'm a bit more lax than usual, I do try to have something that gives everyone's pancreas a fighting chance. And I do have plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables around. It makes me feel a bit better to have some baby carrots with my lunch of bacon and egg bagels and a fudgesicle.
And I notice that 'round about Wednesday or Thursday of our week, someone will ask if there's going to be salad with our dinner, or if we have any apples. The nutrition-free week works itself out pretty nicely....eventually your body will start to demand fuel that has only one or two syllables in its name.
It's nice to have one week where you kick the rules to the curb and let loose. But truly, one week is enough.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Glad and Mad
One of my friends had a knock on the door recently; it was a one of the neighbours wondering if my friend's 15 year-old daughter would be interested in babysitting a few days a week for the summer. Friend said she thought that would be great, as school will be finished in a few weeks, and her daughter had talked about working a bit through the holidays.
This was about a week after my friend had given her daughter the speech about how she was going to have to go out and, you know, actually look for a job; no one was going to come knocking on her door and just offer her one.
She's delighed her daughter has a job for the summer, but would rather she had obtained it in a manner that did not prove her mother wrong.
This was about a week after my friend had given her daughter the speech about how she was going to have to go out and, you know, actually look for a job; no one was going to come knocking on her door and just offer her one.
She's delighed her daughter has a job for the summer, but would rather she had obtained it in a manner that did not prove her mother wrong.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Shirt Happens
Thing 1 recently received an awesome t-shirt, which she wore to school yesterday. She said she spent the entire day watching people approach her, contort themselves into ridiculous positions, and then laugh.
One girl read the shirt from top to bottom, and said "I don't get it", not realizing that she had perfectly read the upside-down writing. Thing 1 and I decided that that girl would be our number one choice for the role of "Indispensible, Smart Sidekick" if ever we were chosen for a super-secret spy mission.
Exhibit A:
Friday, March 12, 2010
Skating
Thing 2's class went on a field trip to the skating rink this morning, and I tagged along. I seem to be an anomoly amongst parents, in that I love going on field trips. I hardly ever get to go any more, because I'm working more hours and I think when your kids are younger, you feel the need to be with your kid because OH MY GOD WHAT IF SHE NEEDS ME AND I'M NOT THERE, which you do not feel once they are a bit older. Like, not even a little bit. So I was the only Grade 7 mother there.
Anyway, the Grade 7s went skating with their "reading buddies", the Kindergarten class. There are about 32 Grade 7s and about 18 Kindergarteners, so you can imagine that some little ones are smothered in "reading buddies". The idea was that the older kids would help the younger ones skate, but because March Break starts next week, there were plenty of kids away, and the upshot was that there were way more older ones than little ones, and the older ones were not the least bit interested in the little kids at all. They were way more interested in staging a production of "Hormones on Ice".
Skating is hard. Like, literally, hard. There are sharp blades and solid boards to keep you from tumbling right out of the rink and the ice....my God, the ice. Falling on ice is brutal...that stuff does NOT give way, and you will rattle your teeth and hear your brain clang around in your skull. I've had a couple of falls in my time that might explain my inability to do long division or parallel park.
I'm a pretty good skater; I don't go too fast, but I also don't fall down and I look respectable. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a good enough skater that I could skate with my hands in my pockets; for some reason, that looked to be the height of agility and confidence when I was about 9. I never did get there, but I can skate well enough to make me enjoy it. The Mister is and excellent skater, since he played hockey from the day he could walk, like all Canadian males. He can skate with his hands in his pockets. Thing 2 used to have a kid in her class who's dad played in the NHL...when he came on the skating field trips, he could not only skate with his hands in his pockets, he could skate carrying a full-sized Kindergartener on each arm. I was enchanted.
You could easily tell which kids had done this before and which ones had not. The hockey players, boys and girls, swooped and turned and tore around like pinballs. There were a couple of kids who had never skated before, mostly kids from other countries. The Korean kids took about four steps before they had it all figured out, and were skating in no time. The kids from the Middle East and South Africa had a bit tougher time out there, but they certainly kept at it, long after I would have given up.
Skating is fun...I should do it more often. Of course, it's even more fun when there's other people to watch.
Anyway, the Grade 7s went skating with their "reading buddies", the Kindergarten class. There are about 32 Grade 7s and about 18 Kindergarteners, so you can imagine that some little ones are smothered in "reading buddies". The idea was that the older kids would help the younger ones skate, but because March Break starts next week, there were plenty of kids away, and the upshot was that there were way more older ones than little ones, and the older ones were not the least bit interested in the little kids at all. They were way more interested in staging a production of "Hormones on Ice".
Skating is hard. Like, literally, hard. There are sharp blades and solid boards to keep you from tumbling right out of the rink and the ice....my God, the ice. Falling on ice is brutal...that stuff does NOT give way, and you will rattle your teeth and hear your brain clang around in your skull. I've had a couple of falls in my time that might explain my inability to do long division or parallel park.
I'm a pretty good skater; I don't go too fast, but I also don't fall down and I look respectable. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a good enough skater that I could skate with my hands in my pockets; for some reason, that looked to be the height of agility and confidence when I was about 9. I never did get there, but I can skate well enough to make me enjoy it. The Mister is and excellent skater, since he played hockey from the day he could walk, like all Canadian males. He can skate with his hands in his pockets. Thing 2 used to have a kid in her class who's dad played in the NHL...when he came on the skating field trips, he could not only skate with his hands in his pockets, he could skate carrying a full-sized Kindergartener on each arm. I was enchanted.
You could easily tell which kids had done this before and which ones had not. The hockey players, boys and girls, swooped and turned and tore around like pinballs. There were a couple of kids who had never skated before, mostly kids from other countries. The Korean kids took about four steps before they had it all figured out, and were skating in no time. The kids from the Middle East and South Africa had a bit tougher time out there, but they certainly kept at it, long after I would have given up.
Skating is fun...I should do it more often. Of course, it's even more fun when there's other people to watch.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
QED
Thing 2 told the following story at dinner tonight: At school today she was giving her friend Alexa a hard time because she said that Alexa always did what anyone else told her to do; she never thought for herself.
Alexa hotly denied that accusation, saying that she did not do what other people told her to do at all.
Thing 2 told said "you should prove that!" and Alexa flounced off, declaring "I will".
Thing 2 turned to Austin beside her and said "Did I just win?".
He replied in the affirmative.
Alexa hotly denied that accusation, saying that she did not do what other people told her to do at all.
Thing 2 told said "you should prove that!" and Alexa flounced off, declaring "I will".
Thing 2 turned to Austin beside her and said "Did I just win?".
He replied in the affirmative.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Rules I Followed As A Kid And Still Do.
When you are growing up, there are, reasonably, certain limitations put on your behaviour. Small children generally behave like minature drunken sailors on a 24 hour shore leave, and have to be corralled in such a manner that they present no danger to themselves or anyone else. (Hence the invention of the playpen. Or "baby jail", as it was referred to in our house.)
As children get older they can be trusted to understand that there are rules that need to be followed, so that everyone is safe and order reigns and mommy's head doesn't burst into flames without warning.
And somehow, those rules continue to be obeyed, LONG after the need for such restrictions is no longer applicable. I have come to realize that it is just as well that I did not live in a Communist country as a youngster, or in the confines of a religious cult, because I would be a hopeless slave to whatever doctrine I had been programmed to.
Some of the rules I follow as an adult are:
*Don't EVER adjust the thermostat. There was no point in even ASKING to touch the thermostat or change the temperature in the house when I was growing up , because it would never, ever be given. Because the most heinous crime imaginable was touching the thermostat. Civlizations would crumble and meteors would crash into the earth and nature would mount an assault on humanity if children touched the thermostat. When the Mister and I got married, I spent an entire December weekend freezing in my own house, because it never occurred to me that I could adjust the temperature. Because that would mean touching the thermostat.
*Hands in pockets. When I was a kid, my mother always commanded "hands in pockets" whenever we were in any sort of store with delicate, breakable, forbidden-to-be-touched objects in it. And to this day I cannot be in a china department with my hands unincarcerated, even though I am perfectly capable of keeping them under control.
*Hold a knife by it's blade. When you are walking with a knife, you MUST hold the blade of the knife in your hand, otherwise it will run amok and stab someone. Or you. I can't remember which. But a knife blade unsheathed by the insurmountable armour of your palm is dangerous beyond belief, and I'm horrified whenever I see anyone else dabble in such folly.
*Don't open things with your teeth. Opening packages with your teeth was, to my mother, the most gruesome, horrifying act one human being could commit. I'm not really sure why, perhaps she was afraid that my teeth would shatter to smithereens if they came in close contact with a stubborn popsicle wrapper, I don't know. But to this day, I NEVER use my teeth to open anything, ever, and find myself screeching the same directive to my children whenever I see them do it.
As children get older they can be trusted to understand that there are rules that need to be followed, so that everyone is safe and order reigns and mommy's head doesn't burst into flames without warning.
And somehow, those rules continue to be obeyed, LONG after the need for such restrictions is no longer applicable. I have come to realize that it is just as well that I did not live in a Communist country as a youngster, or in the confines of a religious cult, because I would be a hopeless slave to whatever doctrine I had been programmed to.
Some of the rules I follow as an adult are:
*Don't EVER adjust the thermostat. There was no point in even ASKING to touch the thermostat or change the temperature in the house when I was growing up , because it would never, ever be given. Because the most heinous crime imaginable was touching the thermostat. Civlizations would crumble and meteors would crash into the earth and nature would mount an assault on humanity if children touched the thermostat. When the Mister and I got married, I spent an entire December weekend freezing in my own house, because it never occurred to me that I could adjust the temperature. Because that would mean touching the thermostat.
*Hands in pockets. When I was a kid, my mother always commanded "hands in pockets" whenever we were in any sort of store with delicate, breakable, forbidden-to-be-touched objects in it. And to this day I cannot be in a china department with my hands unincarcerated, even though I am perfectly capable of keeping them under control.
*Hold a knife by it's blade. When you are walking with a knife, you MUST hold the blade of the knife in your hand, otherwise it will run amok and stab someone. Or you. I can't remember which. But a knife blade unsheathed by the insurmountable armour of your palm is dangerous beyond belief, and I'm horrified whenever I see anyone else dabble in such folly.
*Don't open things with your teeth. Opening packages with your teeth was, to my mother, the most gruesome, horrifying act one human being could commit. I'm not really sure why, perhaps she was afraid that my teeth would shatter to smithereens if they came in close contact with a stubborn popsicle wrapper, I don't know. But to this day, I NEVER use my teeth to open anything, ever, and find myself screeching the same directive to my children whenever I see them do it.
Friday, August 28, 2009
My Children Amuse Me.
The other day, Thing 1 was walking by while I was reading the obituary section of the paper. (I always check the obits. You don't want to call a client to remind them of their appointment if they no longer need their hair done.) Sometimes people put pictures of the deceased in the paper, along with the text. (Very handy, sometimes you don't know someone's name at all, just "Overly Friendly Guy Who Works Around the Corner", or "Lady On the Bus Who Only Ever Reads Danielle Steele". It's nice to know why you don't see them any more.) Anyway, I was reading the obits, and there was a picture of a roundish old guy with white hair and glasses, and Thing 1 points to him and says, "That guy's in there all the time".
Thing 2 and I were in the car this afternoon, discussing the possibility of a trip to Florida for the Loudshoes family this autumn. The last time we went to Disney World, we went right after American Thanksgiving, which, apparently, is the least busy week all year. I mentioned that maybe we would go that week again, since it was so nice to have it so quiet. Thing 2 mused that she hoped there would be an outbreak of "some sort of disease" so that everyone else would be too scared to travel, and we would have the place to ourselves. I laughed, and she was sort of surprised; I think she was serious.
Thing 2 and I were in the car this afternoon, discussing the possibility of a trip to Florida for the Loudshoes family this autumn. The last time we went to Disney World, we went right after American Thanksgiving, which, apparently, is the least busy week all year. I mentioned that maybe we would go that week again, since it was so nice to have it so quiet. Thing 2 mused that she hoped there would be an outbreak of "some sort of disease" so that everyone else would be too scared to travel, and we would have the place to ourselves. I laughed, and she was sort of surprised; I think she was serious.
Friday, August 21, 2009
That's Why "A" is First
The kids and Himself and my nephew were in the car on the way home from dinner last night, and somehow the conversation turned to what the kids thought they might do when they grew up. (The Mister and I were not allowed to join in on this one, because, as Thing 2 flat out told us "you've had your chance". Harsh.)
My nephew, who is almost 13, said he thought he'd like to be an engineer. (The kind that figures out how much the house weighs, not the kind that runs a train.) He's good at math, and his mother's brother is an engineer. (I did not tell him the joke Q."What do engineers use for birth control?" A."Their personalities".)
Thing 2 (she's 12) had thought long ago that she wanted to run a bank, until we informed her that being in charge of the bank does not mean you get to use all the money for yourself. Then she kind of went off that idea. But last night she said she thought she'd maybe be an astronomer or a flight attendant. I guess they both have to do with the sky, anyway.
And Thing 1 (15) said that her Plan B is to be a hairdresser, but that she hadn't really worked out her Plan A yet. I said that maybe she should concentrate on that first, since, you know, Plan A might turn out to be important.
My nephew, who is almost 13, said he thought he'd like to be an engineer. (The kind that figures out how much the house weighs, not the kind that runs a train.) He's good at math, and his mother's brother is an engineer. (I did not tell him the joke Q."What do engineers use for birth control?" A."Their personalities".)
Thing 2 (she's 12) had thought long ago that she wanted to run a bank, until we informed her that being in charge of the bank does not mean you get to use all the money for yourself. Then she kind of went off that idea. But last night she said she thought she'd maybe be an astronomer or a flight attendant. I guess they both have to do with the sky, anyway.
And Thing 1 (15) said that her Plan B is to be a hairdresser, but that she hadn't really worked out her Plan A yet. I said that maybe she should concentrate on that first, since, you know, Plan A might turn out to be important.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Empty Nest
The Mister and I have been without children for five full days now; almost a week, really. Thing 2 is at an overnight camp since Sunday (her first time!) and I pick her up tomorrow. Thing 1 decided to spend the week with her grandmother, rather than hang around the house by herself. (Although she and her sister dedicate enormous amounts of time to an undending game of "Piss Off That Sister!", Thing 1 quickly realized that her parents are crashingly boring, and a week spent in our company might prematurely age her.) It is the longest I have been without either one of them in 15 years.
As you can imagine, it's pretty quiet around here. The Mister isn't very chatty (one of the reasons I married him; why would I hook up with my competition??) but he does make an effort occasionally to engage my attention with such gems as "who is Goldie Hawn's boyfriend" and "is peppermint and spearmint really two different things". Luckily, I get to talk a lot at work.
Toby does not approve of the new order. For one thing, there's nobody around during the day. Even though Toby can easily stay sound asleep in exactly the same position for 12 hours at a stretch, he likes to know that it is possible to be able to get through any given door at a moment's notice. (Toby hates a closed door. No matter what side of it he's on, he really, really wants to be on the other side of it.) Also, with only two of us here, the likelihood of him getting extra tuna because everyone thought nobody else had given him any is considerably slimmer.
I notice that we are not going through nearly the same amount of food that we do with the girls here. Believe me, my kids are anything but robust; neither of them is what you would call "hearty eaters". But apparently they go through milk like nobody's business, and eat way more fruit and bread than I ever realized.
The phone has hardly rung since they've been away, too. I guess the Mister and I don't get phone calls anymore, but we never noticed.
It's been an interesting couple of days, and I've enjoyed the change in routine mightily...mostly I've liked that I can come and go as I please, and I haven't once felt guilty about being in one place when I should be some where else. But I will be glad to have them home soon, even if I do have to buy groceries again.
As you can imagine, it's pretty quiet around here. The Mister isn't very chatty (one of the reasons I married him; why would I hook up with my competition??) but he does make an effort occasionally to engage my attention with such gems as "who is Goldie Hawn's boyfriend" and "is peppermint and spearmint really two different things". Luckily, I get to talk a lot at work.
Toby does not approve of the new order. For one thing, there's nobody around during the day. Even though Toby can easily stay sound asleep in exactly the same position for 12 hours at a stretch, he likes to know that it is possible to be able to get through any given door at a moment's notice. (Toby hates a closed door. No matter what side of it he's on, he really, really wants to be on the other side of it.) Also, with only two of us here, the likelihood of him getting extra tuna because everyone thought nobody else had given him any is considerably slimmer.
I notice that we are not going through nearly the same amount of food that we do with the girls here. Believe me, my kids are anything but robust; neither of them is what you would call "hearty eaters". But apparently they go through milk like nobody's business, and eat way more fruit and bread than I ever realized.
The phone has hardly rung since they've been away, too. I guess the Mister and I don't get phone calls anymore, but we never noticed.
It's been an interesting couple of days, and I've enjoyed the change in routine mightily...mostly I've liked that I can come and go as I please, and I haven't once felt guilty about being in one place when I should be some where else. But I will be glad to have them home soon, even if I do have to buy groceries again.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
How To Make People Happy.
Today is Pizza Day at Thing 2's school, so it's the one day a month I go into her class and help give out pizza and drinks. Thing 2 is happy enough to have me there, and I'm happy to do it. I get to know the kids, ("Okay, THAT kid is going to set someone's couch on fire, don't let him in our house".) and they get to know me.
Most of the kids like me and I get along with just fine, but there are a few who don't like me, and believe me, the feeling is mutual. (Mrs. Loudshoes is a hard-ass, she makes you say please and thank you every stinking time; and when you give her the stink-eye because of it, she will give you your pizza last.)
Since this is June, and therefore the last pizza day of the school year, I thought I'd bring in a dessert for the kids, even the ones I don't particularly like. It's a bit of a minefield, bringing food into the school, because of peanut allergies, but I managed to find a brand of fudgesicles that were peanut-free, so I was good. (To bring homemade food in is a nightmare, better left alone. You have to submit a list of ingredients before you make the dish, and then sign an agreement that you won't substitute any of the ingredients for anything else. Then you have to make the dish and woe betide the person who runs out of yogurt and uses sour cream.)
The kids were thrilled with this unimagined booty, and most of them reacted like I said school was all overwith today when I pulled the fudgesicles out of the bag. It is seriously too easy to make some people happy.I started wondering if I walked around with a permanent supply of fudgesicles would I make other people happy all the time? Would the cashier at Sobey's, the Tim Horton's lady and our dry cleaner, Mr. Grumpy Korean, have an epiphany and be happy with their lot in life if only they had a sweet, creamy chocolate treat presented to them? (I really want to try this on Mr. Grumpy Korean, because he is one dour man...I've never seen him smile even once.)
I gave the fudgesicles out around the time most of the kids were finishing their pizza, because I know at least a couple of them would have eaten the fudgesicle first. As it was, some of them stopped eating the pizza and tucked into the fudgesicle immediately, like they couldn't possibly finish those three bites of savory before falling all over the sweet. Most of them managed to eat their fudgesicles without incident, but a couple of them dropped theirs and a few more completely bathed themselves in it, and one kid lost the stick entirely, and I cannot fathom how he did that.
And then I had a fudgesicle, and although it didn't put me in the blissful rapture of the Grade 6s, it did make me happy. So I'm going to have another one.
Most of the kids like me and I get along with just fine, but there are a few who don't like me, and believe me, the feeling is mutual. (Mrs. Loudshoes is a hard-ass, she makes you say please and thank you every stinking time; and when you give her the stink-eye because of it, she will give you your pizza last.)
Since this is June, and therefore the last pizza day of the school year, I thought I'd bring in a dessert for the kids, even the ones I don't particularly like. It's a bit of a minefield, bringing food into the school, because of peanut allergies, but I managed to find a brand of fudgesicles that were peanut-free, so I was good. (To bring homemade food in is a nightmare, better left alone. You have to submit a list of ingredients before you make the dish, and then sign an agreement that you won't substitute any of the ingredients for anything else. Then you have to make the dish and woe betide the person who runs out of yogurt and uses sour cream.)
The kids were thrilled with this unimagined booty, and most of them reacted like I said school was all overwith today when I pulled the fudgesicles out of the bag. It is seriously too easy to make some people happy.I started wondering if I walked around with a permanent supply of fudgesicles would I make other people happy all the time? Would the cashier at Sobey's, the Tim Horton's lady and our dry cleaner, Mr. Grumpy Korean, have an epiphany and be happy with their lot in life if only they had a sweet, creamy chocolate treat presented to them? (I really want to try this on Mr. Grumpy Korean, because he is one dour man...I've never seen him smile even once.)
I gave the fudgesicles out around the time most of the kids were finishing their pizza, because I know at least a couple of them would have eaten the fudgesicle first. As it was, some of them stopped eating the pizza and tucked into the fudgesicle immediately, like they couldn't possibly finish those three bites of savory before falling all over the sweet. Most of them managed to eat their fudgesicles without incident, but a couple of them dropped theirs and a few more completely bathed themselves in it, and one kid lost the stick entirely, and I cannot fathom how he did that.
And then I had a fudgesicle, and although it didn't put me in the blissful rapture of the Grade 6s, it did make me happy. So I'm going to have another one.
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