Not a Creature Was Stirring, Except For My Mouse

Well, I'm not entirely sure it's actually called a mouse. It's that little eraserhead-thingy (yes, that is the official technical name) in the middle of my keyboard, and I'm just winding down my work catch-up for the day.

My very kind boss is sympathizing with my extended descent into the world of solo parenting (Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here!) and offered to let me go home early on some of the days this week to pick the kids up from school at the regular time and make the rest of my workday up at home. This, of course, is a double-edged sword - getting home before suppertime is lovely, but it's less fun picking up the computer after the kids are in bed. Nevertheless I'm grateful for the opportunity, particularly having been employed for so short a time.

Only two days away from The Husband's return, and the week has gone surprisingly quickly. Yesterday's visit to Chuck E. Cheese was, according to The Girl, "The. Best. Day. Evah!" Mercifully, I was allowed to sit and read my book while dispensing tokens to my wild-running children. My personal opinion of the night was a bit different: The. Worst. Pizza. Evah.

(Seriously, I cannot think of a time I've had worse pizza. They screwed up vegetarian. I didn't think it was possible. I know one doesn't go there for the food, but if I had to choose between that cardboard on a plate and a McDonald's cheeseburger, I would likely have to turn my back on almost 8 years of herbivorism.)

Tonight we all made new friends. I had a mom from church and her daughter over for spaghetti (PM's secret cleaning trick: invite mid-week company - it forces you to get off your butt and sweep). The kids had a fabulous time, and I enjoyed some nice girl chatting. No worries, Canadian BFFs, you're not being replaced. But it *was* fabulous to talk to someone my own age with similar interests (an English major who did a stint as a prof, no less, and is now joining me in my current professional ranks).

And with that, I think I'll stop clickety-clacking these keys and head to bed. Tomorrow night is swimming lessons and suddenly it's Friday. Ooo, and it's Thursday tomorrow - that means frozen yogourt at the office. I hope it's chocolate....

Read more...

You Know It's Gonna Be a Rough Week When...

...it's only Monday night and you've already said, "to Hades with the dishes" and you've cracked open a cold one and headed up to the computer with chips and salsa.

(And sour cream. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but States-y sour cream is better than its less tangy and less creamy Canadian cousin. It is also cheaper, due to totally unfair and illegal farming subsidies. But I digress.)

I don't know why, but whenever The Husband travels, this house (and its occupants) falls apart before the whiff of his plane's jet fuel has stopped lingering. I think that when it's one of me and two of Them, an uphill battle becomes a losing one so I hunker down and try to ride out the storm.

Not that today was all that bad. We had a quick supper and headed over to this hee-ooj indoor park complete with four-storey play structure. Here's the kids post-play:

I get all nostalgic when I see t-shirts and sweatpants and boots. It reminds me of my childhood (most particularly grades 4-6 when I refused to even own a pair of jeans and instead clad myself only in the finest of knitwear).

But my day was nowhere near as bad as The Husband's. I got a call at work today:

"I'm driving around Barcelona by myself and it's 9:30 at night and I have no idea where I am. The 15-minute drive to my hotel has so far taken an hour. There are no street signs and I can't make anybody understand me."

See, there's really nothing all that glamourous about travelling for work. I don't know why I get so jealous of him.

Remind me I said this when I'm at tomorrow's special activity: Chuck E. Cheese.

(P.S. The ever-resourceful Husband finally got to his hotel - two hours late - by flagging down a taxi and busting through the language barrier to get the guy to understand that he wanted to follow his cab to the hotel. Ask him about it when he gets home - I'm sure he'll be laughing then.)

Read more...

I Love My Children Thiiiiiiis Much

Someday, my children and I will be seated in a therapist's office. They will be crying softly, having just connected all the dots and realized that I am to blame for the bulk of their problems.

Their therapist will speak to them gently and encourage them to turn to me and let it all out, reveal all their pain, confront me with the enormity of my misdeeds.

They will tearfully do so, and I will nod sadly, admitting that yes, I did throw away precious colouring pictures and that yes, I was a bully when I accused The Boy of being a crybaby. I'll plead "guilty" to any and all charges levelled against me.

But.

Emboldened, I will say, "My darlings, I have wronged you in so many ways. But do not fail to remember the day I made the ultimate parental sacrifice. The day I threw myself in front of the proverbial train for you. The day I suffered more than I have ever felt pain in my entire life."

"The day I took you to...




...the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie."



Good. Heavens. Above. This afternoon I decided to start our week without The Husband (who is travelling) off with a bang by taking the kids to a movie. They have been begging to see this movie since they saw a preview that included an animated chipmunk gyrating and singing "Chicka-wah-wah Chicka-wah-wah."

So I located a cinema still playing this monstrosity. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I even drove us all to a suburb 25 minutes away.

It was everything I had feared. High-pitched "singing" that sounded more like a cat caught in a dryer. Wooden acting. Even more wooden acting from the real people. And of course, fart jokes. So, also of course, the kids loved it.

I tried to drown my sorrows with the popcorn and drink I bought (forgot I was in the States, so stared open-mouthed when the trainee behind the counter handed me my 5 gallon bucket large-sized bag of sodium-laced goodness).

But the kids had fun, so I guess that's the most important part. With five more days to go until The Husband gets back, we've got a local indoor park, a mom and daughter from church over for supper, and a trip to Chuck E. Cheese planned. I've got to keep on top of the fun factor, or we'll all suffer.

At least, that's what's on the calendar. It may not end up happening, because if I can't get the &^%& Christmas Don't Be Late song out of my head, I may have to perform an emergency self-trepanation.

Read more...

Bus Books - The CV of the Soul

In the book High Fidelity, record-store owner Rob concludes that what's on one's iPod or on the nightstand provides more information about a person than pretty much anything else:

A while back, when Dick and Barry and I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like, Barry proposed the idea of a questionnaire for prospective partners, a two- or three-page multiple-choice document that covered all the music/film/TV/book bases. It was intended a) to dispense with awkward conversation, and b) to prevent a chap from leaping into bed with someone who might, at a later date, turn out to have every Julio Iglesias record ever made. It amused us at the time, although Barry, being Barry, went one stage further: he compiled the questionnaire and presented it to some poor woman he was interested in, and she hit him with it. But there was an important and essential truth contained in the idea, and the truth was that these things matter, and it's no good pretending that any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently, or if your favorite films wouldn'’t even speak to each other if they met at a party.

I was thinking about this idea yesterday on the bus. One of my favourite things to do on the bus (and there aren't many from which to choose) is to check out what my co-riders are reading. And, rarely do I see another's book without some sort of judgment forming in my mind. But it's not a judgment about the book.

It's a judgment about that person.

If I see Life of Pi, I think, wow, great taste. If I see a shiny Oprah's Book Club sticker, I think, wow, borrowed taste. If I see John Grisham I think, well, at least he's reading.

(I'm not against Grisham et al. per se. I've personally got a fair number of books tagged "bathroom reading" in my own collection. Heck, December was the month o' Robert Ludlum around here. But just as my kids moved beyond mushed-up carrots to curry, so, too, can readers move beyond literary pablum.)

I suppose I'm opening myself up to accusations of snobbery and elitism here. (Or perhaps snickers from those who consider my tastes more plebian than theirs and who thus render judgment upon me accordingly.) To be clear, I'm not actually saying that I can't/won't be friends with people who have different literary tastes than I. In fact, I have lots of friends whom I would classify as "non-readers."

What I am trying to say is that the books one reads (just like the movies one watches, the food one eats, the music one chooses etc.) are rarely random choices. They act as a sort of shorthand for what a person thinks is important and how s/he views the world. So when I see a stranger on the bus reading something that I've enjoyed in the past, I feel a distinct sense of kinship.

How fortuitous, then, that these thoughts were running through my head just as I discovered a fabulous new tool for my blog (see sidebar). I've spent a couple of hours entering the books on my shelves (minus the ones that I've lent out to people - you know who you are, and I'm in no hurry, but don't forget to bring them back eventually) simply to make your lives easier. Instead of having to wade through pages of text, you can take a quick glance over to the side and decide whether you like me or not!

Read more...

Semi-Homemade, Anyone?

I love my kids' daycare.

The primary caregivers are two young ladies in their early twenties who have an informal but caring attitude towards my kids (read: they don't bother getting off the couch as they drink their Caribou Coffees when we arrive in the morning, but they always call out a warm "hey there"). It's right in the school, they allow us to do drop-in after-school care when The Husband travels unexpectedly, and they make sure the Pokemon colouring pages are well-stocked.

This week is the kids' Spring Break #1 (for some reason, they get a mid-winter break *and* a spring break), so they're getting full day care. And much as I know that the availability of said care is what prevents me from having to take precious holiday time, today's "special activity" gave me pause.

What is it about Betty Crocker Warm Delights Hot Fudge Brownie Just Add Water and Microwave...

...that says "baking project"?!

Seriously - it's a "microwave safe" (read: scientists have not yet proven its carcinogenic properties) bowl filled with powder. All you need to do is add water, stir, and radioactivate.

Read more...

The Siren Song of the SAHM

For starters: I love being a "working mom."

(And for me, as you all know, working mom = working-outside-the-home mom. It certainly does not mean that for everyone and I mean no disrespect to those hard-working at-homers, but given that I don't really "work" when I'm at home, it's just the term that best sums it up.)

But there are days when I hear the seductive melody faintly across the waves. The notes that sing of leisurely, home-made breakfasts with my children. Of going out for coffee during the day with the other parents. Of having time to volunteer as a field trip chaperone. Of playing in the park with my children right after school. Of falling ill and not needing to call in anywhere.

The song of the stay-at-home-mom.

On days like today, when The Husband is slooooowly wending his way back from the latest trip (with only enough time between this one and the next one to do a bit of laundry), when The Girl pulled another 102 degree fever out of nowhere the night before, when I run panting to my bus with seconds to spare because I got lost trying to find the alternative daycare site, I feel ever so tempted to hand in my resignation, enroll the kids in an English school (because it's free), and put a pot of coffee on.

Of course, the lure is only as strong as my idealistic notions of what my life would look like. I've been there, done that, yet for some reason I forget how much I hated being at home. Loved my kids, hated being a SAHM. I was bored, frustrated and unfulfilled. I lost precious brain cells because I did no more than watch Treehouse all day. I squandered my time on mindless activities instead of "investing in my children" (whatever that means).

At least, this is what I tell myself as I lash myself to the mast with memories of what my SAHM life was like and conscious thoughts of how good my job is and how much I will come to love it. Doesn't make the grass seem less green on that side of the fence, but at least it will keep me safe from doing something silly like quitting my job tomorrow.

Read more...

Chillin' on Presidents Day

It's been a slow road to recovery, but I think we're almost there.

We had a good weekend with my parents, in large part due to their graciousness at arriving to partially healthy hosts in a barely clean house, as well as frequent administrations of Motrin. Seriously, I need to buy stock in that company. Take one feverish, whiny child and add two teaspoons of dye-free berry-flavoured magic and voila! 20 minutes later the child is transformed.

Our transformed children allowed us to enjoy what have become our standard guest-related activities: seeing the neighbourhood sights, IKEA and (of course) the Mall of America. We also got to show my parents where we work and bring them to church with us.

They left this morning and the kids and I hung out. Well, they hung out: I was busy doing housecleaning and laundry, which means that *now* my house is actually ready for guests (10 hours after they left)! The Girl had a friend from school over for a playdate, so it was a fun stay-home day for them.

I don't know if it's the return to health, the return to routine, or just the end of such a nice weekend, but I'm feeling particularly grateful today. Here's my list of things I'm thankful for today:

- My cozy, snug house. Especially when it's nice and clean.

- My kids. Smarter, snugglier, sweeter babies you will not find.

- My family. It's nice to know we are loved from afar.

- Our new church. I got a call today from another mom to apologize that her son may have sent home some strep germs after playing with the kids yesterday. It makes me happy that someone I've just met cares enough about us to make that call.

- My job. As tough as it is to have everything be new all the time, it promises fulfillment and allows me to pay for...

- The kids' school. We found out this weekend we didn't get into the free school (unless, of course, the 135 other children ahead of us on the waiting list suddenly move to Kansas), but we have two spots at their current school, which is a place where they are quite happy. Their education is also having some effect, as The Girl was talking in her sleep the other night and yelling at her brother in two languages.

- My husband. Even though I won't see him much over the next two weeks as he does some major travelling, I know he'll be missing us.

- Good health. Every time I'm sick, I think of people with chronic illnesses. I'm incapacitated by a mild fever, so I marvel at their fortitude while I breathe a "thank you Jesus" when my body stops aching and I feel like eating again.

Read more...

The Second-Worst Part about Sick Kids...

...is when they pass it on to you. GROAN! I have been so sick these past couple of days. I've tried to get into bed early every night (read: as soon as I got home from work yesterday, with a one-hour foray back to the world of the waking to eat supper and finish writing out kids' valentines), but it just wasn't enough.

I went in to work today, hoping I'd get better and not worse, but alas, I sent myself home mid-morning. My sweet boss said I could work from home the rest of the day (and tomorrow if necessary), but I took myself straight to bed.

Things have been looking up the past few hours, so I'm hoping I'm on the mend and can make it in to work tomorrow. Fortunately, the cavalry (i.e. my parents) arrives tomorrow and it's a long weekend for me, so there's a light at the end of the tunnel.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

Read more...

The Worst Part about Sick Kids...

...is not fevers. It's not having a restless, sweaty child in bed with you. It's not barf and it's not even (in our case) monitoring for breathing difficulties.

Nope, the worst part about having a sick child is the dreaded "whose workday is more important today" conversation.

Given our paucity of childcare resources, these days sick child = parent at home. And, since neither of us have ever been told, "hey, don't worry about it, none of the work you do is actually all that important," it becomes a question of who can least afford to miss work rather than who is in a good position to do so.

The Husband finally got a laptop from work so he can work at home, but his job requires a lot more interaction with coworkers than mine. My work is quite independent, but I'm still a newbie and don't have work-at-home privileges yet (and, if I did, the company is quite specific that working at home is only approved if children are cared for off-site, so it isn't really a viable option except for not falling behind).

So today's solution is that The Husband goes in for a few hours and works the rest of the day at home while I go in late and stay at work until I've put in my eight hours so as to avoid using up my vacation time.

Sigh.

Well, today's covered. Here's hoping The Boy feels better tomorrow; The Husband is off to Chicago for a meeting which means I'm the sole member of the "Sick Kid Patrol."

Read more...

Next Up on the Agenda...

I loves me a good annual general meeting. Truth be told, I actually like meetings in general. Probably the voyeur in me - I like to hear about what other people are doing.

I missed this year's AGM at our former church because, well, we live pretty far away. And I was really sad about it; I've come to enjoy hearing committe reports and planning for the future, even if it means giving up a Saturday morning sleep-in. It gives me a lovely, glow-y sense of being part of a community.

Today was our new church's AGM. I think we probably shocked the regulars by staying for the entire 2 1/2 hour run-through. But it seems to me that you only get to see one side of a church on Sunday morning - the polished, job-interview face. If you really want to get a sense of a church, attend the AGM. You'll see what they consider important (and what gets quietly left off the agenda). You'll see what they think deserves time and energy and what is unnecessary. You'll see, perhaps most telling, where the money goes.

You can also get a sense of the politics. Of relationships. Of group dynamics. Of who displays leadership qualities. You can even get a hint at the issues that polarize a congregation and how they choose to address conflict.

So far, we're still content with our church choice. I was happy to look around at the other attendees today and realize that I knew most of them. We continue to feel welcomed; yesterday our family was invited out for supper again. It's a bit sad that there aren't more people our age (or even more people with kids), but the older generation is quite deliberate about connecting with us, so the demographic differences don't seem as marked.

Other than that, a pretty quiet weekend. Yesterday the kids and I walked down to a local toy shop where they were having a free make-a-diorama event. Today I was a bit under the weather, but hopefully a good night's sleep will get me back up to Monday morning speed.

Speaking of which, I think I'll head there now. The Husband and I are switching shifts tomorrow, so it's up at 5 for me!

Read more...

Blech

It's feeling a bit slough-of-despond-ish in my neck of the woods lately.

It may have something to do with the fact that I'm suffering from that (self-diagnosed) toxic malady "seasonal-affective-disorder-homesickness-pms-craziness-think-i'm-nursing-a-slight-sinus-infection-sleep-deprived-due-to-too-many-netflix-heroes-episodes-itis." I'd call it the Mean Reds a la Breakfast at Tiffany's, but I don't think there's enough energy behind it.

If it were only one of these symptoms, I'd probably be quite fine. Nothing a few snacks and some Middlemarch can't fix. But altogether - it's pretty potent. My usual tendency towards mild irrationality has been amped up to DefCon 5 levels of anxiety and as a result I'm quite convinced of the following:

- I irrevocably messed up the data on a test contract at work

- I will lose my job when said data-loss is discovered

- We will go bankrupt if our children do not get into the free immersion school next year

- Our children's education will plummet to one-room-school levels if we do get into the free immersion school next year

- Tax season this year will result in owing not one, but two federal governments substantial amounts of money that we will not have because we are bankrupt (see above)

I am aware that it is somewhat unlikely that these things will happen. Perhaps none of them will. But it's tough to believe it when immersed in the slough.

Fortunately, most of my symptoms are time-sensitive and the bulk of them should disappear oh, in about 24 hours or so after I make it to the weekend and can self-medicate with liberal applications of chips & dip (and the odd gin & tonic).

Sorry for the downer post. Will be back to my glass-half-empty (instead of the current, "what glass?") self soon.

Read more...

Examining the Log in My Eye

I'm not sure when I decided I was better than America.

Certainly, in my youth, I was rather enamoured of the place. Raised on a steady diet of Sweet Valley High and Full House, the US of A seemed to be a land of cultural milk and honey, a land where cool things happened to cool people. America had Disneyland and Hollywood; Canada had West Edmonton Mall and Hinterland Who's Who.

America was flashy; Canada was subdued. America strode confidently into the world arena; Canada peeked in timidly, unsure whether it was invited.

However, over time (somewhere between Desert Storm and Operation: Screw an Entire Country Because We *Thought* There Were WMDs - Sorry, Our Bad), my opinion of our southern neighbours changed. Where I once saw cultural brilliance, I now saw mindless dreck (Bruckheimer, I'm looking at you). Where I once saw a swashbuckling sheriff on a white steed, I now saw a corrupt black-hatted villain, swirling his moustache.

As my negative opinion of the elephant with which the mouse sleeps grew, so did my sense of superiority. We might not be flashy, I thought, but at least we don't trample over everyone who gets in our way.

Condescension well in place, I found myself residing in the very country over which I lorded my own superior understanding of the world. Yet, just as I had hoped, I have found that the brush with which I have painted this country and its inhabitants is simply much too wide to take into consideration the nuances of opinion and world-view held here.

Much of this education has come through our new church. We intentionally sought a Mennonite church, figuring that at least there we could be assured that our beliefs that church and state should be kept apart (faaaaaar apart) and that war is not the way to peace would be honoured. As we had hoped, we've met many like-minded people.

But I've been struck by how many of those people are like-minded yet not like-heritaged. There are several people who came to the Mennonite way from other denominations, who felt increasingly uncomfortable with what they were hearing from both pulpit and government, who thought there had to be another way to engage their fellow Americans and the world.

Meeting kind, gracious, intelligent people who are extremely concerned about the state of their country and are working hard to change the areas in which they feel their forebears have erred has done much to alter my perception of this country. Certainly the entitled, "Stars and Stripes represent all that is good in the world" Americans exist, but they're not all like that.

This realization has also altered my perception of myself. I am realizing how much my "I don't agree with the way America and Americans behave all the time" (a valid opinion) has stealthily become "I'm better than Them because I don't agree." Which makes me no better in the end, and recreates exactly the mindset I purport to despise.

So here's to graciousness and humility, understanding and forebearance. On my part, that is.

Read more...