Haircut Day!

(The toque-head ruins the effect a bit, but you get the idea.)

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An English Teacher, An English Teacher, If Only I'd Been An English Teacher

The other night at ESL class, we were discussing some vocabulary when one of my students slipped out and returned with some paper towels, handed them to me, and started motioning to her face. I looked at her, and then down at my dry-erase-marker-dust-covered hands, and realized why my students had been fidgeting while I was obliviously going on about A Visit to the State Fair.

I made my best attempts to clean up, but she soon took the towel, grabbed my chin, and started rubbing my cheeks vigorously. The other students helpfully pointed out other smudges, while one ran to grab a mirror to show me the extent of my Pig-Pen-ness and another checked out the ingredients on the bottle of whiteboard cleaner to see if it was safe for skin.

Totally not embarrassing, because this was not a new experience. It reminded me of how I turn into the absent-minded professor (well, at least the klutzy-uncoordinated professor) every time I get enthusiastic about a topic. Whenever I get up in front of a classroom and try to use a writing tool, I get it allllll over myself. Student teaching? Overhead markers. Teaching college English? Chalk dust (oh, did I pay for my all-black wardrobe). ESL? Dry-erase marker dust.

A few days later, I received another email from a journal I admire asking me to do a book review for them. I've obviously not been in good touch, as it listed my current occupation as an instructor at the college where I used to teach.

And it got me thinking...about what might have been.

I was totally going to be a teacher, from my elementary days when I taught my poor brothers how to spell using discarded textbooks to my senior year when I applied to the Faculty of Education because, well, What Else? Student teaching in a junior high led to swift abandonment of public school ambitions, but I simply swapped out the classroom location from public school to ivory tower and headed myself over to the Faculty of Arts.

We planned our family around my Ph.D. It made perfect sense to have the munchkins between my M.A. and the Ph.D. as I would have more time to concentrate on my career once they were toddlers. (Ah yes, the sweet and dense fog that is the understanding of childless people about Life After Babies.)

If you would have asked me five years ago where I would be today, I would have said without hesitation, "grad school." I'd be slogging through my dissertation, teaching intro English on the side, and madly trying to publish and present at conferences in the in-between-times.

Life looks very different from that today. Not a grad school application in sight. I haven't read a scholarly article in over a year. Heck, my literary intake has been stuck on the "All Prachett, All the Time" channel for some time now.

You know what, though? I'm okay with that. Sure, I'd like to be "Dr. Peitricia Mae." But having traded in the prepping until 2 a.m., circling a comma splice on a student paper for the umpteenth time, and feeling woefully unprepared every time I stepped in front of that chalkboard, I don't feel the pressure to return to school anytime soon. Plus, I'm still paying the student loans for my bachelor's degree.

Beyond that, I really, really like my job right now. It's certainly not where I thought I'd ever be. I don't fit the profile. When people find out what I do they say, "really? Um, that's great. Wow...that sounds...difficult." (Apparently I look like I would do something easy.)

Nevertheless, it's a great fit: in my current job there's still plenty of anal-retentive editing (with the bonus of no surly students on the other end), lots to learn without feeling like I'll never get a handle on all the information (ever tried teaching Shakespeare?), and above all it's 6:30-3:00 with only the extremely occasional late night.

Plus, I never use a whiteboard. So it's win-win for everyone!

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The Winter of Our Discontent

Stupid winter. Stupid recession. And is it just me or does their simultaneity exacerbate the stupidity of each of them? The sum is greater than the parts, indeed.

Spring needs to come, like now. It feels like I've been either trudging through snow or mincing along icy sidewalks for about 800 years now. I'm sick of my winter coat. I'm sick of all my winter clothes, in fact; they are, of course, equally sick of me and the hibernation diet of the past months that has led to their being unfairly abused in their seam regions. I'm sick of stinky, steamy moist kids mittens. I'm sick of a salty car. I'm sick of indoor playtime.

I'm sick of economic doom and gloom. I'm sick of bailouts. I'm sick of owing income taxes - why can't things just get calculated correctly in the first place so I don't have to send back money that never should have seen my bank account. I'm sick of worrying about layoffs. I'm sick of getting into the housing market after the credit crisis so that now I'll have to put down 50% as well as my first-born as collateral when two years ago all I needed was a pulse.

Stupid February.

Ah well. There's always this:

See? Less sick already.

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Social Butterflies

PRO: My kids have something to do other than vegetate in front of the television.

CON: I must give up similar relaxing (although with a good book, so at least I get some brain points) to drive them thither and yon.

PRO: They are doing their part in building community.

CON: I am obligated to do likewise as invitations cannot go long unreciprocated before they stop arriving.

PRO: They're obviously fitting in well.

CON: [...]

And really, there the inner grumbling that accompanies the frequent invitations for play-dayts, parties, and other dance-a-ca-chucas stops.

We get a lot of invites. Probably not as many as lots of other kids, but it does seem that we get our fair share. We've had four birthday parties in as many weekends. Today we received two invites within ten minutes (fortunately, one for each child), so I spent my usual supper prep time finding my way to unfamiliar houses and then asking The Husband to come home early when I realized that one child was due to be dropped off at home at the same time as I was due to pick the other one up.

I was complaining about this the other month to my mom. When did they grow up? Just yesterday, it seems, they were plump little toddlers whose social calendar was decidedly under my control and consisted primarily of walks to the park and Dora three times a day. Suddenly the phone is ringing and soft voices ask, "Is The Girl home?" Or other moms tell me again how their child can't stop talking about my son and could he come over to play.

But my mom stopped my griping in its tracks.

"Be glad they're being asked. It would be far worse if they received no invitations."

For true, that is. And really, it warms my heart whenever the phone rings or another invite comes in the mail. It shows that my Littles, relative newcomers who marched bravely into yet another school filled with unknown faces not six months ago, have Made Friends.

Which is worth every GoogleMaps visit to print out directions to yet another strange house.

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We Made It

Aaaaaand we come crawling across the finish line. Our week of "guys, I'm this close to yelling - can you help me out a bit, here?" is almost done. The Husband emailed from his final layover and should be getting onto his last flight soon. He arrives in our fair city at around 5:00 am; if he's extremely lucky, he'll get an "mmmph" from his Sleeping Beauty when he slips into bed.

(Mental note: sweep all of the crumbs out of the bed. Best part of The Husband's business trips? Eating Old Dutch whilst between the sheets. Shhhh, don't tell.)

Actually, it's been a decent week. The Littles were ah-may-zing on Tuesday and Wednesday, when I had to drag them to church small group and ESL class respectively. Armed with movies and snacks, they were quiet little meeces. So they were rewarded with a trip to Target and some little treats yesterday.

(Grody. They talked me into doughnuts and popcorn twists. I've had neither for a couple of years, I think. My stomach is still protesting yesterday's assault-by-sprinkles.)

And today, treat of all treats, I got to go out for supper with one of my BFFs and it was simply divine. Her SAINT of a husband watched my brood while we went out for a good old-fashioned girl chat. The Littles were simply crushed when we rescued him came home because they had had such a good time. Their ad hoc guardian? Well, another jewel in his crown for Mr. Mary Poppins, methinks. When I got home I had to physically remove The Boy, who was fiercely kicking his caretaker and exultantly exclaiming something about damage points.

So, a much better non-Husband week than usual. Here's hoping we don't have the opportunity to try this again anytime soon.

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And Then There Were Three...

Whenever The Husband travels, it's always the missing toothbrush that gets me. There's just something about that empty place in the ol' toothbrush holder that declares This Household Is Incomplete.

And we're incomplete for awhile around here - The Husband left for the wintery wastes of Alaska on Saturday morning and won't return until next Saturday. That's seven whooooole days of solo-Little-ing, attempting to escape the evil clutches of the ever-lurking Crazy.

But I'm determined to a) stay sane and b) stay (moderately) happy and un-harpy while c) not requiring ill-advised amounts of wine and/or Old Dutch Plain Ripple Chips to do so.

(I did pick up four new Terry Prachett books on Friday, though. I'm finished 1.5 so far, so there's a good chance they'll last until The Husband returns.)

Yesterday we livened things up a bit with a picnic, complete with weiner roasting and s'mores:

And then I was treated to my very own entertainment show with an exciting interview with Senor Pablo, rock star:

(Sorry for the camera shakes - I was laughing.)

Today is President's Day - which is wonderfully more lovely when you're actually happy with the sitting President - so I'm home with the kids all day again. Pro: only four days of work this week that I have to fit into the time when the kids are at school or sleeping. Con: I've already had to complete two worlds in Super Mario Bros. (pronounced "Brose") and the Barbies are waiting for me.

And there's the "Moo-oom - are you done yet?" Gotta go!

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He's a Keeper!

I wore my favourite shirt to work today.


Now, this is my favourite shirt in part because the semi-colon is my favourite piece of punctuation. But what makes it even favourite-er is that The Husband bought this shirt for me for Christmas.

Every time I put it on, I'm happy because I think, "I'm married to someone who knows that the semi-colon is my favourite piece of punctuation." That's some pretty amazing spousal knowlege right there, that is. And isn't being known what it's all about when it comes to relationships?

And, if this past Christmas was any indication, I am indeed known. Witness the other gifts I got:


Yes, they do. And they should make you cry, too.

Now some might consider a workout video under the Christmas tree to be the height of insults. But The Husband knows me so well that he knew how much it was bothering me to be using my bootleg evaluation copy of Mr. Horton's exercise DVD, and so he bought me my very own.

(What? you say. She certainly doesn't look as though she partakes in any sort of fat-burning system on a regular basis. True enough, "lazy" is still on my list of sins but thanks to The Husband I can cross "piracy" off of it.)

A gift (also from The Husband) from a Christmas past was an awesome bathrobe. Big, white, fluffy, large paperback-sized pockets - it was everything I wanted. Of course, that was 15 years ago (yes, it pre-dated our marriage). Eventually it was looking a little worse for the wear. Despite his pleading, I refused to turn it in for a new one. So what did he do? He went and bought me exactly the same one. Be still my heart.

And finally, what every vegetarian needs:

PETA meets Gumby.

There you have it folks. The most romantical guy in the world and he's allllll mine. He's the semi-colon of husbands.

(Oooooo, lookit. This post actually drove the Nerd-O-Meter past 100 points.)

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A Hallway Conversation Overheard

The Husband: Hey, know what? Guess what we've got?

The Boy: What?

The Husband: Couches. They're awesome.

The Boy: Really?

The Husband: Yep. You can do all sorts of things on them. Play your Nintendo DS, sit with a stuffed cat, just relax.... Pretty much anything you want.

The Boy: Oh.

The Husband: Hey, did you want to go sit on one now and try it out?

The Boy: Nah, I'm okay here right now.

(The funniest part was that when he was finished, he came out asking where the couches were.)

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Reprieve

Ohhhhhh I love this quasi-Spring weather. Got my first walks around the lake of the year in this weekend. Sun's shining, snow's melting, cars are a-dirtying - it's great stuff. The locals are warning me that Winter's not over yet, but somehow it's hard to believe that when it's +3.

I also love me some Grandma and Grandpa action (the kids G&G, not mine). The Husband's parents were here for the weekend, and they do all those things I haaaate doing - playing dollhouse with The Girl, watching The Boy try to master the same video game level over and over and over.... Plus they let The Husband and me sneak out for a bit o' grownup time, so it's win-win for everyone!

(Am I a bad parent? I've hated playing on the floor with my kids since the get-go. I max out at about five minutes when it comes to make-believe and usually come armed with coffee and a book to Lego sessions. I worry that someday I'll get my kids' answering machines yet again filled with breezy yet unkept promises to call me back, and I'll look back and think, "oh, for five minutes with them as babies again...I'd play Little Critters in a heartbeat." And then that Cat's in the Cradle song will play in the background and my tear-filled eyes will reflect the pictures on the mantel of my grown-up Littles who never come to visit me because they are too busy....)

But I digress. And must return to the laundry. Because hey, if I don't play, at least I provide clean clothes for the week. That's got to be worth something.

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Local Fare

Apparently, in last week's wedding post, I unthinkingly used a term that has become familiar to me but has virtually no linguistic presence outside the American Midwest. Apologies to all - when I said that there were no "hot dishes" at the wedding, you were likely all imagining some sort of cold faspa-like buffet and assuming that's how they do things down there.

Nope, there was the standard chicken plate (which I'm told was very good) and stuffed ricotta pasta shells for the herbivores among us. But what we did not have was a hot dish: "any of a variety of baked casserole popular in the Midwestern United States, and especially in Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota, northern Iowa, and western Wisconsin. It consists of a starch, a meat, and a canned vegetable, mixed together with canned soup."

I've only ever heard this term since we got here, but everyone knows it. I don't think I've ever actually had one. My boss once commented about a potluck where everyone brought "a hot dish or a casserole." I've never asked her, but I'm curious - is there a difference between the two? Is it the vegetables that distinguishes one from the other? Is it the "canned" part of it? Is it a Lutheran thing? Goodness knows we've got lots o' Lutherans about these parts.

Sorry about that!

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I'll Have Poop Butter and Jelly, Please!

Seems everyone's up in arms about tainted peanut butter. New products get added to the recall list every day, jars of the stuff are being removed from shelves continent-wide, and Starbucks has pulled products containing the potentially dangerous nutty goodness.

Even President Obama has called for a review of the FDA, declaring that "we should be able to count on our government keeping our kids safe when they eat peanut butter."

As much as I feel sad for those impacted by either the deaths or the illnesses resulting from ingestion of salmonella-infused peanut butter, I'm starting to get a little ripped off about the hue and cry.

Cuz guess what? Government doesn't keep my kid safe when other kids eat peanut butter.

Nope, in this keep-the-government-outta-my-life-you-can't-tell-me-what-to-do nation, the right to send peanut butter to school with your kids is so entrenched that it's practically in the Constitution. We were shocked when we moved here to find out that not only were daycares/schools not peanut-free like they are back in Canada, but that they also had peanut butter on the menu! At the institutional level, nut allergies are barely accommodated. Bring up the question of banning peanuts, and parents get up in arms about being forced to change their children's eating habits just for the sake of someone else's kids.

I get that it's tough to come up with good ideas for school lunches. I get that some kids have a real affinity towards the ol' PB & J. I get that it's an easy source of protein.

But what I don't get is how other people can lay the responsibility for keeping peanut products out of my son's mouth almost entirely on him/me. Yes, his school has a "peanut allergy table" where affected kids sit (hello?! you have enough kids affected to populate an entire table and yet you still allow it in the building?), but that doesn't mean little Sally remembers to wash her hands before she touches him or that little Billy's cookie doesn't get mixed up somehow.

Again, I totally agree that we need to be responsible. We have an epi-pen onsite, we have talked with his teacher, and we work hard to teach him to be aware of everything he puts in his mouth and to ask about ingredients if he's not sure. But if he makes a mistake, we're not talking about a rash here.

We're not talking about a bit o' tummy trouble or even salmonella-induced diarrhea. We're talking about A-NA-PHY-LAC-TIC SHOCK.

Peanut products are being pulled from schools because of the off chance someone might ingest one that makes them sick. What are the chances that some of the peanut butter in a school might be of the tainted variety and then what are the chances of someone falling ill/dying because of it? I've got no figures, but I think we're talking about a pretty small chance.

The chances of my son having an extreme allergic reaction when he ingests any type of peanut butter? 100%.

So I'm getting angry. When it's your kid, and there's a minute possibility they just might be eating something that might make them sick, get it outta there. When it's my kid, and there's a huge possibility that he might eat something that will undoubtedly, 100% ensure a jab in the thigh, a trip to the hospital, and (if we're not super quick about it), an early grave?

"Oh, he just needs to be careful."

Grrrr.

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Your Presence Is Requested

We went to our first Minnesotan wedding yesterday. It was lovely, although I was kind of hoping for crazy regional traditions. Alas, not a hot dish in sight. It was a Catholic wedding with a full Mass, though, so definitely fish-out-of-water-y.

Today turned into a church skip after yesterday turned into a "whaddaya wanna do now?" evening after I brought the babysitter home, and we watched a couple of movies. I hemmed and hawed all week about inviting people over for Super Bowl today, but am now glad I didn't as I'm not sure I feel like getting dressed today. Think we'll do a little family Super Bowl party - really just an excuse to make taco dip and eat brownies with the kids while The Husband watches the game.

Anyway, in the spirit of nuptials, I give you a much more inventive wedding that took place at our house - a Webkinz Triple Wedding!

(I totally should have worn Kleenex at my wedding)

(Old Dutch Ketchup chips - that's some pretty awesome wedding reception food)

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