Voices from the Past (Or: Doing it Old School)

Just look at what I found at an estate sale down the street this weekend for only one dollar:

From the Introduction:

This is the book on the physical problems of marriage we have all been waiting for. It had to be written; and written exactly in this way--soberly, scientifically, completely, without a scintilla of eroticism, and yet with a sustained note of high idealism. [...] In this book, then, will be found all the data bearing on the physiology and technique of sexual congress, clearly stated, without pruriency or mock modesty--in other words, scientifically. (J. Johnston Abraham, 1926.)

Ohhhhhh yes. The Joy of Sex, twenties-style. It is indeed sober and scientific, with chapter titles like "Inadequacy and Egotism of most Husbands, and Apparent Coldness of their Wives" or "Intelligent Use of Perfumes - To Stimulate Emotion and for Auto-suggestion" or "The Prostate - Influence on Spermatozoa."

It also has charts and diagrams. (Seven of which are in colour.) In other words, one of the most awesome things I have ever found at an estate sale.

Actually, I've never been to an estate sale. I'm used to garage sales, where people collect their junk, slap some masking tape price tags on it, set it out, and wait for other people to come make treasure out of their trash.

This was something entirely different.

This was a 50s-house with original owners, its entire contents up for sale due to (one can only assume) its occupant's death. A team of price-taggers had gone through, pricing items wherever they lay, and hordes of buyers simply walked through the entire house, jostling one another as they sorted through the stuff.

And stuff there was. Oh my. These people were packrats like I've never seen (this includes my dad's garage). There were poodle-shaped knitted covers for bourbon bottles. A baby grand piano. A 1940s hostess game called Sugar and Spice ("perfect for bridal showers!") where players were invited to identify 20 different spices in vials on sight alone. 8-tracks. LPs. 78s.

I, of course, was there for the books. I love used books. They've got this musty, fusty smell to them. I imagine the previous owners and wonder why they bought this particular book.

Best of all are the bookmarks.

Bookmarks tend to be the detritus of people's lives. Mine are usually Target receipts or old grocery lists. Or candy wrappers or church bulletins. They're whatever's lying around at the time.

Yesterday's gold mine also included a 1957 Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Guide to Etiquette. And, tucked in the front, ready to be used as a bookmark, was the following note:

Dearest Edna & Fulton,

Our anniversary would not seem complete without the thoughtful card you always send. Thank you again for remembering Bob and "little old me" and for the sentiments, which we know came from the heart. The pewter spoon is simply truly magnificent. The spoon will be the "piece de resistance" at every dinner we give. Bob is as delighted with it as I am. Again, thanks for the lovely gift and thoughtfulness that inspired it. God love you both - Always, Kay and Bob ******

As it was discovered in a book of etiquette, I assume that its owner would never have left a thank you note go unsent and was thus Dearest Edna and Fulton.

And I wonder about this Edna and Fulton. When did they meet Kay and Bob? Former school chums? Wartime comrades-in-arms and their brides?

Who was Edna? Obviously thoughtful - I don't send out pewter spoons, much less anniversary cards. Was she the knitter of the poodle bourbon bottle covers? Was she apparently cold, and the reason for the purchase of The Ideal Marriage? By the clothes in the closets, she had lovely taste. She was a bit smaller than I, based on the sleeve lengths. She loved parties, given the many sets of china - especially Christmas, considering the decorations for sale.

And all of this - Edna's life - her kindness, her creativity, her sexual prowess (or lack thereof?), her love of coordinated dresses and coats sets - all of this trampled on, remarked upon, pawed through, and sold (50% off on the second day of the sale).

It makes me wonder about my stuff and what will happen to it. Will someone pick through my closet someday and snicker about how many black shirts I have? Will someone discover all my unfinished craft projects and like-new sewing machine and laugh at the obvious lack of dedication? Or nod in understanding of the heady rush of beginning something new so swiftly followed by boredom and distraction?

Will a thirty-something young woman someday buy my Collected Works of Jane Austen for a dollar, discover a Target receipt - vegetarian bacon, Old Dutch chips, shampoo for colour-treated hair, kids toothpaste, coffee - and smile knowingly in recognition of a kindred spirit?

Or will she pick up The Ideal Marriage and think...

...alllll sorts of things.

Read more...

Vendredi V - Everything I Needed to Know Edition

(Alright, so it's not really Friday. This last week sort of ratcheted up right at the end - you can pretend it's Friday, m'kay?)

Summer life gets a little loose around the edges, a little soft around the schedule. The kids are lovin' their summer Kids Club program where they go on cool field trips, swim, and hang out with their buds. They get extremely irate if I try to pick them up at the usual time, so I either take long lunches and work a bit later or go home first and get some PM time in before I go and sign them out from the day's festivities.

The sun shines long and late, and The Husband is biking to work, so we only sit down to supper around 6:30 or 7:00. By the time that's done, it's technically get ready for bedtime, but the kids want to play and it's too bright to sleep anyway, so bedtime is later, which makes wake-up time later, so each day starts off on a sliding scale, too.

When there's time to stop and smell the roses like this, I'm much more perceptive. I'm able to see past the immediate logistical conundrum or the petty annoyance seemingly sent specifically to drive me over the edge to the larger life lesson. And so, from this past week:

Top 5 Things I've Learned This Week:

1. The Girl is a diva. We had it out on Monday. She was overtired and overstimulated from a sleepover last weekend and it took until Monday night for the full brunt to hit her. She was wailing and inconsolable, desperate for my company but only so that I would bear the onslaught of her drama. It reminded me (forcefully) of when she was three and no day passed without a barrage of intensity. Unfortunately, it also reminded me that I, too, can be somewhat intense and emotional and (even more unfortunately) that her brand of crazy stokes the fires of mine.

Life Lesson Learned: Enjoy whatever sweetness you can now; the teen years will be buh-rutal.

2. CBC Radio Two execs are Mennonites. Or, if they are not, they have latched onto that quintessential Mennonite virtue of doing More with Less. The last time they changed things up, I was pretty upset. Having listened for almost a year now, I will admit that Tom's show isn't that bad. The music mix is actually pretty good, although the transition to Julie Nesrellah's classical show is still pretty jarring. As is she, so I don't bother sticking around.

Now, in all their wisdom, they've decided to shake things up again and add a "new" radio program between the classical and more modern drive home shows. This one's called Shift, to be hosted by poor Tom Allen, who no longer gets to home after his morning show for a nice mettaschloppe but instead has to do it once more, with feeling. Hmm. A transitional program with eclectic music, bridging the gap between the classical and the funky. Where have I heard that before? Oh yeah - it was called Studio Sparks, hosted by Eric Friesen. Until they canned him and his show last year. Ah well, at least this time around they don't have to pay for an extra host.

Life lesson learned: Just because you're a radio show host doesn't mean you won't end up working twice as hard to make up for laid-off coworkers.

3. I am getting old. Ed McMahon. Farrah Fawcett. Michael Jackson. I totally remember them. Everything that I loved as a kid is getting a reboot and being marketed to a new generation (and their parents who invariably end up shelling out big bucks for Burger King crap). And Office Space is ten years old. How is that even possible that I've been filling out TPS reports for an entire decade?

Life lesson learned: "Inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened." (Terry Pratchett)

4. Life is not a twelve-step program. Or five. Or three. I realized this week that I get totally hijacked by those internet articles like "How to Organize Your House in Three Easy Steps" or "Fifteen Minutes to a Flatter Stomach." I click on "Save Thousands From Your Monthly Budget By Following These Four Rules," only to discover that apparently other people spend hundreds of dollars on satellite and eat out three times a week. It's tough to cut back when you're on the Netflix/Hmm, what can I find in the freezer? program already. And those fifteen minutes? Are actually per day. So that was a bit deceptive.

Life lesson learned: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. And you just wasted the time you could have used to actually DO some sit-ups by reading about them, thinking it would be a good idea, and then abandoning the idea because it sounded hard.

5. There's always time for music. Now that it's summer, I like to take an extended lunch hour and head outside to a local plaza where there's live music at lunchtime. On Tuesday, I was just finding a comfy spot on a bench when a line of cutey-patootie daycare kids, resplendent (and highly identifiable) in neon orange vests joined the audience. The musician started his act, and suddenly about 20 4-year-olds were swarming the stage. Some did the "wave your arms in the air like you just don't care" dance, some grooved with some modified disco, some did the "running around like an airplane," and others just jumped in place. You knew that before the day was through, half of these kids would skin their knees, half would have their feelings terribly hurt because Michaela Mae took away their toy, and all would end up in tears at some point. But it totally didn't matter. The sun was shining, and there was music, and they went for it. It was fabulous.

Life lesson: You gotta dance while the dancin's good.

Read more...

In Which Peitricia Mae Out-Geeks a Librarian

Dramatis Personae:
- Peitricia Mae - studious-looking young woman, not terribly stylish (although rocking her Pic'n'Pay sandals), somewhat flushed because it's a bazillion degrees outside
- Librarian - male, older, 40s-ish, possessor of a figure suggesting lots of lovely evenings relaxing with books and snacks

Scene:
- Information desk, central library, first floor

PM: [approaches timidly with a book in hand]

Lib: [looks up guardedly] Yes?

PM: Hi. Um, I know that this is really anal...

Lib: [narrows eyes]

PM: ...but, um, I was over in the M section and I noticed that this was filed there. [puts book down on the desk] It's Jack Maggs, which is why it was in the M section I guess.

Lib: [stone-faced]

PM: But it's by Peter Carey. Jack Maggs is the title, so it was shelved incorrectly.

Lib: [thinks seriously?!]

PM: [protests feebly] If someone was looking for it, they would never find it.

Lib: [...] Okay.

PM: [leaves quickly, grateful that she is able to somehow stop herself from trying to redeem the situation by pointing out that Peter Carey is a really well-known writer and that it's perfectly likely that someone might be looking for this book and that she's really only three degrees of separation from him because she totally transcribed an interview with him once although she was only able to do half of it because she went into labour with her first child five weeks early...]

Exeunt

Read more...

Go Ahead, Make My Day

Every time I see someone around here driving a motorcycle without a helmet on, I shake my head. You see it all the time - some big, burly guy on his hog, hair streaming behind him in the wind.

Back where I come from, motorcyclists are constantly under fire for merely existing and thus apparently driving up insurance rates - if they ever started to eschew helmets and risk a lifetime of head injury recovery paid for by other motorists, howls of derision would rise and Manitobans would take to the streets clutching their MPI bills in protest.

(Actually, being polite Canadians, at most we'd get a few strongly-worded letters to the newspaper. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.)

Of course, no Manitoban motorcyclist would ever drive without a helmet, anyway, since going without is illegal. As in, there is a law dictating that helmets must be worn, and law enforcement officials are charged with, well, enforcing that law.

No such law exists down here. And why, you might ask, since this is clearly an issue where a societal concern for personal and corporate safety overrides individual comfort. Surely all of Minnesota would benefit from motorcyclists wearing helmets (not least the riders themselves).

Except that they see things differently here.

One of the most difficult things for me to wrap my head around about living in America has been the favouring of the individual over the many. The rights of the individual trump those of the community every time.

It's kind of like the Wild Wild West down here. Every man for himself in a lawless one-horse town where there's baddies in black hats all around and no sheriff in sight. Or, if a new sheriff shows up, the locals take bets as to how long before the outsider who has no clue How Things Work gets strung up and they get back to the real business of taking The Law into their own hands.

Which is why there is so much opposition when the Government tries to usurp (or seems to try) the autonomy of the individual. Like recalcitrant teenagers, some Americans declare belligerently "you can't tell ME what to do!" and raise the alarm whenever they feel that Government is overstepping its bounds.

This suspicion of The Man seems to have been handed down since America's beginning. The country's very birth originates in a defiant stand against being told what to do. The "taxation" part itself was bad enough, but it was the "taxation without representation" - that is, the dictation of behaviour without the opportunity to have a say in it - that tipped the balance.

This is in part what makes many of the current right-wing objections - including the oh-so-inappropriately-but-hilariously named "tea-bagging" protests - against the Obama administration so laughable. You might not like the outcome of the election, but your ancestors fought a war of independence so that they could govern themselves - in short, for democracy. And democracy only works if all parties involved agree beforehand that they will accept the proverbial will of the people. It's not really democracy if you agree to accept the results only if your candidate wins.

The other day I followed a truck with a sign on the back: IMPEACH OBAMA - YES WE CAN! And I thought, for what? What exactly has he done in six months that is so contrary to either this country's constitution or what he said he would do before y'all went and elected him?

Their problem with Obama, it seems, is that he's not content to leave the West so wild. He's riding in with his big white hat and, unlike his predecessors, he's not going to capitulate, return home in defeat, or simply join the black hats. And it's driving some of the locals crazy.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the increasingly ramped-up rhetoric around this country's healthcare.

The other day I was chatting with one of the kids' daycare workers. When she found out we were from Canada, she moved in about two inches from my face and demanded, "so what do you think about healthcare?"

I replied, "Actually, I'm a huge fan of universal healthcare."

She was shocked. "But I heard that in Canada if you need an MRI it takes three months to get one."

Well, yes, I allowed. There are issues with waiting lists.

"But my mother-in-law in Ontario was waiting for surgery, and they stuck her in this room with ten beds (men and women together in one room!) and she didn't even know when her surgery was - this was just the waiting area and she was there for three months!"

Well, yes, I acknowledged, Canadian healthcare definitely has its problems and you certainly do hear stories about people stuck in frustrating and unenviable situations while dealing with an often-antiquated or seemingly inadequate system.

"The Canadian system certainly isn't perfect," I said. "Down here, my husband and I have great jobs and great health plans. But I have never been so worried about healthcare before. And what about people who don't have great plans? Or can't afford them? Or have to deal with the one-two punch of cancer plus the resultant bankruptcy?"

She was quite dissatisfied by my response. As are many Americans. Because their greatest fear is that, while they pay ridiculously high insurance premiums and are one pink slip away from having no healthcare at all, the Government is going to take away their choice in the matter. That they will be forced to exchange a bloated, unfair, inadequate, expensive system that works really, really well for a few people and really, really poorly for most people for a bloated, unfair, inadequate, expensive system that makes everyone experience the same mediocrity and (worse) that they would have to shell out their hard-earned taxpayer dollars to fund.

In short, that some individuals might have to give up something in order to better the overall lives of all Americans.

Now, I'm not sure that this needs to be either/or. I don't think Americans need to (or should) throw the baby out with the bathwater and move to an exact replica of the Canadian healthcare system. Or that Canadian healthcare wouldn't benefit a lot from exploring the advantages of some privatization.

I do think that this elected administration is absolutely right that something needs to be done and that a move towards a universal system (even if it means some additional hardship for some of its citizens) is necessary for the well-being of all. I also think that the link between employment and healthcare is insane and it's not universal if "everyone gets access to good healthcare" means "everyone who has a job."

But this ain't my town, and this ain't my fight. All I know is that high noon's getting close and there's a showdown a'comin'. We'll see who draws the quickest.

Read more...

If You're Going My Way...I Wanna Drive It All Night Long

Just lookit at what The Husband brought back for me from Canada!

Despite concerted and valiant efforts, I have yet to find decent substitutes for Fort Garry Dark and Sleeman Honey Brown down here. We can get close, but not quite. And we've yet to source Australian cookies here and thus must depend upon trips to The Real Canadian Superstore for TimTams. So seeing these boxes come through the door last night totally made my weekend.

Speaking of weekend, The Husband has elected not to guest post, so it's up to me to give you the Weekend Update on the road trip. By all accounts, it went well:

DVD player? Check. Movies from the library? Check.

Fuel-up stops by strangely-named gas stations? Check. (The Husband and I keep a running tally of these weird business names. Loaf'n'Jug is still the winner, but Kum'n'Go is a pretty close second.)

Chillin' at the Steinbach Summer in the City Festival? Check.

MEETING TOM COCHRANE?! Check and double-check.

We've got some serious conn-eck-shuns that orchestrated a meeting between the rocker and the groupie. The Husband got home totally pumped. There was chatting. There was a CD signing (signed "Your friend, Tom Cochrane." That's right - your FRIEND).

Aaaand, The Husband got to request a song, and apparently his choice was the final song of the evening that was then dedicated to "[The Husband], who came all the way from Minneapolis."

It's like a Canadian version of Almost Famous. Except The Husband doesn't go on the road. Or meet Penny Lane. Or grow up to be Cameron Crowe. Otherwise - exactly the same.

Read more...

Sunday Seven - Special Father's Day Edition!

I am a bad daughter, sometimes. I totally take for granted my great parents and routinely and blithely disregard the fifth commandment by forgetting to include them in my "List of Things I'm Thankful For."

This is partly because, well, they're always there. In the background. There when I need them, keeping a respectful distance when I don't. Kinda like the sound technician in church: if he's doing his job, no one notices or cares.

(Of course, one squawk from a microphone and the entire congregation swivels around as one to see who is on sound today? It's a thankless job.)

But given that it's that time of year again when we are reminded that it's a thankless job, and I can't think of anything cooler than being recognized on this here small corner of the Internets, I give you:

Top 7 Ways My Dad is Awesome:

1. Fries with gravy. I didn't hang out one-on-one with my Dad all that much, which made our little dates all the more special. One time, he took me to Uncle Jake's at the mall and we ordered fries with gravy. I'd never had them before, and I was stunned by the goodness. All that carby, fatty, salty amazingness. He also taught me to add a little sweetness to the mix by squeezing on some ketchup. It's because of that day that I had fries and gravy and ketchup at least three times a week all through high school.

2. The dump. Saturday morning was reserved for sugared cereal and cartoons at our house. But Dad was up with the birds, working around the house and the yard. The only thing that could tear us away from the TV was him yelling down the stairs, "anyone wanna go to the dump?" Would we?! We flew up the stairs in our pajamas and piled into the blue '78 Oldsmobile Omega and bounced in our seats all the way to the dump where we found all sorts of cool things like burnt salad dressing bottles and dolls with no heads. Once, Yenno found a garbage bag filled with maggots. Oh yes.

3. The farm. My dad didn't have an awful lot growing up. But one thing he did have was the farm. It was a play farm, the barn made of metal, with all sorts of twee little animals. It had fences. And watering troughs. It was hidden away most of the time, but every winter, when we'd exhausted our parents with our energy and there was a fire in the woodstove making everything lovely and cozy, he'd bring out the farm for an evening of magical play.

4. Worship leading. Church was a pretty big deal when I was a kid. Our lives - religious and social - revolved around its weekly rhythm. I got used to my parents being gone a lot of evenings, but it didn't ever really occur to me that they were Serving the Lord. But one thing I loved was when my Dad was the worship leader. It was such an important job - directing the Sunday service, telling people where to find the hymn numbers, even praying. I'd get all fluttery with pride when I saw my dad up there.

5. The shelf. My dad is pretty handy. His favourite thing to build is shelves. Free-standing, attached to the wall, hinged so they fold up like a Murphy's Bed - they're all great as far as he is concerned. (This is because he is a bit of a pack rat. He keeps everything because it might be useful one day. I have only ever seen it happen once, where he needed something, disappeared into the garage for half an hour, and emerged triumphant, holding the bolt up to the sky in victory, declaring that he had had this for fifteen years and it was a good thing he kept it.)

Anyway, when we were young, we did a lot of driving out to BC where we had some fantabulous family. To keep us occupied pre-DVD days, he built a folding shelf to use as a drawing table that hung from the back of the front seat and hinged up when we were napping. It was amazing. He even painted it blue to match our car. Never mind that if we were in an accident while it was down we would have been sliced in half. It was still pretty wicked.

6. Mr. Mom. Our family was pretty traditional - Dad worked and Mom stayed at home with us. They each had their areas of expertise and divided up the duties nicely. But every so often Mom would go away for a week to visit our fantabulous family in BC, and Dad had to do double duty. On one such trip, I came down with scarlet fever. My memories of that time are mostly of itching, but I remember my Dad taking me to the doctor and then, after observing me trying to itch my back without breaking the skin by sliding up and down on the carpet, bringing me a one-foot square piece of rug that I could take around with me like my own personal scratching post. That is some solid parental care right there.

7. Grandpa. My Dad loves my kids. When The Boy was little, he refused a food source that wasn't warm, squishy, and attached to his mommy, so if I had to go out for the evening, my dad would hold that crying little boy in the rocking chair, turn on some hockey (because that was the sport that seemed to work the best) and spend over an hour patiently trying to get him to drink from a bottle. When I visited my dad at work with an infant The Girl, he pretty much burst his buttons with pride showing her off. He has taken those kids on more chariot rides behind his bicycle than can be counted. It's pretty great as a daughter watching your dad love on your kids.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Read more...

Vendredi V - High School Musical Edition

It's EstrogenFest at the PM house this weekend. Right after lunch today, The Husband and The Boy left for some solid man-bonding time on their road trip up to Steinbach.

And why, you might ask, are they heading back to Steinbach for the weekend?

If you're a local resident, you already know the answer to this question: Tom Cochrane (recently-announced inductee into the Canadian Walk of Fame!) is playing an outdoor concert in the Extra Foods parking lot at the Steinbach summer festival tomorrow night.

And, if you know The Husband at all, you will know that one of his favouritest artists of all time is Mr. Cochrane. As soon as he heard about the concert last weekend, he was immediately making plans to head up for it.

So, of course, we've had the all-Tommy-all-the-time music channel going at our house this week. It totally takes me back, since Tom Cochrane was all the rage back when I was in high school. And it gets me into the mood for:

Top 5 Songs from My High School Days Soundtrack

1. "Life is a Highway" Natch. The first gift I ever bought for The Husband was this CD, back when we had been dating for six weeks. I may or may not have been fourteen, and it is entirely possible that my mother drove me to St. Vital mall to look for the perfect gift for my boyfriend. It was, indeed, the perfect gift. He popped it into the Prelude's CD player, and listened to it constantly. As in "how many times can I play Life is a Highway between my house and McDonald's" constantly.

2. "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)" You know, I never quite understood the parentheses in that song title. Is it supposed to be optional? Some sort of an aside? But what I did understand was that this song, its release coinciding so nicely with my attendance at Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (again with the superfluous punctuation!) at the King's Theatre movie cinema in Steinbach with my almost-sorta-might-be-my-boyfriend (he of the above) along with a group of friends, was totally our song.

3. "Dance a Cachuca" When I was in grade 12, our music teacher decided we had the magical combination of enough strong voices in various parts. We did The Gondoliers that year, much to the jealousy of the previous year who had to do Bye Bye Birdie. [snicker] We actually hired a choreographer from The Big City and I got to be a principal dancer. It can't have been because of my coordination, given that I was routinely called "Wookie-Girl" in those days, but perhaps my teacher whispered a kind word for me in her ear since all my friends had real parts and I was still in the chorus.

4. "Witness" Music was a huge part of my life in high school. Not content with attending twice-daily choir/ensemble rehearsals, dropping French so I could be in said rehearsals, and hanging out in the choir room so much that we didn't bother going to our lockers and just left our crap in the practice rooms, some friends and I formed a touring musical group. We toured each other's churches. We called ourselves "Witness." We were convinced we were The Awesome.

5. "The River" Grad songs are such a huge deal. What you choose defines your year. It will forever remind you of the bittersweetness of leaving behind one's youth and facing the Real World ahead, of saying goodbye to friends you likely won't see again. (Except maybe at Extra Foods in two years.) Due to some serious vote-splitting, our year somehow chose Ramble On (is that Led Zeppelin? I don't even know).

It was a terrible song. We who had not voted for it were angry. So we hijacked the evening, and convinced our music teacher that instead of the traditional "small group of elite grade 12 choir singers" performing a choir song, a group consisting of four grade eleven boys (hey, they were all our dates), one not-in-choir-but-was-totally-gonna-make-it-as-a-country-music-star-guitar-playing-soloist, and a few actual graduates would perform one of the runner-up songs.

Read more...

Vendredi V - Memory Lane Edition

I was going through some old pics this week and I realized once again what a terrible mother I am. Not "terrible" as in somebody call CFS but "terrible" as in sigh, yet another thing my kids will need therapy for.

This particular $150/hr session will deal with their disappointment in my failure to record important milestones. Oh, I've got baby books. But they're mostly blank. Ask me when the first teeth came or when they started walking, and I haven't a clue. When did they start sleeping through the night? Darned if I know.

Basically from the moment the doctor unhinged my entire existence by declaring "It's a Girl!", parenting has been a blur. Who has time to lovingly craft scrapbooks and painstakingly write down each spoonful of peas and each successful trip to the potty when one barely has enough brain cells to remember to wear matching shoes?

Thank goodness for pictures, then. They jog my memory and bring moments from that blur into sharp focus. They remind me of:

Top 5 Things I've Forgotten About My Munchkins:

1. They once grew inside me. I can barely remember pregnancy. I mostly remember being tired. I also remember sitting in the bathtub in my final days (which I thought were my final weeks), watching my stomach heave as my baby moved. I'm pretty sure I could see an elbow work its way across my belly.

2. The Boy was so fat. Seriously, if you would have told me that when he was in kindergarten I'd be looking for the "slim" jeans and being thankful for those elastic waist-cincher thingeys, I wouldn't have believed you. He almost doubled his weight by the time he was two months, and he spent most of his first year entirely off the charts. I remember how excited we were when he got back on them and was only 99th percentile!

3. They've always been two peas in a pod. They often seem so different - the one is all caped crusader craziness and the other is intense artistic emo. But really, when you get down to it, they're cut from the same cloth.

4. She's not always angry. She can be so intense, that sometimes all I remember are the storms. But the calm times in between are so sunny, they make up for it.

5. No really, he was SO fat.

Read more...

In Which I Am Reminded Why I Am Not a Stay-At-Home Mom

"Be good for Mom," said The Husband as he left for work on Monday, his voice combining both exhortation to behave well and a low-level threat about what might happen if they didn't.

School's out, but daycare isn't in session yet, so the kids and I have been driving each other insane enjoying some quality time in this purgatory nice little break between the two.

Now, if I were that Mom, this would be great. I'd have hit Michael's and bought some craft supplies, I'd have fun, new kid-friendly recipes so we could take some fresh-baked treats over to our new neighbours, and I'd have my active-wear jeans ready to go for some super-fun games at the park.

We'd be having so much fun that we'd totally forget we even have a TV, and we'd look up from our tenth happy round of Junior Monopoly with astonishment that it was already 6:00 when The Husband walked in, sniffing appreciatively the homemade lasagna all bubbly and gooey with cheese in the oven.

Riiiiiight.

Seeing as how I am decidedly NOT that Mom, our days have consisted mostly of watching TV (the kids), catching up on some projects around the house (me), and whining (all of us).

"Moooo-ooom, I'm BORED!"

"Moooo-ooom, I'm HUNGRY!"

"How come you guys are always watching TV. Turn that thing off. [....] I don't care if you're bored, I am not a social convener. And yes, computer and DSs both count as screen time."

Doesn't help that it's been raining for three days straight, so we're trying to figure out stuff to do inside. Or that yesterday afternoon, the first time the drizzle let up, I proved I was Awesome Mom.

I'd wondered idly where The Boy was, having sent him to go ride his bike around the block awhile back. Then he showed up, wearing his pajamas with the skeleton on them (he was Skeleton Kid, caped crusader) helmet hanging down his back with the strap tight around his neck, all of it tangled up in a blanket.

"Mom, I was riding my bike and then my cape got caught in my wheels and it was choking me a bit and then a van with a girl in it stopped and then another van with a girl in it stopped and then they had to help me get my cape out of my wheels."

Although I suppose this isn't so much an indictment of my parenting skills as it is a demonstration that Edna Moon was totally right in The Incredibles:

NO CAPES!

Read more...

A Song Request Overheard

The Boy: Hey Dad, can I listen to you play bass?

The Husband: Sure, buddy. What would you like to hear?

The Boy: Do you know the one "there once was a little kid who had a small sheep?"

The Husband: Um, you mean Mary Had a Little Lamb?

The Boy: Yeah, that one.

Read more...

Vendredi V - School's Out! Edition

Among the things that America does better than Canada (Netflix! Chipotle! Target!) is its designation of school levels. In Canada, you've got the oh-so-cumbersome I'm in grade one. Which works fine, until you are talking about said child and you have to call him a kid in grade one or grade one-er.

In America, it's all about the first grade and third grade; I'm in first grade isn't particularly easier than I'm in grade one, but when it comes to parental bragging, I've got a first grader and a third grader trip off the tongue much more easily.

Unless, of course, these things are true. In which case, there are no words, but merely an astonished gasp.

And they are true. School ended today and, as confirmed by their report cards, my munchkins are officially in first and third grades respectively. This is, of course, clear evidence of a rift in the time/space continuum as this actually happened only yesterday, and I heard the doctor exclaim, "It's a boy!" a mere two days ago and "It's a girl!" the day right before that.

Not surprising, then, that it feels like it was last week that I came running down Third Street, breathless with excitement that my own elementary school was out for the summer. The holidays beckoned, eight whole weeks ready to be filled with:

Top 5 Best Parts of Summer Holidays

1. Homemade popsicles. Did your mom make these? Mine did. It can't have been a cost-savings, since popsicles cost something like four cents. These contained some magical elixir made of carefully measured proportions of Kool-Aid and Jello and were molded in Dixie cups, with popsicle sticks stuck in at exactly the right moment of viscosity. They tasted amazing and, best of all, she would make them with different layers. Lime and cherry, ohhhhhh yeah.

2. Going to the library. Finally, no school to interfere with the best part of life. I'd put a cardboard box on my wagon, trundle it down to the library two blocks away, and fill the box with books. One year I got in trouble with the librarians because I read and returned most of the books on the same day I took them out, and they were none to pleased to have to re-shelve books whose spots were only recently-vacated.

3. Red Rock Bible Camp. Despite an only partially-successful first year in which I spent a good part of it crying for my mummy, I grew to love my annual week at camp. And what wasn't to love? I took Arts & Crafts and Music (hello! geek skills!) except for the years I broke it up with Fishing (which was fine, since we always went out in the heat of the afternoon and didn't have to catch anything). I retched a couple of times on the first day in order to successfully escape plate scraping duty (those coffee cans and spatulas clunked unceremoniously at the end of the table after a meal? Grossest thing ever). There was always a cute counselor to have a crush on. But my real crush was on Jesus. As much as adult Christianity is rewarding, it's hard; some days, I'd give anything to be be back in in that black and white world, where I was in looooooooove with Jesus, singing love songs to him around the campfire.

4. Painting the garage. Our garage doors were made out of red metal, and, when they (and my mom) got super-hot, she'd send us out with pails of water and paint brushes to make water-darkened pictures on the scalding metal. The pictures dried in minutes, so we had a blank canvas all afternoon long. She was smart, and we were losers, and everyone was happy.

5. Leathery feet. It was always a shock to run barefoot around the block for the first time after school was out; the feet in my memory were those from the end of the past summer, toughened by eight weeks of tearing around after friends, bikes, and dogs. Didn't take long, though - by mid-July my jelly shoes were somewhere in the back of the closet and my nightly ablutions consisted mostly of scraping the dirt off my feet.

Read more...

You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

Whew! It's busy these days over at the ol' Bringing-Home-the-Bacon Factory. Not as bad as last year, but it's definitely the high stress point of my annual work cycle.

In addition to the overtime, I had to skip my lunch-hour yoga class today. Again. Third week in a row. Kind of a dumb thing to do, I know, since I need it more these days than usual, but it's tough to downward dog your way to peace when you're thinking of the extra time you'll need to put in that night because you took an hour out for yoga. It's also kind of dumb since I pay a flat rate, so my cost per session is mounting, but at least I'm supporting my yoga teacher's biking trip to Costa Rica.

[Aside: This is not entirely unprecedented. In a feat of spectacularly poor scheduling, I once signed up for a $110 10-session ball-rolling class and was able to attend only the first class. I still have the cruddy old demonstration ball I received with promises that I could trade it in for my own personal fancy shiny one at the next class I attended. Given its cost-per-use ratio, that dang ball beats my fancy treadmill hands down as The Most Expensive Piece of Exercise Equipment I Own.]

Apparently my brain has room only for one thing at one time these days, too. I tried to use someone's business card for a bus ticket the other day. Then on Sunday night, I somehow set my alarm wonky so I ended up getting up at 4:50 am instead of 5:50 am (on Monday morning, no less!) and only realized it when I was dressed and staring with confusion at the clock on the microwave.

[Seriously. That's TWO Daylight Saving spring-forwards for 2009. It is my most hated day of the year and I have to have TWO?!]

Things could be worse, though. I could be that guy whose car was on fire on the freeway shoulder this morning. Or one of the people in the Honda Accord I was following home today that had eight passengers in it. (I wouldn't have thought it possible myself, unless I had counted heads.)

Plus, I'm taking advantage of the beautiful day and biking down to the lake this evening where I'll meet a friend for a walk. (Biking! Walking! Lake! Friend-with-a-Minnesota-zip-code!]

And, super treat last night - I got to witness the birth of a praise band. Well, "band" is a bit generous. A girl from church invited interested folks to join her for a jam night, and the Peitricia Mae clan attended in full force. The Husband has been learning bass guitar in the hopes of just such an event, and did superbly (even sight-read!). I indulged in some alto, and The Boy played the bongos. He's not a huge lover of the actual beat, but does a fantastic job at filling in the empty space around it. The Girl was busy with crafts and presented each band member with a personalized paper box.

So all in all, I'd say we're looking at a slight net positive for the week. And we haven't even hit Chipotle on Friday yet!

Read more...