State of Wonder, Gifts, My New Unpaid Career

Here's a little piece of advice: if you are a stay-at-home mom whose children are in school, and you are worried about how to spend your time, try signing up for numerous volunteer commitments, each of which isn't too time consuming on its own, but when added together fill all your days with unpaid busyness.  I'm finding my days are just flying by.  Who knew?  It's also been incredibly warm - hot even - and beautiful here, and so I'm completely stunned that October is in TWO DAYS, and also, did I move someplace with a good climate without knowing it?

I'm not complaining though - my life is pretty fun and flexible and despite the fact that I'm writing an advice column for our community newsletter - I kid you not, I have advice to give - I still managed to have coffee with two good friends this week and I finished reading "State of Wonder", which I recommend highly.  Mostly I want to talk about it to someone.  It's a fascinating book that brings up the question "How old is too old to have children"?  In the book, a doctor is studying a tribe in the Amazon, the women of which continue to give birth until they die, the average life span being around 70.  The thought of having a baby's head coming out of a 70 year old vagina is kind of squeamy, to me, although I guess the pregnancy hormones would make for some luscious old-lady hair.  But seriously, how old is too old?  I don't have any answers; although a girlfriend and I have discussed this, relative to our older husbands.  Since men don't really have a biological clock, not really, is there a point where they are "too old" to have children?  Way back in my long-ago youth, I was a candy striper at an old age facility, and I can't really imagine any of those people in an expectant parent state, but at what point do we get there?  Discuss.

I had an interesting conversation with regards to gifts and spouses.  I'm finding it's not uncommon for spouses to not give gifts to each other at birthdays, Christmas, etc.  My husband and I do give each other gifts, although the gifts are generally not surprises.  Mostly I like to state my preferences for certain items, and am sure to let him know what size I wear.  His birthday is coming up, and although almost every single year I give him golf balls and a golf shirt, this year is going to be different!  It won't be surprising to him though.  I suppose we could skip the whole gift wrap and opening steps, since we both tend to be specific on the things that we like, but what would be the fun in that? 

So here are our discussion topics for the day: a) how old were you when you had children, and how old is "too old" to have children, and b) do you and your spouse give each other gifts, and if so, are they ever a surprise? 

Charity Birthday Parties, or the post where I have strong opinions about birthdays

I frequently look at my house and feel like I'm drowning in stuff.  I'm not even talking about Mark's extensive "rock collection" ("Maybe we should get him a rock polisher for Christmas!" my husband suggested cheerfully, to my horror - how many MORE rocks would we then have in the house?).  I'm not talking about the fact that my fridge is threatening to implode from the sheer volume of artwork that is either festooning it via magnets or piled in a scary high stack on top of it.  Those are things I can handle (although not the idea of a rock polisher, heaven forfend). 

We're in an awkward stage, toy wise.  The problem I'm facing right now is that my children still build complicated tracks with their wooden Thomas toys, they use both the junior Duplo Lego AND the teeny tiny big kid Lego, they play with dinosaurs AND stuffed animals, they stage car races with dozens and dozens of little Hot Wheels, they play with board games and superhero action figures.  In other words, there is nothing in the house that I can in good conscience donate or otherwise get rid of.  We are literally drowning in the volume of toys that we have and I have not been able to donate anything that was unused since I boxed up all the Little People sets and Mega Blocks. 

So when we were planning Jake's birthday party, there was no question: no gifts.  We did this last year as well; on the invitations I specified that in lieu of gifts, each guest was asked to bring a food bank donation.  One of the things I most dislike about other children's parties are buying gifts for them - I never know what to get, I never know if they have something or not, and I generally feel overwhelmed and confused while trolling the aisles of the toy store.  Food donations - easy.  And let me tell you, people stepped up!

Having a charity birthday party is a very good way to introduce children to the concept of giving and what I consider to be the responsibility of people who are more fortunate than others.  My children are, I think, extremely fortunate and lucky children; they receive many gifts from aunts and uncles, grandparents, and us.  There were fifteen children at Jake's party; he would not need, and should not have, fifteen little gifts. 

In order to have a successful charity party, there are a couple of things to keep in mind.  First, make sure your child is in agreement - have a discussion about charities and giving and be sure to reiterate that they ARE going to get gifts from family members, just not from their little friends.  We can only expect so much.  Second, make sure the party is going to be a lot of fun - the focus of a birthday party, or any party, should really be the good time we are all having, rather than gifts.  We held the party at the Calgary Gymnastics Centre, and it was fabulous.  The kids all had a blast, there was no downtime, and there was only thirty minutes of "party room" time which is where I find parties to really drag. 

Third, make sure you have good food.  Since our party was from 3-5 pm, I did not want to have a huge snack for the kids right before the dinner hour, so I just served cupcakes.  We had a guest with Celiac disease, and so I branched out and made both regular and gluten free cupcakes, and they were equally - but differently - delicious.

Can you tell which are gluten free?  (Hint: the short ones).



The last thing to remember about having a successful charity party is do not forget the loot bags.  I know.  I know.  Loot bags are a scourge on society, but really, you CAN have loot bags and not lose your essence of yourself if you choose carefully.  I gave each child a little egg of Silly Putty - my kids once received those from a dinner guest of mine and they played with it for months after, so hooray for longevity and non-breakable-ness - an eraser shaped like a crayon, and a ton of candy.  Fortunately Halloween candy has been in the stores for over a month now, so I bought several large bags of rockets, bubble gum, and candy necklaces.  I gauged the party's success from the sheer joy that volume of candy brought to the guests.  Our little gluten-free guest was particularly overjoyed as she opened her bag.  "ROCKETS?  Nicole, I'm ALLOWED to have Rockets!" she shrieked.

Success!  At the end of the day, we had a giant box of food donations AND a group of happy, exhausted, and sugar-high children.  What could be better?

Save the drama for your mama.

I try to write quality posts and occasionally I try to write beautiful posts and yesterday I checked my statistics to see why, specifically, people visit this blog.  Is it my views on parenting, on mindful living, on good karma and kindness?

Here are some of the popular search terms that have been used to find my blog:

1) Cougar moms and velour tracksuits.
2) 16 year old girls with whale tails.
3) Boys stripping girls in their house. *although this has also been spelled "boyz striping girls in there house", but that kind of spelling gives me squidgies.*
4) Boy and fack girl in the house.
5) Asam Sandler singing into ex-girlfriends intercom  *That is how it is spelled.  I altered neither the spelling nor the punctuation, despite my squidgies.*

All of which is to say, I must have a lot of disappointed blog visitors.  Perhaps I should talk more about my velour tracksuits.

The past few days has seen a lot of sadness and difficulties for various friends and family, the details of which I am not going to go into, but I seem to be coping by baking things.  There are worse coping mechanisms, I suppose (like drinking, which I am doing right this second).  Tomorrow we are having a birthday party for Jake and 13 little friends, and so I have been a cupcake baking machine.  We have two guests coming who are unable to eat wheat and/or gluten, and so I made a batch of gluten free cupcakes.  I was a bit concerned as to how they would turn out; I read some recipes in Chatelaine magazine (don't judge, I AM a suburban Canadian mother) but I became completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of different flours and ingredients required.  My dearest friend, who has a daughter with Celiac disease, suggested Pamela's Products, and I have to say, the result was not bad at all.  The cupcakes were only one inch high but they were tasty.  The package suggested adding an extra egg for extra light cupcakes, and I will say this: if you need to make gluten free cupcakes and there is an option to make them "extra light", ADD THE EGG.  I can't imagine how dense the result would be if you, as the package suggested, added less water for a more dense cake. 

So it's the birthday party tomorrow and I am sure I will have much to say about that, but for now, I think I might go sample another cupcake and refill my wineglass.  I hope your weekend is going well, my lovelies.

Mullets and Me

Just the other day I saw a woman, who was about my age or a little older, wearing skin tight acid wash jeans.  I looked at her for a minute, trying to decide if this was a new trend and that is what the young folks are wearing these days, or if she had been wearing those jeans since the eighties.  Based on their style, I would have to vote for the latter. 

I've been thinking about style lately and how it changes and how it can be very confusing for women of a certain age, and by that I mean women of my age.  Specifically, me.  I want to look attractive and fashionable but yet I don't want to look like a crazed cougar wearing styles that are clearly not meant for me.  Although, saying that, some current styles are really not suitable for anyone, i.e., jeggings.  I want to buy clothes that are an investment, that will last for a long time, but not so long that I find myself wearing trendy clothes twenty three years past their prime, as in the woman with the high quality acid wash jeans. 

What's a mom to wear these days?  Specifically, what's a stay at home mom to wear?  We all know it's a job, blah blah blah, but really - there are no rules.  It's like Casual Fridays at my old place of employment; people would wear everything from mini skirts and tees to pajama pants and sandals.  I came across this piece about Fabulous Moms versus Yoga Moms and I felt extremely conflicted, and slightly, but unspecifically, offended.  I would like to think that those of us who come to school drop-off wearing saucy jeans and heels can associate freely with those of us who show up in, as the author quotes, "yoga pants and Birkenstocks".

Although, I have to take issue with Birkenstocks.  I know, I know, Birkenstocks have changed and expanded their product selection, and I know, I know, there are many cute new Birkenstock styles out there - just like Sorel boots - but I have a very negative association with them.  Intellectually I know there are cute, feminine Birkenstocks, but emotionally I associate them with my macroeconomics professor who used to walk barefoot through the filthy lecture hall, wipe his grimy feet on his own jeans, and then slide those same, slightly less dirty feet into a pair of Birkenstocks.  This is the same professor who, when I wore a tight trendy t-shirt with French writing across it, said "Does your shirt say 'Look at my tits?'?  Because it's working."  True story.  So let's agree that if we are talking about the new, cute styles of Birkenstocks, we shall call them something else.  Birkencutes?  Babestocks? 

Where am I going with this?  I don't know.  I DO know that I worry about losing self-awareness about my own appearance and just looking like one of those inappropriately dressed and styled women.  I don't want to end up in O magazine's makeover issue like this woman:

Business in the front, party in the back!

I mean, I'm not worried about LITERALLY turning into this woman - I certainly don't have a mullet - but this woman has had the same hairstyle since 1985 and, since no one CUTS hair like this anymore, she has been maintaining her own style.  Yikes.  This concerns me.  I've had some variation on the long, wavy hairstyle for many, many years, the only changes have been in colour and number and length of layers.  Will I one day wake up to an intervention about modernizing my haircut, like Mullet Lady?  Will I one day find myself in O magazine, complaining about the inability to find someone to style my hair the way it suits me, because no stylist wants to be associated with me?  Will I one day notice people staring at me, not because I'm all that and a bag of chips, but because I've become a fashion relic?

So here is my plea to you, dear readers.  Don't let me turn into Mullet Lady.  Please.

Struggling

For his birthday, my sister-in-law and brother gave Jake a number of easy-reader books, some featuring his new favourite character, Finn McMissile.  Jake picked them up and read them to me, only needing help on a few of the words.  What a smart little boy, I thought. 

He is a smart boy.  He can read and spell things phonetically and he has exceptional aptitude for numbers and patterns.  He has an incredible imagination, he builds interesting Lego structures and he can make up elaborate stories and scenarios.  He is very bright.

But he doesn't think so.

He has trouble with his printing and his fine motor skills - his printing is very neat and accurate, but it is difficult for him and takes a great deal of effort.  He has seen occupational therapists and he has a tutor; he has hyper flexible joints and so pencil control is difficult.  I don't know if you have had a child in Grade One, but the curriculum is very heavy on printing, colouring, and drawing. 

The first couple weeks of school have been fine; I've expected Jake to be more tired than he is.  I've expected him to have difficulty adjusting to the new routines, but he hasn't.  But it's coming out in different ways, I'm finding, it's coming out as anxiety about doing well at school.  He seems to feel that if he cannot do something perfectly, the very first time, then he is not good at that thing and he never will be.

It's very frustrating.  Even more frustrating is that I am kind of the same way.  I was a very anxious child; I needed to be perfect at everything I did, I bit my nails to the quick for two decades, I had problems sleeping,  I was constantly worried that some disaster would befall - maybe the house would burn down while I was in bed, maybe ferocious animals would escape from the zoo and eat me alive, maybe every one of my friends would move away and I would have no one to talk to.

I also remember erasing all my work and starting over because it didn't look quite right.  I remember that feeling and I think about Jake feeling that way and it makes me feel ill.

When our children struggle in the same exact way we struggled, we have the tendency to forget important points: that struggles are character building, that struggles make us who we are, that struggles are part of life.  What I need to do is allow Jake to struggle - with help and support, of course, always with encouragement - but what I want to do is erase his struggles altogether. 

It makes me just feel like crying, baby, 'cause baby, something beautiful's dying.

"There's a new Tim Hortons commercial that's going to make you cry," my husband called from the living room.  "I've already seen it AND cried this morning."  I replied.  Oh, Tim Hortons and their tear-jerking commercials.  Years after it first aired, my husband can still say, stiffly, "I come watch" and I will tear up. 

But it's not just Tim Hortons' commercials.  I'm an emotional wreck these days.  In other words, I should not have, in hindsight, spent the afternoon of Jake's sixth birthday watching videos of him and his brother from when they were small.  What was I thinking?  I wasn't, clearly.  I'm suffering from some kind of pre-empty-nest syndrome.  Last night there was a barbeque at the school and when a friend asked if I was going, I replied that no, I was just going to stay home and be sad.

What a pill.  Fortunately, Top Gun was on TV and, like a moth to a flame, I found myself watching it.  It's not even a guilty pleasure.  It's just a pleasure.  They don't make movies like that anymore.  I have been watching it for twenty-five years and it just never gets old.  "The plaque for the alternates is down the hall in the ladies' room."  STILL FUNNY.  It makes me want to go visit a bar near an air force base just to see if the pickup lines "I'm a pilot.  Actually, a naval aviator." would still be used.  Of course, I'm not sure I fit the demographic that those delivering the pickup lines would be looking for, but one could hope.  Never have I been serenaded by a group of naval aviators singing "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" but it could totally happen. 

There has always been much talk about the glossy, oiled-up, homoerotic volleyball scene ("Playing...playing with the boys!") and every time I see that movie I rewind that scene at least three times.  Iceman...because that's the way he flies, ice cold with no mistakes.  Whew!  I saw that movie in my formative years and I swear it set me up for a lifelong enjoyment of the bad boy/asshole.  No soft and sensitive guy for me, it seems, which is probably a good thing.  I think I have enough softness and sensitivity to go around.  Of course, after watching the movie I felt like pounding away on my piano and yelling to my husband "Hey you big stud!  Take me to bed or lose me forever!"  So maybe I'm not totally soft and sensitive.

The first time I saw Top Gun it was in an ice-cold theatre on a hot summer night in Estevan, Saskatchewan.  Eleven-year-old me was fascinated by it.  I longed for a life of adventure, a life beyond my young and boring existence.  Now I'm thirty-six, with my happy and comfortable life that I love, my life which is largely devoid of adventure.  But when that opening music plays, I long to roll down the windows of the minivan and drive really fast down the highway.  The highway to the danger zone.

And now we are six

"This is the greatest day of my life!" Jake said this morning.  "I got Finn McMissile toys and I learned how to button up my pants!"  He stood on one foot for a minute and added thoughtfully,  "I don't really feel older though.  I could still stand like this when I was just five."



Nostalgia and almost-birthdays.

I know this past weekend was a tough one for many of you, and so please accept my virtual hugs and kisses.  I did not watch the news all weekend, and I largely steered clear of the Internet, but I did think about those of you for whom this past weekend was very, very difficult.

The past few weeks have been unseasonably - I mean, really, truly, unseasonably - hot, and I've been loving every second of it.  Tank tops in September?  Who knew that such a phenomenon was possible?  It all came to a crashing halt today, which is fine because I'm gearing up for a busy week.  I have no time for such mundane things as enjoying the weather.  My husband is heading out of town, I have the first school council/ parent association meeting of the year, it's Jake's birthday, and I must procure many, many items of a baked goods nature.

This time of the year always seems very busy.  I have no time for reminiscing about Jake's birthday, it seems.  Six years ago today, I was wallowing around like a giant panda.  Six years ago today I was eating such quality foodstuffs as Cheez Whiz on toast several times a day.  Six years ago today I felt as if the baby's head might actually pop right out of my vagina if I walked too quickly.  Six years ago today I wondered why everyone in the world was so annoying, and why they were all out to get me with their annoying voices and mannerisms.

It's probably better NOT to reminisce too much.  Who wants to live in the past, anyway?

I did see a woman in the grocery store today with a small girl, perhaps she was three years old.  The little girl was adorable, shrieking with excitement in the produce section: "Carrots, Mama, we're getting carrots!  They're orange!  Carrots!  Peppers!  I have little tomatoes!"  I was reminded of my days of grocery shopping with Jake.  I spent the rest of my trip awash in nostalgia until we got to the lineup.  The lineup that had a trifecta of incredibly slow and inefficient people: the cashier, the bagger, and the little old lady with what appeared to be several hundred coupons and who wanted to pay with every single penny she had in her little vinyl purse.  I took the opportunity to read US magazine and catch up on all those people who I have no idea a) who they are or b) why they are famous.  The little girl and her mother were in front of me, and the little girl was restless.  She asked to get out of the cart, she tried to help put groceries on the conveyor, she lay down on the floor, she got accidentally stepped on by her mother, she started sobbing for all of humanity.  I smiled at her mother, who looked frazzled and tired, I tried to make up for the crabby comments I could hear from the woman behind me. 

And just like that, my nostalgic feelings dissipated and I went to pick my big, big boys up from school for lunch.

"Pa Ingalls Was Such a Massive Dickhead"

Few things, I find, are more offensive and soul-destroying than trying to find parking in the busy Costco lot and then finding some spots, only to discover at the last minute that there are several giant carts stranded in the vacant parking spots, the vacant parking spots that are mere steps from the parking lot cart corral, which is totally devoid of carts.  Quite honestly, it makes me sad for the state of humanity.  Can we not all walk five metres to return our giant Costco carts to the cart corral?  Why?  Why is this an issue?  Are Costco shoppers just completely depleted after their trips and the extra steps are just too much to take?  Does Costco just destroy people's souls so much that they cannot return their carts to the corral, but instead leave them where they lie and rush home to consume recently purchased extra-large bags of potato chips?

I still managed to return my cart to the corral, although I did feel like my soul was being swallowed when I was in Costco, as usual.  For one thing, I sustained an arm injury while attempting to lift a giant box of San Pellegrino.  The very tender skin of my inner forearm got stuck between two of the boxes, which was very painful and also led to the unfortunate result that I couldn't actually move one of the boxes, since my arm was painfully stuck.  Moreover, after this debacle, I discovered that Christmas decorations and other assorted Christmas-related items were on display.  On September 7.  As if I didn't feel like time was fleeting enough.  Not half an hour prior to witnessing this early Christmas display, I had dropped the boys off at school after lunch.  They insisted that they could get to their door by themselves, so I watched as Mark led Jake through the playground, placing his hand so gently on Jake's shoulder.  And then I cried.  I did not need to see the Christmas display, Costco. 

So I felt a gloom permeate the air as I narrowed my eyes at the Christmas display, but then fortunately remembered the most cheering remark I had heard - possibly the most cheering remark I had heard in my entire life - after my last blog post.  Beck can be credited with what is, most likely, the greatest Little House on the Prairie quote of all time:

"Pa Ingalls was such a massive dickhead."

I cannot help but feel that she has summarized the entire series quite admirably.  From my friend at Hodgepodge and Strawberries came this fabulous quote about Ma Ingalls:

"His wife was either a laudanum addict or a saint."

And that is nearly all one needs to know about Little House on the Prairie.  There have been some questions regarding the appropriateness or otherwise of reading these books aloud to small children, and I would say that, despite my sarcasm, they are great reading.  Some things to note that may need editing/ teachable moments/ beforehand preparation:

1) As mentioned before, Pa throws the family into financial ruin by building a fancy house - with glass windows and a stove, my stars! - on credit, to be paid back with the lucrative wheat crop which never materializes.  This right there could be used as a teachable moment given the state of the world's economy.  Stay in the damn sod dugout, Ingalls family. (On the Banks of Plum Creek)

2) When the Ingalls family moves from Wisconsin to Kansas, they are moving into Indian Territory.  The government is supposed to give them the land that belongs to the Indians, but in the end it doesn't.  There is a lot of racism, not subtle, in this book.  This could be used as a teachable moment regarding past attitudes towards non-whites in North America.  (Little House on the Prairie)

3) Several older boys plan to beat the new teacher and break up the school, and are supported in this endeavor by their parents, who are bragging to the community that their sons are going to give the teacher a beating of a lifetime.  Previously they beat a teacher so badly that he died of his injuries.  Oh boy!  Manslaughter!  Happily, Mr. Wilder - a gangsta, for sure - provides the new teacher with a bullwhip which he unleashes on those boys.  Revenge, Little House style.  (Farmer Boy)

4) Bored with the quietness of their lives, Pa and his cronies dress up in blackface and put on a show for the whole town.  The townspeople think this is the greatest thing ever.  Much time is spent applauding this showcase of talent.  (Little Town on the Prairie)

5) Laura - who is fifteen and forced to work as a teacher, which she hates, so that her blind sister Mary can attend the College for the Blind - is billeted at a house where the wife is driven insane with hatred for her husband who forced her to move from civilization to some god-forsaken shanty in the middle of the prairie.  This woman pulls a knife on her husband in the middle of the night, threatening to stab everyone in the house right then and there if he doesn't let her move back to her home.  It's a little creepy.  (These Happy Golden Years)


Despite all this, the books are definitely worth a read.  Little House in the Big Woods is an especially cozy family book.  After reading it as a child, I kind of wished WE would have a pig slaughter just so my dad could inflate the pig's bladder and I could play with it like a balloon.  And if six year old me could feel that way, imagine how delightful these stories truly are.  Despite the manslaughter, insanity, racism, and poor economic choices.

The grasshoppers are going to eat all the wheat!

Did you read the Little House on the Prairie books?  I was delighted by them as a child.  As a child I could just imagine the sheer joy of finding an orange, a stick of candy, a tiny homemade cake - made with WHITE SUGAR - and a penny in my stocking at Christmas.  I could imagine sleeping in an attic with all my possessions in a little box and my dress hanging on a nail.  I was completely charmed by these books. 

As an adult, though.  Can you even imagine feeling that the home in the woods of Wisconsin, where all your family resides, is just too populated, and so you think that the optimal plan is to pack up your wife and kids and start a new life in Kansas?  And then - THEN - when it turns out that white settlers are not allowed there, you get back in the covered wagon and head to Minnesota, where you go into incredible debt building a fancy big house with the idea that you will pay it back when you harvest your first amazing wheat crop?  But then the amazing wheat crop never materializes because it keeps getting eaten by grasshoppers?  And so you have to walk two hundred miles just to get some work so that your family won't starve, but in doing so you are leaving them alone and possibly you will never come back, leaving your wife a widow with three children at the mercy of the elements and neighbours?

It kind of makes parenting in the modern world seem like a cakewalk, no?

I mean, what's my biggest concern here?  Gee, this unseasonable and wonderful heat is not going to last forever.  Guess I better order some snow boots for Mark.  It doesn't really have the same urgency as we had better harvest all this extra hay in case there are blizzards every three days that will prevent the trains getting through with supplies and we have to twist the hay into sticks to burn it so that we don't freeze to death! 

Looking back at those books, I wonder about Ma Ingalls.  Talk about vulnerability; if anything had happened to Pa, what would she have done?  How would she have coped?  I suppose she would have had to marry a neighbouring bachelor with the hopes that he would be kind to the children.  Pa Ingalls and his disregard for socialization, along with his insatiable wanderlust set the family up for poverty and lack of opportunity.  It makes for a good story though.

Don't it make my brown eyes bluuuuueeee.

So I've been blue, due to a number of factors, the most pressing being disappointment over not being offered a writing contract that I had my heart set on.  I've been in mourning about it, wallowing and eating all manner of bad things, and reading my most favourite comfort book, Diary of a Provincial Lady.  That book never fails to cheer me up.  It's like chocolate cake and macaroni and cheese for the mind.  It is possibly the wittiest book ever written, and contains such gems as:

Move about after dinner, and meet acquaintance whose name I have forgotten, but connect with literature.  I ask if he has published anything lately.  He says that his work is not, and never can be, for publication.  Thought passes through my mind to the effect that this attitude might with advantage be adopted by many others.

Right?  Mark said "I'm sorry you're sad you can't write for those people.  But you can still write at home!  On your computer!"  True. 

Do you have a comfort book?  I once dated a guy who had a comfort movie.  Whenever he was feeling ill or down, he would watch Rudy.  The thought of it makes me snicker, and not in the kindest way.  Remember the scene - if you ever had the misfortune to watch said film - when all the players brought their jerseys to the coach.  "It's for Rudy, Coach." 

It just occurred to me: maybe I'm like Rudy.  I do have a lot of heart.  That's depressing.

It also occurs to me that perhaps I just need an excuse, at this time of year, to have an emotional breakdown.  Remember last year?  When I had a complete breakdown at the fact that my printer wasn't working and ended up sobbing, on the phone for hours with the Dell representative who kept speaking in soothing tones and asking if maybe I should get myself a drink of water and not to worry, he was going to to take care of everything?  I'm a mental case.

Not helping matters is the fact that we are all a tiny bit sick.  Nothing full blown, nothing major, but the boys both woke up Friday morning with slight runny noses.  Two things: a) that was fast, normally the first cold of the year occurs within the second week of school, not the second day, and b) five years old is NOT too young for a man-cold.  Jake became completely indignant that he was going to go to school, despite a tiny sniffle and slightly watery eyes.  "I can't BELIEVE this," he said, "This is the SECOND TIME I've gone to school like this!"  I related this amusing anecdote to my husband but ended up having to explain the concept of the man-cold to him, which was somewhat awkward.  I tried to make the explanation as general as possible.

And how was the first day of school?  It was excellent.  Both boys are, as anticipated, in the same class at school.  The benefits of this arrangement far outweigh the negatives, not the least of which is that I don't have to be room parent for two separate classrooms and, with any luck, I will only receive ONE copy of all the notices that come home from school.  Also the boys are ecstatic to be together, and their teacher is fabulous, one in a million.

On the way home from dropping the boys at school, I saw a woman with a very small boy, standing on the sidewalk watching a wood chipper at work.  That brought me back, intensely.  I don't know how many hours I spent watching various large machinery at work, boys in tow.  I don't know how many times I would take them outside to watch the garbage truck pick up the trash, or watch sidewalk repairs, or to the nearby construction site where a large office building was being built.  "Diggies!  Diggies!  Happy!  Happy!" one-year-old Jake would say from the stroller, clapping his hands.  A gas station in our neighbourhood was demolished, and believe me, I spent days watching the machinery tear down the buildings and dig out the contaminated soil.  It got so that the crew would wave when they saw the three of us walking up the street.  My jeans would be caked with mud from carrying Jake, his muddy rubber boots bumping against my thighs.  I would be tired, so tired, but would stand there with my fascinated boys, daydreaming about other things.  And now we're in a whole new chapter.

  

"What grade are you guys in?"