Angst du Jour

New York State of Mind

2008-07-23T22:17:00.004-04:00

Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the
neighborhood
Hop a flight to Miami Beach or Hollywood.
I'm taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line-
I'm in a New York state of mind.

- Billy Joel, New York State of Mind

The cure for lemurs

2008-07-15T20:04:00.009-04:00

The cure for lemurs is more lemurs. In fact, it's dancing lemurs.

About an hour ago, I heard gut-wrenching sobbing coming from the basement. It was Iain. And the only thing to induce such heartbreak in my little boy? A video game that just isn't going his way.

Don't judge me.

So, he dragged his sad sorry self upstairs, crying about the lemurs. "I can't get the two lemurs to roll the ball up the hill," he cried. "There's too many hills and too many coooornerssss in my Madagascar game. I need he-elp." Oh the sadness. Oh the angst. Oh the continued sobbing when I told him I certainly couldn't help. He's better at the damn game than me.

The one thing about Iain, however, is that it doesn't take much to cheer him up. I hugged him tight, gave him a cuddle and said, "Want to see something that will make you smile?"

So I showed him this.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

By the end, we were both grinning from ear to ear. Thanks Matt.

Arise then, women of this day!

2008-05-11T17:55:00.005-04:00

This post isn't about how Mother's Day was celebrated in our house today. It isn't about the homemade cards so delightfully crafted by my children and it isn't about me honouring my own mother.

It is about the very beginnings of Mother's Day. And it's about the idea that mothers and women everywhere can be a force for peace in the world. That we who have the power of our destiny have the right and responsibility to be the agency of that peace.

During the American Civil War, Julia Ward Howe had seen first hand the devastation and carnage of war. In 1870 she wrote the proclamation below as a call for women to unite together for change and to shift the way the world views war. I believe her words ring just as true today as when she wrote them. I leave them with you. Happy Mother's Day.

Mother's Day Proclamation

Arise, then, women of this day! Arise all women who have hearts, whether our baptism be that of water or of fears!

Say firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not betaken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own. It says "Disarm, Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."

Blood does not wipe our dishonor nor violence indicate possession. As men have often forsaken the plow and the anvil at the summons of war, let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel. Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.

Let them then solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, each bearing after their own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.

In the name of womanhood and of humanity, I earnestly ask that a general congress of women without limit of nationality may be appointed and held at some place deemed most convenient and at the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of peace.

-Julia Ward Howe

Famousocity

2008-05-10T16:19:00.007-04:00

Graphically violent video games as propoganda for the Western military machine? My friend Dave over at theoblog.ca explores this idea in a video he created. Watch the video and read his analysis here. Interposed between the difficult-to-watch killing and maiming, is my not-at-all-difficult-to-watch (in my humble opinion) son, Iain.

And before you call Children's Aid, no, Iain was not playing those games when he was being filmed. For the record.

March 29, 2008 8pm

2008-03-29T22:51:00.002-04:00

Earth Hour is here.

Done to Death

2008-03-23T20:01:00.008-04:00

Nothing works better at inciting me to blog than looking at my Statcounter statistics. Statcounter tells me who (sort of) is checking me out, where they are from, how long they stayed, what posts were viewed, and whether they were a new visitor or a returning visitor. As a result, I figure, since people are occasionally stumbling upon my blog or returning to see if I’m still alive, I should put something new here. Speaking of which, I'll take this opportunity to thank all of you returning visitors who check in here every so often just to see if your RSS feed is broken. It's not. Your feed has been telling you the truth; I really haven't posted anything since December. But I appreciate your interest.

More than all of that though, like many of you, I love checking the keyword analysis utility in Statcounter. I’ve learned that quite a few people out there would like to know how to make boiled raisin cake. Or urgently need to know what rancid shortening looks and smells like. And I'm glad I can help with issues like that, although I'm sure the person searching for play date etiquette did not count on how we had to prepare our son.

For many keyword searches I've been no help at all. Fundraising permission slips? Sorry. Hockey equipment for babies. What the hell? Strangely, many searchers seem to be concerned with black ops training and the term "maiden, mother, crone." I'm sure my mystical, practical, and probably confusing ramblings did nothing to help their search. Again, better luck next time.

I only hope the person searching “children eating rancid shortening” found some appropriate advice. Good luck with that. Hope your child is okay.

As for me, I think I’ll check my Statcounter more often and become inspired. But I promise this will be the last post about my keyword stats. That’s been done to death.

Easter

2008-03-23T19:57:00.002-04:00

She lives! (She says, oh so irreverently, given the season.) More soon. I promise.

Also known as spirit

2007-12-02T21:21:00.000-05:00

At six, you are pure exuberant joy
revelling in life, the world your oyster
a comment on everything and everything comment-worthy.
Leaping, laughing, singing, humming
spinning in place (although we discourage that at school, my love.)

Ahead on the horizon, time and life will mark you,
erode away some of that carefree spirit.
But only a little, I pray. Only a bit.
So hold your joy tight, Iain, don't let it go
while I stop time -- for just a moment -- and hold tight to you
just as you are at 6.

Just as you are today.

Happy Birthday, Iain.

In The Zone. Barely and Almost.

2007-11-25T15:35:00.000-05:00

It's been just over a year since I wrote this. So you can understand how utterly astounding it is, especially to me, that this year we've returned the kids' school photo proofs on time, paid their pizza money, and made note on the family calendar of the upcoming Christmas concert, parent-teacher interviews, and recognition assembly. We're even remembering to remind the kids about homework.

I'm not sure what's happening here. I do sense that having two kids in school full-time has pushed us into the zone. You know the zone. That zen place you find when you're really on track with whatever is important to you and your life. That zone. For me that includes running, eating healthfully, and now, staying on top of the school paperwork and administrivia. I will also confess it encompasses writing. Which means I haven't been in that zone -- the writing zone -- for quite a while. But I see it off in the horizon, so close now I can almost touch it. This entry puts me one step closer.

September 2007, first day of school. Who knew this year we'd be in the zone.

Decade

2007-10-17T21:31:00.000-04:00

Ten years ago today,

I looked into your eyes for the first time and wondered:

Will you run fast and leap high?
Will you breathe life into my life?

You looked at me with your wide sleepy newborn eyes,

Everything was new and overwhelming

and exciting and difficult.

We learned together how to be mom and daughter.

You held my baby finger in your baby grasp.

Ten years later and you hold my hand

only when your peers are not around.

I understand. I was ten once too.

A decade later some of my questions answered.

You do run fast and leap high.

You have breathed life into my life.

We have learned to be mom and daughter, a never-ending lesson.

Happy Birthday Danielle.

Tally for a Long Weekend

2007-09-04T20:24:00.000-04:00

3 days
6 people
3 band-aids
7 trips to Home Depot
2 arguments
1200 deck screws (approximately)
6 pots of coffee
4 drills
$2XXX.00 (approximately)
a bucket of tears
a carload of laughter
a load of patience
12 beers
200 pounds (approximately) of cedar decking
2 pizzas

equals:
________________________
1 awesome DIY deck_________

Full Circle

2007-08-28T22:14:00.000-04:00

There is a lullaby my mom used to sing to us. Where are you going my little one, my little one? Where are you going my baby, my own? Turn around and you're one. Turn around and you're grown. Turn around and you’re a mother (young man) with kids of your own. It speaks to the speed of life, the bittersweet fleetingness of childhood and the progression into adulthood. I loved that song. It reminds me of the taste of childhood. The kid-sweat smell after tag and steal the flag, cool summer baths and Ivory soap. Of summer nights, in bed before the sun set, the warm summer breeze through my bedroom window making the curtains my mom had sewn gently chase each other in their own game.

When my mom sung that song, it never occurred to me that my mother had once been a child, had been sung similar lullabies by her mom and dad. Now with kids of my own, I understand the quickness of that circle as we turn and one more year passes. Iain asked me to sing that song again the other day. It had been a while since a request for "Where are You Going" and as I began to sing, it struck me how long it has been since Iain was one. Since Danielle was one. Turn around, you’re 5. Turn around, you’re 9. Turn around, you’ll be grown, like me, and like your grandma.

Turn back one turn and my brother and I were Danielle and Iain's age, being taken to the Cathay House by mom and dad for dinner and maybe Shirley Temples.

Then and now. We did go back to the Cathay House on our travels out to Winnipeg this summer. We also visited our old neighbourhood and my childhood home. Not much has changed. Everything has changed. Then, we were a family of four. Now all together we are nine. As if the Cathay House staff knew we were coming, the Shirley Temples arrived for the kids, as if by magic. The food was just as delicious and with Pat’s expertise and inspiration, we experienced not only our old favourites but also lo mai gai, har gau, and, sui maai.

Our house in Winnipeg seemed to welcome us too, at least long enough to take a picture and relive some memories. Of tag, steal the flag, summer breezes. And lullabies. Turn around and we’re grown, with kids of our own.

Then:

Now:

Now:

Then:

Thanks to mom and dad for scanning the old pictures.

The Downside of Green Bins

2007-08-12T11:52:00.000-04:00

Almost a year ago I was touting the benefits of our new green bins for organic waste. While I continue without reservation endorse their use, I'm here to tell you they do have a downside.

Being on vacation for two weeks resulted in two missed pick ups. This morning, I had to open the bin to toss in another biodegradable bag of kitchen waste that had accumulated since we returned home. What I saw (and smelled) in the bin I'll leave to your imagine.

As for me, I feel the need to take a shower.

Wednesday pick-up cannot come soon enough. I wonder whether I can convince Pat it's his turn to rinse out the bin afterwards.

What I did on my summer vacation

2007-08-11T11:57:00.000-04:00

It's difficult to try and capture the last couple of weeks in a few words and pictures. And even more difficult to convey the sense of excitement of meeting old friends and new, of reuniting with close family and distant relatives and experiencing the wonder of several American and Canadian cities and towns.

In Chicago, we had a peak behind Wicked's Emerald Curtain to learn about the production and see some fantastic costumes:

We experienced a game at Wrigley Field (those Cubs fans are hard-core),

saw masterpieces of art within the Art Institute of Chicago

and masterpieces of architecture outside, surrounding us:

All the while expecting Ferris, Cameron, and Sloane to appear around any corner. (Yes, we're pathetic.)

The August long weekend found us celebrating with approximately 200 descendants of my great-great grandparents John Keenan Harrison (c 1840 - 1921) and Jemima Simpson (1840-1882). We flocked to my Uncle Mel's farm near Balmoral, Manitoba for the event. Below is a portion of those who attended; the decendants of William Hugh Harrison (m. Vida Heather), one of John K. and Jemima's many children. I'm in there somewhere . . . .

We headed back home through northern Ontario, where, just outside Thunder Bay, we were able to reflect on a national hero:

while the beauty of the Canadian Shield took our breath away.

Two weeks of whirlwind travelling, sightseeing, and visiting. A time of renewal and inspiration, the memories of which will last a lifetime.

Two Short Years -- a haiku

2007-07-29T15:19:00.000-04:00

From your first school day
To your graduation day
Time has flown my child.

First day of Jr. Kindergarten, September 2005

Graduation from Sr. Kindergarten, June 2007

The second reason I'll be scarce for a while

2007-07-22T20:33:00.001-04:00

The reason for my silence

2007-07-20T22:44:00.000-04:00

What? You didn't get the memo?

Let's just be clear on who's to blame

2007-07-10T21:42:00.000-04:00

I survey Iain's room, which had been tidy yesterday and is now a great example of chaos theory.

"Crap," I say to Pat, "Iain's room is a complete disaster."

"Yeah, but what about these chairs and blankets in the hallway here," he says as he points to the result of some earlier play by Danielle and her friends.

Iain, walking by, doesn't miss a beat. "That's Danielle's disaster."

Cold hard coins

2007-07-09T22:01:00.000-04:00

Lunchtime, a hot bright day, one of the first hot days this year.

I walk, alone. At first disappointed by no companionship this day -- my friends were in meetings or frantically finishing reports due yesterday -- I find myself cherishing this solitude. I meander the side streets of Toronto, the pavement so hot as to seep through my sandals and warm the arches of my feet.

By the time I wind my way past the hospital where Danielle was born almost 10 years ago, I am warmed clear through, my bare legs, toes, and shoulders finally thawing from the chill of my air conditioned workplace.

And then I see it, the ice cream truck of University Ave. Soft serve is served. I search my pockets for the $1.50 I need for a small cone and find a toonie. My change, 50 cents, is icy cold from sitting in the ice cream van, on top of the freezer. In my pocket, they are two cool disks against my hip. But it is only a short time before those quarters are warmed through and I am heading back to work, my lunch ended.

Shirley Temples

2007-07-02T20:46:00.000-04:00

It's strange the things we remember from our childhood. A couple weeks ago, I was meandering across the web and came across the website of a restaurant my family and I used to frequent almost 30 years ago. Located in Winnipeg, Manitoba, we used to have dinner there many Friday nights after a long week of school (for my brother Jeff and I) and work (for my parents).

I sent the link to Jeff and my parents and we all remembered something different about our dinners there. Jeff wondered if this was the same restaurant he'd stubbornly refused to go to on one occasion, even to the point of sitting out dinner in the car. It wasn't. Someone -- my parents? -- recalled that on special occasions Jeff and I were allowed to order "Shirley Temples". I remembered my mom ordering "Stingers" and my dad having Canada Dry ginger ales. Both seemed exotic to me.

After calling Pat over to the computer to look at the pictures of this memory from my childhood, he mused "I bet they have those place mats showing pictures of the different kind of cocktails you can order." And I bet he's right.

In any case, we'll know soon enough. This summer when we attend a huge family reunion near Winnipeg, we'll be making a special trip to the Cathay House restaurant. For old memories sake. And the Shirley Temples.

So Hip it Hurts

2007-06-01T20:47:00.000-04:00

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I registered for Facebook.

I would have never even checked out the whole social networking phenomenon if it hadn't been in the news several times in the last few weeks. Toronto students busted for trashing their principals and teachers on Facebook. Ontario Government cracking down on employees using Facebook during work. Federal Conservatives warning political staff to stay away from Facebook lest they post statements there embarrassing to the Government.

Who wouldn't be curious after that?

After I registered, it prompted me to enter my yahoo address so that it could check to see if any of my friends were already on Facebook. I barely maintain a yahoo email and have one contact listed. Here's where the trouble began. Facebook promptly found . . . . my father. Yes, my dad was on Facebook. Turns out, he'd been just as intrigued as I was by all the media coverage and felt compelled to check it out. Must run in the family. And here I was thinking this was something for the younger generation. Like me.

Then it hit me. Not like me. While I still sometimes think of myself as young, in reality I'll be 40 in less than 2 years. Forty. In my mind, I'm still 25. Twenty-five with a husband, two kids, and a mortgage. But still.

Nevertheless, I've been blithely, and trendily I might add, collecting Facebook friends for the last couple of weeks and surprisingly have found old friends with whom I had long lost touch. An article today in the Toronto Star made me begin to question my Facebook pursuits. Parents are Killing Facebook, blared the headline on the opinion piece by Erin Kobayashi. The article postulates that "'Friend' requests from mom or your friend's dad are ruining this online student utopia."

Well, it's kind of cool to have my dad as a friend, I think to myself. But then I check that thought. The author is talking about people my age (i.e. 40 ish +) ruining it for people her age (i.e. 20).

After receiving a friend request from her mom, 24 year old Marji Ende's reaction sums up the article well:

"And although she gets along with her mother in real life, she never would accept a request for friendship.
'She's my friend, but not my Facebook friend.'"

I would readily accept a friend request from my parents. And did so, thinking nothing of it. But then I'm part of the problem. Not so hip now, am I? If Facebook is around a few years from now, thanks to the warning from this article, you can bet I won't put Danielle in the position of having to accept a friend request from her mom.

Maybe I am hipper than I think. Nahhh.

Baby Steps

2007-05-31T21:14:00.001-04:00

Typical of my life these days, I now have a whole hour and a half to update this blog and I have little to say. Not that my life hasn't been full, but I find that when I get out of the habit of writing here, it seems to take that much longer for me to feel comfortable letting the words out. A mental constipation, if you will. Perhaps this entry will be the fibre my brain needs to get regular once again.

Perhaps one of most interesting things I have been witness to in the last few weeks is attending the first Roman Catholic Womenpriest ordination on land last Sunday. You can find pictures here. On May 27, 2007 at West Hill United Church in Toronto, Marie Bouclin, of Sudbury, Ontario, was the second Canadian woman ordained by this movement. Since 2002, 14 women have been ordained as priests. Three women have been ordained as bishops by (male) bishops in good standing with the Roman Catholic Church. Bishop Patricia Fresen of Germany, who conducted the ordination on Sunday, was one of these.

Also present and participating in the service was Irshad Manji, a progressive Muslim who calls for the reformation of Islam. With Gretta Vosper, the minister of West Hill, she helped lay out the prostration cloth for the ordinands.

The ordination service was incredibly powerful, albeit very different than what I am used to. While these ordinations are being ignored by Rome as irrelevant, I share with these women the hope that this movement will help spark changes in the church, changes that began with Vatican II but were subsequently quashed.

It is a journey of a thousand miles and these are its first baby steps.

*Photo by David Barker

There Was No Joy in Mudville, Just Alot of Mud

2007-05-15T21:09:00.000-04:00

With apologies to Ernest L. Thayer

Last summer Iain watched in envy as Danielle had her turn,
Soon would be his chance to shine at soccer, a great reputation he would earn.

Too late to register him last year, we vowed we’d not miss out again,
While he gamely cheered Danielle nevertheless, thrilling at her every win.

But as the days drew nearer to enrol him, Iain was heard loudly to proclaim:
“Soccer is fun and all, but I really think t-ball is my game.”

Last Saturday was the day, the day to meet the team,
And to pick up the holy grail, his uniform, and pick his number: fourteen.

He wore his uniform day and night, so splendid he did feel,
He couldn’t wait for his first game, we could tell it was a big deal.

Today was the day, the day at last, when he’d have of his first at-bat,
He joyfully donned his uniform, got his glove and cap.

And as 6pm rolled around and time for the teams to gather,
Lightning arced across the sky, proclaiming an end to the matter.

The skies turned black, they opened up, and the rain poured down in rivers,
While we all stood in the field, in disbelief, trying to still our shivers.

It was a sad little boy that day who cried to the sky with a shout,
The game was called on account of rain. Mighty Iain did miss out.

Stillness

2007-05-09T20:53:00.000-04:00

On my night table sits The Life of Pi, by Yann Martel. I've been meaning to read it for the last 18 months but there has always been something else to read. Something more compelling, or the next book in a series, or a library book due in a week. Or I've been too busy being busy. So it sits, waiting patiently for me. Books are like that sometimes. They don't often nag.

So imagine how intrigued I was to hear that Yann Martel has vowed to send Stephen Harper a new book to read every two weeks along with a letter explaining his choice of book. Why? To expand his stillness. As Mr. Martel states in a Globe and Mail article on April 14, 2007:

On March 28th, 2007, at 3 pm, I was sitting in the Visitors’ Gallery of the House of Commons, I and forty-nine other artists from across Canada, fifty in all, and I got to thinking about stillness. To read a book, one must be still. To watch a concert, a play, a movie, to look at a painting, one must be still. Religion, too, makes use of stillness, notably with prayer and meditation. Just gazing upon a still lake, upon a quiet winter scene—doesn’t that lull us into contemplation? Life, it seems, favours moments of stillness to appear on the edges of our perception and whisper to us, “Here I am. What do you think?” Then we become busy and the stillness vanishes, yet we hardly notice because we fall so easily for the delusion of busyness, whereby what keeps us busy must be important, and the busier we are with it, the more important it must be. And so we work, work, work, rush, rush, rush. On occasion we say to ourselves, panting, “Gosh, life is racing by.” But that’s not it at all, it’s the contrary: life is still. It is we who are racing by.

And if anyone needs stillness away from deluded busyness, writes Mr. Martel, it's our Prime Minister. So far he's sent him The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy and George Orwell's Animal Farm. Mr. Martel has not yet received a response.

Given the last couple weeks, the idea of stillness, contemplation, living in the moment, holds much appeal for me. To be still. Lost in a good novel or writing the perfect sentence. Enjoying a quiet moment with family and friends. What serendipity to learn of Yann Martel's project. What a welcome reminder.

A sad truth

2007-05-09T20:36:00.000-04:00

If I didn't go to work, I probably would wear the same clothes every day.

Yes, I'm alive, if not kicking

2007-05-08T20:21:00.000-04:00

More substantial stuff coming soon. I am around, it's just than I've been trying to climb my way out of the work that went into -- and came out of -- this. And then the (somewhat minimal) fall-out from this and this.

And you thought Don Imus was bad . . . .

2007-04-14T20:24:00.000-04:00

This post is not actually about Don Imus.

For a thoughtful, wise, and intelligent post on this issue, read Jennifer's. For a very humorous, satirical viewpoint, check out Jon Swift's take. At least, I'm 99% sure it's satirical even though some of his commenters don't think so. Well, not everyone has a humour gene.

In any case. This is about Doris Moore, from nearby Brampton, who bought a beautiful dark brown leather couch set. When the set arrived, the packing label described the colour as "n----r brown". (See, I can't even type it.)

Apparently, the furniture dealer isn't taking responsibility and passed the buck to the manufacturer, somewhere in China.

The Toronto Star broke the story on April 6th and in their follow up article today, they mention it has since been picked up by CNN and by the British press. A few are saying this is just an issue of lost in translation. But a quote in the Star article today suggests otherwise:

The couch bearing the offensive label landed in Brampton last week by way of China, where things like paint and shoes for men are still being sold today with the description.

"Nigger-brown" pigment is available for purchase from the Wenzhou Kunwei Pearly-Lustre Pigment Co., Ltd. Men's shoes from the Nanhai De Xing Leather Shoes Habiliment Co., Ltd., are described this way on its website: "this product is leisure & fashion, Comfortable, beautiful outside Size 39#-46# Color French rose, `nigger-brown.'"

Most people, thankfully, are reacting with condemnation and horror. As they should. This is simply not acceptable on any level.

But to me, the saddest thing about this business is that Ms Moore had to explain to her 7 year old daughter the significance of that awful word. The girl had read it on the label when the sofa arrived and had immediately asked her mother what it meant.

I am horrified that a colour can still be described this way in 2007 but even more, my heart aches for the Moore family, to be hurt in this way. I ache for the shattered innocence of her daughter and I ache for what it must have cost her to destroy that innocence. You see, I can put myself in her shoes, wondering if someday I will have explain to my own kids how some words are meant to hurt them. Hoping that I never will but knowing all the same how unlikely that is.

Unlikely because only yesterday I heard Danielle singing a song whose words and actions implied a xenophobic anachronistic anti-Asian bias. We had a thoughtful discussion about the song but I feel only relief that I did not have to explain the harsh realities of words used as racial epithets. She found the whole conversation mortifyingly embarrassing and made me promise not to mention it further. (Except here, I guess. Eeek.) It is only now in light of the article that I am truly understanding the significance of that discussion.

The irony is not lost on me that my awaking to the possibility of someday having to explain racial slurs to my bi-racial Caucasian/Chinese children stems from the use of another racial slur by a Chinese manufacturer. Barriers sadly exist in every culture and are not the purview of one.

However, I'm at heart an optimist and I do see a kernel of hope. Hope in such a huge outpouring of disgust by others, by such a show of solidarity with the Moores.

This post has not turned out the way I thought it would. When I began it two hours ago, it was meant to be a short, wry condemnation of something so outrageously and eggregiously wrong as to be almost unbelievable. Somewhere along the way it became personal. So this post is not about Doris Moore at all. Or at least, not only about Doris Moore. This post is about how I am left a little diminished, a little empty, and a little apprehensive, knowing of the uncomfortable possibilities that perhaps await Pat and me.

The harsh realities of the world don't disappear through wishing them away. But as I kiss Danielle's and Iain's sleeping heads tonight, I can't help wish they would stay away, just a little bit longer.

What bone?

2007-04-11T20:10:00.000-04:00

For a while now, Danielle and Iain have been pretty self sufficient when it comes to bathing. They both take showers and Danielle no longer needs any help at all from us. She's in and out in about 10 minutes. Iain needs minimal help. He can wash himself but does need us to wash his hair and help him rinse out the shampoo.

To my utter delight, they've both discovered the joys of singing in the shower. Listening to Danielle belt out show tunes or something from her Kelly Clarkson CD lifts my heart every time. And Iain . . . . Well, you never know what he's going to sing next. Tonight, this is what I overheard:

Sock bone's connected to the shoe bone,
Shoe bone's connected to the leg bone,
Leg bone's connected to the kneel bone,
Those bones are gonna walk all over the place.
Kneel bone's connected to the penis bone (I don't remember that in the song)
Penis bone's connected to the stomach bone . . . .

At this point, I couldn't hear anything else because my giggling drowned out his singing. I'm sure when he learned this song, he wasn't exactly taught those words. But I ask you, if you're a 5 year old boy, nekkid in the shower, how else could you sing it?

To help with the blahs

2007-04-10T18:35:00.000-04:00

As far as writing, I've been in a bit of a funk the last couple of weeks. (How's that for stating the obvious?) In lieu of anything profound to say, here's this:

On the upside -- and in keeping with the video clip -- I'm jumping for joy that both Pat and I have done our taxes for another year. And even better, I've already got my refund. Now that is help for the blahs.

Three Conversations with Iain

2007-03-31T23:50:00.000-04:00

1. Causality

Iain: Does peanut butter have peanuts in it?

Me: Yes it does.

Iain: How?

Me: Peanut butter is made of crushed peanuts.

Iain: . . .

Iain: I'm not allergic to peanuts. But I am allergic to blueberries.

Me: Iain, you're not allergic to blueberries.

Iain: Not blueberry juice though. But whole blueberries.

Me: (skeptically) Oh yeah? What happens when you eat blueberries.

Iain: I get the hiccups.

________________________________

2. Conservation of Energy

Me: Iain, do you have to go to the bathroom?

Iain: No. (Long pause. Smile) I just like wiggling.

_________________________________

3. General Relativity

Me: Come on Iain, it's time for your shower.

Iain: Aww, can I have a shower tomorrow? I don't want to have a shower tonight.

Me: Here's your choice. (Iain looks expectant.) You can either have a shower OR have a shower.

Iain: Umm, can you say that again?

Me: You can either have a shower OR have a shower.

Iain: (smirking and trying not to laugh.) But mommy, that doesn't make any sense.

"He demonstrates respect for others and enjoys talking about his personal interests."

2007-03-27T21:55:00.000-04:00

The above was one of the comments on Iain's report card this term. When we read this statement, Pat and I both knew immediately what it meant. Reading between the lines this says that Iain enjoys talking about The Legend of Zelda to any of his friends who will listen. As in the Legend of Zelda, the Nintendo cult video game. I'm not making this up.

He gets this from his father. Really.

Apart from the social aspect, Iain's never been very gung ho about school. I suspect this has much to do with starting school a tad early because of being born in December. Until very recently he could have cared less about letters, words, and what they can be used for. Numbers, on the other hand, hold more interest. Pat has a theory that this is a result of needing a familiarity with quantity in order to play Zelda. And when I say he plays these games, I mean he mostly makes the main character, Link, ride around on his horse, swinging his sword as he travels through the Kingdom of Hyrule. Yes, you read that right, Hyrule. And yes, I know that video games destroy young minds. Please note exhibit A, my previous post in which I acknowledge my bad parenting skills and exhibit B, the fact that Iain gets this from his father.

However. In Link, Iain has found something of a soul mate. Iain often pretends to be Link, talks frequently about Link (see report card), and pours over the official Zelda strategy guide studying pictures of Link. When Iain isn't drawing shooting stars, he's drawing Link. Or Link's shield, or his sword or his horse. I was looking at such a drawing the other day and I noticed, written across the top of the page in marker was the word "LINK". I didn't think anything of it, figuring Danielle had written this for him as he often asks her to write or read words for him. To my knowledge, outside of school work, Iain had never written any word on his own that wasn't his own name. Ever. But the writing was not the neat script Danielle uses. Surprised, I asked Iain if someone wrote "Link" for him.

"No," he told me. "I did it myself. L - I - N - K spells Link, see?" I did see. I saw that in the last little while my little boy has become much more fascinated in words and their meanings. I saw his joy in being able to write a word, a word with meaning for him at this point in his childhood. I saw that's he's discovered magic. Not the fanciful fun magic of Link's world, but the magic in discovering the ability to birth an idea by just writing a word. I saw his excitement in sensing this new power within himself. I share his excitement knowing this is just the start of a new world of magic for him.

Thinking from the Heart

2007-03-16T21:15:00.000-04:00

I was knocked off my socks this week to learn that Jennifer of Faking It fame bestowed upon me a thinking blogger award. Is it not pretty? I was particularly surprised because much of my blog is devoted to poo, barf, and my various failings as a parent. Not only that, I must come clean and tell you that half of what I think on, I never end up writing. Writer's block, fear of failure, fear of offending someone, or of simply not being good enough, often seems to get in the way of me expressing many of the thoughts I have in this pea brain of mine.

Perhaps an illustration. A couple years ago we took Danielle, our aspiring artist, to the Ontario Art Gallery. While strolling through the Group of Seven exhibit and looking at the exquisite art of A.Y. Jackson, Lawren Harris and others, Danielle became increasingly sad and quiet. I learned that she was feeling crushed by the beauty of their work and by the feeling that she couldn't paint that way and maybe never would. At first I found this incomprehensible; a seven year old upset because she wasn't as good as one of the best Canadian artists ever? And yet.

And yet, when I reflected on her reaction, I recognized much of me in Danielle's bewildered sense of inadequacy. How often have I myself been paralyzed by the thought of whether I should even bother writing since I'm obviously no Atwood, Brite, Camilla Gibb, or even my cherished blogging friends? Plenty often.

I once blogged about Iain's difficulty with disfluency and how we worked with him to make his talking smoother. My disfluency is of another sort; difficulty with getting the words out on paper or on screen. It's a struggle not only to wrest the words from my mind but to subdue the negative thoughts that reside there as well.

So as unlikely as it seems, here is this thinking blogger award, spurring me on, validating me in many ways, restoring my confidence. Making me work to be smoother. So thank you Jennifer with all my heart.

And with that, in the tradition of passing the torch, I have the pleasure of letting five others know how much they make me think:

Theoblog

Mimilou

Come, Mommy

Somewhere Over the Pond

Secret Evil Blog

Grab a button guys with my thanks for always giving me something new to think about.

This really needs no explanation

2007-03-15T22:17:00.000-04:00

I was going to end this by saying "enough said." But I don't really think that is true. More needs to be said. And we all need to keep saying it.

Who am I?

2007-03-14T21:51:00.000-04:00

I'm really not sure what this says about me. Perhaps it's a visual companion piece to the I Am From meme. Or maybe it's just a bit of fluff before I head off to bed.

Good night.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Stealing this from Suzanne . . . . with thanks.

I Am From

2007-03-08T18:34:00.000-05:00

One of the most evocative posts I've read in a long while was Jennifer's take on the I am From meme. With a sense of trepidation for following in the footsteps of her perfect post, I'm taking up her challenge to explore where I'm from.

I Am From

I am from the east and from the west. I am from somewhere in between.

I am from big skies and open fields and bicycling down hot dusty dirt roads.
I am from grasshoppers dancing before me while I walk across a field cracking with drought.
I am from the crunch of snow and sun dogs on a January day.
I am from hills and trees and humidity in the summer and damp cold winters.
I am from trees running with sap in the spring.

I am from being frightened of tornadoes and thunder. I am from hiding in the basement during storms.

I am from a tight knit family.
I am from cousins and many many aunts and uncles.
I am from boiled raisin cake.
I am from a family with alcoholism.
I am from a family who overcomes.

I am from a mother who taught me about making lists and about deciding to love.
I am from a father who taught me about taking responsibility for my actions.
I am from doing my best.
I am from being loved for just the way I am.
I am from being respected.

I am from arguing about religion and politics.
I am from going to church on Sunday, then not going to church. I am from questioning everything and not being satisfied with the answers. I am from finding my own way and finding a peace.

I am from talking about my feelings.

I am from smiling when nervous, crying when overwhelmed, laughing when life gets warped.
I am from a family who all laugh at Monty Python, the Vicar of Dibley, Fawlty Towers, Blackadder, and ourselves.

I am from Shilo, Valcartier, Loretteville, Oromocto, Winnipeg, Regina, Oakville, Mississauga, Toronto, Scarborough.

I am from parents who experienced great loss.
I am from endurance.
I am from love.

Where are you from?

Props (do people still say that?) to my co-worker Daniel J. Bishop

2007-03-08T18:33:00.000-05:00

Daniel's short story Commentary on the Game was published in the Winter 2006 edition of On Spec magazine. It is worth noting that Daniel and I both work for a large non-profit organization which has nothing to do with publishing. My sincerest kudos to him for following his dream. Perhaps someday he can quit his day job.

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be hockey players

2007-02-27T20:38:00.000-05:00

I have a secret.

They say confession is good for the soul so here goes. Please reserve your judgment until you’ve reached the end.

I live in fear that Iain will want to sign up for hockey.

Call me selfish, hell call me un-Canadian but I just can’t bear the thought. The cold hockey arena, the early morning practices, the tournaments that go on all weekend, the chance for serious injury as he gets older, holds absolutely no appeal. And the expense? Even second-hand, hockey equipment -- helmet, pads, skates, socks, jersey, shorts, stick -- can run into the hundreds of dollars and must be replaced at least every couple of years as he grows. And then there are the league fees.

I do recognize that these concerns are selfish and mainly all about me. Well, except the injury factor. With body checking being league approved for younger players, the opportunity for neck injuries and concussion grows as he does.

Don’t get me wrong, many of my friends’ kids play hockey and if the parents weren’t on board to begin with, they’ve become converts. The time, cold, expense, all becomes worth it. I know, if forced, I could be a convert too. Perhaps not as vociferous a convert as others, but at least supportive. My nephews Alex and Justin have played hockey for years and love it. And we love hearing about their triumphs and tragedies. As any true Canadian, my heart soars at the thought that Justin or Alex might be the next Great One or Sidney Crosby. (Between you and me, they have a chance . . . ) So I know I that it would be a short step for me to go from infidel to whole-hearted believer.

We’ve been lucky so far. Danielle has dodged that bullet and has never shown an interest. Iain has taken skating lessons and while he liked them, he didn’t exactly fall in love with the ice, nor the idea. He’s been to various professional hockey games but his attention only persisted as long as the cotton candy. Until now. Not too long ago, Pat took Iain to OHA (Ontario Hockey League) game. The stayed to the bitter end. Long after the popcorn, cotton candy, and French fries were done. Pat said Iain really was enjoying the game and wanted to stay to the end.

This does not bode well.

Three Fortunes for the Year of the Pig

2007-02-20T20:38:00.000-05:00

In the absence of Pat's parents who are travelling, we celebrated a quiet Lunar New Year with Chinese take-out. We'll have a big family get together when his parents get back to Toronto. In the meantime, our fortunes this year, according to the three cookies we got with our food (yeah, dinner for four, we got three cookies):

Danielle: "Your fastidious nature will have much more fun this year."

Iain: "You have it easily in your power to increase the sum total of this world's happiness now."

Okay, weird English translations aside, they do suit Danielle and Iain. Sort of. Then I opened mine:

"It is better to be the hammer than the anvil."

Oh dear. Never really pictured myself as a hammer kind of a gal. Not that I'm an anvil by any means. But I have always seen myself as more of a peaceful solutions type of person. Hammering something into submission to my will? While it sounds kind of cool in theory, no, not so much me.

Pat, ever the gentleman, decided to be the odd man out and let us have the fun with the fortunes. Based on how weird they ended up being, probably a wise choice. And yet, even with the negative connotations, maybe being a hammer isn't a bad thing. It reminds me of a song my dad sings every single time he's got a hammer in his hand or is handed a hammer.

If I had a hammer
I'd hammer in the morning
I'd hammer in the evening ... all over this land,
I'd hammer out danger
I'd hammer out a warning
I'd hammer out love between all of my brothers and my sisters
All over this land.

Hmm, I guess I could be that kind of a hammer. If it's good enough for my dad, it's good enough for me.

Kung Hei Fat Choy. Happy New Year.

Was there ever any doubt?

2007-02-15T19:06:00.000-05:00

You are 100% Canuck!

You rock, you are an almighty Canadian through and through. You have proven your worthiness and have won the elite prize of living in a country as awesome as Canada. Yes I know other countries think they are better, but we let them have that cuz we know better than they do, eh?

How Canadian Are You?
Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Dare to take the test?

Tuesday Night

2007-02-13T22:00:00.000-05:00

It's Tuesday night, February 13th, about 9:00 pm. Danielle and Iain have been tucked in for half an hour. I'm a mad woman scrambling around trying to get all the things done that need to be done before my bed-time when Danielle, up out of bed, sidles up to me and asks, "Are you going to make me treats or something to take to school tomorrow for our Valentine's party?"

Oh god. One more reason I'm not cut out to be a parent of a school-aged child. Did I think of this on my own? Not bloody likely. And it's 9pm on Tuesday night. Tuesday before the cleaning lady comes which means I have to tidy the house, load and unload the dishwasher, hand wash all the big pots that have been sitting in the sink for three days, log on to Microsoft Money to balance our chequebook to make sure we have enough money to pay the cleaning lady (it's been that kind of a week), and in an unrelated matter, I have to draft agenda and email it to a bunch of people for a conference call I'm participating in tomorrow.

I was on track to have this all done and perhaps spend a few minutes reading or blogging. But as Jennifer's tagline says, "sacrifices must be made." Indeed.

"Well, honey, I'll see what I can do. I may not have time." Danielle looks accepting but hopeful as she heads off to bed again.

So this is how I find myself at 9:45 pm, stomach chock-full of chocolate chip cookie dough nibbled on the sly, waiting for the oven timer to signal the next batch of cookies done. And oddly enough, blogging. But on a completely different subject than originally intended.

Danielle pads her way downstairs, called by the cookie smell wafting throughout the house. "Oh!" she says, her face expressing it all. "You had time. I'm so glad!"

Me too, I think, wrapping her in a hug. Sometimes time has to be made.

Politics: Danielle learns why it's important to know how to sleep next to an elephant*

2007-02-11T20:28:00.000-05:00

I guess Pat and I have been talking quite a bit about the upcoming Presidential race south of the border because Danielle asked me tonight, "Who's Barack Obama?"

"Hopefully the next President of the United States."

"But mommy, we're in Canada, what do we need to care about that?"

"Oh honey, everyone needs to care about that."

*Quote by Pierre Trudeau, addressing the Press Club in Washington. Living next to you is in some ways like sleeping with an elephant. No matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, if I can call it that, one is affected by every twitch and grunt..

Paint

2007-02-07T12:24:00.000-05:00

Eighteen months after this post, our house is still primarily a charming shade of builder’s beige, except for a couple of cheerful new bright spots: Danielle and Iain’s rooms. In truth, Iain’s room almost turned out to be too bright. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It started, as almost everything in our house does when it comes to decorating, with my parents. Well, my mom really. Last fall, she made a beautiful roman shade for the guest room and had suggestions about paint colours that would match. They were great suggestions and when she and my dad offered to do the painting, I was completely on board. Then I remembered Danielle asking plaintively only a week earlier when we might see our way to paint her room. She had big plans.

So it was that we picked out two lovely colours and my parents stayed with us a couple days last November to paint Danielle’s room. This also included a huge reorganization job which my mom undertook with Danielle. The truth is, the reorganization and purging of stuff was probably more tiresome than the actual painting.

When it was finally done -- soft yellow above, warm green below and a cute border in between -- Danielle was completely over the moon.

Iain, on the other hand, was not.

When he came home from school and saw how Danielle’s room was taking shape, he cried for an hour in despair. When when would we (we as in my parents – let’s be clear) paint his room? Honestly, we didn’t see that reaction coming. So, we placated him with paint chips, asking him to decide on a colour so that in the New Year, his grandparents could come back and begin his room’s transformation.

Iain, bless him; decided on orange. He looked at all varieties of orange, some fluorescent bright, some vomitty yellowy orange, some pumpkin, some citrus orange. We did try to steer him towards the browny muted oranges with some sucess. Nevertheless, he was adamant. It had to be some type of orange.

Although we had still not completely convinced Iain that bright citrus orange was really not the way to go, my parents arrived last week ready to paint. Iain had a response for every ~~argument~~ reasonable suggestion we made.

My mom: But Iain, if we paint your room bright orange, you’ll never be able to find your clothes.

Iain: We can paint my dresser blue!

We finally (!) settled on something called "butter pecan" and opted to paint only two walls in this warm brownish orangey colour. The other two walls are a lighter shade of colour called "butter cookie." Perhaps you can see a theme emerging.

His room turned out beautifully, as my parents found this modern (read: not 70’s style) bamboo window shade and an non-cartoon jungle themed border to go around the window. Danielle generously let Iain have her tiger pillow -- the perfect accent.

(It looks more orange in the picture than in reality)

While not keen on the lighter shade, Iain does love his room. Loves it. Danielle loves her room too. The thanks can be seen written all over their faces.

And for me, I hope my thanks to my parents is just as evident. If not, Thanks Mom and Dad.

Joke du Jour

2007-02-03T21:48:00.000-05:00

This one courtesy of Danielle. She cracked this one while we were touring the Kennedy Space Centre during our vacacation last month.

Q: Where do rocket ships go to eat?

A: At the lunch pad.

:-)

Cure for the ennui; the mail

2007-02-02T22:51:00.000-05:00

Careful readers may have noticed the lackage in this space recently. Blame a bit of writer's block, add a pinch of too-much-else-to-do, and stir in a cup of nothing much to say.

So, I will blog about the exciting and yet depressing piece of mail I received today. Our annual mortgage statement. It seems we have paid a whopping $5000 off the principal this year. Much more than that off the interest, obviously. We have only just over 21 years before we are mortgage free. Can I get a woot?

In real terms that means:

It will be 2028
Pat and I will be 59
Danielle will be 30 (and a doctor or lawyer, I'm sure)
Iain will be 26 (and be working on his Ph.D in astrophysics)
Did I mention I will be almost 60?

Hmmm, I think those terms are just a little too real for me. Perhaps lackage in this space is really should be the order of the day.

In the immortal words of C3P0, "How rude!"

2007-01-23T19:14:00.000-05:00

Like a bad hostess, I invite you to a delurking party then go into hiding myself. Obviously my rudeness knows no bounds.

A combination of a chaotic week and lack of anything interesting to say has led to an extended absence. But, to mix my metaphors even more than usual, the drought is almost over. I sense an oasis of words on the horizon. Then again, it could all be a mirage. Time will tell.

Cough Cough. Is this thing on?

2007-01-12T23:57:00.000-05:00

Just in time to save me (and you) from a stupid post about something unmentionable, it's National Delurking Week. At the risk of getting no comments and looking like a complete ass, I'm participating this year.

So if you've stopped by, say hi!

One last thing to do . . .

2007-01-10T20:56:00.000-05:00

I once received a joke email which highlighted the difference between men and women. According to the joke, when a man says, "Okay, I'm going to up to bed" he does just that. When a woman says the same thing, on the other hand, she rushes around finishing off a litany of tasks before finally heading off to hit the hay. Granted, this little joke is fraught with stereotypical pitfalls, but I will admit it made me smile.

Why? Because I saw myself in that fictional woman. I fit that behaviour to a 't'. But I long for the ability the man in the story possessed; to just leave it for another day.

After a long day at work, I often said to my exhausted self, "Dana, tonight you will be in bed by 9:30 and asleep by 10pm." But the evening would pass and I would find another thing that had to be done.

I should really fold one more load of laundry. I'll just unload the dishwasher tonight so I won't have to do it tomorrow. Gosh, I should tidy up the kitchen and family room before I head up.

And sometimes these last little tasks are not so noble as all that. Well, I should catch up on my friends' blogs. Or the wondercafe message board. Or try for the 600th time to beat level 257 at Cubis. Hmm, I should reply to a couple more emails. Or watch that episode of Lost I have taped.

So, now back after a nice vacation break, I'm vowing to be more intentional about really letting go of that need to do one last little thing. Tonight I promised myself I will be in bed by 9 pm. But before I head up, I'll just quickly fold this batch of laundry while I watch Little Mosque on the Prairie. And, I really should post to my blog . . .

In the end, there really is no place like home

2007-01-05T21:22:00.000-05:00

We had a wonderful time in Florida and at Disney World . . . .

The whole family

We experienced the wonder of Princess Magic

(although we've always seen the princess inside.)

The delight . . .

. . . and terror of meeting a legend,

The exhaustion of jam-packed days,

The marvel of swimming outdoors on December 30th,

The boredom of waiting,

And the joy that comes with having big fun.

We also experienced the thrill of being where "one giant leap for mankind" began it's world-changing voyage.

Seeing where the Space Shuttles were built . . .

. . . and launched.

But oh, what contentment upon our arrival back home to sleep in our very own beds

to relive our memories in dreams.

Of Gingerbread and Christmas

2006-12-23T20:20:00.000-05:00

For as long as I can remember, my mother baked at the holidays. For us, Christmastime meant the gently wafting aromas of fruit cake lovingly wrapped in sherry-soaked cheesecloth , French-Canadian tourtiere, gingerbread for eating and decorating, shortbread, and rolled sugar cookies. These scents evoke the wonder and excitement that was the Christmases of my childhood.

For others of different traditions, I can only speculate on the feasts that are created for Ramadan, Diwali, Chanukah, Yule, and Kwanzaa. But I am certain of one thing. When the children became adults, left home and created their own home and family, they too carried on the tradition of cooking and baking for the holidays.

All of those offspring except me.

I set out on my own sixteen years ago. Every year since then I've relied on others for Christmas baking. My mom. My sister-in-law. Loblaws. Never has my home been filled with the smell of ginger snaps, shortbread, and sugar cookies shaped like Christmas trees. This year I finally wondered why. Have I just felt too young and unprepared to start the tradition? I'm younger in my own mind than in reality obviously, which I think is at least a part of it. Because when it hit me that I am almost 40, that this Christmas is the second last I will celebrate in my 30's, I knew I had to grow up.

This awareness came relatively late in the season. Like Tuesday. But since then, I've been baking like a fiend. As I'm writing this, the smell of gingerbread fills my house, reminding me of Christmases past and evoking yet again my own sense of wonder at this season. So I bring the tradition forward in joyous recognition that my children are finally experiencing this gift of Christmas too.

Getting ready for Christmas circa 1978. I think in this picture, my mom is my age now. Which is a thought freakier than the 1970's decor.

Charmed, I'm Sure

2006-12-20T22:27:00.000-05:00

Pat and I first began to date near the end of our final year of University. The day we graduated, he met not only my parents, but my grandparents, briefly before the ceremony then later for a much more intensive ~~inquisition~~ introduction over dinner. After that first brief meeting, my grandparents weren't quite sure what to make of this guy in an earring, streaked hair, black biker boots, dirty leather jacket over a blue Levi's jean jacket. "Hmm," my grandmother asked, "I don't know if he's quite right for our Dana."

Nevertheless, by dessert Pat and charmed everyone, including my grandparents. "What a lovely boy. Perfect for our Dana," my grandmother exclaimed.

Sixteen years later and I'm seeing quite clearly who inherited this charm. My sweet talking, smooth operating Iain. He seems to know just what to say and when to say it. A few days ago, he found our wedding pictures. He leafed through them, always coming back to the first picture. Finally, he brought it over to me saying wistfully, "You look so pretty in this picture mommy. Daddy looks so handsome."

I gave him a hug and a kiss atop his head, knowing that these kindnesses must be reinforced. I know in the future he'll have harsher critics, such as an older sibling who even now finds his compliments annoying.

I also know that he is his father's son. I have no doubt he'll win them over.

After the Time Change, Like Sunflowers

2006-12-18T20:41:00.000-05:00

In the fall as the days grow shorter, the mornings are dark. Up before the sunrise, taking the train within a cocoon of quiet slumber. Our faces, when we look out the window, reflected back at us through the black dawn. The wonders beyond the glass of the window, going unseen, going unsung, until we no longer acknowledge the world outside the train.

As the train rocks us singing its clackity lullaby, we sleep, we read, we do Sudoku puzzles and crosswords, disdaining the non-view. There is nothing to see.

Then, the end of daylight savings time. In darkness we arise in the morning, in darkness we prepare for the day. In darkness still, we board the train, with the first light of dawn an eastern welcome.

We sleep, we read, we do Sudoku until the red-orange-gold sunrise breaking over Lake Ontario calls our attention. Like a shout.

We wake, we stop reading, we put down our pencils, and turn as one like sunflowers to greet this most unexpected view. For a brief instant we join in reverence to acknowledge the world outside our train as the wonders beyond the glass make themselves known, after the time change.

How to win friends and influence people, by Iain

2006-12-15T22:40:00.000-05:00

Iain's always been a bit of a charmer. More on that another time. But I've noticed in the last little while he's been practicing the fine art of persuasion. Last weekend was a case in point. Danielle's friend Kristen was over and, inevitably, Iain was feeling left out.

After being repeatedly told by his big sister to go away, Iain tried a different tack. Knocking on Danielle's bedroom door, he asked to speak to Kristen. Kristen, an only child, has always liked Iain and put up with him with a tolerant grace.

"Yes Iain?" Kristen asked, politely.

"You're going to be playing 'castle' later right?" Kristen nodded. "Well, you'll need a prince. I will be your prince."

Six months ago Iain would have asked them to play castle and begged them to let him be their prince.

"Great idea Iain," Kristen said.

Dale Carnegie would be so proud.

I may not be a grammar bitch, but I know the difference between who's and whose

2006-12-14T22:15:00.000-05:00

Your Language Arts Grade: 100%

Way to go! You know not to trust the MS Grammar Check and you know "no" from "know." Now, go forth and spread the good word (or at least, the proper use of apostrophes).

Are You Gooder at Grammar?
Make a Quiz

As seen at Suzanne's.

As usual, Danielle has my number and it's not pretty

2006-12-13T20:45:00.000-05:00

A couple days ago I asked Danielle to clean up some of her stuff from the family room. I explained that I wanted to tidy up the house a bit. Her response?

"But mom, the cleaning lady isn't even coming tomorrow!"

Old board games never die, they just resurrect for a new generation

2006-12-09T23:00:00.000-05:00

Tonight was the night of my office Christmas Party, or Annual Event. With a culturally diverse staff of over 200, representing at least 10 different religions, it is most definitely a holiday annual event.

Semi-formal, held in a swank hotel, the food, drink, dancing and socializing are above-par. Pat and I usually go every year and have a fabulous time. For tonight, we had corralled the in-laws to look after Iain and Danielle, I had my party dress ready, and we were set. But fate had other plans. Iain had a bit of a problem.

At the risk of imparting too much information, Iain has battled with constipation on and off since he was a toddler, probably from the time he weaned. The last year however has been pretty good with no episodes to speak of. Which would explain how we let our guard down and likely did not feed him enough bran, oatmeal --mixed with wheat bran, and vegetable juice. We got complacent. And it smacked us all in the ass today. I say "all" because everyone gets affected. My time and Pat's time is spent taking Iain to the bathroom because he wants to try again. Then holding him when he's crying because it hurts. Danielle is left out and feels neglected.

All day Iain moved from the bathroom (to try yet again) to the couch to hold on to his blanket and lion. When he wasn't crying, he was sad and moping. Around 3pm, Pat and I realized it would not be fair to our family or his parents to leave them with this problem as we went off to party.

We had pancakes fortified with tons of wheat bran for dinner, rather than the fillet Mignon or lovely salmon we were anticipating. Iain ate somberly, sadly, several times leaving the table to try again, always to exclaim that it'll never come out and he has to "take a break."

Then later, around the time Pat and I would have been sitting down to dinner, it happened. Iain called me to the bathroom and I thought he was going to say again that he needed to take a break. Instead, with the biggest grin he yelled, "I'm do-one". In the toilet was the biggest dump I'd ever seen. But the most wonderful sight I'd seen all day. Gross but true.

Just like that, Iain was back to normal. A happy joyful little boy, bouncing from one thing to the next. The next thing was Monopoly, which Danielle had pulled out of the basement just a week ago. Iain was the banker and Pat, Danielle, and I had a rousing game, the first time we've played an adult board game as a family. Properties were bought, mortgaged, traded, built upon. Fortunes were won and lost. At one point I saw that Pat, always a risk-taker, had the most properties and three dollars to his name. Which probably tells you a lot about how we live. We drank coffee, the kids drank juice, and we all ate popcorn. In short, we had a wonderful time together. Later, after the kids went to bed, I treated myself to a chocolate martini, in lieu of the drink I would have had tonight at the Park Hyatt.

So perhaps tonight was not the Annual Event we were anticipating. But certainly a Family Event. And one I vow will occur more than annually.

Politics: From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

2006-12-07T22:15:00.001-05:00

Jack Layton puts his ass on the line. Or big gas on the line. Or something.

2006-12-07T21:58:00.002-05:00

And the same-sex (equal) marriage issue in Canada is finally put to bed. So to speak. Amen and hurray.

Five is good

2006-12-02T09:00:00.000-05:00

Five is the number of fingers on your hand, reaching out to grab mine.
Five is the five more bites of your food you must eat before you're done.
Five is how many times you want me to swing you around and hug you tight.
Five is how many kisses and hugs you want at bed time.
Five is the number of extra minutes you want before it's time for sleep.
Five is the count before you need to rush up to bed, or get out of the tub, or brush your teeth.
Five times five hundred is the number of times in a day I am thankful for you.

Five is the number of years since I birthed you into this world in a whoosh of water and joy.
Five years since that moment you arrived like a surprise in the water of the jacuzzi tub, all small, and quiet, the shock of birth taking a few minutes to settle in.
Five years since I heard from the midwife, "Don't worry, he just doesn't know he's been born yet!" and then the longest five heartbeats ever until your first breath and cry.

Five is the number of years of cuddles, tears, laughter, smiles and sometimes pain, sadness, and hurt. Five years of extraordinary love. Five years of extraordinary joy.

Five is your age.

Happy 5th birthday my Iain.

Evidence that my kids believe I'm a mommybot

2006-11-27T20:43:00.000-05:00

Scene: It's 7:50 pm at Household Angst. The kids have had a shower and are finishing last minute revelries preparatory to heading up to bed.

Me: Come on kids, it's that time.

Danielle and Iain: Okay, we're going, we're going

(More revelries ensue.)

Me: Okay, I'm starting to count. Five, four, . . . .

Danielle and Iain: (Squeal)

(Much rushing about.)

Iain: (Trying to find his blanket and lion) No wait mommy. No wait. PAUSE mommy! PAUSE counting.

Me: . . . (I stop)

Iain: (Finds what he's looking for) Okay, start.

Me: .....?!

And for my next trick, I will fast forward 90 minutes to when they are finally asleep.

I don't even know what to title this post

2006-11-27T12:52:00.000-05:00

So yesterday I couldn't take it anymore and finally gave in to Blogger's insistence that I switch to Blogger-beta. New! Improved! Features! it promised.

Of course, could my old blog skin deal with these New! Improved! Features! ? In a word, no. Well, possibly it can, but I just ran out of time and energy to explore all the New! Improved! Features! and gave up. And chose this particular generic template, aware that nothing says "angst" more than a lighthouse and clouds.

So, for the next several days, watch this space, whilst I experiment and -- through trial and much error -- learn HTML and CSS. Perhaps I can re-arrange things; perhaps it won't suck. If nothing else this little endeavour will surely provide some grist for the topic mill.

Sunrise. Grand Bend, Ontario

2006-11-26T18:46:00.000-05:00

Public Service Announcement

2006-11-21T17:47:00.000-05:00

At my workplace, there's a sign in the bathrooms that says, "Please make sure the toilet flushes clean before you leave." (Emphasis not mine.)

What's really gross is the fact that this sign is needed.

(I know, I'm gone for almost two weeks and all I've got is a post about poo. More substantive material coming, that's a promise. And a threat.)

Overheard

2006-11-08T22:09:00.000-05:00

Years and years ago when my brother and I were just kids, my parents offered us some advice that I will never forget. Jeff and I were probably involved in one of our interminable fights or silly arguments. My mom told us that no matter how angry we got with each other, it was important to remain friends and to nurture that friendship.

"When your father and I are gone," my mom went on, "who will remind you of all the fun and crazy things we did as a family, if not each other?" My mom was absolutely right and we took her advice to heart. I think we share a friendship forged by that wisdom and the need to be each other's best friend those many times we moved to a new city and knew no one. While I hope my parents are around for many years to come, Jeff and I as adults enjoy reminiscing about our many family adventures.

I've found myself thinking of this advice more lately as I watch Danielle and Iain's relationship develop and evolve. It's increasingly become a "come here, no -- go away" type of friendship. One minute, BFF, the next, seemingly endless bickering. While it still chips away a piece of my heart to watch Danielle rebuff Iain, my heart is now somewhat bolstered to see Iain's new ability to deal self-confidently with rejection. My feelings about Danielle are similar. I'm proud of her ability to find peace in playing alone, but it is tinged with hurt when Iain seeks out her vulnerabilities and needles her with them. Much to her credit, when Iain does bug her, Danielle usually handles it maturely. But there appears to be more needling than tenderness these days.

Their generosities of the heart are there, but sometimes they must be sought, like precious stones. Then the pearl of that moment must be polished and kept safe for those times when the quarrelling begins again, if only remind them both of the love they share.

Sometimes these moments are overheard, in the quiet of the night:

For the past several months, on weekends, Iain and Danielle have been having “sleepovers” in Iain’s room. As long as the talking, colouring, reading, and drawing don’t go on too long, we don’t mind too much. They seem to get a kick out of it, and to tell you the truth, so do Pat and I. It is one of those spaces of time when they genuinely enjoy each other's company. When I checked in on them last Friday night, Danielle was fast asleep and Iain not quite there. As I crept away I heard Iain sigh and say softly, “Danielle, you are my best-est friend in the whole world.”

I left Iain's room with a lump in my throat and hope in my heart for their future as friends. Perhaps not always "best-est" friends, but siblings that will recall the fun we had as a family in Hilton Head last summer. Who will remember those gems that are the memories of our family at our best. Just as Jeff and I remind each other, every so often, about grocery shopping with Dad when we were teenagers. How Dad, with his crazy antics, made us want to both laugh and pretend we didn't know him. How we once got my mom jumping around the kitchen thinking she had some insect in her hair because of our carefully aimed whirly thing. Of the crazy skits we did for each other on our family vacation at Manitoba's Hecla Island

These are the precious memories Jeff and I will always be able to share. Because, dear brother, in many ways, you are still one of my best-est friends in the whole world.

I have a conscience and her name is Danielle

2006-11-07T11:23:00.000-05:00

This morning Danielle confronted me with, "You're going to do the laundry soon, right mommy? I've almost run out of underwear."

How bad is it around here when my 9 year old is reminding of these things?

The Obligatory Halloween Photo

2006-11-02T21:57:00.000-05:00

The outcome: the kids had a great time. The parents? Well, I just spent 10 minutes searching through my kids' candy for one of those ever elusive Crunchie bars. No, I'm not proud of myself.

Redeemed

2006-10-31T22:24:00.000-05:00

This just in. Arrived in the mail today, another set of Danielle's school photo proofs. This after having called the school to get the number of the school photography company and then asking them to pretty please send me another set. I'm ordering the pictures tomorrow. Barring a natural disaster, there is no chance these ones will go astray. No chance.

Down to This

2006-10-28T23:10:00.000-04:00

Can I explain the thrill of anticipation and excitement I felt when I found out this weekend, this very Saturday, we would be turning back the clocks?

Oh, that extra hour of sleep, how I covet thee. Now that I can enjoy it.

A picture is worth a thousand words

2006-10-24T22:34:00.000-04:00

Next time you see that magazine add, that billboard, think of what that image is saying and not saying. Think of what it's telling you about yourself. And then be reassured that it's not based on our reality. It's based on cosmetics and photoshop.

Giving Thanks

2006-10-22T21:45:00.000-04:00

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life, it turns what we have into enough and more.
- Melody Beattie

As usual, I'm several ~~days~~ weeks late with this little list of things that I am thankful for. Thanksgiving 2006 is now a lovely memory of a wonderful family get-together. Yet I have been procrastinating on this post.

Writing the list was easy. The hard part was negating any implication that I somehow deserve my good fortune, my comfortable life, my health, my family's health. There is always a risk that in naming those things for which you are grateful, a sense of entitlement or superiority is conveyed along with it. And yet the truth is, many of us are perhaps only a couple of pay cheques away from poverty, a bad relationship shy of homelessness, or a pandemic away from losing everything. Life is fragile and precarious, a fact we often forget. Viewed from this perspective, the following list is a tangible reminder of life's uncertainty. I can look at these things and be thankful for what I have at this very moment because things may change. Things will likely change.

Melodie Beattie goes on to say that gratitude ". . . makes sense of our past, makes peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow." So in naming these things, this list is now not only a thanksgiving, but has become something even more. It is a call for me to seek out those ways in which I can make a positive difference. A challenge for me to turn my gratitude into peace, health, freedom, and security for those those that live on the outside of these things that I often take for granted.

Today, I have gratitude for my life, my family, my friends. And . . .

I am thankful that I have a husband that respects me and loves me.
I am thankful that my children have their grandparents in their lives.
I am thankful that when I'm hungry, it is temporary and a choice.
I am thankful that the leader of my country isn't a dictator.
I am thankful that I don't have HIV/AIDS.
I am thankful that if I did have HIV, I would have ready access to drugs.
I am thankful that I don't have to choose between food for my family and rent.
I am thankful that in my country, it is not a crime to love someone of another race or religion. Or of the same sex.
I am thankful that my uncle and his partner were able to be legally married in June.
I am thankful that when my children are sick, I don't have to worry about medical bills because our health care is provided through our taxes.
I am thankful that when it rains, the rain doesn't come in my house.
I am thankful my house is not bombed nightly.
I am thankful that when I go to the market, I'm in no danger of a suicide bomber.
I am thankful that when I want clean water, I open the tap.
I am thankful I don't have to stand in line for hours or days for food that will barely feed my family.
I am thankful I have the opportunity to eat a balanced diet.
I am thankful that I have the right to choose.
I am thankful that my gender is no barrier to what I want to do or become.
I am thankful that I have access to health care and medicine.
I am thankful that in the winter when I'm cold, it is only temporary.
I am thankful that I enjoy the freedoms of a democratic country.
I am thankful that I'm not subject to censorship.
I am thankful that my streets are not choked by garbage, smog, chemicals or radiation.

And there is so much more. In the meantime, this little list urges me on. "Yeah so," it tells me, "what are ya gonna do about me? About this?"

"Something," I answer. "Something." And it's a start.

Nine Neuf Neun Nueve Nove تسعة

2006-10-17T23:37:00.000-04:00

Dear Danielle,

It’s hard to believe a whole year has passed since your last birthday. Last year, I wrote that I was beginning to the see the spark of the person you are turning out to be. If that was just a glimpse through a clouded mirror, then this year the mirror is much clearer.

And it is a mirror. We are a great deal alike, you and I. For better or worse, there is much of me in you. I think it helps explain how sometimes it is as if our similarities push against each other, causing friction and hurt feelings. So for those times when our sameness collides and pushes you away, I’m sorry for not doing better and being the mom I should be. I promise I will try to do better.

And yet, I believe our similarities are much more a blessing. It is a map that helps me understand you better, or at least as much as I understand myself. I do understand your shyness and need for privacy, your need to be alone to play sometimes. Your joy in discovering new things, in asking questions. I recognize your excitement about upcoming events, like our trip to see Wicked tonight. Recognize it because it is a part of me as well, it is something we both share. It is perhaps simply the expression of our excitement that differs.

Your personality shines brighter every day, my darling. It's a brightness that continually defies gravity. My wish for you on this birthday is that as you grow into a tween and teen, you never let anyone pull you back down; as someone told us lately, everyone deserves a chance to fly. I am also awestruck by your emerging maturity and watch your first uncertain and tentative steps taking the high road – particularly where your little brother is concerned – with joy. I celebrate this and all of these things about you.

At nine you are old enough to read what I’ve written, now that you can read English almost as well as French. You may still not understand it, but that’s okay. It’ll be here for you when you do, or when you need added assurances that I understand you better than you might think or want to believe. You are the light of my life, my little girl. Happy birthday my sweet 9 year old. I love you.

Come, enter my world

2006-10-16T23:28:00.000-04:00

Pat and I have a light-hearted expression we use any time we travel together a path that the other usually travels alone. “You’re entering my world.” I suspect it was first used on our very first date in April of 1990. After coffee (Second Cup), a movie (Glory), dinner (Ginsberg and Wong), we talked and walked about downtown Toronto as he showed this prairie girl the big city sights. As we walked past his workplace of the summer before, he likely told me, “You’re entering my world.”

Over the years we have said it to each other jokingly and often. For example, I may use it when we travel on a train together that I usually travel alone. Or it may perhaps even be for something as silly as him showing me “his” shortcut to the grocery store.

Tonight, I got to enter his world. Over the last several months, he’s attended alone a few cooking demonstrations, held by a local grocery chain. There was one tonight that we both attended. The demo was by one of Toronto’s top chefs, Anthony Walsh, Executive Chef of Canoe. While we’ve experienced each other’s worlds quite a lot in the last 16 years, I never get tired of it saying it, hearing it said, or experiencing it. Tonight was no exception, not only for the tasty and interesting culinary demonstration, but because I again had a chance to enter his world and understand him just a bit more.

Taking a STAND

2006-10-15T16:17:00.000-04:00

Today, I stood up against extreme poverty and in support of the millennium development goals. Read the pledge we made.

You can stand up too.

Some days I just don't feel cut out to be a mom to a school-aged child

2006-10-13T11:30:00.000-04:00

When Danielle started grade one several years ago, I shouldn't have been surprised about the amount of paper that came home with her. Newsletters, fundraising forms, permission slips, notices, advertising. She was provided with an agenda to keep track of tests and homework and upcoming events. Over the years, I've failed many a time in keeping up with this stuff. But do believe that each year, I improve by increments. I must also commend Pat for taking a strong role in helping us all keep on top of these things. And I will be the first to admit that the school does everything in its power to make it as easy as possible for parents.

It's a form of irony that much of my work during this time, what I actually get paid for, involves ensuring other people are organized. Keeping documents and schedules on track and replying promptly to requests. At home though? Forget it. Perhaps it's burn-out. I do this all day, I tell myself, I just can't stand another minute of it at home. I realize it's a futile and unhelpful rationalization.

However. This September I vowed I would turn over a new leaf. Danielle's agenda would be checked ever day. The contents of her brown envelope, removed and assessed, signed and sealed, every evening.

So far this year, I've missed the deadline for the magazine purchasing fundraiser and I've missed the deadline for submitting money and permission for a year's worth of pizza days. Yes, I missed submitting the pizza day permission slip which has typed boldly across the bottom: "NO LATE SUBMISSIONS WILL BE ACCEPTED." Luckily, we pulled our ass out of the fire that time by having Pat bring in the form and a cheque personally. The principal raised her eyebrows but Danielle's first pizza day was Wednesday. But the final straw, the one that his given me the most heartache and made me feel like a complete failure? Losing her school photo proofs. I suspect in a mad rush of cleaning (possibly before the cleaning lady was due) it got mixed in with the stuff to go in recycling.

So here it is barely the middle of October and let's take stock. How am I doing? Ha. Please excuse me now while I attempt to redeem myself by calling the school photo place and in the process salvage some of my self-respect.

Hopefully this is a reflection on Iain's age rather than on our parenting values

2006-10-11T17:45:00.000-04:00

This should have been posted days ago, but life has a way of intruding when you're busy making other plans.

Me: Iain, what are you thankful for this Thanksgiving?

Iain (4): Video games.

Me: Okay. Danielle, what are you thankful for?

Danielle (8): Everything! (her arms swinging wide to encompass, well, everything.)

I'll rationalize this as an age thing, thank you. Coming soon, what I'm thankful for.

Green Day

2006-09-27T21:17:00.000-04:00

In a world that often seems almost hopeless, there are days when I'm hopeful.

Just like that.

It was sitting on our porch several weeks ago when I arrived home from work. Plastic, three feet high, 1 foot wide, 1 foot deep. Wheels on one end so it can be toted to the road. Green. Very green.

Just like that, our community has instituted green bins for large scale food waste composting. Finally. Other nearby municipalities started this a couple years ago and ours, unfortunately, was slow on the uptake. While we've recycled plastic, paper, tins, cans, for almost 20 years, this part of the business seemed so slow in arriving.

But we've caught up and are all learning what goes into the green bin. All food leftovers. Used wax paper and paper towels. Dairy, meat, old bread. Old leftovers that have been in the fridge far too long. All that, thrown in the green bin.

We have a little bin lined with a fully compostable plastic bag which stays in the house. The bag gets transferred to the big bin out in the garage. Sure, it's smelly and a bit messy. But then, so is landfill.

I know there is much more to do, much more we all have to do to ensure the world's survival. Our personal to do list is full of such steps. But optimism wins the day when our community leaders have the will to make bigger changes and take bigger steps. Just like that, there are reasons for hope.

Danielle says he's annoying, but on occasion, her love for Iain does shine brightly through

2006-09-25T21:31:00.000-04:00

Danielle's 9th birthday is less than a month away. Much of her spare time has been spent thinking about her sleepover, revising her guest list, figuring out what movie to watch with her friends, and what to do if she gets the same gift twice.

The other day, in the midst of yet another conversation about her birthday plans, I mentioned that perhaps we should also include Aiden in the invitations. He could play with Iain for a couple of hours, I reasoned, thinking to myself that it would keep Iain from bothering Danielle and her friends.

But Danielle, bless her, answered, "Yeah! That way Iain won't be lonely."

In which Danielle knows way more about local wildlife than I do

2006-09-21T19:54:00.000-04:00

This summer, I have had the pleasure of Danielle's company while I go running. On her bike, she paces me effortlessly and it's given us a wonderful opportunity to spend time together.

Our running/biking route takes us by conservation lands and a creek. Today, while crossing the creek, I spied a large beautiful exotic-looking bird perched on a beaver dam.

"Wow, Danielle, take a look at that. It's a . . .," I stopped, not sure exactly what I was looking at.

I don't think Danielle even realized I was at a loss and offered "A heron! Cool. And look how well it's camouflaged against the wood of the dam." It was, in fact, a Great Blue Heron.

I said, "Yeah, what a beautiful heron." I thought, God Dana, get it together, you should know this shit. In my defense, I never have seen an actual Great Blue Heron in the wild. Besides, I thought they were rare and endangered. Truly.

I really do have to hand it to Danielle. And she didn't even grow up being subjected to those Hinterland's Who's Who public service announcements from the Canadian Wildlife Service.

Between you and me, it's likely already happened

2006-09-20T22:53:00.000-04:00

Friends of ours, Hoi and Carolyn, are leaving in a few days for a six month trip around the world. They'll visit Hawaii, Nepal, Thailand (if the country stabilizes following the recent coup), Hong Kong, and other places strange and interesting.

Along with another friend, Mike, we bid them farewell tonight at a favourite Chinese restaurant. Pat, Hoi and Mike worked together last year at the same school. Chinese, with Caucasian wives, they formed solid friendships early. We now all enjoy each other's company.

So tonight our conversation turned, as it inevitably does, to Chinese culture and we all shared laughter and stories of parents and parents-in-law, misunderstandings, and folklore.

Part way through one of Hoi's many entertaining stories about immigrating to Canada as a child, Iain piped up, "I'm half Chinese." I was a bit surprised because, well, the fact that Pat is Chinese and I'm Caucasian simply does not come up that often in our household or elsewhere.

We all agreed with Iain that he was half Chinese. Mike then asked, "Am I Chinese?" Iain agreed that he was. Pat and Hoi both asked Iain the same question and he responded that yes, indeed, they were Chinese.

It was my turn. "Am I Chinese?" I asked.

He replied, "No, you're not." Then patting my back, "But don't worry mommy, you'll be half Chinese soon."

No doubt.

Comfort Food

2006-09-16T00:09:00.000-04:00

What's required today is a big bowl of bananas in milk. It's rainy and dull. In a word, blah. I too feel blah. Perhaps it's time for a great-grandmother type post. Or, alternatively, a post to bring memories that console and soothe, that offer nostalgia and finally, contentment.

Like the memory of my grandfather, making oatmeal porridge in an ancient battered aluminum pot, morning after morning at the crack of dawn. My cousin once said she remembers those mornings, that porridge, that pot.

Like the memory of my father's macaroni and hamburger (a recipe from his father); of my mother's scalloped potatoes or chicken a la king. Bland, but rib-sticking, a weight in my stomach, grounding me. And memories of me, making pancakes for the kids. Or eggs and hash browns on a cold dark winter evening. Or pot roast for my family. On a day like today, it is the weight of that comfort food that lifts me, feather light, up and out of this funk.

Iain: may you always see the the glass half full, the silver lining, the good in everything

2006-09-11T19:57:00.000-04:00

I have Iain's slim hips to thank for providing me with the following memory. And no mistake, I am very thankful for the small moments like these that create smiles, bring joy, and make me aware of how fortunate we are.

I mentioned to Pat in passing that Iain looked like a bit like a "homey" with his blue pants slipping down his hips showing off his Monsters Inc underwear.

Overhearing me, Iain asked, "What's does homey mean? Happy?"

Yes, there are just some moments in life you must preserve, some memories you must stamp in indelible ink in your heart. Some insights you must celebrate somewhere and share with someone. Today, somewhere is here. And someone is you, whoever you are.

I just knew Black Ops was secretly training my son

2006-09-10T15:15:00.000-04:00

At the the playground a couple weeks ago, Iain, exuberant, ran over to the climber.

"Look mommy, watch me climb this mountain!"

I watched, my heart in my throat, ready to leap across the wood chips and catch him if he tumbled. He climbed it smoothly, gracefully. And then proceeded to climb another more difficult part of the structure. My little boy, once so awkward, who would trip over a blade of grass, was climbing precisely, easily, elegantly. No safety net needed.

Then, after this brief practice run, he ran over to the most difficult part of the climber. The trickiest and tallest. He glanced over me on the nearby bench and perhaps sensing my uneasiness at this next attempt, yelled over to me, "Don't worry mommy. I can do this one, I've been trained for this one."

This feather comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions

2006-09-05T21:28:00.000-04:00

Today, as I have done for the past four years on the day after Labour Day, I took Danielle to school. In all honesty, I assumed this year she wouldn't need or in fact want me there. But she surprised me last week by asking if I could take her. I was secretly pleased as I knew it would probably be the last time.

This summer she's grown up in too many ways to count. Her vocabulary is now peppered with that pre-teen slang, she's paying more attention to clothing styles, and she's discarded the Treehouse TV of her childhood and now will watch the pre-teen programs on Teletoon. She is slowly slowly losing a little bit of that wonderful naivete that is not quite innocence.

As we walked into the schoolyard, I could tell that within Danielle, nervousness at what the new year would bring warred with excitement at seeing her new friends. I too felt that nervousness. Tellingly, it was not worry about the increased schoolwork or the new math she will be expected learn. For me, the anxiety that surfaced today was the knowledge that socially, grade 4 seems to be on the cusp of change. It is often the last year of carefree friendships before girls can get mean to each other, as I know from experience. Perhaps this is just my fatalism and things have changed since I was in grade 5, but I find that unlikely.

So as we walked together in the schoolyard towards her friends and the upcoming year, I took her hand in mine, wanting to not only hold onto her but onto this moment of her childhood and let time briefly stand still. But there is never enough time when you want to hurry up and stay. So, one final squeeze and she's gone, tearing across the yard joyfully towards her friends, wrapping them in a hug. And me, trusting she has the skills to navigate the joys and, yes, the sometimes treacherous path of the friendships ahead of her, I let her go.

Ahem. Just thought I'd try this on for size.

2006-09-03T00:05:00.000-04:00

Like my new fall togs? Thanks to Miss Zoot's free designs, I too can afford a new blog skin. Miss Zoot, you rock!

Still within the food theme

2006-09-02T16:37:00.000-04:00

Pat is out golfing this afternoon. Yes, we are getting the remnants of Ernesto, meaning an off and on annoying drizzle of rain, wind, and lower than normal temperatures. But no thunder and no lightening. Therefore Pat is still playing. Which will tell you much about him and his ~~freakish~~ lovable obsession with golf.

I called him up to see if he had any thoughts on dinner as I didn't want to take out chicken, for example, if he was feeling the need to cook up something unique and delicious. Really expecting to hear that he had no need to cook up something at all. Expecting to hear, really, that perhaps I (for a change) should be feeling the need to cook up something unique and delicious.

Much to my delight, he told me he wanted to try out his Jambalaya recipe. Score! Because Jambalaya sounds particularly good on a yucky rainy Saturday. And nothing to do with me not cooking tonight. Really.

A post about food

2006-08-31T19:17:00.000-04:00

Pat has taken a sudden interest in all things culinary.

Recently, he's gone to two workshops hosted by our local grocery conglomerate and has learned various tips and tricks of the masters. He's reading recipes and checking out food reviews.

Mmm, and the results . . . We've been treated here to the delicious results of his labours. Home-made salsa. Saffron rice. Szechuan steak and peppers. Pan-fried trout with a cornmeal crust. East coast clam chowder. All yum.

But the very best part is that by some wondrous coincidence, surely orchestrated by Dionysus himself, Pat's brother Ray is also going through a phase of culinary passion. And I'm happy to tell you, the challenge to outdo each other has begun.

A couple weekends ago, Ray and his wife Jo, along with Pat's parents, were over at our place. As the trash talk flied between them (e.g. Do you even know what shallots are??), Ray and Pat cooked up a savoury storm. This my friends, it the best possible type of sibling rivalry.

Allez Cuisine.

Pardon my made up Latin but . . . . Oh Memento Fallibilis

2006-08-23T21:07:00.000-04:00

A few of my friends recently decided to dust off our copies of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale and read it together.

The thought filled me with excitement when the idea was first suggested. I mentioned nostalgically to the group that although I've read it again since, my first introduction to this work was when I was fourteen. I very clearly remember that summer, being immersed in Atwood's Gilead, as our family took a road trip over the hot prairies, south to North Dakota, then South Dakota. Through Wyoming and Montana, all the while reading about a terrifying dystopic America, where the religious right utterly held sway.

So, I went on a search of our house to see if I could find a copy of the book kicking around somewhere, as I remembered seeing it recently on one of our bookcases. When I eventually found it, imagine my surprise when I opened it up to the title page and discovered it was published in 1985. I checked Wikipedia. Indeed 1985. But in 1985 I was 16 or 17. That road trip with my family took place in 1982.

Wha? What book did I read on the Wyoming road trip? When did I read The Handmaid's Tale? Hmm, I have a mystery to solve.

Evidently, my memory is not so clear. But please don't tell Pat or he'll never again believe me when I say, "But I did tell you that I was going to a book study next Tuesday and you couldn't possibly book a golf game then."

For too many reasons to list, as Marcy Lewis says in Paul Danziger's The Cat Ate My Gymnsuit , I. Just. Want. To. Barf. On. His. Head.

2006-08-23T20:59:00.000-04:00

Well, maybe I can list the reasons:

This
and this
and this
and this
and this
and this

I don't often stray into politics here but I've reached my limit today. Ugh.

Now on to your regularly scheduled blog.

Garden in the City

2006-08-16T21:24:00.000-04:00

I don’t often have the opportunity at work to take lunch. When I do, it’s usually a rushed salad, sitting at my desk, or few stolen minutes in the staff room reading the paper.

But a few days ago, I took the time. Steps away from work, there is a garden carved out of the buildings and noise and bustle of a crowded city of two million. Leaf Garden, designed by Barbara Steinman, can be found between Yonge and Bay, South of Wellesley. It is public art, functional art at it’s best.

It is a small space of lawn, several varieties of tall decorative grasses, benches, and bisecting all, a path which leads to several fountain jets which spray up at unexpected intervals. It is a delightful garden of surprise and wonder.

Indeed, surprise seems to be its theme. It catches you unawares, this quiet oasis, existing in the heart of a noisy city. A combination of the unexpected -- the water splashing you as the wind changes direction -- and sublime -- the refreshed, relaxed, wonderment of the beauty surrounding you as you sit amongst its quiet acceptance.

Let me tell you a little bit about my lunch time there the other day. I was relatively alone after finding a shady spot, just out of reach of the spray. I read, listened to the quiet, drank my diet coke and shivered every once in a while when the cold water from the fountain happened to shower me as a result of the wind. The sky that day was a perfect pastel blue so rarely found in a large city usually choked by the haze of pollution and smog. Stratus and cumulus clouds vied for my attention but it was that striking pastel which ultimately caught it.

I stayed there until the last possible minute of my allotted time; I did not want to even move far enough to get out of the mist which settled every now and then on me and my book. The result was damp, slightly damaged pages. Even knowing the sin of this I stayed on, soaking up every last drop of comfort and peace.

Because that day . . . . Well that day, the true sin would have been to move from that brilliant spot in the Leaf Garden.

You wouldn't know it from my sweet personality, but I can swear like a sailor when needed

2006-08-14T21:24:00.000-04:00

Okay, so maybe I actually do have an update.

Last Friday we took the whole family to Canada's Wonderland. We went with friends of ours who have kids about the same age as Danielle and Iain, and it was well worth the millions of dollars spent.

While Danielle was somewhat disappointed she didn't make the height check for some of the more thrilling rides, I think she was grateful after she had her first taste of a "real" kid/mid-sized roller coaster (Ghoster Coaster -- don't ask). Iain was a daredevil and would have gone on anything had he been tall enough.

Later in the day when the crowds had died down Pat, Kim, her son C (who, by the way, is younger than Danielle but tall enough for all the adult rides), and I* went on the Vortex. I can't adequately describe it so I will rely on the cheesy description found on the CW website:
On Vortex, riders will enjoy the thrills of Canada's first suspended roller coaster. This steel coaster plunges over Wonder Mountain, reaching speeds of 90km/h. Vortex's
invisible track drives riders through unrelenting turns, swooping, diving and
plunging over a scenic waterscape.
Believe me when I say it was the most terrifying two minutes of my life so far. Except for maybe being in that tornado when I was 10. Unlike the tornado, however, it's two minutes I'd happily pay for again! And again!

Unfortunately, Kim and C were in the seats immediately in front of me and Pat*. Overheard after we disembarked and wobbly made our way back to Andy and the kids:

C: Wow mom, Danielle and Iain's mom sure knows a lot of bad words.

*Rosemary, if you're reading this, did I use the rule correctly?

I've run out of excuses

2006-08-14T20:50:00.000-04:00

I'm between books. Danielle has no soccer game tonight. Summer tv hiatus continues. I've read and reread my friends' blogs. I've perused all the online newspapers I could stand without sinking into depression. Iain is done his swimming lessons. I don't have any volunteer work to do (although I will continue to procrastinate on the one volunteer thingy I should be doing.)

I guess I have to update this blog. Too bad it's such a lame update.

We eat ham and jam and . . . .

2006-07-26T21:42:00.000-04:00

On Friday we saw the musical Spamalot. Billed as being lovingly ripped off from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Pat and I had been awaiting July 21st with thrilled anticipation.

The play was fantastic, particularly Act III. Sorry Act II. (My apologies for the inside joke.)

But for me, one of the very best moments came at the intermission. The Canon theatre is, like most theatrical venues, sorrily lacking in washrooms. As soon as house lights came up, having earlier cannily spied an almost hidden washroom just off the nosebleed section where we were sitting, I sped down the section stairs and around the corner. I was milliseconds behind another woman with same thing on her mind, obviously. As we rushed into the small washroom, we looked around in wonder, turned to each other, yelled, "We're the first ones here!!!" Score, baby!

How to explain that brief connection of shared fun with a perfect stranger? Perhaps it was the joy of knowing we wouldn't have to wait to pee. Maybe it was the camaraderie brought out by the humour of Monty Python. Or, most likely, we were just being silly. But then, as King Arthur said, Camelot is a very silly place.

Apparently, Size Does Matter

2006-07-26T20:51:00.000-04:00

As if you need another example of the fact that men are from Mars and women are yada yada yada, etc.

Yesterday, while looking at mine and Pat's identical iPod Nanos, Danielle pipes up, "How do you know which one is yours and which is Daddy's?"

"Well, mine has better songs on it." This earns a smirk from Pat.

Danielle is fairly scrutinizing them now, puzzled because really, its impossible to tell what songs are on each iPod at the moment. They are turned off, their screens dark. Pat, of course, has the answer.

"Just flip it over. See, here on the back this one says 1GB and the other says 4GB."

Yeah okay, it figures.

But the irony? Guess whose is the 4GB?

Perhaps a clue that we've been a little excessive in stressing the healthful food choices

2006-07-03T13:27:00.000-04:00

The kids are playing restaurant, using blocks as food.

Iain: Here Mommy, here's your sandwich.

Me: Thanks Iain, it looks yummy. What kind of sandwich is it?

Iain: (very proudly) A protein sandwich!

Just a little bit of patriotism

2006-07-01T11:40:00.000-04:00

Happy Canada Day!

O Canada!

O Canada! Terre de nos aïeux,
Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux!

Car ton bras sait porter l'épée,
Il sait porter la croix!

Ton histoire est une épopée
Des plus brillants exploits.

Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.

-Sir Adolphe-Basile Routhier

O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!

From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

- Robert Stanley Weir

Genetics on a Snowy Hill

2006-06-21T22:33:00.000-04:00

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Look at these two pictures; Danielle on the left, me on the right. There is a story not told, hidden truths, and deeper meanings here. These pictures do not tell the whole story; there is so much more. This is a story which can only be told by words.

Early on in our relationship, when Pat and I began to get serious, it had occurred to me that any children Pat and I would have would be a wondrous mix of both of our cultures. I looked forward to meeting these future children. When I happened across mixed Chinese/Caucasian children, I watched them out of the corner of my eye, wondering if our kids, my kids, would look similar.

When I was pregnant with Danielle, a concern began to seep in. Would my child's features be so overwhelmed by Pat's background that mine would be lost, washed out, completely unrecognizable? Cognitively, I knew this was a ridiculous worry; at the least, a conceit on my part. At the worst, perhaps even offensive.

Nevertheless, I couldn't let go of the question, Would any of me be visible?

Danielle, when she was born, clearly took on Pat's features. She looked completely Chinese. But she was beautiful to me and she was my child and the bond between us became strong. My earlier fears slipped away until I thought them silly and strange. I loved her. As she grew, what she didn't take after me in looks (a blessing), she did in personality (not such a blessing); sensitive, somewhat high strung, a worrier.

Last Christmas, Danielle spent hours tobogganing at my parents and at a friend's cottage. When there wasn't someone who'd toboggan with her, she'd go out by herself. Up the hill then whoosh, down the steep snow packed driveway, always making sure to go flying over the bump, laughing and screaming in joy.

I told a friend this story recently and her response surprised me. "Wow, Dana, that's so you. You'd totally do that. Isn't it amazing how much our children take after us?" She's right of course. That was me, all of me, at Danielle's age.

It's me now. Look again at the picture.

Load Bearing Wall

2006-05-26T22:20:00.000-04:00

I’ve always liked the term “load bearing wall.” Suggesting permanency, structure, stability, it seems to reflect the idea that no matter what the world throws at it, floods, wind, rain, board meetings, swimming lessons, soccer refereeing, book studies, doctor’s appointments; it’ll remain steadfast in its support.

The world has been throwing quite a bit lately at this household. Which perhaps explains why I’ve been a little lax in updating this blog. When broken down into their individual components, the activities don’t appear to add up to a more than usual load. There isn’t one thing I can point to and say -- to mix my metaphors -- yes, this is the straw that’s breaking the wall.

Even during free evenings, feeling so burnt-out from work, I’ve felt not at all like writing much of anything. The blank whiteness of the page seems more intimidating than usual.

Life isn’t static; I’ve recently begun a contract position within my organization which will cover a co-worker’s year of maternity leave. While the pace is less hectic, the work is challenging, the change inviting. I feel, in a word, refreshed. Still, it wasn’t this change that sparked my need to struggle today to get the words out onto the blank page.

They say art comes out of pain, poetry out of sorrow. Today I grieve. In my family, a relationship has been wounded, two who became one became two yet again. It is not my story to tell, so I feel I must remain somewhat obscure. In my heartache for this situation, I don’t know quite what my reaction should be. Shock, of course. Sadness, most definitely. Anger, perhaps, but not yet. I intend however to be here, when and if I am needed, in support and not in judgment. A load bearing wall. We are family after all.

Glass Half Full

2006-05-15T22:22:00.000-04:00

It must be optimism that fuels Pat's approach to dishwasher loading. The confidence that all will be well; that the microwaved egg will be washed clean from the glass bowl, even with no prior scrubbing by hand. That a simple cycle through the dishwasher, with no help from us inadequate humans, will render the egg-encrusted spatula shining, spotless, perfect.

Don't get me wrong. I love a man who'll load and unload the dishwasher. I'm not even close to complaining. Not even close. But labelling Pat's method "optimistic" and not something less charitable? Maybe I'm the one who is sees the glass half full.

Iron Chef

2006-05-02T21:25:00.000-04:00

The best meal I ever had was at Susur. Pat and I celebrated his birthday there last June. Of the two of us, Pat was actually the one who was looking more forward to the meal. But I left the restaurant more enamoured of it all than Pat.

Pat and I weren't always food geeks. But over the past several of years, a couple times a year, we try and sample the best of Toronto restaurants. The scene has grown on us.

But this is all a build up to say that that on Iron Chef America tomorrow night, "Iron Chef" Bobby Flay is going head to head with none other than Toronto's own Susur Lee! I cannot adequately convey my excitement.

Pat and I will both be watching.

Smooth

2006-04-20T17:54:00.000-04:00

Several months ago, we realized Iain’s stutter – “disfluency” in the parlance of the professionals – was not improving and in fact, seemed to be getting worse. The speech pathologist told us that in 50% of all cases, stuttering disappears on its own. Unfortunately, by the time it becomes clear that the stutter hasn’t cleared up, it’s that much harder to correct. We were faced with a choice. Hope that we were on the lucky side of the 50% or actively try and eradicate Iain’s disfluency. We chose to intervene.

After trying various low-key strategies to minimal results, the speech pathologist suggested we try something called the Lidcombe Program. Developed by researchers in Australia, it requires that parents provide feedback to their child about his or her speech, during certain times of the day. By following this method, we comment on Iain’s speech when he is being fluent, or “smooth.” In our house, every now and then you may hear me say, “Iain, that was really smooth. Good job.” Or, “Iain, was that smooth or bumpy?” Iain will grin, responding, “Smooooooth, Mommy.”

At least once a day, he and I play together for 10 minutes and actively “practice his smooth talking.” The Program stipulates that the feedback on his speech should be overwhelmingly positive. So 8 out of 10 times, we comment when he’s being smooth. Two out of 10 times, we may let him know he’s being bumpy (i.e. disfluent). If he’s bumpy more than that, we say nothing. We’ve had our ups and downs but from where I sit, Iain’s speech seems to be slowly improving. But more than that, I've been handed an opportunity to interact with my son each day, quietly, one-on-one, with intention.

One of the activities suggested by the speech pathologist is to ask Iain to relay a sequence of events. One evening I asked him about his plans after finishing our practice. “First, I’m going to get my pyjamas on, then brush my teeth . . .” He stopped, grinned at me and began again. “No, wait. First I’m going to give mommy a big hug. Then I’m going to get my pyjamas on . . .”

Yep Iain’s speech may be bumpy, but he’s certainly becoming a smooth talker.

Is it worth it? Hell yes.

2006-04-04T18:38:00.000-04:00

Today is Tuesday which means that tomorrow (!) the cleaning lady is coming for her bi-monthly visit. Which means that tonight I will spend about an hour or more in frantic activity tidying up. Getting the kids to tidy up. Getting Pat to tidy up. For the cleaning lady.

But is it - the activity, the cost, the last minute panic - all worth it? Worth it to come home to a house that seems to sparkle? To come home to a house smelling of Mr. Clean and Lysol and knowing that my role in all of this was just simply "tidying up"?

Worth it? No doubt in my mind.