Chicken Pox and The Art of War

Oh for the love of Pete. So this morning I thought Henry had a couple of pimples on his face. Most would agree this is rather unusual for a five year old. This evening during bath time upon further inspection – you guessed it – chicken pox! Rats. He has about thirty lesions on his trunk and on his legs and a new one on his forehead. Chloe also has two on her face and four on her tummy. Yay! Good times.

They were both vaccinated so they will only get it mildly according to our pediatrician. Henry was slighted devastated as they have a P.D. day on Friday and he was planning on having a huge playdate at our house with Christmas crafts etc. He kept on with the mantra: I hope they get chicken pox, I hope they get chicken pox. Nice eh? Good news I just discovered that his two good friends have already had the chicken pox so they are still coming. Woo – yet another crisis narrowly avoided. Unfortunately my children have yet again screwed me over for a nice Christmas picture for our Christmas cards because they are spotty. I give up.

On a totally unrelated matter I have decided to come back in my next life as a French Canadian woman from Montreal. I kid you not, these women are as chic as it gets and are total forces of nature. They get what they want by sheer will and cojones of steel.

I have been in high level, Middle East type of negotiations with a woman at a very high end Montreal restaurant. As I mentioned before we are having our board meeting there and I am arranging a number of social events besides the whole meeting because I am the ONLY staff. We are having a 5 course meal for eleven people so we were hammering out menu details. This seems like a simple thing doesn’t it? Well no. I spent a half hour with Manon arguing about risotto. “Roasted piglet risotto with shavings of fois gras” to be exact. We decided it might be too heavy so my mission was to request alternatives. She was like a wall. “I do not understand. It eees not so very heveeey! I myself am a smaaaal personne and it is not tres filling. It is inconceivable to moi that you should not enjoy this lovleeeely offering. After all eet eees the best that old Montreal has to offer! The only other alternateeeves are tings that a large groupe would not find as enticing, such as the sweetbreads and the slab of fois gras!” She. Was. Killing. Me. Somehow she even managed to throw in the words, ridiculous and insupportable. She was a master.

So I switched my ploy and mentioned that we did not want the chestnut dessert she was offering as the chair of the board did not enjoy chestnuts. It started again. “eeee does not like the nut? But eet ees lovely! Is eeet all nuts eee does not enjoy? I told her, “no we would be happy with any other nut just not the chestnut.” She mumbled something about speaking to the pastry chef about an alternative and then said “ but really about the Risotto, I must insist!” AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I was done. I said, “FINE. I’ll give you the risotto if you can give me a different dessert. She turned sweet as pie. “Lovleeee, we look forward to ‘aaaving you on Friday!”

I was totally defeated. I had to explain to the President that I was no match for Manon. Being a Classics and Philosophy Major I am not altogether ignorant of “Sun Tzu and The Art of War” but believe me when I say that Manon must have studied at the feet of a Buddhist master because dammit she had me at every turn.

Quick Newsflash Update

Both my children have the Chicken Pox. Really! I'm going to Montreal for a board meeting this weekend. Really! My husband is bereft. No kidding!

Details to follow - and maybe some pictures of my spotty faced spawn.

The Busy-ness! It's Crazy making!

Hola,

It is simply unconscionable how I have ignored this here blog thing. I'm telling you though, when one gets overloaded and overwhelmed it quickly fell to the bottom of the pile. There were a number of days there when I felt like a rag being wrung dry. I wanted to please my husband, my boss, my grandmother, my sister, my two children, my daytime nanny and my friends. I was running on the spot, almost to the point where I was so distracted that I felt paralyzed. As I mentioned before, I am a middle of the night worrier. I would lie beside my dozing husband and itemize all the stuff that needed to get done. Phone this person, complete this form, clean out this drawer, make sure son's homework is done. Homework! in Kindergarten? WTF?

This stress with me leads to other stuff like cankers. I know, how crazy is that? Mouth cankers that make it impossible for me to eat leading to crazy weight loss. So crazy that I drink protein shakes and instant breakfast crap. I also think I now have the metabolism of a stressed out Meerkat. Have you ever seen those hyper little things? I kid you not that I have a closet full of clothes that range from a size ten to a size three. The three's are getting loose. I used to think that would be great but really it's not much fun.

So I am getting over the hurdle of a particularly busy time and I want to get back at this blog. Also Thomas was kicking my ass about it earlier this evening, telling me how I have to get back at it as I enjoy it.

So yes - please check back as I hope to be here. Thanks for coming back!

'Scuza My Back

Hi everyone,

Lots going on with children, work, and a tough time being had by a beloved family member. Yet again I was up at 4:15 with Chloe. I cry Uncle. Actually I just want to cry in general but stuff must get done. I must sally forth!

Does anyone remember that cooking show Pasquale? It had this sweet little Italian man who could whip up four courses in the space of half an hour. He would sing opera and cook and take sips from his coffee cup and wink while doing so. I found him highly entertaining. Whenever he had to drain the pasta he would have to turn around to use the sink and he would always say," 'scuza my back!"

With all I need to do I'm going to have to ask for a 'scuza my back moment. Please check back on the weekend for a new post. 'scuza my back!

I miss Pasquale.

Game On!

I said that I would speak about something lighter today didn’t I? Something fun, something interesting. Lets’ try this one on for size. Chloe was up at the crack of sparrowfart this morning which loosely translates to, oh let’s say, 4:15 a.m.!! If this had been our first born we would have let a little more crying out occur by now. If she is allowed to rage then she will wake Henry and then it will be ballgame over. I’m really at a loss with this one as we are putting her to bed an hour later and she still rises ridiculously early. We’ve tried giving her a bottle of warm milk right before we put her down in case she is waking hungry but that’s not working.

This morning I climbed into her bed with her and gave her a bottle. I took the bottle away when she was done and tried to lie with her to entice her back to sleep. Apparently she hasn’t read any baby manuals because although she lay quietly beside me she thought it would be jolly good sport to try to stick her finger in every orifice of my head. When I rolled with my back to her she started wrapping fistfuls of hair around her fingers. Bah. I then tried to slide out to my own bedroom.

I then realized that my pillow is indeed not in my bed but back in Henry’s room where I started a snuggle with him at 2:30 am due to a bad dream about Sesame Street. I’m sorry but it is incredibly wussy to be having nightmares about The Count! (ONE Snowflake, Ha Ha, Ha!, TWO Snowflakes, HA, HA, HA!) Instead of going back to Henry’s room I slid in beside Thomas who kindly gave me a corner of his pillow served up with a deep sigh of frustration. After a relaxing three minutes of piece, someone unleashed the Tasmanian devil in my daughter’s room and we could hear her staggering around in her room calling for us. Damn she can really crank the volume now!

Thomas then mutters a not terribly Christian expletive so I got out of bed and brought her downstairs. At 5:10. Okay I am appealing to any parents as to what they would do in this situation? This madness MUST stop. I don’t like to go to bed the second after my children fall asleep but in order too function I’ve been off to bed at 8:15 pm some evenings. I’m a wild woman I tell you, WILD.

It’s almost six so I must wake the man to watch Chloe so I may shower. The grocery deliveryman arrives at 7:00 and I’m sure he doesn’t want to catch me with giant Velcro rollers in my head. Then again, why not, it might give him a chuckle. I could ask him to “take me to his leader.” What passes for funny at this god-awful hour is really quite sad.

Any suggestions would be most appreciated. Carry on with your normal adult lives.

Here Comes Santa Claus.

It’s Santa Claus parade day here in Toronto. We will watch from our warm family room where we can eat snacks and listen to the bad commentary. “Gee Gus those bagpipers sure are snappy!” I have absolutely no patience to wrangle two little kids who would have perpetual runny noses and want to run around and not stay on our little square foot of sidewalk on University Avenue. Maybe when they are older I can take it, not yet.

I also have a bad association with the Santa Claus parade. When I was 27 years old I was standing in a room in Princess Margaret hospital. Not to be maudlin but okay this might be a bit. Okay it totally will be, so there. My Dad passed away on the afternoon of the Santa Claus parade. I was leaning my forehead against the cool window and looked out on University Avenue. There were the bands, the floats with the kids in costume waving away, those creepy upside down clowns that look like they are walking on their hands but are really walking right side up. It was such a shock. After the experience I had just been through, to turn one’s head from the frolicking paraders and see your father in that state, it was too much. Too much of a shift. Too much of a contrast.

I remember driving home to my apartment at Yonge and St. Clair that day. My brother and sister went home with their respective spouses yet at that time I was single. I wanted nothing more than to get to my apartment so I could officially let myself fall apart. Not forever, just for a day. Let it all go. BUT guess what? I couldn’t get home. I couldn’t get across University Avenue because of the damn parade. I couldn’t cross Bloor to go North because of the damn parade. I couldn’t think straight and be clever to figure out how to simply get home. I drove and drove and drove. I had the ugly cry going at this point. I couldn’t stop it. When I reached stoplights I would look neither left nor right. Home, home I just wanted to get home. My body was being pulled to my parent’s home but no one would be there. My little bachelor-ette apartment was home and I so needed to get there.

I fretted and fretted and scorned and swore at the world. I drove and drove. I finally reached the underground parking of my building. I took the long elevator ride up to the twenty-first floor. I wanted to get there and dreaded to get there. I unlocked the door and walked into my small place. I slowly took off my coat and gloves and put them away. I filled the kettle and plugged it in. I sat down on the couch and then the phone rang. I answered the phone and my sister was on the other end. I was home.


Sorry for the self indulgence. Happier times tomorrow. Promise.

One For The Common Folk

Well this is just a quick one. I work in a certain part of Toronto where it is hard to find a sandwich for under $7.00. There are quite the number or hoity toits (sp?) and big shots that run errands in this particular area. There is one upscale food store that I often buy lunch at. NOT because I have lots of money but because I am lazy. Today as I was at the counter about to be served a certain TV/Magazine personality swanned into the store. This woman has the art of swanning down pat. I’m not a swanner, wish I was.

Let’s back up a bit. Last winter she swanned into the foodstore in a puffy fir coat and equally puffy hair. She shouted over my head to the man behind the counter something to the effect of, “Hello Jean (or whatever) my regular please I’m in a bit of a rush!” She pushed someone aside, paid and swanned out. About four of us who had been in the store before her sort of gave each other that eyebrow raised, what the hell, look.

That one impression of her has soured me towards her. If I ever saw her on T.V. I would scream at the screen, “raving bitch! Budder!” This all brings us to today. I now know her evil moves and am sufficiently equipped this time to deal with it. A soon as she came in, she did her whole “Hi ho! My regular please!” I blocked the register area and said to the man behind the counter quite loudly, “I believe that I was here first.” The swanner then wrinkled her nose at me like I was bug and told the counter man in an angry voice, “Fine Jean, I'll be back in ten.” I gave her one of those evil raking looks and looked her up and down with a “who do you think you are “glance. She didn’t even apologize for trying to bud at all.

After she left an older British gentleman in line behind me started to chuckle and said, “quite right, well done!” I was chuffed I tell you. Quite.

Thomas Speaks!

Hey! Get this. Two blogs today, yes two for the price of one! My husband Thomas wrote something up for fun so I am throwing it in.


Over the years I have done my share of airline travel and I thought I would share some observations.

Going through Security

It couldn't be more clear to "remove all metal from your pockets" if you didn't know this before, in a post-9/11 world you really should. I always vow never to be the idiot that slows the line down and completely strip myself of any conductors and yet it happens...BEEP and yes Hilda, coins are metal. Another thought is I'm not sure how comfortable I am with the person watching the screen as your carry-on bag goes through the x-ray. What if they are having a bad day? What if they are pissed about not getting the promotion and let the black object with the wires around it slip on through? I think I'd rather leave this up to technology than to two ladies talking about their grandkids as they occasionally glance at the screen.

In the Terminal

I always like the guy who must take a conference call in the airport, you know the one pacing back and forth on the hand free set almost shouting into the microphone as to draw attention to himself ,"see how important I am?" Or how about the people who refuse to move out of the way for the golf cart shuttling some elderly person to their gate? The combination of the beeping horn and flashing light should be obvious to most people unless you are sadly both deaf and blind.

At the Gate

For some reason people seem to think that the poor attendant at the desk actually has any power. I've heard travelers rant about service with exclamations like "what are YOU going to do about this? or "This is unacceptable" or the person with an overinflated sense of importance "I have a critical meeting that I can't miss...do you know what will happen if I am not there?" My sense is that hey buddy, if you were really that important you'd be laid back in a private Gulfstream shipping champagne. I often feel sorry for the attendants is those situations, I look into their eyes and can imagine what they are thinking "I can't believe I have to take this S*#@ for $12 an hour" or "If I had gun right now I would shoot this person in the face" or even worse,"I should have become an accountant".

Preparing for Takeoff

Sometimes there are delays or cancellations due to mechanical issues, my opinion is that I'd rather they fix the problem and be late, than encounter a worse fate. I'm glad the pilots do their due diligence before departure. Can you imagine if the pilot said "The hydraulic pressure warning light is on. But you know, I'm feeling kinda lucky today, LETS GO FOR IT!"

For some reason, simple instructions are lost on some travelers. You know when they announce preparation for takeoff that your seat should be in the upright position and your trays secured. And yet when the attendants go through the cabin they have to tell at least 5 people to pull their seat forward and lift the tray. "Oh were those instructions for me?"

People also have interesting timing when it comes to bodily functions. We know we can't get underway until everyone is seated and yet there are always two people who must use the lavatory at the last minute. Here is a traveling tip. When you are sitting for an hour at the gate and you might have the "feeling" then please go pee.

I also find it funny when they seat someone in the emergency exit row who weighs less than the door itself. Listen, put me in the row (for one I want the extra leg room) because if there is a crash you can be damn sure I am going to get that door open and throw it 30 feet from the plane (yes adrenaline is a powerful thing).

What I also find amusing are the safety instructions. They should really stop demonstrating the seat belt. I mean really, if you can't figure that out you should really stay at home. As for the oxygen masks they say "Place the mask over you face, pull the strings to tighten and breath normally...". If the mask falls in front of me I'll either go into cardiac arrest or breathe so hard I will actually suck the bag into my lungs. Lets face it folks, when those masks fall down someone has forgotten to lock the door, or the plane has popped a sunroof. Either way at 30,000 feet you are absolutely screwed. The only thing the mask is going to do is give you the 40 seconds of air to say your prayers and good-byes before you smash into a million pieces (so there is a dark thought). It’s also funny when they say that "your seat cushion could be used as a floatation device in the event of a water landing". Again, you are going to need more than a cushion to save you if you crash in water. I like travel in general and am not afraid to fly but every time I do I think for a minute, "Is this the flight that is going to make the news? Will I survive to tell my story to Oprah?" Then I realize that I'm in a situation where I have absolutely no control, there is nothing I can do to change events.

Something else that bothers me are the people who must use their electronic devices when they are not supposed to. I don't know the real effect these frequencies have on navigation and such but I don't want anything screwing with the pilot's ability to fly or the control tower communications. I'd love to see people thrown off the plane for not turning off their Blackberries.

Arrival

After a smooth landing (thank God) you might hear the attendant say "we have a few passengers at the back of the plane with very tight connecting flights, please remain seated as to allow them to deplane first." And wouldn't you know it, when the plane is at the gate and the seatbelt sign turns off, half the idiots get up and start reaching for their luggage. I guess upon arrival, Darwin's law kicks in and it's survival of the fittest, "Every man for himself. I don't care about the little guy". I've often been tempted to stand up and say, "Listen, if you are not in 23A and 24D,,,SIT DOWN!!!

Airports can be a stressful place but they really don't need to be. Get there on time, follow instructions and if there are delays, take a deep breathe and relax.

For those of you with travel in your future, good luck and have a safe trip.



P.S From Stephanie. What is all this business about deplaning? Do we detrain? Do we decar? I think not.

Pakistan and Cows!

Well Jesus, Mary and Joseph, its 8:40 and I’m pooped. I have to say that a number of things are on my mind. Firstly, what the hell is going on in Pakistan? I know this generally isn’t a huge issue for North Americans but things over there are totally heating up. Musharraf is giving Bhutto house arrest and Bhutto is planning on a big protest march and let’s not kid ourselves, possibly hundreds of people will be blown up if this occurs. This particular part of the world is a powder keg and I don’t pretend to know all the in’s and out’s at all but I do know that whatever happens will have huge ramifications. I fear for the world impact but on a more humane level I fear for loss of life. Coming from a Western country it’s very easy to say, “Well there is like millions of folk over there so a couple hundred lives aren’t really anything” but dammit they are. Could you imagine a headline such as, “Toronto’s Mayor David Miller led a protest march today and two hundred people were killed”? Lives are lives, no matter where they are from. Every life is just as worthy as another no matter what.

Well this post was most rudely interrupted by Henry who was in need of yet another goodnight hug. Guess what happened? I went up and put on his yoga relaxation music. I kid you not I try to bliss out my high anxiety child nightly. We call this his “night-time music”. I’m not trying to raise an urban granola kid here. We highly condone the eating of meat and I don’t have it in me to serve tofu and that textured protein stuff. Steak! Chili! The real thing. Next I’ll be saying Cholesterol! High Blood pressure! The real thing. Oh please, I’m not that bad, I made an extra trip on the way home from work for more fruits and veggies. Truly I don’t want my kids developing scurvy. What they do in their own homes in the future is their own deal but really I don’t want to give them another reason to blame me for something in the future. I’m sure they are building up quite the arsenal already.

So I laid down (lay down?) on his bed to give him his desperately needed hug at about 9:00 pm and the next thing I knew, Thomas was waking me up at 11:00 asking me if I was coming to bed. Well rat shit. I blissed out on the yoga music (I should get some for my room!) and in the process I lost a whole evening. Yet another day of go go go and off to sleep without any down time. Mama need’s a vacation. Everyone here who thinks so please raise your hand? Yes you in the back row, when you get around to having kids’ I’ll cover your back. Arm up please!

So now its 5:30 am and I’m up with Chloe, the time change resister, who is enjoying a baby Einstein with her bottle of milk. Wait. Now she is yelling MOOOO! MOOO! at the cows at an alarming decibel level. She never yells at any other animals besides cows which kills me. Cows I guess are one of the least active animals and they really need to spice things up to entertain the ever moving toddler. Mooooo! Dammit. Moooooooooooooooo!

Well I like to tie things up at the end of a post but who can connect cows with Pakistan?

Wait! I can! I actually remember wondering if the cow was revered in Pakistan like it is in India. You know how the Hindu’s love their cows in India. Cows there are not eaten and pretty much have free reign over the place. But then I started thinking about how Muslim’s do eat beef, Halal Beef, but still. Try to imagine a discussion between two cows on the border of Pakistan. “Hey Sundeep – don’t cross that line over there.” “Why not?” “Well you know how we are treated like Minor deities over here and can wander into anyone’s backyard or house if we feel like it?” “If you cross that line you might become lunch.”

Food For Thought

Hello friends: my whole eight or so internet folk who are reading. Plus let’s not forget my one reader from Italy (yet again – ciao! send food!)

Well firstly I have to apologise for my last number of posts being on a more somber note. With the sickness of children and myself I was wee bit down but never fear I am back to my angst ridden self.

This post is going to be a jumble of thoughts but things I feel like getting off my chest. Stick with me.

There are certain turns of phrase that are sending me around the bend. For example if someone says, “I have a bone to pick with you” you know you are in for bad news. Next time I hear this I will quickly reply, “well I don’t condone picking bones so I’ll speak to you later, bye bye!” The WORST. I mean the absolute worst has to be when a person starts a statement with, “no offence, but”. At this point you should brace yourself because you are about to be offended. It will always be a criticism of some sort and it will be bad news. I really think people should work on their tact because I am all about tact. Why put somebody’s back up when you want them receptive to hear something? It’s akin to saying, “hey I’m about to really piss you off but please be nice about it.” Um no. Not really. Okay that rant is done - for now.

Today was one for the books as for work I went on a tour of a construction site and had to wear huge rubber boots and a hard hat. The site was impressive and the project was very worthy. If the foundation’s money were mine to spend I would have given everything we have. I am the only employee of a large, private, family foundation. It’s a great job in that giving money to worthy causes is highly satisfying. It is challenging in that I report directly to a board of directors. If there is a mess up, it is mine and mine alone. I have to prepare very carefully for every question that can be volleyed at me at a Director’s meeting. These Directors are no light weights either. We have finance people, lawyers, a university chancellor, a national paper contributor, a hospital consultant, a professional fundraiser and board experts. They are great people individually but can really scare the hell out of an employee who must answer to them as a group. I’m not complaining. I love my job and have been at it for ten years now but when confronted with that breadth of knowledge it can be overwhelming.

As a cap to my earlier mentioned construction tour, we visited another of their sites that was amazing. It has a food bank and a community kitchen that serves lunch three times a week and breakfast three times a week (for free). The kitchen has over two hundred volunteers that are mostly the people who avail themselves of the food bank and community kitchen’s services. This place also gives out information on all community services that the neighbourhood provides and holds things like flu vaccination clinics etc. The food bank doesn’t just have the standard fare of packaged food but also has fresh veggies and fruits and are able to cater to individual cultural and religious needs. I was humbled. The poverty in North American cities is not so easily seen. Families on social assistance are not visual. Often very nice looking homes serve three families instead of one.

I had lunch there with a bunch of people who can’t afford a decent meal of their own. Either that or they are so isolated by poverty that a meal with neighbours would be a high point of their day. All the food at was organic. We had beef stew with couscous, mesculin salad and excellent bread. I had conversations with a number of people at my table. This particular neighbourhood has many Brazilian, Portugese, Irish and Caribbean families. It was so interesting to see how much we all have in common. The way a meal draws people together is truly astounding. I will try to champion this cause to our board and try to keep this particular organization in their field of vision.

Wait a second, I haven’t been snarky at all during this post. Damn these excellent do-gooder organizations, they make me the kind, gentle person I want to be. Bah! Wait give me a second, I’m sure I can find something to bitch about. Oh yes, my poor parenting skills. Henry had a bad afternoon. In the last number of weeks he has become particularly mouthy, and seemingly deaf. It’s been driving me, Thomas and our lovely daytime Nanny around the bend. Where did this come from all of a sudden? When I got home our Nanny was distressed. The teacher had commented on his lack of attention in class yesterday and he was quite monsterous at a playdate last friday. We aren't parents that let things slide. I've been hoping that this can be attributed to the time change or some friend at school but as you know, you can't control your child's behavior when they are at school or you are at work. I felt like a failure. Henry and I had a long talk and decided to come up with a secret code word that would remind him of his slipping behavior. If after that he was still mouthy, he would lose a pokemon card for a month. This might not sound like a big deal but GOD this kid is into pokemon so it is the best currency we have to deal with. Also may I just add, I hate pokemon cards with the burning fire of a thousand suns. Damn you pokemon people, damn you.

Okay - I have to go to work so if I post this with errors then - sorry sorry sorry! I'll fix it later.

Also a bunch of you are sending me lovely emails about the blog, which I love and appreciate - but the comment box is there for that purpose too and you can do it anonymously if you want. Also you can agree, disagree, tell me to get my head out of butt. It's fun! Y'all can even engage in some fighting matches which I would think would be highly entertaining!

Just a Little Thing

A little thing can sometimes become a big thing. I was just remembering something that happened to me when I was a kid. I bet no one else even remembered this but years later it still affects me.

When I was six years old and in grade one, a little incident occurred that shaped a lot of things for me. Back then, in our grade, boys and girls would change for gym in the same classroom. It wasn’t really a big deal. After gym kids would often rush back to the classroom to change quickly. As you know running in the hallways is always a bit taboo. One day, Kelly F. (Hi Kelly!) and I were the first out of gym. We did that funny run/walk that kids do by holding their arms ramrod straight at their sides and trying to walk without bending at the knee. Who did we think we were kidding? So here we were goose-stepping it back to class ahead of the others.

We immediately started to change when our teacher, Miss Hill, came into the class and ordered us to walk back to the gym slowly and then walk back to class. Kelly had changed her shirt and had her shorts still on. I was in a tee shirt and my underpants. I said something like “just let me get my pants on” and she stopped me short and said, “No. Go as you are.” I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to die. The class went silent. We walked out into the hall and I tried to pull my tee-shirt as long as it would possibly go. I can’t believe that a teacher would allow a six year old in her little waist high undies walk through the halls of the school. We were totally silent and maybe only passed five other kids in the hall. Kelly gave me a look like, “holy crap I can’t believe she is making you do this.”

When we returned to the class it got worse. I hurried into my pants while the other kids snickered and I heard whispers of underpants, underpants. I sat down at my desk and started to cry. It was one of those silent cries where you can’t help have the tears slide down your face. I glanced at Miss. Hill (yes her real name) and she just gave me the snake eye. Almost as if to say, “cry all you want kid but you deserve it”.

I felt utterly powerless. An adult was allowed to shame me, humiliate me and it almost felt like she was happy she had done it. Now I always told my parents everything but this is one thing I didn’t tell them. I was confused and embarrassed. Years later when I was in High School I told them and they totally freaked out.

I know this doesn’t sound like a big deal whatsoever but it caused me to have issues down the road of being comfortable with myself and somehow being undressed became attached to the feeling of shame. I’m sure Miss. Hill had some good qualities but I will never forget that incident. I also have learned that sometimes even the smallest event can have long term lasting repercussions on a child. Most importantly, confusion and shame can prevent a very open child from telling you something. That’s pretty scary.


Home front Update:

Chloe’s big girl bed is still causing some early rising. Yesterday she was up at 4:30 am. We got a space heater for her room as it seems to be the coldest in the house. It must have helped because she was up at 5:30 today. It’s amazing when 5:30 is practically a sleep in.

Yesterday we went to IKEA. We don’t know why but Henry likes to call it Mykea. Whatever, weird kid. He LOVES the play place there so that entertained him for about an hour. We found a couple of things that we liked in the marketplace but really I just don’t like the furniture anymore. I turned to Thomas with a look of horror and said, “Is it possible that we are too old for IKEA?” Mon dieu.

The Birth of a Frog

I was having trouble coming up with something to talk about (very rare!) but then I read a post at my favourite blog, Plain Jane. She said that after all your years of living you must have thousands of story’s to tell. She said anybody could come up with something, anything, even the story of your birth and that got me started thinking. I could talk about that.

I was born in August of 1968 in Scarborough of all places. No offense to people from Scarberia because there are lovely areas there but really, I’m stuck with Scarborough on my birth certificate forever. I was the daughter of a teenage mother. She was unmarried, had to drop out of high school when she began to show and eventually became a shampoo girl in a hair salon. Her parents kicked her out when she became pregnant. Lovely. Her boyfriend, my birth father, fled Toronto and abandoned her. Also lovely. It turned out that my birth Father’s parents managed a number of apartment buildings and offered her an apartment until the baby (me) was born. In the social workers notes it mentioned that she was depressed, smoking heavily but otherwise in good health. Well I guess so. If I was abandoned by my parents and boyfriend I might be too.

She gave birth to me on a Wednesday alone at the hospital. I wonder if she ever saw or held me. I was named Linda-Ann and yes it was hyphenated in the Betty-Sue kind of way. I guess then the social workers started to look for a place for me to land. I was Linda-Ann for nine days. I was up for adoption well before I was born. My parents got a call on a Wednesday telling them to come and pick me up on Friday if they were ready. Could you imagine a call like that? I mean they obviously registered to adopt a baby but it is so immediate. At least if you are giving birth you have a ballpark idea. They had no idea when it might happen.

I guess technically I am a bastard, illegitimate. I find that funny. If someone said, “hey you bastard!” I could say,”yeah so what?” Imagine if I had been born a hundred years ago I would be considered an undesirable. I would have trouble making a good marriage. Like this whole birth thing had anything to do with me. I didn’t get to make the choice. Thank goodness we are past that nonsense.

My mother said I was the easiest birth she ever had. No swollen ankles, no recovery, no sore privates. Simply drive to the hospital and bada-bing baby! She said they ran around like crazy on the Thursday getting things ready for me. On the Friday my parents drove to the hospital to meet me. How surreal would that be? Much like my son, all photographic evidence points to the fact I looked a bit like a frog. I was a skinny 6 pound baby with large eyes. In retrospect I hope they weren’t disappointed. Sort of like, “hey we are about to pick up a bonny baby! Ohh well look at this tiny, skinny, froglike child, umm great! Thank you god for our frog child. Hallelujah!”

I still think that it’s a huge leap of faith. Having your own child naturally (you know what I mean) you pretty much know the odds going in. Okay, you have a kooky Aunt Helen, and I’ve got an Uncle with unexplainable warts but let’s take the risk. You and I are fairly average looking people so we might get away with an average looking, fairly bright child, let’s give it a shot. Imagine taking a newborn with no insight as to how they might be. I can’t comprehend my parent’s thoughts. “Well this little frogchild might grow up to be bright and somewhat attractive or she might end up killing us in our beds but let’s just give it a whirl!” Thank god they did.

My parents did not keep pictures of our time as children. Oh no, they kept slides. Urg. The evil Kodak slides which could only be viewed a couple of times a year as a “show”. There is a slide in one of our reels that states, “Stephanie comes home”. It was akin to me being delivered by the stork. I was not born, I was “brought home”. How nice and clean and clinical that sounds. Nine days of being by myself and I was now, brought home. The pictures are delightful in that my parents and brother and sister are all looking very “ooohing and ahhhhing" over me. There is a picture of my brother removing my booty and while he laughs I am crying hysterically. Could you blame me? I mean I’ve been here 9 days and these folk are all trying to play familiar with me. Cut me some slack people.

I wish I had dug out some old pictures to scan. After my frog phase I went into the Winston Churchill phase. In one picture particularly whenever we looked at it my dad would intone, “We shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender!

Winston Churchill phase aside, I was lucky, so very lucky. I came a hair’s breath from not being these people’s daughter. I guess my birthstory wasn’t perfect but that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered is that I came to be part of a family that was perfect for me.

The Raging Henry

Oh yes, isn’t this lovely? I took a lovely smiley picture of Henry just prior to this. He was about to put his Halloween costume on and asked me if he could have some treats from the bowl in the front hallway. This is his expression exactly two seconds after I said no. It gets tiring being a parent who sticks to her principles. You have to pay the price of your convictions which in our house can often lead to heartache and loud behaviour. (Apologies to my friends in the States as I use Canadian spelling – we like to throw in that extra “u” from time to time).

Henry is a boy of extremes. My Brother-in-law recently mentioned that if Henry ever had to do a survey he would only ever chose the options of “strongly agree” or “strongly disagree”. There is no grey in Henry’s world. Everything day is the “best day ever” or “the worst day ever”. The smallest thing can tip the balance. He could have a day of a farm, a playdate, treats, his favourite dinner and then if we didn’t have the right ice cream it would instantly become “the worst day ever”. It’s very trying to say the least. All parenting books counsel us to stay the course, keep the limits etc. I’m sort of at the point of crying bullshit because either Henry hasn’t read the books or will need twelve years to make the connection between bad behaviour and consequences.

Okay enough whining about the behaviour thing, let me tell you about his school. Henry is in Senior Kindergarten. (Here in Canada we have Jr. and Sr. Kindergarten. One begins J.K when they are four. Unfortunately they usually only go a half day which creates a logistical nightmare to the working parent.) Our local public school has become a school for developmentally challenged and physically challenged children. We chose to send him to a nearby Catholic school for numerous reasons. Firstly we are both Catholic and wanted to raise him as such. Secondly we are lazy and if we sent him to public school we would have to do the whole Sunday school rigmarole and we just weren’t up for that. The school has uniforms which I am cool with as there will be no fashion angst at least until he is twelve because the school goes up to grade 8. I went to a public school and resented the long catechism classes every Sunday and the evening classes when I was confirmed.

Henry’s school is about eighty percent Italian with some Irish and Polish kids thrown in the mix. For those who don’t know, Toronto has the highest Italian population outside of Rome. That’s right, there are more Italians living here than say in Naples or Florence. That makes for some good eatin’ people. I am a fan of the Italian restaurant and boy do we have tons. I was on my Maternity leave year with Chloe so I was able to take Henry to and from school for his whole J.K. year. What an eye-opener. I would say about 80 percent of the kids were dropped off by their No-no’s or Nona’s (grandparents). I love the fact that the extended family are a large part of the children’s lives. I am totally jealous as both my parents have passed and Thomas’s mother works full time. I also love the fact that they parent as a community. Frequently on the playground a No-no would grab a kid’s collar (a kid they don’t really know) and say “hey tough guy why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” “You touch Gian Carlo again and I’m telling your teacher and Mama.” This really wouldn’t happen on a Waspy playground where everyone just minds their own kid.

There is also another strange phenomenon I had discovered. I once had Chloe with me and a Nona sort of gestured at me and said, “What. No hat for the baby?” She turned to the nearest Nona and said, “People don’t know how to dress kids these days!” Umm. Excuse me but I am standing RIGHT HERE. You want to talk smack about me then go at it in Italian. The same Nona also sort of let me have it another time. The very last day of school she approached me and another Nona and smiling sweetly said, “So, I hear you’re going back to work.” I agreed and then she said, “I don’t get it. People going around having babies and then not raising them.” Hoo boy was I pissed. I think I was also sort of shocked because before I could come up with something in reply the bell rang and my chance was shot. I don’t know, maybe she resented her daughter in law for going back to work or something. But boy did it ever mess with my head. I called my husband on the cell right after and sputtered something like, “Should I be going back to work? Am I a bad mother?” He told me I would be a bad mother if I didn’t go back to work as I wasn’t happy without adult interaction and without more mental stimulation so I would be a crabby, shitty mother if I stayed at home. Thank god I got over THAT.

Well nothing really in closing except to say that we buzzed all of Henry’s hair off last night and he looks like a Marine. With his big lovely eyes I actually think he looks more like Sinead O’Connor. This bothers Thomas so I think I will teach Henry to croon, “Nothing compares – to you” in the bathtub. Heh.

Also with the time change Chloe was up a 4:30 this morning. Thomas said he was done with that so he promptly dismantled her crib and decided that she could use a big girl bed and play with toys in the morning until we get up. Wish us luck with that.

Forgot to mention - please feel free to email me at steformation@gmail.com Also let know if you want to be added to my notify list so I can send you an email when a post is up. My goal is to update daily.

The Pay Off

Well hell in a handbag it was quite the eventful weekend here at Casa Virus. Henry was recovering from a viral infection with the added bonus of croup. He’s a crouper, which is not to be confused with a croupier. In fact I would much rather that he was a croupier. Henry was a preemie who was forever on the puffers and nebulizer's and all that fun stuff that is included with a kid with respiratory problems.
When he was six months old he contracted RSV which landed him in hospital for two nights. Even though we had private coverage he was placed in quarantine in an RSV ward room. Picture this if you will. Four babies and four parents sleeping in the same room. We lucky parents had plasticky chairs to “sleep in”. Please keep in mind that as therapy the children are given a nubulizer (gas) of a drug which helps open their airways and as an added bonus raises their heart rate so they are over stimulated. So basically my baby at 1:00 am was lying on his back in an iron crib kicking his legs as if running a marathon and apparently I had to try and keep him quiet. This is a task akin to cleaning the Augean stables.

I asked his pediatrician if he caught RSV because he may be asthmatic or if he as asthmatic because of the RSV. He was honest and said, “We really have no clue”. Super. Henry then began to get the croup regularly. Croup is an upper respiratory viral infection which affects the voice box and basically makes your kid wake up at 2:00 am barking and whistling with the scariest cough ever. We’ve learned to take him outside for drives in the middle of the night all bundled up so that the cool air will open his airways. The people at Tim Horton’s know of this phenomenon. Many a time I went through the drive thru at 3:00 am and they would say, “hey another croupy kid!” I guess I wasn’t alone.

It got so bad that we had to go to the hospital in the middle of the night so many times that our Dr. finally prescribed us Dexamethasone which is a strong steroid that is usually only given by Doctors. At least we now had this thing under control. That is until last Friday.
Yes Chloe has now discovered the joys of croup. Four hours after being in a pediatric clinic they gave us the Dexamethasone and we immediately came home and gave it to her. One minute later she threw it all up. Aaaaaaaarrggggggh. So we had another sleepless night and 2 hours in a clinic to get another prescription.

I know one hour doesn’t sound like a very long time to wait for a pharmacist to fill a prescription but when one has a crying, coughing toddler it is an eternity. I was so tired of baby wrangling at this point that I parked her stroller right beside the pharmacy check out. I gave Chloe a kiss and whispered, “Okay baby scream your head off”. She was spectacular with the sobbing and coughing and back arching. Guess who had their prescription ready in the next two minutes?

So yes, all things considered we are getting back to normal after a week of two very sick kidlets. At one point both of them were crying simultaneously and if I recall correctly, Chloe was so upset that she was actually rubbing her face into the carpet. My husband looked at me wide eyed and said “Exactly when does the pay off begin?”

It already has but sometimes we are too tired to notice.