Saturday, May 14, 2011

Doin' nine to five and I ain't got nothin' to show. . .

May 14, 2011


Finally feeling better.

Or at least not wanting to throw myself under a bus because of hormones, anyway.

Other things?

Maybe.






Thursday, suppertime, my cousin's husband and her son came by to pick up Em's car.

Causing Frankie to react with such ferocity I almost dropped the large knife in my hand, narrowly missing my toes.

But who needs all ten toes, right?

The battery in the car was dead, so the first thing they had to do was move our car, and then get her car into boosting position.

This poor car.

Whoever was the mechanic for my brother, he should be put out of business.

The car, somehow, had been running on the wrong size battery.

Kat must have been watching over Jer when he was driving it.

That's my only explanation.

Nonetheless, the car is actually in better condition than it looks.

As we were informed last evening.

Making Em a very happy girl.

Now she just needs a driver's licence.






Teaching two classes every day, meaning in the classroom from 9-4.00 with an hour break at lunch, means Friday have become THE day for getting anything done.

Hence Friday is the-day-I-have-to-do-all-my-errands-because-there-is-no-other-time-to-do-them.

And yesterday was a doozy.

Paying bills that could not be paid on line took more than a few minutes, followed by my weekly visit to Simply for Life.

No change.

Which could be construed as good, as it means I have neither gained or lost.

Nonetheless, I was not happy.

Hormones taking charge this week meant I spent the entire week starving.

No matter how often, or what, I ate I was always hungry.

So not gaining in this instance was a good thing.

But I am at least 100 pounds away from my goal weight, if not more, so slowing down and enjoying the 70 pound loss is not an option.

To my office for an hour to answer emails, download assignments sent by email and charge my Kobo.

Home to collect Keith and Stephen for our bimonthly visit to Norma-the-most-amazing-hairdresser-in-the-world at Klub Soda.

They needed haircuts desperately, and I am not yet willing to celebrate the gray.

I would be more than happy to celebrate the gray if it wasn't so scattered and sporadic.

Mostly framing my face.

While Stephen and Keith were getting their locks lopped, I was at Service New Brunswick to set up appointments for Keith and Em to write their driver's test.

You would think this was a simple, easy task.

However, we also have to take into consideration that any service provided by the government is going to be as convoluted as possible.

The man at the Information-Please-Take-A-Number kiosk grabbed a card, circled a phone number and thrust it at me, when I stated the purpose of my visit.

Okay.

Leaving Service New Brunswick, I hauled out my seldom used cell phone and dialed the number.

Seldom used because if I had used it more often, maybe I would have taken into account my surrounding.

Downtown Fredericton at lunch time, me standing smack in the middle of Queen Street trying to maneuver the touch menu and speak with a "representative."

In addition to the din of my lunch seeking sidewalk companions, there was, directly outside of Klub Soda, on the bench I had planned on parking myself throughout the course of this phone call. . . .

. . .which was bound to be long because it was the government. . . .

was a man, his guitar, case opened at his feet expecting change from passersby who were enjoying the music he provided during their one break during the work day.

Which would have provided lovely ambiance for the one time yesterday the sun actually came out if. . .

. . . .he hadn't sounded like he was shaking a box full of angry cats.

I had to walk up and down Queen Street trying to both hear and respond to the woman on the other end of the phone who was asking me all sorts of questions about birth dates and name spellings etc., in order to make this appointment.

The earliest they can write their test is June 2nd.

Which gives Keith time to study.

And how come I didn't call from inside the salon?

Have you ever been inside a hair salon?

Especially a nice one?

Music, hairdryers, ringing phones, conversations. . .

On the street was actually more private.

Em mentioned I should have called from the bathroom.

Yes.

Because nothing makes a conversation with a government employee more enjoyable than doing so from atop a toilet.






After we picked Em up from school and deposited her at work. . .

. . .which is a 10 minute walk but if I hadn't actually picked her up I wouldn't have seen her until today, plus her uniform was in the car and she always carries 100 pounds worth of books with her. . .

we headed to the Community Kitchen.

Commitments had kept us from being able to go for at least two weeks in a row, so it was very, very nice to be able to be there.

The menu consisted of high end sandwiches, which looked like they had been donated by the Delta, coleslaw and soup.

Four different kinds of sandwiches on several different kinds of bread meant for each person I served, I had to give them my spiel:

Tuna, roast beef, egg salad or turkey? Coleslaw? Soup: pea or spicy beef?

I think I was saying that in my sleep last night.

Finally, finally home. Happy puppies joyfully greeting me with wagging tales and all-over-face-kisses.

And at 9.00 I could take it no longer and had to succumb to the call of my bed.






Because this weekend isn't going to be much better.

In one hour, I am leaving for the nursing home, to pick up Mum, and take her shoe shopping and out for lunch.

And we can expect some entertainment from that excursion.

I'd bet my life on it.

Home to get Stephen so we can go grocery shopping.

Because if we don't do it today there will be no opportunity until Tuesday, by which time the kids will be competing with the dogs for kibble.

Later this evening, honouring plans that have been made for quite a while.

Tomorrow, Quaker meeting and then. . . .

Convocation.

Honouring the class of 2011.

Which isn't without it's controversy.

But we'll save that for later.

Unfortunately Convocation will have to be held indoors at the Aiken Center as it is supposed to rain tomorrow.

Surprise. Surprise.

And after Convocation, home for supper and probably collapsing into bed

At some point during this weekend, I have to mark papers, begin my sabbatical application and start filling out a grant form that is so complex they give you until August to do it.

And then back to classroom Monday morning, upon which getting into my office before class, I will ask, "was there a weekend?"

It is indeed a sad comment on your life when work is more relaxing than the weekend.



Title Lyric: Weekend by Billy Joel

Thursday, May 12, 2011

I'm feeling raw. . .I don't feel great. . .

May 12, 2011


I feel like crap.

Hauling myself out of bed yesterday afternoon for my film class took all of my energy, including what little I had left in reserve.

Meaning not much.

At 43 years old, I cannot understand how something I have been experiencing for 31 years can still cause me so much trouble.

Almost feels like child rearing and marriage some days.

I've done everything I can to make my monthly visitor comfortable.

Including surgery.

But every once in a while, I am reminded of how little control I have over my body and what it does.

Since Saturday, I have been living with pain so intense I've resorted to heating pads on high, curling into the fetal position and crying.

Menopause can, in no way, be worse than this.

Bring it on.

Today, please.






Meaning most of yesterday, outside of the time it took to show 12 Angry Men and talk about the decline of the courtroom drama, I was in bed.

My only companions were Tikka and Frankie, and my Kobo EReader.

Lots of love was received from my canine compadres, who nestled as close to me as they could, keeping me warm and safe.

At least that's what I can recall through the drug induced haze that was keeping me sane.

Reilley came in a couple of time, meowing his dismay at my prone position, and canine bodyguards as both prevented cuddle time with "grammie."

Yes.

I am "grammie" to Em's cat.

And that is as much of a grammie as I am willing to be right now.






While lying in bed, contemplating the value of stronger narcotics and pondering about how I could obtain them. . .

. . .oh, I wonder if my mother would share her morphine. . .probably not. . .

I did do some reading.

I'd have to feel even worse than I do right now in order to not read.

Our house is nothing if not a satelite site for the public library.

Literally, books are piled in all the places Stephen will allow them to be piled.

And if he doesn't like where books may be stacked, say behind the microwave, he has no problems informing me that perhaps I should consider moving them.

And I do.

Because if I don't, the possibility of finding them at the used book store increases significantly.






I finished the new Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse book, Dead Reckoning.

Disappointing, to say the least.

Normally, I like reading these books.

I know, I know, not exactly on par with War and Peace or Anna Karenina, but sometimes all you want is an enjoyable story that doesn't hurt your brain when you read it.

I've enjoyed the other books in the series, hence I thought I would enjoy this one.

But alas, this was not the case.

The story was missing something. . .I can't quite figure it out.

But when and if I do, I'll share.






This afternoon I'm showing In the Name of the Father, which is enough incentive for me to fight the urge to throw myself under a bus.

But just barely. . . .

Feel free to send any unused narcotics to my house, drop them off in my mailbox. . .
anything.

Please.



Title Lyric: Physical Pain by Joan Armatrading

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

. . .rolling off my tongue. . .

May 11, 2011


I haven't been feeling well the last few days.

Cramps.

Feeling like an army of little people are trying to force my insides outside with a crochet hook through my bellybutton.

Belly cavern, okay, but it still hurts.

A lot.

At these times I just want to crawl into bed and stay there until everything feels better.

Not stand in front of a classroom full of students, while trying to keep the pain inducing grimaces from my face.






Yesterday was yet another day of shits and giggles in my film class.

Monday the sound cut out 30 minutes into the film, and I had to replace it with another film.

Tuesday I excitedly open the case containing my copy of Dirty Harry only to find that the case contains no such film.

Or any film for that matter.

Leading me to ponder where the hell my Dirty Harry went.

Again, a replacement was called in.

The Enforcer.

Another Dirty Harry film, where Harry is paired with a female inspector, but not as good as the first one.

None of the Dirty Harry films are as good as the first one, but they are all good.

After class, I immediately went to the mall and purchased another copy of Dirty Harry.

But I know someone out there knows where my original dvd is and I am waiting, not so patiently, for it to be returned.

You can remain anonymous.

I just want my film back.

And to know why you have the film and not the case.

I can't wait to see what today brings.

12 Angry Men is on deck.

And if things don't work the way they're supposed to, there is gonna be one angry woman to contend with.

Cause I've had enough already.






Further reinforcing my theory that mothers are retrofitted with child initiated GPS, we are getting ready to depart from the mall when my cell phone rings.

Mer.

Who else?

"Where are you?" she asks, after greeting with me her standard, "Heeeyyyyy."

"In the mall." I reply.

"Really? Where? Cause I was let off work early and maybe you could drive me home."

One day, one day I am going to locate the offending GPS embedded somewhere in my person and I will remove it, and stamp all over it, obliterating it until it is nothing but dust. (which should sound like "dust" as it would be said in Little Britain).






During our forced confinement at the hospital Monday morning, I experienced a rather interesting event.

We were sitting in the coffee shop area, as it was close to the evil blood removal station, and even more importantly, close to the coffee.

Of which I needed plenty.

In the 90 minutes we were sitting there, lots of people came and went.

In part because the coffee shop was close, and because a bank of elevators was directly in front of me.

I love people watching.

A lot.

Perhaps to the point of being invasive and bordering on illegal.

Drives the kids nuts.

And there were plenty, plenty, plenty of people to watch.

Including one little boy.

Approximately 4, maybe younger.

I like small children.

Uninhibited, they do what they want, when they want, usually what adults want to do, but don't because socialization and confining rules governing behaviour prevent them from doing so.

This little guy was with his somewhat older sister, maybe just a couple of years older, and his mother.

They sat at the table in front of me, but a little to the left.

Waiting.

For their Nana.

Nana's arrival caused quite a flurry of activity and excitement.

Including the little guy yelling, "NANA! NANA! Can you do this!!!????"

And he proceeded to roll his tongue.

Nana, indeed, could roll her tongue.

He continued to roll his tongue, while looking around.

He looked at me.

And I rolled my tongue.

And scared the crap out of this little boy.

He almost fell off his seat.

When he regained his composure, he looked at me.

And rolled his tongue.

So I rolled mine again.

This time Mum and Nana caught on that the lady sitting with the grumpy teenage girl was making faces and rolling her tongue at the little man.

He kept looking at me, so I did the only thing I could think of.

"Did you know," I said, "that not everyone can roll their tongue. My husband can't. He just ends up sticking his tongue out at me."

Well.

Sis stands up, marches over and rolls her tongue.

Mum turns around and informs me that not only can she roll her tongue, she can turn her tongue over and flip it in half.

And then she did it for me.

I was suitably impressed and grossed out all at the same time.

Needless to say, the this-is-what-we-can-do-with-our-tongues conversation provided a nice interlude to an otherwise less than exciting time at the hospital coffee shop.

With a brooding and unhappy Emily.

So, can you roll your tongue?



Title Lyric: Rhythm of My Heart by Rod Stewart

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Mothers and daughters. . . .

May 10, 2011


Okay, Mother's Day.

Until my children move out, become self sufficient, have their own children, Mother's Day will be about me doing what I can for my mother.

Not to say that my children weren't wonderful this Mother's Day.

They were.

They always are.

But this Mother's Day, my primary focus was both Keith's birthday and my mother.

Keith's birthday.

Covered.

My mother.

How much time do you have?






When we were younger, Mother's Day was usually taken care of by my father.

In spite of his always saying, "She's not my mother!"

And if he was looking after the details, we usually ended up at The Diplomat for Chinese buffet.

Which was FAR more about my father than my mother.

So, this year, I asked what she wanted to do and she replied, "Go to the Diplomat."

I asked again, "What do YOU want to do?"

She looked at me, this time right in the eye and said, "Go to the Diplomat."

Okay.

Point taken.

But. . .

They were booked solid.

Unless we wanted to eat dinner at 10.30 in the morning.

Um. . .no.

Stephen suggested The Garrison. . .the restaurant where we dined before Stephen's surprise birthday party.

Okay.

Nice place, absolutely.

But a little dark.

Nonetheless, they had spaces available so that is where we were going.






But first, my mother wanted to go shopping.

Not wanting to fit everything into Sunday, I suggested that perhaps we could go shopping Saturday afternoon.

She was scandalized.

We were talking on the phone, but I could hear it in her tone.

"But I have BINGO! I can't miss BINGO!"

Sunday it was then.

At 2.30, after dropping the kids off at the theater so they could spend the lovely, sunny, warm afternoon in a dark theater, Stephen and I went to the nursing home to get Mum.

And thus began a fun-filled afternoon of pyjama and bra shopping.

Hoping for a pair of sandals on the side.

First stop, Pennington's.

Bras and jammies, please.

The pjs were no problem.

I selected three pairs, t-shirt tops and capri pants like pjs, and she selected the two she wanted.

No yellow.

Her only restriction.

She would have chosen the pink leopard print jammies over the yellow ones with the nice floral theme.

Luckily, she didn't need either the pink leopard or the yellow floral.

The bra. . .

There was the problem.

She refuses to accept that they do not carry her size.

At least not regularly.

On rare occasions, she has been able to get her size there, but that was usually only when a shipping mistake was made.

Of course, I told her all of this, several times, but she didn't believe me.

Instead, I had to get the store manager to tell her.

I'm still not convinced she believes anyone.

And that there is a conspiracy to prevent her from getting the bra in the size she wanted.






Not to be deterred, she asked to go to the mall.

No problem.

She wanted a new pair of sandals.

No problem.

She wanted to go to Naturalizer.

No problem.

She wanted to make sure that what she bought was on sale.

There's the problem.

When Naturalizer has a sale, they have a SALE!

The last pair of sandals Mum purchased were a size 9.5 wide.

Heel strap.

$100.00 on sale for $20.00.

Ergo, she was not settling for paying full price for anything.

Hence, no sandals.

Not that she didn't see anything she liked.

She saw several pairs she liked.

But she was not going to pay for them.

Part of the problem is her foot size.

A result of medications and a lack of mobility.

The 9.5 size is less of a problem than the fact that she needs a wide shoe.

We even tried Sears.

And were informed that they didn't carry wide shoes for women.

Thankfully, they did have bras.

Or there may not have been anything I could have done to prevent the flood of tears that would have ensued.

I reminder her that she was able to get two of the three things she set out for.

And I promised to take her this coming Saturday.

To make sure that she doesn't miss bingo, I am picking her up at 9.00 am, and I am taking her to Naturalizer and I am paying for the shoes she wanted.

Whether she likes it or not.






After the mall closed, the kids were met at the theaters, we packed into the car and headed downtown for dinner.

My brother was collecting Mer.

My father only had to be responsible for himself.

When we walked in, everything was fine.

We got the table we wanted . . . by the windows, not as dark.

Everyone found the place without any difficulty.

My father bought my mother a beautiful diamond bracelet.

That was too big.

She was upset by this. . .worried that if it wasn't repaired, she would lose it.

"You'll have to take it back and get it fixed."

She said to me.

Guess what I'm doing after work?

Everyone ordered their meals.

The waitress clearly asked each and every person who ordered fries if they wanted regular fries or sweet potato fries.

Remember this.

It's important for later.

EVERYONE.

My brother purchased a digital picture frame for Mum, with a memory card.

As far as I know, she is very happy with this, although I don't know if she understands what it is.

Or how it works.

Meaning I will have to try to figure it out for her.

Me.

Queen of Technology.

Um. . . . .

There was the requisite bathroom break.

Accusations that I flushed her kleenex down the toilet.

The waitress was kind enough to bring Mum her coffee while we were in the bathroom.

I doctored it for her, she took one sip, scrunched up her face and said, "It's cold."

Of course it's cold Mum, you had me add half a container of cream to it.

But I didn't say that.

I merely asked the waitress, most apologetically, if she could heat it up.

She brought Mum a fresh cup of coffee.

To which my mother replied, "Oh you didn't have to do that."

Yeah.

Right.






Dinner arrives.

Everyone get exactly what they ordered.

And when the waitress puts my mother's plate in front of her, she looks at me, accusingly, asking,

"Where are my sweet potato fries???????"

I think she was just one smitch away from whining.






Taking Mum anywhere is exhausting.

In and out of the car, wheelchair in and out of the trunk, always worried about whether or not she is comfortable, having a good time, needing to go to the bathroom. . . .

I was perhaps, at this point, not in my best form.

So, rather than go through the rigmarole of getting another plate with sweet potato fries, I traded plates with her.

We ordered the same thing, so it wasn't as if she was getting something she didn't like.

Was I as friendly and genial as I could have been?

Maybe not.

Perhaps more of a "Here. Take mine." kind of response.

Maybe not as gentle as I could have been.

All I knew was that more than anything, I just wanted to go home, go to bed, read and be left alone.

But instead, we had dinner, I took Mum back to the nursing home, got her ready for bed, and then went to a late movie with Mer and Em.

Thor.

Don't waste your money.

Wait for the dvd to come out.






I love my mother.

Don't get me wrong.

But loving someone doesn't mean that person is easy to be around.

Especially when you're both tired.






Today, I am hoping for calm classes, co-operative technology, no phone calls, no requests, no drama.

I can dream.




Title Lyric: Mothers and Daughters, Fathers and Sons by Neil Diamond

Monday, May 9, 2011

Just another manic Monday. . . .

May 9, 2011


Today has been one-of-those-days.

Not even yoga and a large brandy and ginger ale could make today any better.

Nope.

This is the kind of day where ending it is your best bet.






Em had blood tests and a lactose intolerance test this morning.

Starting with the removal of three vials of blood, and then moving to the consumption of a weird, white, chalky looking substance with some lemon juice added for flavour.

Which then lead to another two vials drawn over the course of the 90 minutes.

I was just hoping Em kept it all down.

And like a trooper she did.

At 17 years of age, this was Em's first ever blood test.

Naturally, she was nervous.

And I was reassuring.

I had no choice.

One, what else would I do, and two, it was my attempt to right several wrongs from my own childhood.

For reasons I cannot comprehend, I was always at the hospital (or that's what it felt like) for one blood test or another.

As soon as I walked into the lab, the technicians were ready for Hurricane Dawne.

I was beyond terrified and into whatever realm exists in the minds of small children who would rather eat their own arms than have blood drawn.

My mother and two other nurses would have to hold me down while a fourth person actually drew the blood.

Keeping in mind that my mother worked at this hospital, it must have been horribly embarrassing for her to have to take me in there, kicking and screaming, crying and pleading.

I had quite the reputation for being an over-the-top drama queen.

Imagine.

So unlike me now.






Em, however, was as calm as could be.

There was, however, one little hiccup.

Because it was Monday and it was me and Em together for her first blood test.

In all the nerves and anxiousness, it never occurred to me to ask my SEVENTEEN year old daughter whether or not she had her medicare card.

At least it didn't occur to me until we actually arrived at the hospital, got our parking lot ticket and even found a spot that wasn't ten kilometers away from the actual hospital entrance.

As we were getting out of the car, I said, "You have your medicare card, right?"

"No. I didn't know I needed it."

"Well, you have you're wallet with you, right?"

"NO! Why would I take my wallet if I don't have any money?"

I was gobsmacked, stunned, speechless.

"ID?" I asked.

"But I don't have a picture ID" she replied.

By this time we were sitting in the waiting area, our little paper number clutched in our hands.

121.

104 was being served.

I turned to Em and said that I would rush home to get her medicare card, I just needed to know where it was.

"In my purse, in my wallet."

Yes, I know.

We covered that.

WHERE in the house is your purse with your wallet.

"My room" she replied.

I paused.

Her room.

Excavating Pompeii would be easier than trying to find anything in Em's room.

But, I was determined to get it.

Because I was not going to back to the hospital at another day and time.

Stephen had taken my class.

Em actually had the day off school and therefore wasn't missing any classes.

No way.

It would be done.

Off I went.

After making an illegal U-turn to get onto the highway, I drove like a madwoman.

Until, upon getting off the highway and into our little suburb,a police car flashed it's lights at me, turning in the middle of the road and blocking my way.

Oh s**t!

I don't have time for this!

Quickly, I started running through a list of viable sob stories that may perhaps sway the emotions of Mr. Policeman.

And then he did a three point turn and went after another car.

I almost. . .almost because I was in a hurry, stopped the car in the middle of the road to get on my knees and thank God Mr. Policeman wasn't interested in me.

And rather had focused his attentions on the guy who sped through a school zone.

Thank you kind sir for making your illegal actions more visible than mine.

Home.

Upstairs, quickly greeting the curious and excited canines who thought Mummy had come home to relieve their boredom, or even better, take them for a walk.

For the first time in the history of mankind, I actually found what I needed immediately upon entering Em's room.

There may be two more cats than I thought we had in the house buried under the piles on her bed, but I could have imagined it.

Back outside to the car, and another dash back to the hospital arriving in the waiting room JUST as they were serving. . . .

120.

Relief flooded Em's face.

It took 30 minutes for my heart to stop racing.

Why, why, why, why can't things just be simple???????

Because.






To add insult to injury, my little laptop was assaulted by the same virus as last weekend.

Meaning another trip to the computer fixing place after the hospital removed half of Em's entire blood supply.

I walked in.

The guy who worked on it last week said, "Weren't you just here?"

Indeed I was.

"Same virus as last week" I replied.

No charge to fix it.

I never thought there would be.






And then, this afternoon, 30 minutes in to watching the 1988 classic Heathers, the sounds stops working.

Leaving me to dash upstairs to my office to get another film, Se7en, hoping the issue was the film and not the sound system.

Meaning there was no time for a discussion after the film.

I am certain my students were devastated that they were not forced to sit and listen to me yammer on for an hour about how slasher films aren't crime films.






No computer at home.

No time to even turn on the computer today, so here I am trying to get everything I need to do, done, before Stephen arrives from the grocery store to whisk Em and me home after a long, cold, trying day.

The kind of day where you just want to crawl into bed as soon as possible so as to end the day.

Because tomorrow has to be better.

Right?




Title Lyric: Manic Monday by The Bangles

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Just blow out the candles. . .Happy Birthday (Pookie is 20!!!!!!!)

May 8, 2011


Happy 20th Birthday to my Keithie Joe-Pookie-Pot-Pie-with-Bum-Dumplings!!!!!!!!!!!

Twenty years ago today, I gave birth to my one and only son.

He was a doozie.

11 pounds!

I always said he was the biggest Mother's Day gift I ever received.

Literally and figuratively.






I realized I might be pregnant with my second child when Mer was nine months old.

How?

I threw up after eating popcorn.

When mentioning to my ex-husband that I thought this might be the case, he replied, "You'd better get that checked out."

Sure enough.

Number two was on his way.

Honestly, I was terrified.



Mer had already proven that mothering and childrearing were tasks not to be taken lightly.

Times that by two. . . .

Terrified.






I knew Keithie was going to be different, though, as soon as I passed the three month let's-just-throw-everything-up-and-spare-the-annoyance-of-eating-stage. 

I had to force myself to feed Mer, as just looking at her food, smelling food, everything made me want to throw up.

However, once I bid the first trimester adios, the baby inside of me started growing at an epic rate.

Twice my doctor sent me for ultrasounds because she was convinced there were two babies in there. 

I will reiterate: terrified.

Mer and two babies?

Terrified. 

I grew at leaps and bounds as this pregnancy progressed and at my anticipated due date, my mother flew to Toronto to help me out.

She didn't recognize me when she got off the plane.

Mer and my ex husband, yes.

Me?

I was just the HUMMUNGOUS woman who happened to be standing beside them.

She took me aside before we left the airport and said, "You're lucky your father can't see you like this."

I couldn't even put on shoes that required tying, I was retaining so much fluid.

And then we went back to our apartment and waited for the birth of this baby.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

My mother was supposed to fly out May 10th.

May 6th there was still no baby.

May 6th I went to McMaster Hospital to see my paedeatrician.

Who then informed me that May 8th, a Friday, I would give birth via c-section.

This was before I came back to New Brunswick pregnant for Em and FINALLY a doctor was able to tell me that I would never give birth naturally.

I so wish I had of had this information when Keith was born.






May 8th was a busy day on the McMaster maternity ward.

In fact, there had been so many babies born the week before the ward had actually been closed for several days.

No room at the inn.

Instead of arriving and being whisked off to a room, I was plunked in a reception room, with a television, and informed I would have to wait there until a room became available.

My ex was with me, and he was due to write a test for his plumbing apprenticeship that morning, so I told him to go.

I figured I'd be waiting a while.

The c-section was scheduled for 1.00 pm.

At 2.30 I was still sitting in the waiting room.

And then I felt an all-too-familiar-tug-and-pull in my nether regions.

Labour.

A fact I kept to myself.

Because there was NO way I was letting on I had started labour.

I wanted, needed, expected this baby to. be. out. by the end of the day.

Plus, my one and only labour experience with Meredyth was more than enough to convince me that labour was not something I wanted to experience again.

For me or the baby.

At 4.30 I was finally put into a room.

6.00 pm, May 8th I was wheeled into an operating room to give birth to the mammoth child inside me. 

The anesthetic wore off eventually, and I was informed I had a son.

YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

And he was 11 pounds.

THAT explained a lot.

Apparently, the nurses attempted to weighed him on the operating room scale, which only went to ten pounds.

They were rushing past my ex with Keithie swaddled in their arms, causing some panic.

"Our scale only goes to ten pounds. We have to weigh on him another scale."






Pookie was a hefty child.

I didn't know what color his eyes were until he was a day old because his eye lids were so fat he couldn't open his eyes to any extent.

He had more rolls than a sharpei.

And long!!!!!

At the end of my pregnancy, his feet were pushing up against my ribs, and all that was between his head and the world was a thin flap of skin.

His great grandfather, upon seeing him for the first time asked if I was feeding him bacon and eggs yet, and if not I should be.

He had a point.

At two weeks old, all he did was eat and sleep.

In my arms.

Because after I fed him and tried to put him in his crib, he would wake up, crying, wanting to be fed again.

I did what any young mother would do.

I called my mother.

Who informed me that the child was hungry and huge so she suggested I put an ounce of rice cereal in his bottle, and that should fill him up for more than 15 minutes.

Thankfully, it worked.

When he was three months old, he was 18 pounds.

Neighbours would come by just to look at this behemoth baby in their midst.

And handsome!!!!

I should say so.






He was a marvel.

The second I laid eyes on him, I knew he was my special little man.

So different from Mer.

He ate, slept, smiled, hardly cried.

Easy to get along with.

Just like now.

That isn't to say that he hasn't had his moments.

He has.

In grade three, he came home, grabbed a club pack box of baking soda, a club pack container of vinegar, a box of ziploc bags and Emily and went outside.

Apparently, in school that day, they had done a science experiment with the above mentioned items and he wanted to replicate it at home.

The next thing I know, little explosions reverberate from the backyard.

Looking out the window, I see corpses of used ziploc bags littering the landscape.

He and Em are covered in baking soda and vinegar.

And beside them, empty containers that once held said baking soda and vinegar.

That's the price of scientific exploration.

Another spring afternoon, I am working on my doctoral dissertation, and I look out the window to see my only son sitting backwards in a wagon, wearing a bike helmet, while hurling himself down the incline of backyard deliberately crashing into a tree stump to assess how far, upon impact, he could be thrown from said wagon.

HAD to be a boy thing.

In grade four, his teacher (who eventually had a nervous breakdown) asked the class was WCF meant in regards to the weather.

Keith, always pensive and thoughtful, raised his little boy hand and said,

"We could freeze?"






Being the only boy in a single mother family complete with two sisters couldn't have been easy for Keith.







He looked forward to "Boy's Night" with my brother.

These sleepovers consisted of eating spaghetti-os, sugary cereal, playing video games and watching movies.

For Keith, it meant they could burp and fart and not have to say "excuse me."

He learned, probably earlier than he wanted to, the meaning of menstruation, tampons, hystrionics, makeup, accessories, Muchmusic, S Club 7 and the Spice Girls.

I believe, to the end of my days, that the Spice Girls traumatized Keith in ways he has yet to share. 

When people wonder why he doesn't have a girlfriend, I simply reply,

"Why would he want one?" 

He so desperately wanted a brother when Em was born.

He asked repeatedly for a brother.

If I could have, I probably would have.

Because life is about balance.








So here he is at twenty.

Still my little man.

Quiet, thoughtful, caring, loving, independent, intelligent, strong. . . .

A sense of adventure.




Always asking questions and investigating the world around him.



A brilliant sense of humour.

He makes me laugh. . . .



Sometimes cry.



My life and the lives of those around are richer because of him.

I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful son.

A son who, when I look at him, fills me with a love so strong I fight to keep the tears back.

His sisters demand much from me.

He never did.

I always worry he won't know how much I love and adore him.

How important he is to me.

How much joy, pleasure and stability he has brought to me, and will continue to bring to me.

I LOVE YOU MY ONE AND ONLY SON!

Happy Birthday Keith Ronald Alexander!






Title Lyric:  Happy Birthday by Carly Simon