October 30, 2010
Halloween has always been my least favourite "holiday."
I can't wrap my head around the idea of dressing up children to go door to door begging strangers for food.
Nonetheless, I always made sure the kids were well costumed, usually with whatever we had around the house, but there was always the mad rush after school to get home and bolt down their supper so they could get outside as soon as possible.
Emily LOVES Halloween.
She plans on going out until people actually refuse to give her candy on the grounds that she is simply too old to go out trick or treating.
One year, with the help of a good friend, Em went out as a suitcase.
Which was a great idea until she had to sit down for reasons little girls have to sit down.
Em's second Halloween was a most confusing time for her.
She understood that you went to people's door and they gave you things.
What she didn't seem to understand was that you couldn't actually take anything you wanted.
Hence, upon coming to the front door of a lovely house at the bottom of Smythe Street, we were greeted by a lovely older woman.
And Em, who up to that point, was only interested in the candy, spied a cat.
And with a speed only exhibited in two years olds super-charged with Halloween candy, she dashes into the house, and grabs the cat.
The next few minutes were a mad cap cacophany reminiscent of a Benny Hill skit, minus the half dressed young girls and the oggling Benny Hill. A giggling two year old, a wailing, hissing, really pissed off cat, an older woman yelling, "Oh! Oh! Oh!" and me racing around this woman's house trying to capture Em, who saw my chasing her as an added bonus to an already exciting evening.
When I finally managed to grab her, she clutched the hissing, wailing, pissed off cat close to her little chest and yelled, "MY KITTY!"
The home/cat owner was in a state of utter panic, worried that my feline loving two year old was going to abscond with her cat, tucked in Em's candy bag among the chocolate bars, chips, suckers, gum, etc.
Em was NOT happy when I removed the poor, traumatized cat from her hot little hands, apologized to the shocked and flabbergasted older woman and hoisted Em under my arm for a less than graceful exit.
Clutching her candy bag, Em kept insisting the kitty was hers, while I combed the neighbourhood looking for Meredyth and Keith who saw this as an opportunity to backtrack and revisit houses looking to acquire some additional booty.
When the kids informed me that my escorting services were no longer required on Halloween night, I saw it as a mixed blessing.
On the one hand, I didn't have to go with them, wandering around in the dark pilfering candy from strangers.
On the other hand, they were going out with their friends.
And the only thing more terrifying than having your kids go to other people's house is having other people's kids come to yours.
Sugar gorged horomonal teenagers travelling in packs.
Ummmm. . . .
Careful reflection and analysis have revealed two possible reasons for my dislike of Halloween.
One, my mother was about as excited about Halloween as I am.
She worked long days as a nurse, catering to the needs of her patients, listening to doctors, dealing with kvetching family members.
By the time she got home, got dinner ready and the dishes done, the last thing she wanted to worry about was Halloween.
In fact, I argue there was one Halloween where she actually forgot it was Halloween, although she would deny it with her dying breath.
Consequently, she pushed me out the back door wearing a pink sheet with freshly cut eyeholes, accessorized with a green glow stick.
Two, I lived in a rural area.
Meaning Halloween was nothing more than a forced route march.
Houses were so far apart, you actually didn't know if you were coming to a house until you caught the faintest glimmer of a low wattage porch light.
You'd walk and walk and walk and walk, only to be rewarded with a paltry chocolate bar given to you by a crusty, unshaven man, annoyed that he had to move out of his Laz-y-Boy recliner for the third time that evening, therefore missing the crucial denoument to Miami Vice, only to have to answer the door for a pink-sheeted ghost with a glow stick wrapped around its neck.
While walking on the dirt shoulder of the highway on which our humble abode was housed, drivers actually slowed down to double check that they weren't seeing the result of an alien invasion but rather a poorly put together vision in pink with neon green trim.
THAT was it.
The next Halloween, I revolted.
Either my parent's drove me to Oromocto, to go door-to-door begging among military neighbourhoods full of houses so close to one another you weren't sure whether or not they were actually separated.
Or they bought me the equivalent of all the candy I would have scored if they had driven me to Oromocto.
Because I was no longer willing to traipse around our rural hamlet for a chocolate bar that wouldn't provide enough sustenance to get me back to my parent's house.
Oromocto was a mecca for rural kids who, like my brother and me, boycotted the long nights journey into more night in search of an airfilled bag of chips.
Four miles for a bag of air with one chip inside.
I don't think so, thank you very much.
The loot we scored.
While my rural loving parents were passing out candy at the rate of one chocolate bar every 90 minutes, the military families in Oromocto were privy to a frenzy of candy loving, sugar hyped kids attacking their houses like sharks after chum.
We came home with so much candy, my father actually confiscated some of it.
I'm positive it was recycled as stocking stuffers at Christmas time.
About the only warm memory I have of Halloween is the thrill of coming home, turning your loot bag upside down and through the mound of goodies.
We always made piles, while shoving chocolate into our mouths.
There was the don't-touch-this-or-I'll-cut-your-lips-off-pile, the I'll-eat-this-when-there-is-nothing-else-left-pile, and the I-think-these-people-were-on-crack-pile.
And finally, the cut portioned out for my father, out of respect.
My dad, paid off, given tribute, with a portion of the loot garnered from the publically sanctioned door to door freeloading of his children.
I wonder what they would call this in the old country.
Now, I spend Halloween walking from the kitchen to the front door and back to the kitchen again, while trying to mark papers and keep the dogs calm.
Tikka is always more than willing to greet the candy cadging critters.
Frankie is always more than willing to chase them off our property.
The cats are always locked upstairs.
Caterwauling, meowing, hissing and spitting ensue until they are released from their prisons and allowed to cavort through the house.
Stephen and I manage to eat far more candy than is necessary, an issue I raised during my first visit at Simply for Life.
I asked what we were supposed to do to prevent the usual face stuffing food fest we have come to look forward to and loath in equal parts.
And this is when I was, yet again, reminded that having 8 university degrees between the two of us is actually not much of a sign of intelligence.
The SFL advice.
The golden nugget of knowledge that will prevent Stephen and I from eating our body weight in candy.
Buy something you don't like.
ALL THESE YEARS we've been buying Halloween candy we liked.
Not because we wanted to give it away.
But because we wanted to simply spend the evening eating said candy with reckless abandon until we reached a candy coma and were subsequently buried under the weight of all the discarded wrappers.
Buy something you don't like.
Gum then it is.
D'OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Title Lyric: This is Halloween from the Nightmare Before Christmas Soundtrack
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
I've gained an ounce, I've gained a pound. . . .
October 29, 2010
There is an elephant in the room.
Me.
Always there.
Always present and accounted for.
Okay, "me" specifically may be a bit harsh.
My weight.
More to the point, the fact that there is so much of it.
And now, I am engaged in a battle that may well be the most challening battle thus far in my life.
More challenging than completing three university degrees while raising three children on my own.
More challenging than my mother's two year hospitalization and subsequent move into a nursing home.
More challening than being married to Stephen.
And yes, even more challenging than raising Meredyth.
Weight loss.
Cause the "it's baby fat" excuse isn't all that valid anymore, considering the kids are 21, 19 and 16.
The weight seems to want to stay with me, rent free, so it's definitely time for an eviction.
Hence, this past Monday, I did something my doctor told me to do three months ago.
I had my first appointment at Simply for Life.
Let the battle end!
Oh the weight stories I have.
A regular tell all repository of every single humiliation, embarrassment, wanting to instantaneously disappear and never show my face again play-by-play accounts of a life long war between me and food.
There are lots of reasons for how come I have gotten to this place.
I often wonder what would of happened had my parents actually spoke to one another before they began to reproduce.
Mum: Well, Jerry, what do you think our children will look like?
Dad: Good question Janet. If we take into consideration that overweight people exist on both sides of our family, specifically, my mother, Dora, struggled with weight her entire life. She was a big woman. And on your side of the family, tree trunk thighs tend to be a visible pattern. What do you think will be the outcome of our reproductive activities?
Mum: Excellent points Jerry. And, if we couple those physical characteristics with a genetic predisposition towards depression, which often causes people to eat when they are stressed, upset or experiencing any myriad of emotions, we could conclude that we may have children with weight issues.
Dad: We should still reproduce, though. We may be completely off in our assessments and have two children who have no weight or mental health issues. They will be perfect.
Mum: They will be. And we will be so lucky.
Instead of perfect, thin children, my parents created two children who have spent their entire lives battling the caloric evil all around them.
I know they didn't plan it that way.
Because if they did, I'd be quite upset.
Emotional eating.
If there was ever a poster child for emotional eating, it's me.
Get me upset, and be prepared to see me trawling through the aisles of the Superstore or the Bulk Barn looking for as much chocolate and sugar as I can get until I start to feel guilty.
In a pinch, there's a vending machine in our building.
Oh Henry! has gotten me through a number of job stress related issues.
And if I'm REALLY lucky, my students will hook.me.up.
Yesterday, for example, a group of students was doing a presentation in one of my classes. The presentation included an activity, and there were prizes for those students who paid attention during the presentation.
A box of 90 Halloween sized Hershey bars. . .milk chocolate, cookies and cream, and caramel filled.
The instant I saw that box, my pupils dialated, by heart beat quickened, and all I could think of was just how good those chocolate bars were going to be.
My student opened the box and leaned it towards me in a gesture reminiscent of a flasher whipping open his trenchcoat to unleash his goodies.
I was powerless to resist.
My hands reached inside the box and withdrew an overflowing handful of chocolately wrapped goodness enticing me to partake, to "come on, try it, you know you want to."
And I did.
After the presentation and activity, another handful of temptation came my way, sitting beside the growing pile of empty wrappers, the remnants of the candy bars already called to duty.
Coupled with the large pile of Peanut Butter M&Ms I procured from a student, magnificence in a candy coated covering, sublime, heavenly, each little button of chocolate and peanut butter crunchiness filling my stressed, frustrated soul with a temporary, euphoric peace that lastest just until I was able to get another one in touch with my tantalized taste buds.
Crack.
Peanut Butter M&Ms are the crack of the candy world.
And I the biggest user.
Of course, like any addict, I felt like crap afterwards.
Sitting in my office, convincing myself I would never indulge like that again.
Unfortunately, stress eating doesn't include thinking in the long term.
Obviously, or I wouldn't be where I am right now.
And because I am an equal opportunity eater, I can derive as much pleasure from a mound of steaming whipped potatoes, with the petit pat of butter nestled on top like a cherry on an ice cream sundae.
Macaroni and cheese, homemade of course, with just the right amount of salt, pepper and ketchup will shoo away my slump.
A steak, rare, with sauteed mushrooms on top can made even most horrific of days melt away like a popcicle on a hot summer's day.
Sometimes, all I need is a pile of PC Decadent Chocolate Chip cookies and a nice, hot cup of coffee to drive the doldrums away.
Bags of Empire Theater popcorn peppered with any kind M&Ms (save pretzel. . .not feeling the love for Pretzel M&Ms) is enough to transport me to a place of unfettered bliss.
Even oatmeal, yes oatmeal, homemade with apples, raisins and cinnamon, surrounded like an island with warm milk, and topped with a generous sprinkling of brown sugar can chase away the crankiness with almost lightening speed.
Food and stress, a deadly, but oh-so-delicious combination.
A love for food that almost surpasses my love for the kids.
I.
Love.
Food.
Food is not just fuel for the body.
It is art.
Food can inspire joy and anticipation, sadness and frustration.
Holidays are, in part, built on food.
Christmas turkey, Easter ham, Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.
If I thought of everything with the fervour and zest in which I think about food, I'd have five PhD's by now.
The amount of time I spend thinking about food, anticipating what I will eat when I get home, what I will have for lunch, how much I will bake and cook over the weekend. . . .
I could have cured cancer, become the first legitimate Prime Minister of Canada, written the great Canadian novel and figured out how to stop the global destruction of the environment.
Yes. That much time.
So, what has prompted the sudden end of my life long food fiesta?
Guilt?
Sort of.
Jealousy?
Um, perhaps. My brother, my long time companion of conspicuous caloric consumption has lost a lot of weight.
Not necessarily in the best way, but when you're me, you don't think of reason, you think results.
Health?
Gottcha!
At 43, I am more tired than I should be. There are so many things I want to do, but can't because I am just too tired.
Which makes perfect sense when you carry the load I carry every day.
I have the knees of a 69 year old.
Over the summer, tired of dealing with debilitating knee pain, sometimes so painful it would literally wake me up during the night, I made an appointment to see my doctor, who sent me for x-rays and then informed me of the results of said x-rays.
It wasn't pretty.
I've had knee pain since I was 16, when I started working in a convenience store and was on my feet for 8 hours at a time.
And its only gotten worse as I've gotten older and heavier.
More importantly, after going through all I went through as a result of my mother's health, I simply didn't want to put my kids through all I've been through.
And that means getting my health in order.
Which brings us to today.
No more piles of potatoes, mouthwatering steaks, sumptuous stews, colossal cakes. . .
Goodbye, for now, to squash, peas, corn. . .
I LOVE squash.
We currently have 25 pounds of it in our basement.
Cookies, chips and dip, guacamole, squares, I bid you adieu.
Swiss Chalet, McDonalds, Subway, Yassou, I say aurevoir.
And welcome to spelt, walnuts, fish, chicken breast, apples, almonds, brown rice. . .
The cleansing diet.
Which will presumably pave the way towards teaching me that food does not have to be an obsession, a comfort, a crutch.
A lifestyle change.
What will ultimately be a good change.
For all of us.
Because I am the Queen Bee of this Hive, and I'm bringing everyone with me whether they want to come along for the ride or not.
Cause if Mama can't eat chocolate, nobody can eat chocolate.
Title Lyric: Instant Weight Loss by Sparks
There is an elephant in the room.
Me.
Always there.
Always present and accounted for.
Okay, "me" specifically may be a bit harsh.
My weight.
More to the point, the fact that there is so much of it.
And now, I am engaged in a battle that may well be the most challening battle thus far in my life.
More challenging than completing three university degrees while raising three children on my own.
More challenging than my mother's two year hospitalization and subsequent move into a nursing home.
More challening than being married to Stephen.
And yes, even more challenging than raising Meredyth.
Weight loss.
Cause the "it's baby fat" excuse isn't all that valid anymore, considering the kids are 21, 19 and 16.
The weight seems to want to stay with me, rent free, so it's definitely time for an eviction.
Hence, this past Monday, I did something my doctor told me to do three months ago.
I had my first appointment at Simply for Life.
Let the battle end!
Oh the weight stories I have.
A regular tell all repository of every single humiliation, embarrassment, wanting to instantaneously disappear and never show my face again play-by-play accounts of a life long war between me and food.
There are lots of reasons for how come I have gotten to this place.
I often wonder what would of happened had my parents actually spoke to one another before they began to reproduce.
Mum: Well, Jerry, what do you think our children will look like?
Dad: Good question Janet. If we take into consideration that overweight people exist on both sides of our family, specifically, my mother, Dora, struggled with weight her entire life. She was a big woman. And on your side of the family, tree trunk thighs tend to be a visible pattern. What do you think will be the outcome of our reproductive activities?
Mum: Excellent points Jerry. And, if we couple those physical characteristics with a genetic predisposition towards depression, which often causes people to eat when they are stressed, upset or experiencing any myriad of emotions, we could conclude that we may have children with weight issues.
Dad: We should still reproduce, though. We may be completely off in our assessments and have two children who have no weight or mental health issues. They will be perfect.
Mum: They will be. And we will be so lucky.
Instead of perfect, thin children, my parents created two children who have spent their entire lives battling the caloric evil all around them.
I know they didn't plan it that way.
Because if they did, I'd be quite upset.
Emotional eating.
If there was ever a poster child for emotional eating, it's me.
Get me upset, and be prepared to see me trawling through the aisles of the Superstore or the Bulk Barn looking for as much chocolate and sugar as I can get until I start to feel guilty.
In a pinch, there's a vending machine in our building.
Oh Henry! has gotten me through a number of job stress related issues.
And if I'm REALLY lucky, my students will hook.me.up.
Yesterday, for example, a group of students was doing a presentation in one of my classes. The presentation included an activity, and there were prizes for those students who paid attention during the presentation.
A box of 90 Halloween sized Hershey bars. . .milk chocolate, cookies and cream, and caramel filled.
The instant I saw that box, my pupils dialated, by heart beat quickened, and all I could think of was just how good those chocolate bars were going to be.
My student opened the box and leaned it towards me in a gesture reminiscent of a flasher whipping open his trenchcoat to unleash his goodies.
I was powerless to resist.
My hands reached inside the box and withdrew an overflowing handful of chocolately wrapped goodness enticing me to partake, to "come on, try it, you know you want to."
And I did.
After the presentation and activity, another handful of temptation came my way, sitting beside the growing pile of empty wrappers, the remnants of the candy bars already called to duty.
Coupled with the large pile of Peanut Butter M&Ms I procured from a student, magnificence in a candy coated covering, sublime, heavenly, each little button of chocolate and peanut butter crunchiness filling my stressed, frustrated soul with a temporary, euphoric peace that lastest just until I was able to get another one in touch with my tantalized taste buds.
Crack.
Peanut Butter M&Ms are the crack of the candy world.
And I the biggest user.
Of course, like any addict, I felt like crap afterwards.
Sitting in my office, convincing myself I would never indulge like that again.
Unfortunately, stress eating doesn't include thinking in the long term.
Obviously, or I wouldn't be where I am right now.
And because I am an equal opportunity eater, I can derive as much pleasure from a mound of steaming whipped potatoes, with the petit pat of butter nestled on top like a cherry on an ice cream sundae.
Macaroni and cheese, homemade of course, with just the right amount of salt, pepper and ketchup will shoo away my slump.
A steak, rare, with sauteed mushrooms on top can made even most horrific of days melt away like a popcicle on a hot summer's day.
Sometimes, all I need is a pile of PC Decadent Chocolate Chip cookies and a nice, hot cup of coffee to drive the doldrums away.
Bags of Empire Theater popcorn peppered with any kind M&Ms (save pretzel. . .not feeling the love for Pretzel M&Ms) is enough to transport me to a place of unfettered bliss.
Even oatmeal, yes oatmeal, homemade with apples, raisins and cinnamon, surrounded like an island with warm milk, and topped with a generous sprinkling of brown sugar can chase away the crankiness with almost lightening speed.
Food and stress, a deadly, but oh-so-delicious combination.
A love for food that almost surpasses my love for the kids.
I.
Love.
Food.
Food is not just fuel for the body.
It is art.
Food can inspire joy and anticipation, sadness and frustration.
Holidays are, in part, built on food.
Christmas turkey, Easter ham, Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.
If I thought of everything with the fervour and zest in which I think about food, I'd have five PhD's by now.
The amount of time I spend thinking about food, anticipating what I will eat when I get home, what I will have for lunch, how much I will bake and cook over the weekend. . . .
I could have cured cancer, become the first legitimate Prime Minister of Canada, written the great Canadian novel and figured out how to stop the global destruction of the environment.
Yes. That much time.
So, what has prompted the sudden end of my life long food fiesta?
Guilt?
Sort of.
Jealousy?
Um, perhaps. My brother, my long time companion of conspicuous caloric consumption has lost a lot of weight.
Not necessarily in the best way, but when you're me, you don't think of reason, you think results.
Health?
Gottcha!
At 43, I am more tired than I should be. There are so many things I want to do, but can't because I am just too tired.
Which makes perfect sense when you carry the load I carry every day.
I have the knees of a 69 year old.
Over the summer, tired of dealing with debilitating knee pain, sometimes so painful it would literally wake me up during the night, I made an appointment to see my doctor, who sent me for x-rays and then informed me of the results of said x-rays.
It wasn't pretty.
I've had knee pain since I was 16, when I started working in a convenience store and was on my feet for 8 hours at a time.
And its only gotten worse as I've gotten older and heavier.
More importantly, after going through all I went through as a result of my mother's health, I simply didn't want to put my kids through all I've been through.
And that means getting my health in order.
Which brings us to today.
No more piles of potatoes, mouthwatering steaks, sumptuous stews, colossal cakes. . .
Goodbye, for now, to squash, peas, corn. . .
I LOVE squash.
We currently have 25 pounds of it in our basement.
Cookies, chips and dip, guacamole, squares, I bid you adieu.
Swiss Chalet, McDonalds, Subway, Yassou, I say aurevoir.
And welcome to spelt, walnuts, fish, chicken breast, apples, almonds, brown rice. . .
The cleansing diet.
Which will presumably pave the way towards teaching me that food does not have to be an obsession, a comfort, a crutch.
A lifestyle change.
What will ultimately be a good change.
For all of us.
Because I am the Queen Bee of this Hive, and I'm bringing everyone with me whether they want to come along for the ride or not.
Cause if Mama can't eat chocolate, nobody can eat chocolate.
Title Lyric: Instant Weight Loss by Sparks
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I've got my pajamas on. . . .
October 28, 2010
The novelty of the new term has now completely disappeared.
Students who lamented how much they missed university while working at their minimum wage jobs, or jobs that paid more than minimum wage because if they didn't no one in their right mind would even contemplate doing them . . .
Ie: tree planting.
. . . who missed their stimulating classes, pined for the camaraderie of far flung friends, missed the fraternization with sports teams or clubs, students reminiscing about games won or joyous moments coming together with like-minded people. . . .
. . . .just wanting nothing more than to return to the hallowed halls of higher learning.
Most likely, they are just bloody sick and tired of being back under the same roof with their parents, chafing at obeying the "house rules" when they have just finished living for eight months "on their own" making their own rules, living within their own guidelines and essentially doing whatever the hell they wanted.
By July, Keith had started to comment about how he was missing school.
Em, on the other hand, had just finished school and when Keith said this, she looked at him like he'd grown another head.
But now, he's starting to feel the weight of the work expected in second year.
Weight that leads to panic that leads to him looking like a deer in headlights trying to figure out how the hell he got to this place and more importantly how can he leave it.
My own students are currently sporting the same alarmed and confused look on their kissers.
In most of my classes assignments are due this week.
The upper level classes are comprised of students who have had the pleasure of my company in previous classes, so they are accustomed to my expectations.
But my first year students, who have probably heard maliciously fabricated rumours regarding my standards can't look at me without a montage of emotions crossing their faces.
Most of them are contemplating, I suspect, whether they should throw themselves at my feet, or run as fast as they can, as far as they can, and never darken my door again.
One student was so anxious to see me this afternoon, he walked into my office when I was meeting with another student.
I asked him to wait, so he proceeded to sit in the only other empty chair in my office.
I then said, no, that chair, pointing to the one in the hallway.
Obligingly, he walked into the hall, picked up the chair and started to carry it into my office.
I was stunned.
Finally, I broke what I wanted down to its most basic form.
"You sit in the chair while it stays in the hallway until I'm finished here."
"Then I will call for you."
"Then you come in."
The fourth year student in my office found the entire thing entertaining.
Although I wish she could have seen the look on her face when he initially burst into my office, paper in hand, breathless, saying, "I NEED you to look at this. . ."
First year students are delightful.
Entertaining.
And terrified of writing a paper for me because I told them I like to read books about punctuation for fun.
Unlike many of my students, who thrive on being away from the nest, I lived at home while attending university.
The first time.
When I returned to university, I had roommates, but they never paid rent, helped with the utilities, or cooked their own meals.
Some of them still live with me today.
So, I don't quite consider it the same thing.
In retrospect, living on my own may have significantly changed my life's trajectory.
But I lived at home because I was a VERY young 18 year old when I first walked through the doors of St. Thomas University.
Very young, very naive.
There were people in my classes who were living on their own, or, even more astounding, with boyfriends or roommates, who drove their own cars, worked part time and managed to go to university.
I could barely manage to get to Oromocto and on the bus, which at that time cost a whopping $2.00, and brought you all the way from Oromocto to Fredericton.
But I didn't live in Oromocto.
I lived in Geary.
And I didn't have a driver's licence.
In 1985, getting from Geary to Fredericton was a journey as complex and perilious as Frodo's trek to rid himself of the ring.
Every morning my mother would haul herself out of bed, get herself suitably dressed in case she happened to get stopped by the police, or get into an accident, and drive me into Oromocto so I could catch the bus into Fredericton.
Unless I was working in Oromocto that evening, the same routine would occur, just in reverse.
Meaning if my mother was working, I waited for my brother, or worse, my father, who was perpetually angry with me from the time I was 16 until I left home at 20 because I wouldn't get a driver's licence, but I wanted to drive.
I even half-owned a car, with my brother.
But more about that later.
I would then go to my friend's house and we would walk to the bus stop together.
The bus would eventually arrive, and we'd hop on.
This leg of the journey meant traversing through the back roads of southern New Brunswick, picking up everyone and anyone who wanted an inexpensive ride to Fredericton.
Meaning it took a while.
The bus was old, creaky, smelly, and always-too-hot.
My friends and I would sit along the bench seat at the back.
The heat, coupled with the gentle swaying back and forth of the bus would inevitably put us to sleep.
Only the jolt of the brakes and the blast of cool air pushing through the stagnant heat was enough to wake us from our restful slumber.
We were then faced with the realization that we had arrived at our destination, and were facing the next phase of our perilious journey.
St. Thomas University is at the top of a VERY steep hill.
In fact, much of Fredericton is on a very steep hill.
Just ask anyone who has ever walked from downtown Fredericton (such as it is) to uptown Fredericton.
Our $2.00 bus dropped us off at the very bottom of the hill.
We would gather our things together, look at one another, sigh, and then begin the very long walk up the very steep hill.
The last leg of the journey.
And on many occasions I thought I'd have no legs left at the end of it.
I swore at every.single.car with their easily.breathing drivers who drove past us.
And by the time we managed to get to the top of the hill, we were sweaty, cranky and usually late for class.
I don't know many 8.30 French classes with John Rahn I sat through sweating like a hockey player just coming off the ice.
The entire journey, from start to finish took 90 minutes.
More time than I spent in most of my classes.
Those were the days.
Now I have a car.
I no longer have to spend 90 minutes taking a patchwork journey to get myself to where I need to be.
But there are some striking similarities between the journey of then and the journey of now.
Instead of trying to get my mother up, I fight to get Em up.
Instead of waiting for my friend to get ready so we could catch the bus, I wait in the car, contemplating how many times I could honk the horn before anyone would get themselves out of the house.
Rather than fall asleep on the too-hot bus, I become enslaved to Stephen's body temperature, which wreaks havoc with his hot and cold, leaving him mostly hot. . .
. . . . and me mostly cold.
Morning drives with my brood are anything but boring.
In fact, sometimes they are more entertaining than I would either want or need.
One January, the first day of the new winter term, I managed to wrangle everyone into the car.
No one wanted to be there, because it meant accepting that Christmas vacation was over and it was time to go back to the real world.
No one was happy.
In the back seat, Em and Keith are wrapped in their new winter wear, sour faced and cranky.
Stephen was in the passenger seat, fiddling around with the heater, complaining about "how hot and stifling" it was in the car.
All while half asleep
We drop the kids at FHS, pull out of the parking lot, and having the green light, glide through the intersection.
Tickety boo.
And then, on Prospect Street, just past through the lights in front of Tim Horton's, in the left lane, meant for those drivers who wish to make the left hand turn, eventually, onto Regent Street.
Perhaps the. busiest. intersection on the South side.
At 8.15 on the first day of the new winter term.
Our car just stops.
Stephen, in his stupor, asks, "What's wrong?"
Me: "The car stopped."
SJP: "How come?"
Me: "How the hell would I know???????"
No car, no heat, windows open, a line of cars behind us, drivers wondering how come nothing is moving, and whose fault it is, and how can things start moving again.
Meaning, they were getting pissed off.
And my half asleep husband is asking stupid questions.
I put those lights on that flash at people, and the line of disgruntled drivers starts moving around us like water around a rock just tossed into a shallow stream.
Me, I was looking straight ahead, because if I made eye contact with any one of those pissed off pilgrim of the morning commute, I may have done something I would not have regretted later.
Meanwhile, Stephen is sitting beside me, barking orders.
Try this, try that, do this, do that.
With each demand he was getting more and more agitated.
As was I.
Now, the logical person would have inquired about how come we didn't simply get out of the car, walk to the Irving gas station, literally a stone's throw away from us, and call a tow truck?
What a logical question.
And we were having that conversation.
It shouldn't have been an issue really, because I know nothing about cars.
Nor do I know about what is necessary to deal with a car related debacle.
I thought Stephen should go.
But he wouldn't.
Unusual for my usually easy-going, sort of mellow, almost always willing to do what is asked of him husband.
So, the real question is, how come Stephen didn't want to walk to the gas station and call the tow truck?
Because.
He was wearing his pajamas.
No socks.
"Special boy" hat.
And he didn't want to be seen in public.
Translation: he wasn't willing to become the morning's merrymaker, dressed like a pj'd jester in the middle of the Prospect Street's court of cranky commuters.
Rather than take a couple of extra minutes to throw on a pair of socks and pants, my husband, who could only think of getting back into the warm, embracing nest of his bed to go back to sleep, just shoves his feet into his boots and staggers to the car like a student coming home from a night at Nicky Zees.
He had more important things, then, on his mind than such insignificant things as socks and pants.
And underwear.
Stephen slides over the thingy in the car that makes it go, and reverse, because he still won't get his freshly frozen pappies out of the car, and I go the Irving, call the tow truck and then call our departmental assistant.
Because not only was it the first day back after Christmas vacation, I had a 9.00 am class.
Of course I did.
I get back to the car to see an RCMP officer directing traffic around our temporarily annihilated automobile.
Stephen, who was content to anger me, wasn't willing to piss off the police, had NO choice but to get out of the car, knowing his flimsy excuses and flimsier accoutrements were not going to sway the dutiful officer who just wanted to clear up traffic and get his timmies.
By some miracle, we manage to get the car moved to the Zeller's parking lot with only one instance of harshly spoken words, on Stephen's part, about the quality of my backing up skills, where Stephen and I, who by this time were not sharing terms of endearment with each other, stood in the very cold morning air waiting for the tow truck.
You should have seen the look on the truck driver's face when he sees Stephen is in his pjs.
It was outdone only by the look on Stephen's face when he realized he was going to have to walk into the dealer's service office wearing his pajamas.
And stay there, all morning, no socks, no pants, no underwear, and only his cottom pj bottoms to keep him company.
Now, he makes certain he's dressed, at least dressed enough before he leaves the house.
Cause there is no way he's going to bare his bottom to entertain the morning cranky commuters.
Again.
Title Lyric: Pajamas by Livingston Taylor
The novelty of the new term has now completely disappeared.
Students who lamented how much they missed university while working at their minimum wage jobs, or jobs that paid more than minimum wage because if they didn't no one in their right mind would even contemplate doing them . . .
Ie: tree planting.
. . . who missed their stimulating classes, pined for the camaraderie of far flung friends, missed the fraternization with sports teams or clubs, students reminiscing about games won or joyous moments coming together with like-minded people. . . .
. . . .just wanting nothing more than to return to the hallowed halls of higher learning.
Most likely, they are just bloody sick and tired of being back under the same roof with their parents, chafing at obeying the "house rules" when they have just finished living for eight months "on their own" making their own rules, living within their own guidelines and essentially doing whatever the hell they wanted.
By July, Keith had started to comment about how he was missing school.
Em, on the other hand, had just finished school and when Keith said this, she looked at him like he'd grown another head.
But now, he's starting to feel the weight of the work expected in second year.
Weight that leads to panic that leads to him looking like a deer in headlights trying to figure out how the hell he got to this place and more importantly how can he leave it.
My own students are currently sporting the same alarmed and confused look on their kissers.
In most of my classes assignments are due this week.
The upper level classes are comprised of students who have had the pleasure of my company in previous classes, so they are accustomed to my expectations.
But my first year students, who have probably heard maliciously fabricated rumours regarding my standards can't look at me without a montage of emotions crossing their faces.
Most of them are contemplating, I suspect, whether they should throw themselves at my feet, or run as fast as they can, as far as they can, and never darken my door again.
One student was so anxious to see me this afternoon, he walked into my office when I was meeting with another student.
I asked him to wait, so he proceeded to sit in the only other empty chair in my office.
I then said, no, that chair, pointing to the one in the hallway.
Obligingly, he walked into the hall, picked up the chair and started to carry it into my office.
I was stunned.
Finally, I broke what I wanted down to its most basic form.
"You sit in the chair while it stays in the hallway until I'm finished here."
"Then I will call for you."
"Then you come in."
The fourth year student in my office found the entire thing entertaining.
Although I wish she could have seen the look on her face when he initially burst into my office, paper in hand, breathless, saying, "I NEED you to look at this. . ."
First year students are delightful.
Entertaining.
And terrified of writing a paper for me because I told them I like to read books about punctuation for fun.
Unlike many of my students, who thrive on being away from the nest, I lived at home while attending university.
The first time.
When I returned to university, I had roommates, but they never paid rent, helped with the utilities, or cooked their own meals.
Some of them still live with me today.
So, I don't quite consider it the same thing.
In retrospect, living on my own may have significantly changed my life's trajectory.
But I lived at home because I was a VERY young 18 year old when I first walked through the doors of St. Thomas University.
Very young, very naive.
There were people in my classes who were living on their own, or, even more astounding, with boyfriends or roommates, who drove their own cars, worked part time and managed to go to university.
I could barely manage to get to Oromocto and on the bus, which at that time cost a whopping $2.00, and brought you all the way from Oromocto to Fredericton.
But I didn't live in Oromocto.
I lived in Geary.
And I didn't have a driver's licence.
In 1985, getting from Geary to Fredericton was a journey as complex and perilious as Frodo's trek to rid himself of the ring.
Every morning my mother would haul herself out of bed, get herself suitably dressed in case she happened to get stopped by the police, or get into an accident, and drive me into Oromocto so I could catch the bus into Fredericton.
Unless I was working in Oromocto that evening, the same routine would occur, just in reverse.
Meaning if my mother was working, I waited for my brother, or worse, my father, who was perpetually angry with me from the time I was 16 until I left home at 20 because I wouldn't get a driver's licence, but I wanted to drive.
I even half-owned a car, with my brother.
But more about that later.
I would then go to my friend's house and we would walk to the bus stop together.
The bus would eventually arrive, and we'd hop on.
This leg of the journey meant traversing through the back roads of southern New Brunswick, picking up everyone and anyone who wanted an inexpensive ride to Fredericton.
Meaning it took a while.
The bus was old, creaky, smelly, and always-too-hot.
My friends and I would sit along the bench seat at the back.
The heat, coupled with the gentle swaying back and forth of the bus would inevitably put us to sleep.
Only the jolt of the brakes and the blast of cool air pushing through the stagnant heat was enough to wake us from our restful slumber.
We were then faced with the realization that we had arrived at our destination, and were facing the next phase of our perilious journey.
St. Thomas University is at the top of a VERY steep hill.
In fact, much of Fredericton is on a very steep hill.
Just ask anyone who has ever walked from downtown Fredericton (such as it is) to uptown Fredericton.
Our $2.00 bus dropped us off at the very bottom of the hill.
We would gather our things together, look at one another, sigh, and then begin the very long walk up the very steep hill.
The last leg of the journey.
And on many occasions I thought I'd have no legs left at the end of it.
I swore at every.single.car with their easily.breathing drivers who drove past us.
And by the time we managed to get to the top of the hill, we were sweaty, cranky and usually late for class.
I don't know many 8.30 French classes with John Rahn I sat through sweating like a hockey player just coming off the ice.
The entire journey, from start to finish took 90 minutes.
More time than I spent in most of my classes.
Those were the days.
Now I have a car.
I no longer have to spend 90 minutes taking a patchwork journey to get myself to where I need to be.
But there are some striking similarities between the journey of then and the journey of now.
Instead of trying to get my mother up, I fight to get Em up.
Instead of waiting for my friend to get ready so we could catch the bus, I wait in the car, contemplating how many times I could honk the horn before anyone would get themselves out of the house.
Rather than fall asleep on the too-hot bus, I become enslaved to Stephen's body temperature, which wreaks havoc with his hot and cold, leaving him mostly hot. . .
. . . . and me mostly cold.
Morning drives with my brood are anything but boring.
In fact, sometimes they are more entertaining than I would either want or need.
One January, the first day of the new winter term, I managed to wrangle everyone into the car.
No one wanted to be there, because it meant accepting that Christmas vacation was over and it was time to go back to the real world.
No one was happy.
In the back seat, Em and Keith are wrapped in their new winter wear, sour faced and cranky.
Stephen was in the passenger seat, fiddling around with the heater, complaining about "how hot and stifling" it was in the car.
All while half asleep
We drop the kids at FHS, pull out of the parking lot, and having the green light, glide through the intersection.
Tickety boo.
And then, on Prospect Street, just past through the lights in front of Tim Horton's, in the left lane, meant for those drivers who wish to make the left hand turn, eventually, onto Regent Street.
Perhaps the. busiest. intersection on the South side.
At 8.15 on the first day of the new winter term.
Our car just stops.
Stephen, in his stupor, asks, "What's wrong?"
Me: "The car stopped."
SJP: "How come?"
Me: "How the hell would I know???????"
No car, no heat, windows open, a line of cars behind us, drivers wondering how come nothing is moving, and whose fault it is, and how can things start moving again.
Meaning, they were getting pissed off.
And my half asleep husband is asking stupid questions.
I put those lights on that flash at people, and the line of disgruntled drivers starts moving around us like water around a rock just tossed into a shallow stream.
Me, I was looking straight ahead, because if I made eye contact with any one of those pissed off pilgrim of the morning commute, I may have done something I would not have regretted later.
Meanwhile, Stephen is sitting beside me, barking orders.
Try this, try that, do this, do that.
With each demand he was getting more and more agitated.
As was I.
Now, the logical person would have inquired about how come we didn't simply get out of the car, walk to the Irving gas station, literally a stone's throw away from us, and call a tow truck?
What a logical question.
And we were having that conversation.
It shouldn't have been an issue really, because I know nothing about cars.
Nor do I know about what is necessary to deal with a car related debacle.
I thought Stephen should go.
But he wouldn't.
Unusual for my usually easy-going, sort of mellow, almost always willing to do what is asked of him husband.
So, the real question is, how come Stephen didn't want to walk to the gas station and call the tow truck?
Because.
He was wearing his pajamas.
No socks.
"Special boy" hat.
And he didn't want to be seen in public.
Translation: he wasn't willing to become the morning's merrymaker, dressed like a pj'd jester in the middle of the Prospect Street's court of cranky commuters.
Rather than take a couple of extra minutes to throw on a pair of socks and pants, my husband, who could only think of getting back into the warm, embracing nest of his bed to go back to sleep, just shoves his feet into his boots and staggers to the car like a student coming home from a night at Nicky Zees.
He had more important things, then, on his mind than such insignificant things as socks and pants.
And underwear.
Stephen slides over the thingy in the car that makes it go, and reverse, because he still won't get his freshly frozen pappies out of the car, and I go the Irving, call the tow truck and then call our departmental assistant.
Because not only was it the first day back after Christmas vacation, I had a 9.00 am class.
Of course I did.
I get back to the car to see an RCMP officer directing traffic around our temporarily annihilated automobile.
Stephen, who was content to anger me, wasn't willing to piss off the police, had NO choice but to get out of the car, knowing his flimsy excuses and flimsier accoutrements were not going to sway the dutiful officer who just wanted to clear up traffic and get his timmies.
By some miracle, we manage to get the car moved to the Zeller's parking lot with only one instance of harshly spoken words, on Stephen's part, about the quality of my backing up skills, where Stephen and I, who by this time were not sharing terms of endearment with each other, stood in the very cold morning air waiting for the tow truck.
You should have seen the look on the truck driver's face when he sees Stephen is in his pjs.
It was outdone only by the look on Stephen's face when he realized he was going to have to walk into the dealer's service office wearing his pajamas.
And stay there, all morning, no socks, no pants, no underwear, and only his cottom pj bottoms to keep him company.
Now, he makes certain he's dressed, at least dressed enough before he leaves the house.
Cause there is no way he's going to bare his bottom to entertain the morning cranky commuters.
Again.
Title Lyric: Pajamas by Livingston Taylor
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
But I better be quiet now, I'm tired of wasting my breath. . . .
October 27, 2010
5.30 am.
That's when I got up this morning.
Dressed in complete darkness so as to not wake my fitfully sleeping husband.
Tried to keep the dogs quiet so they, too, would not wake my fitfully sleeping husband.
I just couldn't sleep.
How come?
Because all night, and I mean ALL NIGHT I fought with my fitfully sleeping husband to roll off his back and onto his stomach so the gawd awful, never ending snorning from hell that shakes the house and rattles the rafters would just, simply,
STOP!
Stephen sleeps with an state of deep unconscious that I have never encountered.
Perhaps its years of being awake at the hint of a cough, sneeze, footstep, creaking floor board, opening refridgerator door, but I can wake up at the drop of a pin.
It's MOST annoying.
Usually, Stephen's snorning doesn't bother me. After seven years together, I have developed an immunity to his snorning, a wall I've built around myself to prevent the obnoxious turbulence coming out of his face from shattering my peaceful slumber.
But every once in a while, regardless of the Herculean strength of my immunty, no matter how exhausted I am, how much melatonin I've injested, or how high I have built my walls, Stephen's snorning will occasioanlly prevent somnolence.
He is SUCH a deep sleeper that even the persistent blaring of the smoke alarm, caused by Stephen making cookies, putting them in the oven, and then going to bed because he was so tired he wasn't even aware he was making cookies in the first place, forced me out of bed with a speed I didn't even know I possessed when the smoke alarm went off, run downstairs (yes, run) to a kitchen filled with smoke from the charred remains of what I think were supposed to be chocolate chip cookies.
Dogs howling, kids pounding downstairs, cats clinging to the ceiling from the second the smoke alarm went off, little hearts pounding, while they watched their fur fall off in large patches from the smoke alarm inspired fear.
It took every fan we had in the house to even begin clearing out the burnt cookies smoke.
We smacked the smoke detector with a broom to stop its incessent screaming.
Every downstairs door and window was opened, encouraging, begging, pleading with the night air to take away the stink of chocolate chip cookies.
And while the kids and I were running around trying to rid the house of its black cloud, Stephen was sound asleep, oblivious to the complete and utter chaos he had initiated.
I tried to wake him up.
Nothing.
Yelling.
Throwing water on his face.
Dogs leaping on and off the bed with the same intensity exhibited by those Saturday morning exercise programs where the nauseatingly fit women jump on and off those step thingies.
Not even a twitch of his baby finger to indicate he was traversing the road to consciousness.
You can imagine what kind of conversation we had when he finally did wake up, wondering how come all the doors and windows were open, the fans blaring, and how come the house smelled like burnt cookies?
At least a week passed before we could walk into the house and not be greeted with the lingering odour of charred chocolate.
And at least two weeks before I could look at Stephen without the urge to throttle him.
It's now 6.22 pm.
I've just gotten home from work.
I enjoyed getting to work early.
If I didn't need to chauffer children hither and yon, I'd be at work every morning by 6.30 am.
That's when I work best. . . first thing in the morning.
No worrying about whether or not there would be an available parking space anywhere with a 10 km radius of the building that houses my office.
Things I hadn't dealt with, okay, things I had actively avoided because I was too tired to deal with them after teaching were finally dealt with.
300 emails reduced to 33.
"Delete" is my new favourite key.
An article read that I wanted to read prior to today was finally read.
It was a lovely way to start the day.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
Drinking coffee without fear of splashing it all over myself in response to the unanticipated, spontaneous, uncontrollable barking of my hounds.
Unfortunately, I was unable to sustain this peace.
Forces beyond my control colluded to ensure that my peace was shattered before lunch was even over.
However, the eternal optimist that I am, I've decided to see today as a learning experience.
About professionalism.
This is something I struggle with in some respects.
I don't see myself as a conventional professor.
As I have said many times before, I truly believe I was meant to be a stand up comedienne, however, this wasn't in the cards for me, so I turned to teaching instead, for reasons I have outlined before.
Because I'm not a traditional professor and see events and people in my life as a means of illustrating complex, abstract ideas, I can sometimes day things, and occasionally do things that, if they were taken out of context, could be construed as. . . . .
Odd.
That's the word I choose.
I believe you can teach using humour and have students take in more than if you stood there and lectured at them.
Understanding the importance of lecturing, I think its important to provide as many diverse means of teaching as you can.
I love storytelling. . .I know, I know, you've just fallen off your chair in shock and amazement.
Television programs from the 1970s, particularly All in the Family, are valuable sources of information.
And necessary for a good laugh.
There isn't anything that can't be fixed by watching Archie and Edith, Meathead and Gloria.
Robin Williams Weapons of Self Destruction can be a teaching tool, especially when trying to unravel the complexities of sex and gender.
And there isn't anything that can be made better with a good film clip, especially abstract theories.
Chicken Run, I contend, is the best Marxist film I've ever seen.
And you don't want to know what I can do with an empty red wine bottle and a loaf of white bread.
So I've had my challenges with understanding professionalism.
I had a particular image of academia as a student that wasn't borne out when I became a professor.
And it took me a while to reconcile my romanticized image of the academy with the harsh reality of being a university professor.
But the good of academia, at least for me, outweighs the bad.
Most of the time.
And today was one of those days when I the uglier side of academia reared its head.
Normally, if I know something particularly nasty is coming my way, I'll prepare myself for battle, equipping myself with the necessary armaments.
Which translates to adding to my vocabulary to ensure maximum scathingness and causticity.
And I'm not sure scathingness and causticity are words, but they're working for me right now.
But this time, I was caught completely off guard.
Absolutely no where near prepared for the unexpected shit storm.
With three children, two teenagers and one young adult, I've weathered many a shit storm.
It takes a lot to flabbergast and stupefy me.
But every once in a while, I find myself in a situation where I am utterly perplexed.
Like today.
Completely stunned to the point that I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.
Adrenaline was coursing through my veins.
Blood pounding through my veins toward my head.
Jaw lying on the floor.
I was trying to think of ways to prevent myself from doing something I would most assuredly regret later.
And my some miracle, I managed to keep my outer self reasonably calm.
Although I'm willing to guess people around me knew that I was dealing with off the rails inner turmoil.
This is where, I suspect, Mer gets it.
The difference between Mer and I, other than 21 years, is that I have learned when it's okay to get angry outwardly, and when it isn't.
Even when she lived in Ontario, if someone she loved had been maligned, Mer's first response would be,
"Who do I need to deal with?"
I have had my moments; there was the time I made a computer store clerk cry.
My computer needed fixin'.
They had to remove my files to do so.
Whether or not they really had to is moot. I wouldn't have known either way.
When I went to pick up my computer, the young man behind the desk informed me that it would cost an additional $75.00 to have MY information, that was removed from MY computer, reinstalled to MY computer.
Really.
My information. Already on my computer when I brought it to them to be repaired.
And they wanted money to put what was mine in the first place, back.
Even know it doesn't make any sense to me.
By the time I left, my stuff was back on at no additional charge.
And the computer clerk would think hard and fast about whether to tangle with an overextended single parent PhD candidate with three kids who were running around the store looking for electronic doodads they just HAD to have.
Shortly after, this store went out of business.
With practices like that, I'm not suprised.
But I have learned since then that sometimes, it's better to keep quiet.
Which is what I did.
Because there is a difference between airing opinions and being professional.
And this time I chose professional.
This time.
Who knows if the next time, and in academia there is ALWAYS a next time, I'll have the temerity to keep myself under control.
We can hope.
Cause there's always hope.
Now, where did I put that king size bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms, Ripple chips and the extra large container of dill pickle dip?????
Cause keeping my mouth shut has a cost.
Title Lyric: Better Be Quiet Now by Elliot Smith
5.30 am.
That's when I got up this morning.
Dressed in complete darkness so as to not wake my fitfully sleeping husband.
Tried to keep the dogs quiet so they, too, would not wake my fitfully sleeping husband.
I just couldn't sleep.
How come?
Because all night, and I mean ALL NIGHT I fought with my fitfully sleeping husband to roll off his back and onto his stomach so the gawd awful, never ending snorning from hell that shakes the house and rattles the rafters would just, simply,
STOP!
Stephen sleeps with an state of deep unconscious that I have never encountered.
Perhaps its years of being awake at the hint of a cough, sneeze, footstep, creaking floor board, opening refridgerator door, but I can wake up at the drop of a pin.
It's MOST annoying.
Usually, Stephen's snorning doesn't bother me. After seven years together, I have developed an immunity to his snorning, a wall I've built around myself to prevent the obnoxious turbulence coming out of his face from shattering my peaceful slumber.
But every once in a while, regardless of the Herculean strength of my immunty, no matter how exhausted I am, how much melatonin I've injested, or how high I have built my walls, Stephen's snorning will occasioanlly prevent somnolence.
He is SUCH a deep sleeper that even the persistent blaring of the smoke alarm, caused by Stephen making cookies, putting them in the oven, and then going to bed because he was so tired he wasn't even aware he was making cookies in the first place, forced me out of bed with a speed I didn't even know I possessed when the smoke alarm went off, run downstairs (yes, run) to a kitchen filled with smoke from the charred remains of what I think were supposed to be chocolate chip cookies.
Dogs howling, kids pounding downstairs, cats clinging to the ceiling from the second the smoke alarm went off, little hearts pounding, while they watched their fur fall off in large patches from the smoke alarm inspired fear.
It took every fan we had in the house to even begin clearing out the burnt cookies smoke.
We smacked the smoke detector with a broom to stop its incessent screaming.
Every downstairs door and window was opened, encouraging, begging, pleading with the night air to take away the stink of chocolate chip cookies.
And while the kids and I were running around trying to rid the house of its black cloud, Stephen was sound asleep, oblivious to the complete and utter chaos he had initiated.
I tried to wake him up.
Nothing.
Yelling.
Throwing water on his face.
Dogs leaping on and off the bed with the same intensity exhibited by those Saturday morning exercise programs where the nauseatingly fit women jump on and off those step thingies.
Not even a twitch of his baby finger to indicate he was traversing the road to consciousness.
You can imagine what kind of conversation we had when he finally did wake up, wondering how come all the doors and windows were open, the fans blaring, and how come the house smelled like burnt cookies?
At least a week passed before we could walk into the house and not be greeted with the lingering odour of charred chocolate.
And at least two weeks before I could look at Stephen without the urge to throttle him.
It's now 6.22 pm.
I've just gotten home from work.
I enjoyed getting to work early.
If I didn't need to chauffer children hither and yon, I'd be at work every morning by 6.30 am.
That's when I work best. . . first thing in the morning.
No worrying about whether or not there would be an available parking space anywhere with a 10 km radius of the building that houses my office.
Things I hadn't dealt with, okay, things I had actively avoided because I was too tired to deal with them after teaching were finally dealt with.
300 emails reduced to 33.
"Delete" is my new favourite key.
An article read that I wanted to read prior to today was finally read.
It was a lovely way to start the day.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
Drinking coffee without fear of splashing it all over myself in response to the unanticipated, spontaneous, uncontrollable barking of my hounds.
Unfortunately, I was unable to sustain this peace.
Forces beyond my control colluded to ensure that my peace was shattered before lunch was even over.
However, the eternal optimist that I am, I've decided to see today as a learning experience.
About professionalism.
This is something I struggle with in some respects.
I don't see myself as a conventional professor.
As I have said many times before, I truly believe I was meant to be a stand up comedienne, however, this wasn't in the cards for me, so I turned to teaching instead, for reasons I have outlined before.
Because I'm not a traditional professor and see events and people in my life as a means of illustrating complex, abstract ideas, I can sometimes day things, and occasionally do things that, if they were taken out of context, could be construed as. . . . .
Odd.
That's the word I choose.
I believe you can teach using humour and have students take in more than if you stood there and lectured at them.
Understanding the importance of lecturing, I think its important to provide as many diverse means of teaching as you can.
I love storytelling. . .I know, I know, you've just fallen off your chair in shock and amazement.
Television programs from the 1970s, particularly All in the Family, are valuable sources of information.
And necessary for a good laugh.
There isn't anything that can't be fixed by watching Archie and Edith, Meathead and Gloria.
Robin Williams Weapons of Self Destruction can be a teaching tool, especially when trying to unravel the complexities of sex and gender.
And there isn't anything that can be made better with a good film clip, especially abstract theories.
Chicken Run, I contend, is the best Marxist film I've ever seen.
And you don't want to know what I can do with an empty red wine bottle and a loaf of white bread.
So I've had my challenges with understanding professionalism.
I had a particular image of academia as a student that wasn't borne out when I became a professor.
And it took me a while to reconcile my romanticized image of the academy with the harsh reality of being a university professor.
But the good of academia, at least for me, outweighs the bad.
Most of the time.
And today was one of those days when I the uglier side of academia reared its head.
Normally, if I know something particularly nasty is coming my way, I'll prepare myself for battle, equipping myself with the necessary armaments.
Which translates to adding to my vocabulary to ensure maximum scathingness and causticity.
And I'm not sure scathingness and causticity are words, but they're working for me right now.
But this time, I was caught completely off guard.
Absolutely no where near prepared for the unexpected shit storm.
With three children, two teenagers and one young adult, I've weathered many a shit storm.
It takes a lot to flabbergast and stupefy me.
But every once in a while, I find myself in a situation where I am utterly perplexed.
Like today.
Completely stunned to the point that I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.
Adrenaline was coursing through my veins.
Blood pounding through my veins toward my head.
Jaw lying on the floor.
I was trying to think of ways to prevent myself from doing something I would most assuredly regret later.
And my some miracle, I managed to keep my outer self reasonably calm.
Although I'm willing to guess people around me knew that I was dealing with off the rails inner turmoil.
This is where, I suspect, Mer gets it.
The difference between Mer and I, other than 21 years, is that I have learned when it's okay to get angry outwardly, and when it isn't.
Even when she lived in Ontario, if someone she loved had been maligned, Mer's first response would be,
"Who do I need to deal with?"
I have had my moments; there was the time I made a computer store clerk cry.
My computer needed fixin'.
They had to remove my files to do so.
Whether or not they really had to is moot. I wouldn't have known either way.
When I went to pick up my computer, the young man behind the desk informed me that it would cost an additional $75.00 to have MY information, that was removed from MY computer, reinstalled to MY computer.
Really.
My information. Already on my computer when I brought it to them to be repaired.
And they wanted money to put what was mine in the first place, back.
Even know it doesn't make any sense to me.
By the time I left, my stuff was back on at no additional charge.
And the computer clerk would think hard and fast about whether to tangle with an overextended single parent PhD candidate with three kids who were running around the store looking for electronic doodads they just HAD to have.
Shortly after, this store went out of business.
With practices like that, I'm not suprised.
But I have learned since then that sometimes, it's better to keep quiet.
Which is what I did.
Because there is a difference between airing opinions and being professional.
And this time I chose professional.
This time.
Who knows if the next time, and in academia there is ALWAYS a next time, I'll have the temerity to keep myself under control.
We can hope.
Cause there's always hope.
Now, where did I put that king size bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms, Ripple chips and the extra large container of dill pickle dip?????
Cause keeping my mouth shut has a cost.
Title Lyric: Better Be Quiet Now by Elliot Smith
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sometimes the system goes on the blink and the whole thing turns out wrong. . .
October 26, 2010
Today is my parent's wedding anniversay. . .somewhere around 47 or 48 I think.
Almost 50 years married to the same person.
There are days, like today, that I can't imagine 5 minutes with one person, let alone 50 years!
I wouldn't hesitate to guess whether or not my parents believe they are happily married.
One is in a nursing home.
The other still resides at the Clarke family homestead.
I do know that, like all marriages, they have certainly had their ups and downs.
In fact, if I asked them to look back over their lives, could they have predicted they would be where they are today?
Probably not.
The other thing I know about marriage and life in general, is that when you make decisions about your life, decisions that will influence the lives of those around you, you make those decisions with the best of intentions.
People don't make decisions with the intention of f***ing up the lives of their loved ones.
At least not that I've heard.
For example, when I married my first husband, there was a small, very small and very quiet, almost inaudible voice in my head suggesting ever so gently that perhaps I might have been making a mistake.
However, I certainly didn't marry my first husband with the clear and lucid idea that I was going to make my life, my children's lives and my family's life absolutely, unequivocably miserable.
I wasn't joyfully deranged, gleefully thinking, "Think of the mess this'll make of my kids lives!!!!!! Muwahhhhhhahahahahahah. . . .!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Will this ever screw them over for most of their youth and young adulthood!!!!!!!!!" Whhhhhheeeeeeee!"
Nor, do I believe, that, when I was and my father retired from the military, did he think that he wouldn't secure full time employment again until I was 16.
Sometimes, we do things because at the time they were the best option we had among what is more than likely a pile of crappy options.
We just tried to pick least crappy option.
But the real question is, would you go back and change anything if you could?
I've said before that I would still have married my ex even if I knew what was going to happen because having Mer, Keith and Em was completely worth whatever I had to go through.
My mother would probably say that I was just being me, doing things the hard way, as always.
There may be some truth to that.
I was never the kind of person who listened to the logical suggestion, or followed the path of least resistance.
In fact, my mother would probably tell you that if there was a way to make a mess of something, I would always choose that option.
Telling me not to do something was THE quickest way to ensure I did it.
Suggesting that perhaps the British soldier who was visiting CFB Gagetown was not necessarily the man I should date was the most expeditious means of guaranteeing I would.
He turned out to be married.
Me, dating a married man.
Imagine.
But it wasn't on purpose.
I really didn't know.
I worked in a military bar.
There were plenty of available single men without me trolling for the married ones.
And it would seem this pigheaded stubborness, this belief that I knew everything and therefore saw those around me as mere pawns in my personal game of life, this determined rebellion against authority, this balky bullheadedess, this tenacious, steadfast singlemindedness has been passed on to all of my children.
However, they possess different degrees of hardheadedness, inflexibility, ornery persistence.
And guess who possesses the most and is, therefore, the most like me?
Just guess.
Really.
It's not rocket science.
You already know. . . .
Meredyth.
For love nor money, well, maybe money, I cannot get that child to learn from my mistakes.
To listen to her mother.
Or anyone for that matter, at least anyone over the age of 30.
From conception, she and I have been locked in a battle of wills.
There have been times when she's won, and others where I have come out with the upper hand.
She is, by far, of all the kids, the most like me.
And while this can be a good thing. . . .
. . . .most of the time it has resulted in all out war.
But no bloodshed.
At least so far.
She is unshakeable. Relentless. Resolute. Unbending. Willfull.
And opinionated????
Don't even get me started.
Oddly, this is what makes her Mer.
These are the qualities that I admire in her, because I know that no one, no where, no how, no way will EVER be able to get her to do something she doesn't want to do.
(Which is kind of scary given the things she has done, consciously, knowingly, etc. but that's for another time).
She will NEVER take crap from anyone, ever.
The only problem is when she uses these finely honed genetic skills with me.
Or at me.
Or against me.
For example, she has known her entire life how much I abhor smoking.
Really, take my money and it wouldn't upset me as much as smoking.
So what does Mer do?
Smokes.
Her first foray into the land of nicotine addiction was the age of. . . .
18 months.
This is how determined she was.
My mother is visiting because I am ready to pop Keith out at any minute.
(Although it took another 10 days for Keith to realize it was time to come out!)
My mother is in the bathroom, I'm in the kitchen (of course) and her father is in the bedroom.
By some cosmic force, we were all drawn into the living room at the same time.
Just in time to see 18 month old Meredyth with one of my mother's King Sized Benson and Hedges in her mouth, lighter in hand, ready to set that tube of nightmarish nicotine and assorted poisons aflame and send them coursing into her lungs.
All while she had put on my mother's bra, Madonna style, outside her clothes.
She screamed and jumped 6 feet when the three of us yelled, "STOP!"
Its a wonder she didn't drop the lighter and set the entire apartment on fire.
The same obstinance is evidenced when at 2 and a half, while puttering around in her grandmother's back yard with her grandmother, she simply walked over to the in ground pool and jumped in, fully clothed.
And promptly sinks to the bottom.
She's my child, there was no natural reflex to swim.
Grandma, of course, runs after her and jumps in, grabs her, pulls her out, and all Mer does is look at her and say,
"Grandma! You're all wet!"
I don't want Mer to be anyone but herself.
I just want her to listen to me once in a while, and accept that, while I am very old, I have at least one synape firing in my head.
I do know some things.
I've had some life experience.
And I'm not out to get her.
At least not yet.
Nor am I gathering family members around me for THE SOLE PURPOSE of pitting them all against Mer.
At least not yet.
I'm not trying to run her life.
I can barely manage my own.
I just want her to not do the things I did, to not make things harder than they need to be.
To listen.
So, from the moment I opened my eyes this morning, the day has been one big shit show.
Literally. . .I wasn't even out of bed when things went down the toilet.
I overslept.
7.22 am.
Instead of my usual 6.00 am.
Oversleeping sets the tone for the entire day.
Nothing, no matter how hard I try, how much effort I put into it, or what I say regardless of my intentions, works out.
By 7.30 am, 1/4 of my family, meaning those people who live in my house, was pissed off.
At 9.30 am, that number had risen to 1/2.
3/4 by 11.30 am.
And of that 3/4, 2/3 were my children.
Even without the extra incentive that landed at my feet by 11.30, I was ready to get back in bed and pull the covers over my head, not coming out until at least 5.30.
Now, I'm just plain nervous.
I have to go home and make tonight's dinner and tomorrow night's.
Knives are a necessity in the dinner making processes.
Given the day I've had, I have no idea where the knives may land.
I just hope that whatever happens, hospitalization or incarceration, or both aren't required.
Title Lyric: Bad Day by Daniel Powter
Today is my parent's wedding anniversay. . .somewhere around 47 or 48 I think.
Almost 50 years married to the same person.
There are days, like today, that I can't imagine 5 minutes with one person, let alone 50 years!
I wouldn't hesitate to guess whether or not my parents believe they are happily married.
One is in a nursing home.
The other still resides at the Clarke family homestead.
I do know that, like all marriages, they have certainly had their ups and downs.
In fact, if I asked them to look back over their lives, could they have predicted they would be where they are today?
Probably not.
The other thing I know about marriage and life in general, is that when you make decisions about your life, decisions that will influence the lives of those around you, you make those decisions with the best of intentions.
People don't make decisions with the intention of f***ing up the lives of their loved ones.
At least not that I've heard.
For example, when I married my first husband, there was a small, very small and very quiet, almost inaudible voice in my head suggesting ever so gently that perhaps I might have been making a mistake.
However, I certainly didn't marry my first husband with the clear and lucid idea that I was going to make my life, my children's lives and my family's life absolutely, unequivocably miserable.
I wasn't joyfully deranged, gleefully thinking, "Think of the mess this'll make of my kids lives!!!!!! Muwahhhhhhahahahahahah. . . .!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Will this ever screw them over for most of their youth and young adulthood!!!!!!!!!" Whhhhhheeeeeeee!"
Nor, do I believe, that, when I was and my father retired from the military, did he think that he wouldn't secure full time employment again until I was 16.
Sometimes, we do things because at the time they were the best option we had among what is more than likely a pile of crappy options.
We just tried to pick least crappy option.
But the real question is, would you go back and change anything if you could?
I've said before that I would still have married my ex even if I knew what was going to happen because having Mer, Keith and Em was completely worth whatever I had to go through.
My mother would probably say that I was just being me, doing things the hard way, as always.
There may be some truth to that.
I was never the kind of person who listened to the logical suggestion, or followed the path of least resistance.
In fact, my mother would probably tell you that if there was a way to make a mess of something, I would always choose that option.
Telling me not to do something was THE quickest way to ensure I did it.
Suggesting that perhaps the British soldier who was visiting CFB Gagetown was not necessarily the man I should date was the most expeditious means of guaranteeing I would.
He turned out to be married.
Me, dating a married man.
Imagine.
But it wasn't on purpose.
I really didn't know.
I worked in a military bar.
There were plenty of available single men without me trolling for the married ones.
And it would seem this pigheaded stubborness, this belief that I knew everything and therefore saw those around me as mere pawns in my personal game of life, this determined rebellion against authority, this balky bullheadedess, this tenacious, steadfast singlemindedness has been passed on to all of my children.
However, they possess different degrees of hardheadedness, inflexibility, ornery persistence.
And guess who possesses the most and is, therefore, the most like me?
Just guess.
Really.
It's not rocket science.
You already know. . . .
Meredyth.
For love nor money, well, maybe money, I cannot get that child to learn from my mistakes.
To listen to her mother.
Or anyone for that matter, at least anyone over the age of 30.
From conception, she and I have been locked in a battle of wills.
There have been times when she's won, and others where I have come out with the upper hand.
She is, by far, of all the kids, the most like me.
And while this can be a good thing. . . .
. . . .most of the time it has resulted in all out war.
But no bloodshed.
At least so far.
She is unshakeable. Relentless. Resolute. Unbending. Willfull.
And opinionated????
Don't even get me started.
Oddly, this is what makes her Mer.
These are the qualities that I admire in her, because I know that no one, no where, no how, no way will EVER be able to get her to do something she doesn't want to do.
(Which is kind of scary given the things she has done, consciously, knowingly, etc. but that's for another time).
She will NEVER take crap from anyone, ever.
The only problem is when she uses these finely honed genetic skills with me.
Or at me.
Or against me.
For example, she has known her entire life how much I abhor smoking.
Really, take my money and it wouldn't upset me as much as smoking.
So what does Mer do?
Smokes.
Her first foray into the land of nicotine addiction was the age of. . . .
18 months.
This is how determined she was.
My mother is visiting because I am ready to pop Keith out at any minute.
(Although it took another 10 days for Keith to realize it was time to come out!)
My mother is in the bathroom, I'm in the kitchen (of course) and her father is in the bedroom.
By some cosmic force, we were all drawn into the living room at the same time.
Just in time to see 18 month old Meredyth with one of my mother's King Sized Benson and Hedges in her mouth, lighter in hand, ready to set that tube of nightmarish nicotine and assorted poisons aflame and send them coursing into her lungs.
All while she had put on my mother's bra, Madonna style, outside her clothes.
She screamed and jumped 6 feet when the three of us yelled, "STOP!"
Its a wonder she didn't drop the lighter and set the entire apartment on fire.
The same obstinance is evidenced when at 2 and a half, while puttering around in her grandmother's back yard with her grandmother, she simply walked over to the in ground pool and jumped in, fully clothed.
And promptly sinks to the bottom.
She's my child, there was no natural reflex to swim.
Grandma, of course, runs after her and jumps in, grabs her, pulls her out, and all Mer does is look at her and say,
"Grandma! You're all wet!"
I don't want Mer to be anyone but herself.
I just want her to listen to me once in a while, and accept that, while I am very old, I have at least one synape firing in my head.
I do know some things.
I've had some life experience.
And I'm not out to get her.
At least not yet.
Nor am I gathering family members around me for THE SOLE PURPOSE of pitting them all against Mer.
At least not yet.
I'm not trying to run her life.
I can barely manage my own.
I just want her to not do the things I did, to not make things harder than they need to be.
To listen.
So, from the moment I opened my eyes this morning, the day has been one big shit show.
Literally. . .I wasn't even out of bed when things went down the toilet.
I overslept.
7.22 am.
Instead of my usual 6.00 am.
Oversleeping sets the tone for the entire day.
Nothing, no matter how hard I try, how much effort I put into it, or what I say regardless of my intentions, works out.
By 7.30 am, 1/4 of my family, meaning those people who live in my house, was pissed off.
At 9.30 am, that number had risen to 1/2.
3/4 by 11.30 am.
And of that 3/4, 2/3 were my children.
Even without the extra incentive that landed at my feet by 11.30, I was ready to get back in bed and pull the covers over my head, not coming out until at least 5.30.
Now, I'm just plain nervous.
I have to go home and make tonight's dinner and tomorrow night's.
Knives are a necessity in the dinner making processes.
Given the day I've had, I have no idea where the knives may land.
I just hope that whatever happens, hospitalization or incarceration, or both aren't required.
Title Lyric: Bad Day by Daniel Powter
Monday, October 25, 2010
The kids are sick again. . .
October 25, 2010
Emily stayed home today.
Sick.
Fever, chills, sneezing, silliness. . . .
All the signs of not being well.
I had no classes today, so I stayed home and worked at the kitchen table.
Marking assignments for my 2103 class.
Em drifting in and out of the kitchen during her periods of wakefulness, or hunger.
Cause sick though she may be, she is still able to discern hunger.
Sick days when the kids were younger meant a day off. . .for me and them.
I mean, I couldn't leave them home alone, now, could I???
Someone had to be there to pump them full of liquids and medicines, feed them chicken soup broth, chauffer them to the doctor's office, wipe their sweaty foreheads, and try really hard to get them to the bathroom on time.
As soon as the first signs of sickness appeared, there would be the inevitable shuffling of the day's schedule.
Making arrangements to have classes cancelled, meeting rescheduled. . .
I won't lie, if it hadn't been for the periods of sickness among my children, I may have never gotten a day off.
Of all the kids, Keith was the one who was home sick the most.
From birth, if there was something going around Keith would be the one to get it.
Bronchitis, influenza, head colds, chest colds, even tracheitis, which I had never heard of until Keith got it.
He missed more school than the girls combined.
Or at least until Mer went to high school.
No one has been able to beat her record of most school days missed for no reason other than stubborness and an absolute desire to do whatever it took to piss me off.
There were some days when I would literally just walk into my office, the phone would be ringing, and upon answering it, I would say,
"What could she have possibly done! I JUST dropped her off!!!"
Because it was ALWAYS someone from the school.
Always.
I KNOW the vice prinicipals had me on speed dial.
Keithie and I spent many days together, cuddled on the couch while I wiped his sweaty brow, fed him sips of ginger ale and he watched television.
Or movies.
You don't know how many times I watched the original Batman, the one with Micheal Keaton and Kim Bassinger. It was Keith's favourite film for a very long time, to the point where I would routinely wake up at 5.00 am to find Keithie in the living room, on the floor in front of the television, wearing his flannel cowboy pjs, feet tucked underneath him, eating a bowl of cereal, so deeply engrossed in the film that he didn't even know I was in the room.
He did this for weeks.
And when he was tired with Batman he would simply change films, watching the three original Star Wars films.
One morning, having been awakend by Han Solo and Luke Skywalker for the umpteenth time, I asked him how come he would get up so early to watch these movies.
The answer was so obvious, I don't know why I didn't realize it myself.
Little Pookie: "It's the only time the girls are quiet.'
Touche Pookie, touche.
The first time I watched The Full Monty was with Keith, while he dozed on and off, taking periodic breaks to throw up in the bucket on the floor beside him.
I'd hold his little head, wipe his face off, and then he would drift off to sleep.
Until I moved.
As soon as I thought I may be able to sneak off to the bathroom and get some much needed relief, he would wake up, and ask me if I was leaving him.
I really, really miss those days.
The worst sickness related experience we ever had was the result of Meredyth.
Surprise, surprise.
In kingergarten, Mer was off everyday to learn all the skills she would use later on.
Detention, talking back to the teachers, refusing to participate in anything she didn't want to do, providing sex education lessons to the other little children in her class.
She's been honing her skills for years.
I always taught the kids to share, and it would seem that Mer took this literally.
Because she brought home the chicken pox.
And within a couple of day, all three kids were sporting spots.
Oddly enough, the severity of their chicken pox was directly correlated to their individual personalities.
Mer's were the least severe and didn't stay around very long.
Why?
Because she just didn't have the time to let something as insignificant as chicken pox get in the way of her socializing.
As soon as she was able, she went off to Nana's for a few days of respite from her infected brother and sister.
I know why she wanted to leave so quickly: she would be the sole recipient of Nana and Papa's loving care and attention.
No other siblings with whom to share the spotlight, Mer would soak up all the TLC she didn't get at home (um hum).
Just as she wanted it.
Mer has always maintained that she was meant to be an only child.
Sharing has never been one of her strongest attributes.
And she was more than capable of informing me of her displeasure at providing her with siblings.
When I told her I was pregnant with Em, she just looked at me and said, "Again???!!"
Pookie's chicken pox were a bit more severe than Mer's, because unlike Mer, he just wasn't of the mind that he could fight them off.
If they wanted to infect him, he wasn't going to stand in the way.
Mellow, yeilding, never creating ripples. . . that was Keith.
He stayed home with me while Mer finished convelescing at Nana's, the receipient of several oatmeal baths, calomine rubs, glasses of ginger ale. . .
During one warm, oatmeal bath, me bent over the tub scrubbing his spots, he looked at me and said,
Spot Pookie: "Mummy, if you thrown in some raisins and cinnamon, we could have breakfast in the bathtub!"
Always the smartest little Pookie.
Now Emily was nine months old when she was the beneficiary of Mer's chicken pox.
And because she was the least able to voice her opinions about her malady, nor was she able to actively and vociferously prevent the chicken pox from invading her little body.
She has chicken pox everywhere, all over, ten times the number her brother and sister had to deal with.
Including one that actually took up residence on her eye lid, with her little eyelashes stuck in the middle.
Of all the kids, she was the sickest.
The most miserable.
The least able to put into words how she was feeling.
But that was okay, because that child could always manage to make you understand just how miserable she was feeling.
By the time the chicken pox had finished their invasion of the Van Every children, two weeks had passed.
I was in the fourth year of my undergraduate degree, working on my honours thesis in sociology.
I had managed to get to classes sporadically, depending upon which already-had-chicken-pox-friend I could bribe to come to the house and stay with the kids, but even with my powers of persuasion, I still missed a lot of class time.
Just writing about it makes me want crawl in bed for a nap.
Now when I got sick, because I always did, there was no one to look after me.
One evening over dinner, I mentioned to the kids that I wasn't feeling well, and I thought I was getting sick, and Mer looked at me, shocked and said,
"Your Mum. You're not allowed to get sick!"
She was certainly right about that.
Now, if I get sick, Stephen takes such good care of me. . .he brings be soup and dry toast, keeps the dogs from harrassing me, doesn't force me to answer phone calls, he just lets me rest.
That alone is worth getting married for.
Now when Stephen is sick, he just wants to be left alone.
No food. No talk. No nothing.
Just alone.
If he wants coffe and conversation, he'll come downstairs and get it.
The only one allowed to be near him is Goblet.
She's all the comfort he wants.
He isn't even interested in his continuing relationship with Ellie.
Certainly, there were other times when the kids were all sick at the same time.
But the chicken pox were the most memorable.
After a while, I knew that if one of them brought home something, it was going to spread to the other two.
As they became older, it was a little easier to juggle work and home during times of illness.
I'd stay home during the early days, the worst days, but when they were on-the-mend-but-not-good-for-public-consumption, I was able to leave them for a couple of hours, so long as they had a big bottle of ginger ale, the remote and the portable phone.
Because they knew I'd call every 15 minutes.
Now they act like I'm abandoning them, leaving them to suffer alone, but not in silence, condemning me for being uncaring and unloving, the Cruella De Vil of mother's, the kind of mother who would leave them naked and starving in a snowstorm, who would give them baby aspirin for dengue fever.
The drama would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.
Title Lyric: The Kids are Sick Again by Maximo Park
Emily stayed home today.
Sick.
Fever, chills, sneezing, silliness. . . .
All the signs of not being well.
I had no classes today, so I stayed home and worked at the kitchen table.
Marking assignments for my 2103 class.
Em drifting in and out of the kitchen during her periods of wakefulness, or hunger.
Cause sick though she may be, she is still able to discern hunger.
Sick days when the kids were younger meant a day off. . .for me and them.
I mean, I couldn't leave them home alone, now, could I???
Someone had to be there to pump them full of liquids and medicines, feed them chicken soup broth, chauffer them to the doctor's office, wipe their sweaty foreheads, and try really hard to get them to the bathroom on time.
As soon as the first signs of sickness appeared, there would be the inevitable shuffling of the day's schedule.
Making arrangements to have classes cancelled, meeting rescheduled. . .
I won't lie, if it hadn't been for the periods of sickness among my children, I may have never gotten a day off.
Of all the kids, Keith was the one who was home sick the most.
From birth, if there was something going around Keith would be the one to get it.
Bronchitis, influenza, head colds, chest colds, even tracheitis, which I had never heard of until Keith got it.
He missed more school than the girls combined.
Or at least until Mer went to high school.
No one has been able to beat her record of most school days missed for no reason other than stubborness and an absolute desire to do whatever it took to piss me off.
There were some days when I would literally just walk into my office, the phone would be ringing, and upon answering it, I would say,
"What could she have possibly done! I JUST dropped her off!!!"
Because it was ALWAYS someone from the school.
Always.
I KNOW the vice prinicipals had me on speed dial.
Keithie and I spent many days together, cuddled on the couch while I wiped his sweaty brow, fed him sips of ginger ale and he watched television.
Or movies.
You don't know how many times I watched the original Batman, the one with Micheal Keaton and Kim Bassinger. It was Keith's favourite film for a very long time, to the point where I would routinely wake up at 5.00 am to find Keithie in the living room, on the floor in front of the television, wearing his flannel cowboy pjs, feet tucked underneath him, eating a bowl of cereal, so deeply engrossed in the film that he didn't even know I was in the room.
He did this for weeks.
And when he was tired with Batman he would simply change films, watching the three original Star Wars films.
One morning, having been awakend by Han Solo and Luke Skywalker for the umpteenth time, I asked him how come he would get up so early to watch these movies.
The answer was so obvious, I don't know why I didn't realize it myself.
Little Pookie: "It's the only time the girls are quiet.'
Touche Pookie, touche.
The first time I watched The Full Monty was with Keith, while he dozed on and off, taking periodic breaks to throw up in the bucket on the floor beside him.
I'd hold his little head, wipe his face off, and then he would drift off to sleep.
Until I moved.
As soon as I thought I may be able to sneak off to the bathroom and get some much needed relief, he would wake up, and ask me if I was leaving him.
I really, really miss those days.
The worst sickness related experience we ever had was the result of Meredyth.
Surprise, surprise.
In kingergarten, Mer was off everyday to learn all the skills she would use later on.
Detention, talking back to the teachers, refusing to participate in anything she didn't want to do, providing sex education lessons to the other little children in her class.
She's been honing her skills for years.
I always taught the kids to share, and it would seem that Mer took this literally.
Because she brought home the chicken pox.
And within a couple of day, all three kids were sporting spots.
Oddly enough, the severity of their chicken pox was directly correlated to their individual personalities.
Mer's were the least severe and didn't stay around very long.
Why?
Because she just didn't have the time to let something as insignificant as chicken pox get in the way of her socializing.
As soon as she was able, she went off to Nana's for a few days of respite from her infected brother and sister.
I know why she wanted to leave so quickly: she would be the sole recipient of Nana and Papa's loving care and attention.
No other siblings with whom to share the spotlight, Mer would soak up all the TLC she didn't get at home (um hum).
Just as she wanted it.
Mer has always maintained that she was meant to be an only child.
Sharing has never been one of her strongest attributes.
And she was more than capable of informing me of her displeasure at providing her with siblings.
When I told her I was pregnant with Em, she just looked at me and said, "Again???!!"
Pookie's chicken pox were a bit more severe than Mer's, because unlike Mer, he just wasn't of the mind that he could fight them off.
If they wanted to infect him, he wasn't going to stand in the way.
Mellow, yeilding, never creating ripples. . . that was Keith.
He stayed home with me while Mer finished convelescing at Nana's, the receipient of several oatmeal baths, calomine rubs, glasses of ginger ale. . .
During one warm, oatmeal bath, me bent over the tub scrubbing his spots, he looked at me and said,
Spot Pookie: "Mummy, if you thrown in some raisins and cinnamon, we could have breakfast in the bathtub!"
Always the smartest little Pookie.
Now Emily was nine months old when she was the beneficiary of Mer's chicken pox.
And because she was the least able to voice her opinions about her malady, nor was she able to actively and vociferously prevent the chicken pox from invading her little body.
She has chicken pox everywhere, all over, ten times the number her brother and sister had to deal with.
Including one that actually took up residence on her eye lid, with her little eyelashes stuck in the middle.
Of all the kids, she was the sickest.
The most miserable.
The least able to put into words how she was feeling.
But that was okay, because that child could always manage to make you understand just how miserable she was feeling.
By the time the chicken pox had finished their invasion of the Van Every children, two weeks had passed.
I was in the fourth year of my undergraduate degree, working on my honours thesis in sociology.
I had managed to get to classes sporadically, depending upon which already-had-chicken-pox-friend I could bribe to come to the house and stay with the kids, but even with my powers of persuasion, I still missed a lot of class time.
Just writing about it makes me want crawl in bed for a nap.
Now when I got sick, because I always did, there was no one to look after me.
One evening over dinner, I mentioned to the kids that I wasn't feeling well, and I thought I was getting sick, and Mer looked at me, shocked and said,
"Your Mum. You're not allowed to get sick!"
She was certainly right about that.
Now, if I get sick, Stephen takes such good care of me. . .he brings be soup and dry toast, keeps the dogs from harrassing me, doesn't force me to answer phone calls, he just lets me rest.
That alone is worth getting married for.
Now when Stephen is sick, he just wants to be left alone.
No food. No talk. No nothing.
Just alone.
If he wants coffe and conversation, he'll come downstairs and get it.
The only one allowed to be near him is Goblet.
She's all the comfort he wants.
He isn't even interested in his continuing relationship with Ellie.
Certainly, there were other times when the kids were all sick at the same time.
But the chicken pox were the most memorable.
After a while, I knew that if one of them brought home something, it was going to spread to the other two.
As they became older, it was a little easier to juggle work and home during times of illness.
I'd stay home during the early days, the worst days, but when they were on-the-mend-but-not-good-for-public-consumption, I was able to leave them for a couple of hours, so long as they had a big bottle of ginger ale, the remote and the portable phone.
Because they knew I'd call every 15 minutes.
Now they act like I'm abandoning them, leaving them to suffer alone, but not in silence, condemning me for being uncaring and unloving, the Cruella De Vil of mother's, the kind of mother who would leave them naked and starving in a snowstorm, who would give them baby aspirin for dengue fever.
The drama would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.
Title Lyric: The Kids are Sick Again by Maximo Park
Sunday, October 24, 2010
And I cleaned the fan-light inside out. . .I'm happy cleaning windows
October 23, 2010
There has been something going on here for quite a while that I am just now only able to write about.
It's so painful, so distressing, that I'm still not sure I'm ready to share, but, I need to begin the process of healing.
Stephen has been cheating on me.
Her name is Ellie.
She is much younger than I am, born in 1985.
Slimmer, less confrontational, she just pretty much lets him do whatever he wants without any complaint.
The worst part, the hardest part is I know her. I've known her since 1985. She was at my grandmother's house, she's been in this house, she's even stayed the night.
The only time she and Stephen haven't been able to be together is when she has been "getting work done."
The dogs love to play with her. The kids are less inclined to like her, but, they have been known to put their differences on the backburner to engage with her.
She and I were really close until Stephen came along. After that, our relationship deteriorated rapidly.
And now I know why.
Finally, this afternoon, when I got out of the shower and he was engaging with her, I knew I had to step in and say something.
Because enough is enough.
Its me or Ellie.
He said he refused to part with either of us, as he sees both of us as necessary in his life.
I said I am just not the sharing type.
Here's a picture of her, in case you see them together and feel the need to step in and say something on my behalf.
Ellie the Electrolux.
(PS: Stephen read and okayed this prior to posting, so don't panic!)
You can see how come I'm upset, right?
He grabs her as soon as we walk in the door.
And I know he's been having intimate time with her while I'm at work.
Many a night, as in midnight, I've been awaked by Ellie's not-so-dulcet tones.
As soon as I'm in the shower, he grabs her.
Maybe I wouldn't be so upset if he grabbed me once in a while with the same intensity and passion. . .
Upon hearing that my husband loves to clean, many people, especially women, tell me I am a very lucky women.
Or ask if they could borrow him for a few days.
Or invite him over for a little in-house cleaning.
Most men have tool belts.
Stephen has a cleaning belt, complete with compartments for his dry cloths, wet cloths, brushes, rubber gloves, furniture polish, Windex, vacuum bags, and poop bags in case Goblet has made a deposit in the basement.
He even vacuums and scrubs the basement floor.
Other men like watching sports, or action films.
Stephen loves How Clean is Your House??? with Kim and Aggie.
My response to women who think I have won the housecleaning lottery is to reply, "Be careful what you wish for!"
It is a well known fact that I despise cleaning.
But, I would do it.
Because I had to.
When Stephen and I first got together, I had a hard time allowing him to clean.
One day, while I was doing the dishes, he met Ellie the Electrolux.
In fact this was probably the beginning of what has become a long term love affair.
While he was plugging in the vacuum, I stopped washing the dishes and said to him,
"I can do that, you know."
And he replied,
"Well, so can I."
And he did.
As time went on, and we got to know one another better, thus dispensing with some of the niceities, he added to his list of household chores.
Graduating from vacuuming to dusting, to Windexing everything in sight, to cutting the grass, managing the recycling and garbage. . .
One specific incident, however, turned the tides.
I was getting ready to vacuum the livingroom when he came in and said,
"I don't know why you're doing this when we both know I can do it better."
And thus ended my reign as Domestic Diva of our humble abode.
I didn't put up much of a fuss, believe me.
Stephen, I suspect, has come to rue the day he spoke those words.
In fact, I know he has.
Because I have heard about over and over again.
Just because Stephen has taken over the role of Domestic Diva and loves housekeeping does not mean he doesn't have his moments.
It has taken a long time for him to understand that asking teenagers to do something, and them doing it right after you ask is not something that happens with a frequency he would like.
They always do what they have been asked.
But they don't always do it right away.
Just because the kids KNOW that their laundry needs to be done, or their rooms need to be clean doesn't mean they feel the need to complete said tasks.
The middle point: close their doors. And they do. And peace, even just a little, reigns.
Because their rooms are their rooms, and so long as they don't hold our dishes hostage under their beds or on their dressers, and they don't harbour towels as fugitives, we try to respect their privacy and stay out.
Unfortunately, the same standards don't apply to me.
More particularly, to my side of the bedroom.
I have willingly sucuumbed to the knowledge that Stephen is a much better housekeeper than me.
The price for acknowledging his superior swabbing skills was letting him reign as supreme ruler of most of the house.
Including most of our bedroom.
Because the impeccable neatness he has established in all of the house, save the kid's bedrooms has also been established in our bedroom.
Except for one small corner of room, known as "Dawne's Corner."
On my side of the bed, a space large enough to contain a nightstand and bookcase leaning against the wall is all that is left of my personal domain.
And I have to fight to keep the diva of deterge out of there all the time.
"Don't you think you should clean off your nightstand?"
"Perhaps it would be a good time to think about taking some of those piles of books to the Owl's Nest?"
"Maybe you could think about putting some of your earrings away?"
These are questions and queries, demands and directives, coercions and commands I hear on a routine basis.
My response:
"This is the last corner of my kingdom. You have the entire house to obsess over and you are not getting my last bastion of beleagurement into your hot little hands!!"
Meaning leave my shit alone.
You should have heard me when he suggested that cleaning my office might be a good idea.
In his defence, Stephen has come by his cleaning obsession honestly.
A little known fact about Stephen is that he despised going to school.
Not the learning part, in fact, he enjoyed, and still does, learning.
What he didn't like was being told when to sit, what to study, when to go out for recess, when to eat lunch, when to go home.
By the time he was in high school, his parents had enough. They had been fighting with him for years, even threatening him with a Christian Brothers boarding school in Ottawa.
He was so audacious that he would actually get a drive to school with his mother, who worked at the school he attended, and as soon as they had said their "good-byes" and "have a good day" and he knew his mother was safely ensconced in the building, he would immediately return home.
Finally, accepting that they weren't going to be able to force him to attend school, his parents gave up.
But, he had to be doing something during the day. Not going to school was one thing; lazing around the house all day while his parents were at work and his sister, Mary Ann, was willingly attending school, was something else altogether.
This is how he was introduced to cleaning.
His grandmother, or Baba in Ukranian, knew how to clean. Upon immigrating to Canada, while living in Winnipeg, she cleaned for Rabbis.
After moving to Montreal, she cleaned for a wealthy Jewish family, who lived in Outremont.
And she would often go to Stephen's parent's house during the day, while every one else was gone, and clean.
And make pergoies.
I wish I had a Baba who came over, cleaned and made perogies while I was at work.
But I do have Stephen.
Who cleans.
But doesn't make perogies.
Before his parents accepted that Stephen was just not going to attend school no matter how much they yelled, cajoled, threatened, while they were still hauling out the big gun, Stephen's high school English teaching Aunt Irene, before they just gave in and gave up, Stephen would still escape from school, even if his grandmother was in the house.
He would hide in his parent's summer trailer and spend his day reading Thoreau's Walden.
He was SUCH a rebel.
Thus he learned to clean, through instruction from his Baba.
And she taught him very, very well.
Leading to the cleaning obsessed man I love and adore, want to throttle in equal parts.
Opposites attract. . .Stephen and I may be actual living proof of the veracity of this statement.
Or we're just really, really tolerant of each other's idiosyncracies.
Whatever it is, most of the time it works.
Title Lyric: Cleaning Windows by Van Morrison
There has been something going on here for quite a while that I am just now only able to write about.
It's so painful, so distressing, that I'm still not sure I'm ready to share, but, I need to begin the process of healing.
Stephen has been cheating on me.
Her name is Ellie.
She is much younger than I am, born in 1985.
Slimmer, less confrontational, she just pretty much lets him do whatever he wants without any complaint.
The worst part, the hardest part is I know her. I've known her since 1985. She was at my grandmother's house, she's been in this house, she's even stayed the night.
The only time she and Stephen haven't been able to be together is when she has been "getting work done."
The dogs love to play with her. The kids are less inclined to like her, but, they have been known to put their differences on the backburner to engage with her.
She and I were really close until Stephen came along. After that, our relationship deteriorated rapidly.
And now I know why.
Finally, this afternoon, when I got out of the shower and he was engaging with her, I knew I had to step in and say something.
Because enough is enough.
Its me or Ellie.
He said he refused to part with either of us, as he sees both of us as necessary in his life.
I said I am just not the sharing type.
Here's a picture of her, in case you see them together and feel the need to step in and say something on my behalf.
Ellie the Electrolux.
(PS: Stephen read and okayed this prior to posting, so don't panic!)
You can see how come I'm upset, right?
He grabs her as soon as we walk in the door.
And I know he's been having intimate time with her while I'm at work.
Many a night, as in midnight, I've been awaked by Ellie's not-so-dulcet tones.
As soon as I'm in the shower, he grabs her.
Maybe I wouldn't be so upset if he grabbed me once in a while with the same intensity and passion. . .
Upon hearing that my husband loves to clean, many people, especially women, tell me I am a very lucky women.
Or ask if they could borrow him for a few days.
Or invite him over for a little in-house cleaning.
Most men have tool belts.
Stephen has a cleaning belt, complete with compartments for his dry cloths, wet cloths, brushes, rubber gloves, furniture polish, Windex, vacuum bags, and poop bags in case Goblet has made a deposit in the basement.
He even vacuums and scrubs the basement floor.
Other men like watching sports, or action films.
Stephen loves How Clean is Your House??? with Kim and Aggie.
My response to women who think I have won the housecleaning lottery is to reply, "Be careful what you wish for!"
It is a well known fact that I despise cleaning.
But, I would do it.
Because I had to.
When Stephen and I first got together, I had a hard time allowing him to clean.
One day, while I was doing the dishes, he met Ellie the Electrolux.
In fact this was probably the beginning of what has become a long term love affair.
While he was plugging in the vacuum, I stopped washing the dishes and said to him,
"I can do that, you know."
And he replied,
"Well, so can I."
And he did.
As time went on, and we got to know one another better, thus dispensing with some of the niceities, he added to his list of household chores.
Graduating from vacuuming to dusting, to Windexing everything in sight, to cutting the grass, managing the recycling and garbage. . .
One specific incident, however, turned the tides.
I was getting ready to vacuum the livingroom when he came in and said,
"I don't know why you're doing this when we both know I can do it better."
And thus ended my reign as Domestic Diva of our humble abode.
I didn't put up much of a fuss, believe me.
Stephen, I suspect, has come to rue the day he spoke those words.
In fact, I know he has.
Because I have heard about over and over again.
Just because Stephen has taken over the role of Domestic Diva and loves housekeeping does not mean he doesn't have his moments.
It has taken a long time for him to understand that asking teenagers to do something, and them doing it right after you ask is not something that happens with a frequency he would like.
They always do what they have been asked.
But they don't always do it right away.
Just because the kids KNOW that their laundry needs to be done, or their rooms need to be clean doesn't mean they feel the need to complete said tasks.
The middle point: close their doors. And they do. And peace, even just a little, reigns.
Because their rooms are their rooms, and so long as they don't hold our dishes hostage under their beds or on their dressers, and they don't harbour towels as fugitives, we try to respect their privacy and stay out.
Unfortunately, the same standards don't apply to me.
More particularly, to my side of the bedroom.
I have willingly sucuumbed to the knowledge that Stephen is a much better housekeeper than me.
The price for acknowledging his superior swabbing skills was letting him reign as supreme ruler of most of the house.
Including most of our bedroom.
Because the impeccable neatness he has established in all of the house, save the kid's bedrooms has also been established in our bedroom.
Except for one small corner of room, known as "Dawne's Corner."
On my side of the bed, a space large enough to contain a nightstand and bookcase leaning against the wall is all that is left of my personal domain.
And I have to fight to keep the diva of deterge out of there all the time.
"Don't you think you should clean off your nightstand?"
"Perhaps it would be a good time to think about taking some of those piles of books to the Owl's Nest?"
"Maybe you could think about putting some of your earrings away?"
These are questions and queries, demands and directives, coercions and commands I hear on a routine basis.
My response:
"This is the last corner of my kingdom. You have the entire house to obsess over and you are not getting my last bastion of beleagurement into your hot little hands!!"
Meaning leave my shit alone.
You should have heard me when he suggested that cleaning my office might be a good idea.
In his defence, Stephen has come by his cleaning obsession honestly.
A little known fact about Stephen is that he despised going to school.
Not the learning part, in fact, he enjoyed, and still does, learning.
What he didn't like was being told when to sit, what to study, when to go out for recess, when to eat lunch, when to go home.
By the time he was in high school, his parents had enough. They had been fighting with him for years, even threatening him with a Christian Brothers boarding school in Ottawa.
He was so audacious that he would actually get a drive to school with his mother, who worked at the school he attended, and as soon as they had said their "good-byes" and "have a good day" and he knew his mother was safely ensconced in the building, he would immediately return home.
Finally, accepting that they weren't going to be able to force him to attend school, his parents gave up.
But, he had to be doing something during the day. Not going to school was one thing; lazing around the house all day while his parents were at work and his sister, Mary Ann, was willingly attending school, was something else altogether.
This is how he was introduced to cleaning.
His grandmother, or Baba in Ukranian, knew how to clean. Upon immigrating to Canada, while living in Winnipeg, she cleaned for Rabbis.
After moving to Montreal, she cleaned for a wealthy Jewish family, who lived in Outremont.
And she would often go to Stephen's parent's house during the day, while every one else was gone, and clean.
And make pergoies.
I wish I had a Baba who came over, cleaned and made perogies while I was at work.
But I do have Stephen.
Who cleans.
But doesn't make perogies.
Before his parents accepted that Stephen was just not going to attend school no matter how much they yelled, cajoled, threatened, while they were still hauling out the big gun, Stephen's high school English teaching Aunt Irene, before they just gave in and gave up, Stephen would still escape from school, even if his grandmother was in the house.
He would hide in his parent's summer trailer and spend his day reading Thoreau's Walden.
He was SUCH a rebel.
Thus he learned to clean, through instruction from his Baba.
And she taught him very, very well.
Leading to the cleaning obsessed man I love and adore, want to throttle in equal parts.
Opposites attract. . .Stephen and I may be actual living proof of the veracity of this statement.
Or we're just really, really tolerant of each other's idiosyncracies.
Whatever it is, most of the time it works.
Title Lyric: Cleaning Windows by Van Morrison
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