Three Times #KidsintheHall Helped Me Through Shitty Stuff

1) Hotel LaRut

I was married, once. At 20, I was probably not ready to be married. My erstwhile ex-husband was definitely not ready to be married. All in all, marriage was a mistake.  I got a couple of pretty amazing kids out of the deal, so it ain't all bad, though.

I usually don't like to use identifiers here, because privacy, but this joke may not make a lot of sense if you don't know his name was Tony.

After we split up, whenever I was down and listless and complaining and crying, my best friend would put on a fake French accent and ask "What's wrong, my Michelle?" (Full disclosure: My name is not Michelle.  But you probably already knew that).

At this point I would slowly start to smile, and put on my own fake french accent..

"Oh, Silvee.. I can't help thinking about Tony..."



2) But Do You Love *Me*

I dated a dude once.  A dude, who although he professed to like an awful lot of things about me, always came back to how he just didn't quite feel *that way* about me.  Me, being the sucker I was, let him come back into my life numerous times, only to have the same conversation again, until I finally had to say "Enough!"



I'm not so sure this was one of those times where laughter is the actually the best medicine but those nights of drinking wine straight from the bottle while sobbing "I'm an icky, icky tree!" sure helped me work through some stuff.

"ICKY ICKY TREE"

3) The Cause of Cancer

Shitty things happen in life. Sometimes terrible, horrible things happen to good people.  Or, at the very least, to well-meaning people.

But, I digress.

When horrible things happen, sometimes it is comforting to have some kind of faith that everything happens for a reason.

We call those reasons 'Scapegoats'.

So when I was diagnosed with Stage 1 colon cancer, I had the perfect scapegoat in Bruce McCulloch. It helped that Bruce was always my least favourite Kid, so in a twisted part of my mind, it made sense that in his vengeance, out of spite for being my least favorite, that he would maliciously grow a tumour in my colon.




Dave's right. He doesn't even sound sorry.

High School and the Fine Art of Giving No Fucks

It's amazing, you know?

It blows my mind sometimes, the way minor, yet arguably shitty, incidents and experiences can take you to a place you thought you'd left behind. Habits formed from self-preservation remain in play long after the threat has dissipated.

A 34-year-old mother of two, with a job and a mortgage and responsibilities can be reduced to an anxious, self-conscious adolescent in a matter of seconds, just from the sound of a giggling teenaged girl.

The high-schoolers have infiltrated the YMCA.  My mornings spent getting ready for work after my morning swim used to mean running into a few elderly women and occasionally one of my co-workers.  That was pretty much it.

But now there are high-schoolers. 

I hear their voices and laughter bouncing off the ceramic tile, muffled by the sound of the not-quite-hot-enough showers and my shoulders hunch up and my eyes, like magnets, are drawn to the ground.  I adjust my towel, just a little more tightly, as this body of mine, the one that not 20 minutes earlier had been gliding gracefully through the water now feels preposterous - all sagging, scarred, bumpy-fat flesh.  Taking up space.  Too much space.

"For the love of Gord.  You're 34 years old.  Woman the hell up already," I tell myself and sigh.  So many years gone by and I'm still affected.

I like to say that high school was a breeze, a lot of fun. 

(aside from grade nine.  aside from gym class.  aside from the girls who threatened me with violence because they thought I was "looking" at them.  in the change room.  I stopped looking up, ever.)

I tell people that high school was the time I ran out of fucks to give.  I learned to relax.  A little.  It was the time I tell people (and I tell myself)  that I learned to not care what people thought of me.

(I cared.  I just didn't let on.  It was safer if people thought they couldn't get to you.)

I practiced not giving a shit.  More accurately, I became practiced in the fine art of appearing to be all out of fucks to give. 

I learned to sneer at people, especially girls, I felt thought they were better than me.  Prettier, richer, more desirable.  The ones who had their shit together.  Brick by brick, I built walls of 'giving no fucks' to encase myself in and I told myself that they were nothing, of no consequence.

The most relatable character in this film, from my perspective. - SOURCE

My mother told me, "Hold your head high."

I held my head high.

But even now, hearing these voices echoing off tile, voices that exude the confidence of knowing the world is at your feet, sets my face to utter stoicism.  Instinctively, I still brace myself for mockery, setting my expression to one of utter neutrality, as I gauge the risk of making eye contact, or drawing attention to myself.

(go ahead.  Laugh at this fat, spotty, scarred body.  see if I care)

But of course, no one says anything.  Because this isn't high school, dammit.  I'm a 34 year old woman in the YMCA changeroom and I am about as incidental to these kids as any stranger on the street.

A Case of Mistaken Identity or When Life Gives You Lemons...

I was reminded today of an odd phone call I received about three weeks after the birth of my youngest daughter, as surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and children's toys, I attempted to nurse said newborn child.

Picking up the phone and awkwardly squeezing it between my ear and shoulder, I heard a male voice on the other end ask for me by my full name.

"This is she," I replied, adjusting kiddo in one and dragging a nearby chair over to the telephone table.

"Oh, hi!" the voice on the phone said affably. "My name is Dave*.  I know your friend Mike*."

I plunked myself down and took a moment to switch my fussing child from one boob to the other.

"My friend... Mike?" I replied, grunting as she latched.   I knew a few Mikes.  Puzzled, I asked, "Which Mike?"

"Your friend Mike that works for the OPP.  Yeah, he said you were single and that I should call and introduce myself... See if you want to get a coffee sometime."

By now it was obvious this guy had the wrong number, as I was 99% sure none of the Mikes I knew worked for the OPP.  Apologetically, I told the guy, "That's very nice but I'm afraid I don't know Mike that works for the OPP."  

"Are you sure?" The stranger that is called Dave asked, sounding perplexed. "Your name is {redacted}, right?"

I chuckled and replied "It is, but I assure you, I don't know any Mike that works for the OPP."

There was a lengthy pause as he mulled this over.

"Are you black?"

The conversation had officially hit a new level of weird.  Glancing down at my arms, I said "I'm definitely sure I'm not black."  (In fairness, I don't exactly have my genealogy entirely mapped out, so theoretically I could have been wrong).

"Oh.  Mike told me you were black.  I must have the wrong number."

"Yup, I you do," I replied.

The stranger on the phone that was called Dave paused again.

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

Flabbergasted, I searched for words. "Um.. Yeah.  Actually, I just gave birth less than a month ago.  I'm not exactly in a dating place right now.  But thanks? I guess?"

"Oh well, figured I'd try!" He said, then hung up.

I guess some people just gotta take a chance when it presents itself.

*names have been changed, because quite frankly, I don't remember them.

Blizzard 2014 and the great flood that wasn't.

The year, dare I say it, is off to a decent start.  We survived that vicious hell storm and cold snap, or polar vortex, as the kids are calling it these days.  Alls I know is that I have not been witness to such a blizzard since the winter of 1991 when I got sent home from school and went to my friend Corina's place instead, effectively scaring the shit out of my parents, whom I did not call at work since I didn't know their work number.  Instead I called home and left numerous messages on the answering machine, all the while wondering where the hell they were.  Meanwhile, having heard that the schools were closed, they were frantically leaving messages for me, wondering where the hell I was.

For you kids reading this, before voicemail, we used to have what were known as "answering machines", which were basically cassette recorders attached to you stationary phone (aka your landline).  Not that I expect anyone born after the year 2000  to know just what a "cassette recorder" is supposed to be.  At any rate, you could not simply call and check your message.  You had to wait until you got home, which is how we finally ended up with 20 minutes worth of "Where are you?" messages.

Long story short, cell phones for kids aren't always such a bad idea.

But, back to the present.  We survived the nearly 60cm of snow in a two day period, as well as the frigid colder-than-freaking-Mars -40 wind chills. Despite my having left ordering heating oil to the last minute and the oil guy being unable to get through for two days, we did NOT run out of heat.  The noise and struggling of the furnace over the last couple of weeks ended up being easily fixable when the furnace guy came on Friday, in spite of being completely convinced that I was going to find out I needed a new furnace because why wouldn't I?  We also found out the chimney, which we were also worried about, does indeed have a proper liner (which is necessary with oil heat) so sweet Jesus and hallelujah somebody actually did something fucking RIGHT when building this place.

Lastly, the sump pump and basement has (so far) survived the thaw and the rain that brought the snow banks down by a good foot in the course of the day, as has the roof.  Turns out the ice from last months ice storm has formed a bit of a barrier between the melting snow and the ground, keeping it from melting too rapidly and flooding us with an over abundance of groundwater, or submerging the end of the drain pipe.

So, a week and a bit into the year I am feeling very cautiously optimistic.  I am enjoying a quiet Saturday evening taking turns playing Hatris (it's like Tetris, but with with hats!) with the The Well Travelled One.  This leaves me enough time for an update, since the one downfall to this game is that we're both good enough at it that a "turn" takes about an hour or more.

Enjoy your evening, Internet.

Yup.  Hatris.  This is an actual thing.  It's surprisingly addictive.

20 Odd Years

Today I said good-bye to the house that has been my family's home for the last 20-odd years.  Hearing that the place had sold was excellent news, it had become a crushing financial burden and my parents were itching to get moved into their little retirement home (formerly known as 'The Dollhouse' when I resided there).

Odd, the number of memories a house can store up in the course of two decades.  I've left and returned a number of times... strange to think that I will likely never see the inside of it again.

I didn't want to move here.  Not at first.  My parents had first made noises about leaving Aurora when I was in the fifth grade and I was devastated.  Less than a year later, when they made their purchase, I had changed my tune.  I was all "Fuck yeah, let's blow this yuppie hellhole."

That spring, at eleven years old, my parents drove me out to a vacant lot in the middle of a newish subdivision in a town of not much more than 1000 people and said this would be our new home (the house that was to be built.. not the vacant lot).

20 years is a lot of memories.  After work I drove out to the house, let myself in and walked the empty rooms, thinking of the times I'd had there.

Age 12: My sister gives me a hard time about the posters on my wall.  I'd harboured a huge crush on the kid from Terminator 2, but I'm starting to get over it.  I begrudgingly let her tear down the biggest of the Eddie Furlong posters.

Age 14: My parents are out and I have friends over.  Sitting around the kitchen, smoking and gossiping, we start burning bits of paper and birthday candle in a huge glass ashtray.  Just as Jenn goes to comment about our mini-campfire the ashtray explodes, spraying coloured glass and bits of flame.  I catch hell a day later when Mom notices the varnish is missing off one of the kitchen chairs.

Age 14:  Mom works in the city, so Dad and I are home by ourselves a lot.  Some nights, he goes to the Legion for a beer, leaving me to my own devices.  This particular night, I was out on the back deck, having a cigarette, when I see him heading down the hill towards home.  Hurriedly, I ditch my smoke... and proceed to run smack into the screen door.

Age 15:  Home sick one day in March, my sister gets a call from the hospital that her Cesarean has been re-scheduled... for THAT DAY.  We freak the fuck out, take her to the hospital and by end of day, my sister is a mother and I am an aunt.

Age 16:  The house is full of noise and people.  Nicky has moved home and my best friend lives with us also.  The basement is being finished, so we're all confined to the upper floor.   Melissa does a fantastic impression of the Carlton Dance. We get the baby, Randy, to make his 'Uggie Face' and everyone laughs.  We paint a huge mural on Melissa's wall, featuring all the pop culture references of our time.  Friends sign the wall when they visit.

Age 17:  After a few frustrated attempts, I lose my virginity, on the couch while my parents are out. My mother finds condom wrappers in my room a few weeks later.  During the days following, my dad has a hard time making eye contact with me.

Age 20:  The day before my wedding, it's 30 degrees and the future ex-hub and I are trying desperately to ice a cake that is melting fast than the Wicked Witch of the West in a monsoon.  The next day, my aunt picks up a slab cake from Foodland and the three-tiered cake my sister painstakingly baked is forgotten.  I'm informed that one of the groomsmen still doesn't have a suit.  My mother and I are both freaking out nervous and my grandmother is insisting that someone get us a drink, a joint.. anything... to calm the hell down.

Age 21:  The future ex-hub and I return, tails between our legs and expecting, leave behind most of our belongings and debt-ridden return to the house on George Street.   We live in the basement for the next year.  It is Mid-spring when I wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him I'm having contractions.

Age 23:  I return once again, with one less husband and one more child, to live with my sister and her boys.  The house is full of the noise and the fun and the stress of two (and later three) women and their four children.  The day I return from the hospital, Tierney drops her week-old sister on her head.  In tears, I rush to the hospital.  While I am gone, the CAS visits, scaring my sister out of her wits, as we are still just unpacking and there are kids and boxes everywhere.

Age 25:  Sitting in the yard with my sister and one of my best friends, discussing the future and dinner plans.  It's time to part ways, while the going is good.  Living with people is hard and we are all happy to still be speaking to one another.  Later that day we stand in the street, tears in our eyes as fire trucks arrive and neighbours leave their houses to gawk at the flames that are leaping from the windows.

Age 26:  Months later, fully restored, this is once again our parents home.

Birthdays, Christmases, laughter, fights, nights watching TV, parties... So much time passed, so much of a lifetime spent.  So many people come and gone through the front door, struggling to pass each other on the narrow landing.

If I had some liquor, I suppose I'd pour a little out about now.  So long, House.

Packing, purging, moving and other things less pleasant than a golf shoe to the face.

So, I may have recently mentioned that I bought a house.  Did I mention that? I might have mentioned that.  I only keep mentioning it in an effort to actually convince myself it's true.

The downside to buying a house (aside from mortgage payments, house insurance, lawyers fees and having to do your own repairs without being able to legally call your landlord/dad to do the them... I mean, if I ask I'm sure he'd help, but after this move he's no longer legally obligated to it) is, unless you're planning to rent (which comes with it's own set of issues I won't pretend to understand or care about) then the purchase of a home usually entails MOVING.  Which, although I'm only moving 15 minutes away and not across the country, is generally a giant pain in the ass.

Ever see those movies/tv shows where someone moves out of a place and they move out with ONE BOX?

I laugh when I see that bullshit.  Laugh in a bitter, ironic sort of way.  I have never had a move that has required less than a full truckload and several car loads.   What kind of bizarre ascetic existence do these people live that all their shit fits into ONE BOX?

When my late former mother-in-law passed, she was without a will.  My ex and I, who was the last child at home, were pretty much tasked with dealing with whatever was left after his myriad brothers and sisters had gathered their belongings from the matriarchal home.   Which was a lot.  Most went to storage and when we were finally ready to move into our first apartment, we were pretty much fully furnished.  Over subsequent moves we would try to purge some of our stuff... We had so much stuff.   When we were expecting our oldest we moved to a single room in Barrie, so we had to get rid of a LOT.  When things didn't work out there and we came back to my parents place, tails between respective legs, there was even less.

In my adult life, moving has always been mostly disastrous.  Moves with the ex-hub were disorganized at best, with frantic calls to friends-with-trucks the night before we were due to leave.  After we split, moving became a hassle for different reasons.  I seemed to always end up in hospital when I was supposed to move.  After ex-hub and I split, I had to move out of the apartment we were in, since although I was carrying it on my own, I was also pregnant and knew I wouldn't be able to afford it once I went on maternity leave.   So when my sister and I moved in together, the moving date ended up falling on the same date I was in the hospital giving birth.  Less than two years later, the stress of the house fire and having to suddenly move again caused a flare-up in my colitis that landed me in hospital again.  Which meant my family was tasked with moving me, again.

The last move, into the dollhouse here, was the most successful, if you gauge success as not being hospitalized and having both parents still talking to you at the end of the move to be the definition of success.

Before the move comes the purging.  I have a hard time throwing things away.  I think I'm closer to a pack-rat than a hoarder, although there was a time that my insistence on keeping a box full of broken cuckoo clocks for possible craft use may have said something different.   My aversion to throwing things away is borne of a) sentimentality, b) guilt, c) stinginess and d) a distinct distaste for landfills.

A) sentimentality. It's over rated.  This move, I finally threw out most of my wedding shit.  FINALLY.  I kept some for years thinking that the girls might like to have it... But really, what kid wants souvenirs of their parents wedding that eventually crashed and burned before they were even old enough to remember?  There are still pictures and stories.  That will have to be good enough for them.

B) Guilt.  Holy shit do I have a love-hate with school work.  I hate that the schools send home every last piece of it and that I feel like the worlds worst mother if I throw out any of it.  I love keeping the artwork and creative writing... But everything else? I KNOW my kids can spell.  I KNOW they can do basic math.  I don't need every last scrap of evidence to that effect.  But I go to throw that stuff out and I feel like I might as well give up my mom card.   I even tried to throw out my OWN school work that my mother kept and passed down to me and I couldn't do it.  I felt like I was slapping 6-year-old Andrea In. The. Face.

C) I'm cheap.  I don't buy things just to toss them or give them away later.

D) I hate the idea of throwing things into landfills. I once held on to four broken DVD players and three broken VCRS for well over two years because..Gah, LANDFILLS. Organizations like FreeCycle have helped, as has discovering the electronics disposal and scrap metal donation bins. Our local one have been seeing a lot of action.

Well, I'm off to packs a few more boxes. Time to pack the bookshelf. Last move I had over seven boxes of books. It'll be interesting to see how many I have now. It will also be fun to see the book shelves work them back into their original, non-bowed shape.

700km, an off-roading PT Cruiser and the faint sound of banjos., part 1

Greetings, y'all.

So computator seems to be pooched again, which means I am back to blogging via iPad. Which is ALL SORTS OF FUN what with the typing by touchscreen, having to manually enter all HTML formatting and complete inability to add pictures unless I go into work early and upload pictures after the fact.

Have I mentioned the meddefluerking auto-correct? ALL SORTS OF FUN

So the lack of pictures means this post about weekend road trip that Guy For Whom I Have Not Come Up With A Good Blog Alias™ (yeah, about that.. I really should come up with something because that takes way too long to type) embarked upon is going to be a "use your imagination" type thing.

at least until I can add some pictures.

Basically, the agenda consisted of leaving early morning with a tank of gas, a tent and a cooler of road-snacks and heading east towards the haliburton highlands, exploring various trails and towns, and looping back next day with a stop in Peterborough for breakfast. Easy peasy. The tent was actually a backup plan since the actual plan was to sleep in the car, something I've found convenient on past long trips. I'm pretty sure he might have preferred the ground.

(aside from a stop in Orillia for groceries and gas) our first stop was Bancroft, a town I spent a lot of time in as a kid when my maternal grandparents had there house there. I had two goals here.. Buy Chelsea Buns from the local bakery, because ohmigord YUM, and seek out the Musky Bay Resort, a seasonal trailer camp that had been owned by my aunt Shirley and Uncle Stan years ago, and where I would spend two weeks with my grandparents every summer, fishing and boating and hanging out with my cousin Jaime, the only cousin my age I ever got to see with any regularity. The campground had been sold years ago, after Stan passed away. We had looked the place up and between some sketchy satellite imagery and my own fuzzy memories were able to find the place, not without overshooting the entrance at least once. I wandered in and introduced myself to a lovely Eastern European woman named Yvonna, one of the new owners who had just recently taken over. I got the impression that the previous owner had let the place go quite a bit. The grass grew wild around a number of empty trailers and around the main house. The store where Stan and Shirley sold bait and penny candy was empty. But here and there were signs of improvement... Two new docks sat at the shoreline, and Yvonna showed where they were renovating the three old rental cabins that sat at the shore adding bathrooms where previously there was only one communal shower/toilet for all three cabins.

As we walked, i pointed out where my grandparents trailer sat and where we held horseshoe tournaments and family reunions at the front of the main building. As bittersweet as it was to see the place in a state of disrepair, I felt a good deal of gratitude towards this quiet polite woman and her family for keeping the place open, and their efforts in reviving it. It's funny though. Musky Bay had the distinction of being one of the last old-fashioned, mom-and-pop run family campgrounds and as much as it pained me to see the place deteriorated, it would have pained me as much, if not more, to see it turned into some kind of posh yuppie resort.

at any rate, I thanked Yvonna for showing me around and pledge to return and see how they were coming along with the place. We got back into the car and headed back toward Bancroft and onto our next destination, Egan Chutes Provincial Park.

My own childhood bullying tale - or - I'm not fucked up because of how my parents raised me, but how other parents raised theirs.

Today I felt like crying.

No, no.  I'm okay.  Nothing to worry about.  Just feeling bittersweet.  Accent on the bitter, I guess?  

It started with a Facebook group.  *shakes fist in Mark Zuckerberg's general direction*  A group called I GREW UP IN AURORA.

I did, you know.  Grow up in Aurora, I mean.  Aurora, Ontario.  Some of those closest to me may be familiar with the sneer of derision that usually comes with mention of the place.

I'm not actually a member of this group (update: I totally lied.  I am).  My mom is, because she did too. Grow up there.  That may be too simplistic.  I think my mom merely lived there.  It'd be safe to say her actual growing up was done in the neighbouring town of Newmarket, which according to the stories of adolescence I have been regaled with over the years, was a far more rad place than it's neighbour to the south.

A friend of mine who lived in the area for roughly the same period of time (although we didn't meet until years and years later) once remarked that in Aurora, you'd drive down streets where people had paid tens of thousands of dollars on landscaping, only to find nothing but junk inside.

At the time it seemed an apt metaphor.

Gosh, I sound pretty bitter, don't I?  Why all the hate, you may ask?

Interesting question, that.  I'll get to that.

So yeah, because the Mighty Zuck seems to think everyone needs to see everything that everyone does, I caught a link through this group to a photoblog which had, amongst its many posts, photos of the school I attended from grade 1 to 3, which was shut down a few short years back.

It's a tremendous and beautiful building, having first served as a high school (where my grandfather attended) and later used as a primary school for grades 1 through 6.

Seeing the photos was a bit of a head-trip.  I, myself, have not stepped foot inside in over 20 years.  When they closed Wells Street, there was an open house to commemorate it's 100 year history.  The few photos in this woman's blog brought forth a rush of emotion - first, the visceral reaction I generally get when presented with classical architecture.  I'll be the first to admit, I have a bit of an obsession with older buildings.

Second was a flood of memories of the relatively brief but formative time I attended Wells Street Public School.

I was a painfully shy, and oddly intelligent child.  A little awkward, a little chubby.  More interested in the planets and ocean creatures than Barbies and My Little Ponies.  Eager to please, eager for others to like me.  A prime target for bullies.

Third grade was when the two 'popular' girls in my class decided that that year was the year I would have no friends, no fun, no joy whatsoever.  They began to taunt me, promising friendship then ripping it away, with mocking laughter and cruel, cutting, remarks.  They made it well known to all that I was social poison.  Not only would they not be my friend, but anyone who did befriend me would also be outcast.

Two of my best friends would whisper when no one was looking that yes, they were still my friend, even if they put up the act of shunning me as well.

I could hardly blame them.  I had already saw the devastation these two popular girls had wreaked in my own world.  I couldn't let that happen to my friends as well.   My third friend managed to escape the social stigma of being my friend simply by benefit of being a boy.  The threat of expulsion to loser-land was lost on the boys in my class... they were just happy to join in on the fun.

In the evenings, I would cry inexplicably.  I was always crying.  My parents would ask how my day was, what was wrong.  In a quiet voice I'd insist that my day was fine.  Nothing happened.  I was okay.  In tears, but okay.  My sister knew what was going on.. She wrote me letters from the exchange house in Germany where she was staying that winter, telling me she loved me and making empty but appreciated threats to beat the 'little bitches'.  My parents continued to wonder why I was upset all the time but refused to open up to them.

I guess that has just never been my way.

I have no recollection, perhaps I've blocked it out, but I've been told that it got to the point where I was skipping school.  This was how my parents found out about these girls and how they had been tormenting me for most of the school year.  The one girl lived down the street from us, with her grandparents and her mother who was single and worked full-time, relatively unheard of in 1980's Aurora.  Her mother was devastated and truly remorseful that her daughter was capable of treating another kid this way, and blamed herself.  The other child's mother, who had attended high school with my own mother, simply sneered.  She had taught her daughter to be tough.. it wasn't her problem if I was "such a fucking wimp."

I see these pictures of the school and I remember not just its immense empty halls, but I remember walking them, sad, and scared and angry.  The staircase in the second photo from the bottom is the same staircase where I would sit after being sent in the hall.   Heeding the advice of "ignore it and it will go away", I would close my ears to the whispered taunts until finally I would lash out in anger and frustration, only to be scolded and sent to the hall for causing a disturbance.  I'd sit out there and cry and wait until I was sure my face was no longer red and my breathing had returned to normal.

Even then, I had a tendency towards 'The Ugly Cry'.  Oh, look.  There it goes again.

I was lucky enough to change schools the next year after being screened for the region's gifted program.  My problems didn't end there, by any means, but they subsided for a good while.  However, by the time we moved from Aurora to the Midland area, I was good and ready to get the fuck out of there.  I never really felt like I belonged there.  I don't think my family did either.

You know, a lot of this seems trivial in retrospect.  So what?  Everybody had bullshit to deal with as a kid.  But it kind of fucked with me for a long time.  For years I had a difficult time making friend without falling prey to the suspicion that I was being taken for a fool, that I was being set up as part of some grand, Carrie-esque prank and I'd be the girl covered in pig-blood, only instead of wreaking my vengeance all I would be able to do is cry and hate myself a little.  I missed out on what could have been some wonderful friendships because I couldn't bring myself to trust.  That said, I'm thankful for the few long-standing friendships was able to forge over the years.

I'm not going to lie, I've let these memories color my memories of Aurora with a very dark brush.  I think sometimes that I would still like to go back.  To fight my way down Yonge Street where everything is so built up now that you can no longer tell there was ever any bordering area between Newmarket and Aurora.  I'd like to park at my uncle's house (which was the house where we lived) and walk the neighbourhood as I did when I was a kid - my parents were the free-range kid type.

There are still places I have fond memories of..

Things I Love Today: #changethetweets (also.. 500th Post! or not)

So I guess today CBCRadio2 has been hosting a contest for tickets to see Kathleen Edwards. The idea is to tweet the song that has changed your life with the hashtag #changethetweets (which is apparently a take-off of Edwards' album 'Change The Sheets').

Myself, I had a hard time really coming up with a 'life-changer' but in light of my recent Mountain Goats obsession I decided to tweet 'This Year', with its refrain of "I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me", as my go-to song when I am sad, frustrated and in need of some strength.

Some of the tweets people have been posting are quite moving.  Here are a few of my favorites:

The contest is picking up a little steam, so my chances of having unexpected plans to go to Toronto this weekend are probably slim, but I've enjoyed reading the Tweets.

What are some songs that have had an impact on your life?

P.S. according to Blogger, this is my 500th post.  Except that it's not, because I copied a bunch of posts from my old MySpace blog over here so the actual number is either a lot less (if you want to count posts since I joined Blogger) or a lot more (if you want to count all the posts I've written in the time I've been blogging.. which dates back to sometime in 2005 over three different platforms).

So, uh.. happy unbirthday to me?

Well, I guess it's that time again, isn't it?

2011, amirite??

I really don't have whole lot to say about the past year, to be honest. I spent most of it just kind of laying low and enjoying life. There were a few high points, such as my trip to the Dominican with two girlfriends back in January and my trip to quebec with my girls in September. I got to go to a few concerts, including Finger Eleven, A Primitive Evolution and a few more from The Schomberg Fair - two in one week from those guys.

Although, I did date a bit, and had fun while I was at it, I spent 2011 pretty much single. I've spent a lot of time sorting out my issues in the aftermath of most-recent-ex, whom I had made one final attempt at friendship with before deciding it was best for everyone involved if we just cut off all contact. Not easy, but I'm working on it.

My car got written off but it was a situation that ended up working out well for me as it allowed me to get out of my car loan.

Compared to last year, spent most of this year on the periphery of other people's excitement - some good, some bad. For myself, in retrospect, the year was kind of mundane and uneventful.

Maybe that's a good thing.

2012 looks like it could potentially be quite the roller coaster. That is, if we aren't all blinked out of existence by mid-December. However, I'm sure that much like Harold Camping's prophecies of doom this Mayan calendar issue will likely turn out to be just a lot of hooey.

Please feel free to make fun of me for using the word 'hooey'.

As I was saying, the coming year already holds a lot of promise for excitement and/or crippling anxiety... Wheee!

This year's to-do list includes:

• Buy a house. Yup, that's a big 'un
• learn my ukulele
• compete in the Warrior Dash
• find a way to make some money with all this writing
• keep working on staying in shape
• My kickboxing instructor has thrown around the idea of holding some demos, in which case I want in on that. Yeah, I've been doing this for over a year now, and still love it

So I guess that's my year end wrap-up. Time to start getting myself dolled up for this evening's festivities. Cheers, y'all.

The Tip of my Tongue.

When I was growing up in Aurora there was a restaurant down the street from my uncle's place, in a plaza (some may know them as strip-malls) on the Southeast corner of Murray Avenue and Yonge Street, at one point the longest street in the world and the eventual route that would take my family on our short but life-altering pilgrimage from Aurora to our current home on the Georgian Bay.

My memories of this establishment are fuzzy yet curiously vivid as well.  Glaring yellow signage ran the length of the outer end of the building - it was the last unit and faced the traffic of Yonge street.  I recall caricatures of old comedy acts such as Laurel and Hardy and W.C. Fields gracing either end of the stylized lettering, now blurred in my mind's eye.

It was a fairly large, licensed establishment, specializing in Italian fare - a family restaurant, before we became inundated with proto-family-cookie cutter chain eateries.  Upon entering, one would walk into a sparsley furnished, harshly lit entranceway with a small counter for picking up takeout orders.  In contrast, the main dining room was lush and romantically lit, a sea of dark wood, leather and tiffany lamps.  As a small child I would swing my feet from the huge bench seats of the booths and look around curiously, in my own world, ignoring the chatter of my parents and sister.

What stands out in my memory, clearer than anything is the Pac-Man game.  The PacMan game sat in the entryway, close to but not quite in the dining area.  It was one of those table-top arcade games where two players could sit on either end and play head-to-head games of Pac-Man.  Occasionally I was lucky enough to be given a shiny quarter to play while we waited to be seated, but even when no quarters were available I was content to sit hunched over the bright flat screen and trace my fingers along the plexiglass, following Pac-Man's gluttonous feast.  My little brain, just then learning to read, would watch as the screen flickered and switched from the demo to the menu screen and mouth along as the rival ghosts were introduces.. Inky, Blinky, Pinky and...

and...

What was the last one's name?  I can never remember.

The last time I was there, I was seventeen.  My friends and I had embarked on a road trip to the city for some reason or another and I, being full of ideas, suggested going to Aurora and driving by my old house.  We stopped there for lunch and it was as I remembered it, mostly.  I don't recall now if the game was still there, but the food and the atmosphere was as I remembered.

That was nearly fifteen years ago.  The restaurant has since been shut down, re-named, under new management.  It's funny though, that with all that I can remember of that place, of the details in the decor and the food and how my child-mind perceived eating in a  big, grown-up fancy-pants restaurant with china and cloth napkins and where I was even allowed to order a Shirley Temple and felt very grown-up doing so... well, with all that, to this day I cannot recall it's name.

Funny, that.

UPDATE:  So, I was at work and standing in the bathroom washing my hands and out of nowhere, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Barrel Pizza.

I am a Pacifist, this is why I remember

*Originally Posted November 11, 2009

November 11th is not a celebration of war.

It is a solemn reminder of the devastation that can occur when apathy and ignorance allows oppression to spread like a disease.


It is a reminder that all these things we take for granted, our freedoms, our comfort, can be snatched away in a moment.

Now with two generations of whom most of us have never known the fear or the loss of loved ones through war, it is more important that ever that our young be educated, and that those of my own generation educate ourselves. By forgetting our past, we are destined to repeat it.

I choose to acknowledge that we cannot fully appreciate peace without recognizing the atrocities of war.

I wear the red poppy out of respect and to educate. I wear it for my grandmother who lost not one but essentially two brothers in battle - one never returned, one returned, never the same. I will wear it ever November 11th so long as our battles are fought in defense, never in offence. In the name of freedom, not in gain.

I don't know if it's in poor taste to post this video, as it is satire but I've always felt humour was something that helps people cope with horrific things they may not otherwise be able to wrap their head around.

No Title Fitting.

Your beauty kindled envious green flames
You were the wanted, and I was stunned and shamed 
but the laughter, in writing was infectious
and something like a friendship born

Troubled and hopeful, youth cased in wisdom
Too much spirit to be held by a mere human form.

One day, one pill, one phone call
That spirit exploded and touched across the miles
Drawing strangers in flesh but friend in words
To the place where you lay

I wept tears for the broken
As your pedestal crumbled
Crushing the spirits of those who worshipped at your feet
Falling into madness and bottles and nothingness.

Four years, holding a vigil to your silent photograph
We left messages, until the day you became a Cause.
They took your face.
They took your voice and spoke for you.
Strangers, and I could look no more.

Copyright 2011 Andrea Lyn Cole

Wasn't going to, just feel like I should.

I had sat on a large cushion in my living room, feeding my almost four-month-old daughter a bottle. It was 9am, Regis and Kelly time, but the show had been interrupted.

With my free hand I reached for the portable phone and dialed my best friend who was a thousand kilometers away with a baby of her own to care for.

"Turn it to Regis. Some jackhole flew a plane into a building. Who does that?" I said, with my usual display of sensitivity and compassion. It could only be a fluke, I reasoned.

"I know, right? People are idiots"

Mere seconds later, the line fell quiet between us as on the screen, before our very eyes, the second plane hit the tower and we seemed to come to the same conclusion almost simultaneously. It takes a special kind of stupid (or, in fairness, a gregious technical error or malfunction) to crash into a building once, by accident. Nobody does it twice.

Not by accident.

"Holy shit."

************************************

I still can't accurately describe my feelings.  Sad, of course, for the families and friends that were lost.  Humbled, by the heroics and feats of strength and perserverance of everyday people.

Afraid.  Angry.

I felt angry mostly because of people's reactions.  Maybe if I had lost someone close to me I would feel differently, but I remember thinking that in many people's minds, this would simply be justification for hate that already existed.  

Justification for taking up arms against people who were different from us.

People who, like many of us want nothing more than to get up every morning, hug their children, spend time with friends and family and enjoy life as it is given, but who would now be targeted merely for sharing a belief system.. nay, for sharing the NAME of a belief system (for, much like Christianity, the interpretations of Islam vary and some people take it to dark places, where others choose to approach from a paradigm of love and respect for humanity), with people who wish to see us dead.

I felt a certain amount of pride in own government's reaction, for keeping a level head when G.W. was making his "If you're not wi' us, yer agin' us" speeches.  We went to Afghanistan, but we stayed out of Iraq and I think that was one of the last good decisions ol' Jean C got to make (or his government made) in that final term.

I felt fear, still feel fear.  During the cold war, my mother used to have nightmares of nuclear holocaust, and of trying to urge us, her children, to run from the danger while our feet melted to the sidewalk in the face of the overwhelming heat.

In the days following, I felt connected to that memory.

I still don't know how I feel.   Awed, that such time has passed.  Vaguely cynical, as the more things change, the more things stay the same.  I don't feel like we have learned much at all.  I'd like to say we value life more, but I'm hard pressed to back that up.

I wasn't going to write anything at all, because I always feel like I'm bandwagon-jumping.  I'm loathe to feel obligated to feel something today.  I had a great day today, spent time with family and with friends and enjoyed life.

And I did it guilt-free.  Maybe that is the lesson.  I don't know.  What is the lesson here?  Is it to fear?  Is it hate?  Or is it to value life, no matter whose life it is?

Anyway.  This song kind of haunts me.

Kimya Dawson - Anthrax

Jacques Cartier, right this way...

So last Friday I booked the day off,  booked and hotel for the girls and I, and embarked on the roughly 1000km road from our little dollhouse to Quebec City.  The girls had gotten the bug after I had told them of the trip I took out there a few years ago.  At the time I had taken five days with plans to hit Ottawa, Montreal and if time allowed, Quebec City.  My itinerary was pretty loose, in fact, I really didn't know where I was staying each night until I got there.  I guess it sounded like a pretty fun adventure, so they got on a thing about going to Quebec City as well, and I had said maybe this summer, if we can find the time and the money.

It so happened I had one last vacation day left for this year, and the ex-hub's current wife was going to be laid up due to surgery, so instead of trying to scramble for daycare for two days I figured I'd get daycare for the one day and book the friday off.  It then dawned on me that this was the Friday before Labour day so there was our 'time'.   Still didn't *really* have the money but I DID have the available credit.

I'm usually loathe to put ANYTHING on my credit cards, but with saving for a house I've been scrimping and saving to death and sometimes it feels like I'm missing out on a lot with the kids because I'm always having to say no.

So I said yes (well, actually I probably said "fuck it!") and we were off.

The basic plan was this:

• Drive to Ottawa Friday.  Stay with friends.  Visit Ottawa either Friday night upon arrival, or Saturday morning before pushing on to Quebec
• Stay two nights in Quebec city, having the full day Sunday to explore the city.
• Get up stupidly early Monday morning and book it all the way home in time for dinner.

You'll note that I didn't leave room to visit Montreal.  That is because I don't care much for Montreal.  As someone rather directionally challenged, the roundabouts and one-way streets disagreed with me.

Anyway, a few days beforehand I contacted a friend of mine in Ottawa who I hadn't seen in some time and asked if they would be around.  In an ironic twist of fate, her response was "No, we're not home that night and I really hope you're not telling me you're going to be in Ottawa because we're going to be in the Harbour.  I was going to come see you."

I am the QUEEN of lousy timing.

So via the Facebook, I put out word that the kiddies and I were seeking accomodations for the night in the Ottawa area.  A friend and former co-worker extended an invitation for us to stay with her and her boyfriend so that was set.  I booked a room at a Super 8 in QC (a pretty cool family suite with bunk beds for the kids, and an XBox 360 in-room that we never ended up using) and we were off.

On the way, we stopped in this awesome hippie store in Sebright, ON.  I just spent about fifteen minutes trying to find out what the place is called, with no luck.

There was a giant Betty Boop statue out front and the front doors and windows were covered with tons of pro-choice, pro-gay, pro-pagan, left-wing slogans and bumper stickers.  An old-fashioned triangle hung near the wooden screen door.

Inside was even cooler though.  They sold imported and old-fashion type pop in glass bottles.  The ceiling was covered in old vintage LP covers, and there was a wall dedicated to practical jokes and novelty items.  The front counter was a display of homemade cheeses and meats.

After spending a good 25 minutes looking around, we moved on, stopping in Bancroft.  My grandparents had retired to Bancroft so I spent many summers there before my grandmother eventually sold their house and moved to Orillia to be closer to family.  We visited Nanny and Grandpa's old house and I was a little sad and nostalgic to see that the current owners have kind of let it go.  The gardens out front have been allowed to grow wild only to eventually starve themselves.  I wanted to take some pictures but I saw a curtain move in an upstairs window and felt that perhaps we were being watched.

There's an amazing lookout in Bancroft called the Eagles Nest where you can look out over the entire town.  When I was a kid I used to write scary stores about ghosts that lived the graveyard beneath the Eagles nest.

Yes, we did interrupt some couple having a moment.

We got to Tasha's about 8pm, so really not much time to explore Ottawa once we got there.  Tash left the company where I work to pursue her dream of running a dog kennel, which means that at any given time, they have a good amount of dogs on the property.  During our stay there were about five in the house.  Given that I am not much of a dog person (I respect their right to exist, and don't wish harm upon them but otherwise, leave me alone) I thought this had the potential to be pretty interesting, but considering the number of them, they were well trained and well behaved, and I almost kind of sort of started to like one of them (god help me if I can remember her name though).

This one.

Saturday morning we took the dogs out for a run on the property and Tasha's boyfriend Dave took both the girls on an ATV ride which they enjoyed immensely.  I was really glad she had extended the invite, because I had a really nice time visiting with them, and they were both good hosts.  Thanks again if you're reading this :-)

After saying our goodbyes, we backtracked to Ottawa proper and visited the Museum of Civilization and the Parliament buildings.  It was ridiculously hot that day so after visiting Parliament and getting some ice cream it was unanimously decided that the best option was to get back on the road and try to get to Quebec City before night fall.  Basically it's about six hours to Ottawa, and another four or five to Quebec.

We reached our hotel about 8:30pm and decided to go for a swim and settle for the night, as we would have the entire day to look around.  The Super 8 hot tub could better be described as a 'kinda-warm tub' but at least I didn't feel bad staying in longer than the required fifteen minutes.

Next morning we woke up and it was raining, which put a bit of a damper on plans to park downtown and explore the walled in area that is Old Quebec.  So we had some breakfast, had another swim and got in the car to brave the rain.

Driving down Wilfrid Laurier Boulevard we kept seeing groups of pirates on the sidewalks, waiting in bus shelters.  As we passed the entrance to Laval University I came to the conclusion that this must be some kind of Frosh week activity.

Upon finding ourselves downtown, I tried to find parking and somehow managed to get ourselves on to the Autoroute 40 by taking a wrong turn.  Know what happened then?

You guessed it, we got horribly, horribly lost.

And those Google maps that you print out when you get directions somewhere, don't do shit when it comes to navigation, since they only name about four roads.  Oh yeah.

EVENTUALLY I made it back downtown and found a place for us to park.  We came upon an outdoor Zumba display and looked in a few stores while we looked for a place to eat lunch that wasn't ridiculously expensive, and wasn't McDonalds.  Because yes, even Old Quebec has a McDonalds.  It's a neat looking McDonalds in an old stone building with wood shutters on the upper levels, and possibly even turrets, but it's still a McDonalds nonetheless.

One place got vetoed because the hostess wouldn't let me in with my coffee even though I made it clear we were definitely buying food.  For all three of us.  So congratulations, pub-whose-name-escapes-me, you lost out on what would have probably been a 40 dollar meal, easy.

Eventually we stopped at a place called Buffet D'Antiquiare, which was a neat kind of place with exposed brick, dark wood, framed black and white prints, and large menus written in vibrantly colored chalk.  The waitress met my helpless shrug and inquiry as to whether she spoke English with a bit of impatience.  I had been holding my own okay up until then, very stiltedly making efforts to communicate in French whenever possible, but at that point, the thought of having to order three breakfasts in french was overwhelming so for that little amount of time, I gave up.

After lunch, we continued on foot.  I was trying to get us to the boardwalk that runs between the Chateau Frontenac and the St. Lawrence River.  I had spotted what I thought was the Frontenac's green-copper roof and told the girls to follow it.  However as we drew closer, it because evident that this building was NOT near a boardwalk OR water.

Not the Chateau Frontenac

This, however is. (from 2005)

I approached a young woman and in my stilted French I gestured towards the building and asked "C'est la Chateau Frontenac?"  to which the woman responded by saying no and pointing to a tall peaked roof well off in the distance to which I responded by swearing in English, saying "merci" and saying to the girls "Okay, so remember how I said my sense of direction is better on foot than by car?  It's better, but not by much."  I pointed out the same roof and said "See that roof? That's where we need to be."

Have I mentioned Quebec is a city of many many steep inclines?  Oh yes.  We wandered through the little shops of lower town and took Le Funicular which is kind of like a Wonka-esque Great Glass Elevator that takes you up the hill to the Upper Town where the Frontenac and the boardwalk is located.
While wandering the boardwalk, we spotted another flight of stairs that appeared to go up another level of town.  After walking up these damn stairs for a good 20 minutes or so, I asked another tourist couple "Umm.. where are we?"

Where, was apparently the top of the Citadelle, which are some of the military fortifications that were built in the mid-1700s for the protection of the city.  It's pretty freaking high up.  Funnily enough, where it took about 20 minutes to walk up the 8 million stairs to get to the top, there's a trail on the other side that brings you back downtown in oh.. say 10 minutes.  Yessir.  well, 25 if you have an eight year old child who leaves her sweater at the top of the Citadelle and doesn't realize until you are halfway back to downtown.  And of COURSE it's the really nice sweater that she really likes and that I really like that her Great Grandmother got her for CHRISTMAS so of course we can't just leave it and call it a loss.  I went up the hill just to the point where I could see the lookout where she left, collapsed on the grass and said "Okay, go get it and come back here."  So with eye peeking over the arm I had flung over my face, I saw the little yellow t-shirt sprint across the wide green field, disappear for a few moments and reappear as a yellow and purple blur bobbing and weaving back across the field.

We made our way back to the car (with the kids naysaying my ability to actually navigate us back to the car.. but I made it there!) and we had dinner at the Chinese buffet next to the hotel.  Next morning we got up at six, we're on the road by 7:20 and did a straight out burn down Autoroute 40 to Highway 401, making small stops for gas and to pee, and managed to make it home around 6pm, in time to get ready for school the next day.

Some random pics of Quebec:

View from the Funiculaire

Dirty old man table art

Lower Town

Probably my favourite shot from the whole trip.

Funny story about that last picture.  I saw the guy in the wheel chair kind of struggling to get up the hill, before I saw him turn around and head back down.  A few minutes later, two kids go zooming past, each hanging onto a handle bar, just motoring this guy up the hill.  I think they were his kids.  They were yelling stuff as they shot past, and the three of them just looked like they were having a lot of fun.

Another Poetic Interlude..

Whilst looking for lined paper for the eldest child, I stumbled across some of my old university assignments, including a chap book of poetry for a creative writing class titled "Does Not Play Well With Others" because I am oh-so-bad-assed, you know.  There were a couple passages I enjoyed.  I'm also considering posting a couple of the essays as blog entries because I really enjoyed writing them, and I still enjoy reading them and I like the idea of getting feedback from those other than the one or two profs that got to mark them.

That all depends if I can find the doc files, because I sure as hell ain't typing out the hard copies.

In the meantime, I'll share a couple of the poems here.  There seemed to be a common thread of disliking structured poetry.

Ours Is Poetic

Ours is not so much a matter of rhyming
More a type of word splatter running
From a mind-spigot, the very timing
Of which is most important, when one most cunning
Forgets about the trying-to-say or
Gives up on wit or random punning

If all academic falsehood is removed
The barest essence of emotion left
There still, is room for a reader to be moved
For emotion lies at the depths,
Lays a foundation for some profound thing
When left unsaid, leaves the soul bereft.

The second one was part of of an assignment to write a poem called a Sestina which has the most effed-up, convoluted structure imaginable.  So like the fourth-grader that does a speech about how much they hate public speaking, I wrote a sestina about how fucking aggravating and pointless sestina-writing is.

Writing the Sestina

I'd say I've written a sestina before
but in all honesty I'd be lying
as I have never attempted a thing
so complicated as this.  I must say
It is really an aerobic feat of mind
to complete.  Really, if i had my way

I would choose to write this another way
and get myself into my warm bed before
I found myself giving a piece of my mind
to whoever came up with this.  Lying
in my bed I could dream of what I'd say
to the creator of this silly thing.

Really now, who comes up with such a thing?
Someone who sits around and thinks of ways
to make complicated methods to say
things that could be put more simply.  Before
I enjoyed poetry, I'm not lying
but writing this makes me lose my mind.

Now I'm not saying I really mind
reading the sestina and other things, 
but I get to feeling like I'm lying. 
Fitting words to metre a certain way
Since it seems the form comes well before
what I am actually trying to say.

Oh but what am I trying to say?
The original idea has slipped my mind.
I had a vague idea.  That was well before
I got wrapped up and tangled in this thing
and my message got lost along the way.
Now exhausted, I find myself lying

on the floor, when I should be lying
in my bed.  For what more could I say
on the subject, considering the way
my eyes are drooping and it seems my mind
is wandering, drifting to other things. 
I should retire, and sleep before

someone finds me lying here.  I don't mind
if perhaps they say I'm mad or something.
I was that way already, long before.

Copyright Andrea Lyn Cole 2006

Happy Birthday, Little One

Today is my youngest daughter's eighth birthday.

A few months ago, when my older daughter celebrated her 10th birthday, I wrote about how I found out I was pregnant, and about the day I was born.

I'm not going to do that today.

For two reasons, mainly:

Back in May, I had regular access to a working computer.  So that's something.. I've still not got the home comp fixed so I'm forced to blog in spare moments here and there.

Second, the time of Reegs' birth was not a particular happy one for me.  I'm sad to say, I've blocked a lot of that period of time out of my memory.  The parts I remember tend to make me a little stabby and rage-filled, even after all these years.  In the name of keeping things upbeat, I'll avoid the specific events of the day.  Maybe another day I'll go into them, but now is not the time.

What I will say is that there was, once upon a time, a decision I had to face due to circumstances that were beyond my control.  A decision that, had I chosen otherwise, would have meant that I would not be sitting here writing this today because there would be no happy birthday today.  I chose what I felt I needed at that time.

The love that I felt for this little girl was probably the only thing that kept me sane during what was, up to that point, the worst period of my life.  Okay, even to this point, it was still the worst period of my life.

*Knocks wood.*

She was, and continues to be, a smiling, giggling, thoughtful, beautiful, mysterious beacon of hope that I thank the great unknown forces of the universe for on a daily basis because I don't know what I would do without either of them in my life.  Although I love Tierney every bit as much - she was my first, she made me a mother - I have a special place in my heart for my Reagan, maybe because of the circumstances of her birth I feel more protective of her, feel more of a need to be sure that no matter what, she knows that she is loved and wanted by all those around her.

The birth of your sister forever changed my life and who I was for the better.  Yours saved me.
Happy Birthday Reagan.

I just had the puberty talk and the sex talk at one time and now I need a drink, thanks.

Parenting with a straight face is hard.

It started with me telling the eldest child that we were going to make a point of going bra-shopping in the near future.  Although I may be less than observant sometimes, my kids a little bit on the exhibitionist side, a by-product of being an all-female household.  They're more modest at their dad's place, but here I sometimes find myself having to go "Seriously kid, put some damn pants on!"  So needless to say, I've noticed that.. well.. a shopping trip may be in order.  She's getting about that age. 

I was about eleven when I got my first bra, only a  year older.  In all honesty, I probably could have used one earlier but I was inclined to fight growing up tooth and nail, until in exasperation my mother foisted about five plain white training bras on me.  My period of denial was over.  Talk about your paradoxes.  My mom had one kid who spent each day looking down her top from the time she was about six years old, praying for the boobs that she finally got around the age of 35, and another kid who was fighting puberty with all the insistence of a pitbull on a leash who was probably doomed, if paternal aunts and cousins were any indication, to double-Ds by the time she turned 14.  (Thankfully my development ended as quickly as it started and I've remained comfortably 'average' boob-wise).

So the boobie talk turns into the period talk.  Don't get me wrong, my kids have been pretty cognizant of the concept of menstruation as it's not something I get all secretive about, but tonight we got into the logistics of this monthly occurence, the how's and the why's, beyond just "Hey kids, guess what.  Mom bleeds from her vag once a month, and eventually you will too.  Happy Birthday".

So the period talk turns into the 'Where Babies Come From' talk... ("Well, honey, mommy went to the hospital, the doctor put her to sleep and when she woke up she had a giant scar and a baby.")... which turns to the "How Do Babies Get There?" talk.  Which makes for a lot of "Ewwwww.."  and "That's weird!"

So, being MY children and clearly having inherited their mother's maternal instinct, this led to the "Dear God, How Do You AVOID Babies?" conversation, aka the Birth Control conversation.  I was heartened that the oldest had a clear grip on the concept of abstinence, but I went through the spiel of other methods as well.

Somehow this also led to the "How do gay people have babies?" conversation and my telling them about adoption, mostly (I was going to touch on in vitro, but they were getting bored by this time) and that it's not necessary to spell out gay - it's not a bad word.

I've come to the conclusion that along with being honest with your kids, it's also important to acknowledge if you, as the parent, feel a little embarassed answering a question... because it's going to show anyway, and I would think that it's better than pretending not to be.  Maybe that would encourage them to know it's okay to be a little embarassed to talk about such things, but that even if embarassing, they are still subjects that should be discussed.

  I dunno.. It's hard not to question myself in these situations.. am I telling to much?  Am I telling to little? Am I going to give them some kind of self-loathing complex where they think all sex is dirty or depraved or am I going to say or not say something that will lead to me becoming a grandmother before the age of forty? 

It's enough to keep you up at night.

A Very Special Reverse Objectification Wednesday.

Thank you, Sarah Lindahl (and Kira) for providing the inspiration for this post.

Think back.

Way back.  Your first crush.  No, maybe crush is the wrong word.  Crush can mean "Aww gee, I like you.  You're fun.  Let's ride bikes."  which is an awesome and cool way to feel about someone, but not quite what I'm getting at.

Think back to the awakening.  Yeah, that one.  The first time you had that tingly-in-the-pants (or for the gentleman, that tight-in-the-pants) red-faced I'm-gonna-barf feeling.  When suddenly, kissing wasn't gross anymore.

I was somewhere in the ballpark of eleven or twelve years old.  I'm going to let you in on a little secret.  It's not something I'm proud of, but it's a part of my past and there's nothing I can do to change it now.

The object of my pre-adolescent lust?  Here goes...  no, come closer...

Scott Bakula.

What?  You didn't catch that?  Okay, fine.  *sigh*

Scott Bakula.

Source

Shut up.

There was a love scene, I don't recall if it was in an episode of Quantum Leap or in the less-than-stellar football movie, Necessary Roughness, but my face went red and the pants got tingly and suddenly I didn't know where to look.

I think it may have been the latter, because I remember Mom took me and a bunch of kids from trailer park where we used to camp to the show, and I had a huge crush on one of the guys that came with us, even though he was two years older than me.  This may have added to my discomfort, since I had been inadvertently given new fodder for my inappropriate pubescent daydreams.

So how about you all?  Who was your first fantasy/crush/objet d'lust? (Je parle le francaise plus not real great)

May 22, 2001.

My back had been killing me all day.

I was ten days overdue, and quite over the whole pregnancy thing.  Quite over it, indeed. Her original due date had been May 13th, which was also her paternal grandmother's birthday.

The ex-hub (at that point, simply 'the boy') had made plans to go to Toronto that day to see his bio-mom and step-dad who were visiting from way way up north, and whom we only saw occasionally, being that they lived 20 hours away, and we didn't drive.

She handily thwarted those plans.

The pain in my lower back gradually increased over the course of the day.  I had chalked it up to the baby having dropped.  By 2 am the pain was excruciating, keeping me awake and in a state of discomfort and by 3 am the pain was coming in waves.

Oh, God.  In waves.  Being my first pregnancy, I didn't catch on right away but when I thought back to a concept I had heard of called 'back labor', I realized what was happening, and I started to cry.  This woke the boy who asked me what was wrong.

"I'm sorry hun.  I don't think you can go to Toronto today."

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8ish months earlier I had been experiencing pain in my legs.  8 hour days at work left me in debilitating pain at the end of the day.  This worried me, given my history with circulation problems.  After a particularly bad night, in tears from the pain, I decided to go to the ER.  It was the boy who had suggested the possibility to which I had promptly pfffffted and shook my head. 

"I'm only, like, a week late."

"Uhm... no.  You're like, three weeks late.  Believe me, I keep track."

At least one of us was paying attention.  Anyway.

At the hospital, when they took my INR,  we requested a pregnancy test.  When the doctor came in, he asked the boy if he was the father-to-be.  We looked at each other, shrugged and said "That, depends, what are you saying?"

Emerging from assessment room, we found that about four of our friends (all guys), plus the boy's nephew who was staying with us, were in the waiting room, waiting for us to come out with the results.  I can only imagine what we must have looked like to the others in the waiting room - a Maury Povich episode waiting to happen. 

****************************************************

Labor was a piece of cake.

Or so I thought.  

It really is like bad menstrual cramps, I thought.  My grandmother and her boyfriend had driven us to the hospital, and notified my parents who had already headed to work.

Every 15 to 20 minutes, my stomach would tighten, and I'd ooh and owww, all the while thinking what's the big deal?  This isn't THAT bad.  The contractions, however, slowed to a halt around. 6:30 am.  Rather than send us home, the doctors decided to induce labor, seeing as I was already way overdue.

Jesus Christ on a cracker.  Whole new ballgame.

My abdomen was being put in a vice and twisted to oblivion, seeming to last 20 minutes each time, with only about 30 seconds rest between contractions.  The boy, in an attempt to be helpful, tried rubbing my back with a tennis ball.  I promptly took it from him and whipped it across the room.

"Please.  Don't Do That."  

He ceased trying to help and decided that the best way to support me would be to just stay the hell out of my way.  This was probably the best course of action.

It may have been around noon that the doctors came in and told me I was only 2cm dilated.  They broke my water, and hooked me up to a fetal monitor.  After an hour, the doctor, looking grave came in and told us that the baby's heart rate was dropping, they'd need to perform an emergency C-section.

My response was a resounding "Holy shit, yes, can we do this now please?  No, I mean really.  Like now.  Open me up and get this kid out, already.  General Anesthesia?  Yes please!"  

As they were prepping me for the surgery, the contractions continued annoying me to no end since at this point it was basically pain-for-no-reason, not accomplishing anything.  I badgered the nurses, my OB, and the anesthetist who also happened to be my family doctor, asking when they were going to go ahead and knock me out because holy hell this shit HURT.  A LOT.

They eventually rolled me into the OR and ran the IV line with the drugs that would knock me out.  It's odd, you know... between being put out and coming to, it always seems like no time passes at all.  I woke feeling strange.  My stomach was flat-ish and my throat was sore.  The boy was at my bed, telling me we had a baby girl.  

"A girl? Neat." I said groggily.  My throat was scratchy from being intubated. "I want a popsicle.  please."

We named her Tierney, a Gaelic name I had fallen in love with 6 years earlier when my nephew was born.  It means 'Noble'.  She was given the middle names Catherine, for my mother, and Melissa, for her godmother and my best friend at the time.

Today she is ten.  She's smart and yet innocent, sensitive and yet full of humour, kind-hearted and beautiful.  Ten years ago, she changed me, in that she made me a mother and gave me a new perspective.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.

May 22, 2001