News

Today, I was offered a new job. A permanent, full-time position in one of the clinics at Cancer Care. Very cool. Monday to Friday, no evenings, no weekends, no stat holidays. Perfect. When I got back to the treatment room after my "interview", however, one of the other girls told me to kiss my family goodbye. Apparently, the clinic nurses work a lot of overtime. We'll see, I say. Good spinoffs, though: I get to shop for a new wardrobe... they don't wear scrubs in clinic. Woohoo!! Oh, and I get an office (well, a cubicle) with my own computer and own direct phone number. Hooray! It's just what I've always wanted! They wouldn't tell me exactly which clinic or when it would start, due to union rules (whatever), but I'll keep you posted. In any case, I accepted it for better or for worse. It's permanent, and I will never have to work another weekend in my life if I don't want to. How bad could it be(famous last words)?

Tomorrow is the last of my seven day stretch of shifts. It has been a long week, but not horrible, work-wise. Poor Jack, however, has been having a rough time. Too many late nights and not enough mommy. He was pretty sad this morning. More parental guilt: why am I doing this, I asked myself all the way to work. Then, they met me at the bus stop when I got home and he was riding a two-wheeler with hardly any help, and he said he had a fun day. Rotten, I tell you.

And in other news, we are getting closer to signing our lives away on a major kitchen renovation. I plan to diarize (how's that for a snooty word?) the entire process in a new blog, so watch out for Homeowner Hell, coming soon.

Anyway, sorry to my fans if this is a lame post but I am going to snuggle into my little bed and read my book. Goodnight.

Butt

Aimee wanted to do a math-type word problem from her school book tonight. We settled in and I read her the problem.

"Now, what is the question here?" I asked, modeling her teacher from last year.

She suddenly struck a little pose, and a massive gust of wind, much to loud to come from such a little body, burst from her nether regions.

"I guess my butt knows the answer," she said, giggling. She looked behind herself. "You be quiet!"

Ah, the painful influences of the big bad world have not yet encroached on our family's fimely tuned and appreciative sense of bathroom humour.

Innocence

Laundry is the bane of my existence. However, tonight, while picking up innumerable clean but unmatched socks, I made a grisly discovery and found an Opportunity.

I found a small Barbie doll, a Kelly, in fact. From the knees up, she appeared perfectly normal. However, beside her suspiciously intact tiny pink plastic shoes, I also found her feet. In chunks. Dismembered. The tooth marks looked remarkably canine. In fact, the body was found not far from where the world's laziest dog lounges all the livelong day. I imagine him carefully and lovingly removing the shoes before engaging in a gory and ritualistic foot gnawing.

This may be what educators call a Teachable Moment. Perhaps, I could use this opportunity to give the kids an object lesson in picking up their toys. The natural consequence implications are painfully obvious here. Pick things up or the dog will eat them. I've used it before, and it worked for a while. Maybe this will be the rude awakening, the grim reminder they need to help them focus their innate industriousness in useful ways (that is, ways that make less work for me). I want them to use their powers for good, not evil.

But I know there will be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth if Kelly's gruesome fate is revealed. The resultant cacophany may well disclose the imprudence of the latest in a vast and endless series of parenting decisions (many of which, I am certain, will be discussed with their therapists when they are 40). So maybe I will quietly dispose of the body in a fitting and respectful manner, and pass by this Opportunity, if only to prevent the inevitable aching head.

Or maybe, I will forget about it, and leave her here on my desk, where I have placed her pending the autopsy, and they will discover the macabre scene on their own, prompting the latter scenario. This, I expect, is the eventuality most likely to occur. After all, they come by their slovenliness honestly (their father, of course).

****

My daughter is being exposed to influences outside of my control, way too soon, and I don't approve. I think I mentioned the information she "heard" about the murder. Well this information, patently false, came from a particular child, a child with an older brother and an extremely obnoxious, mouthy mother. I will call this child Ingrid (it should go without saying that a name like that has obviously been falsified, to protect the identity of the miserable little so-and-so). Ingrid is positively full of information, information that she has extrapolated from evesdropped conversation, which I'm sure she believes is true, and which she passes off as truth to Aimee. Sweet, innocent little Aimee.

Aimee, who has her first loose tooth, and I had this conversation today:

A: The Tooth Fairy is you, you know.
Me: What do you mean?
A: Parents are the Tooth Fairy. They take the tooth and leave money.
Me: Oh, is that so? Where did you hear that?
A: Ingrid.
Me: Of course, it was Ingrid. You know, Ingrid might be wrong. You probably shouldn't believe everything she tells you.

But poor little Aimee is so gullible, that she will, no matter how farfetched. HA! Parents are the tooth fairy. What does she know.

She's six years old!

Next she'll be telling my daughter that Santa isn't real. And then I will have to throttle the little brat. I will not have that magic spoiled by some snot-nosed know-it-all. I have a vivid memory of my friend and her older sister telling me that parents were Santa when I was exactly this age. But I managed to hold onto the belief for another year or two (at which time I remember dragging the truth out of my mother, who grudgingly confirmed my suspicions on the promise that I not tell my sister). I'm not ready for that part of her childhood to end. I know I can't remain her central and most influential advisor forever, but on matters of this essential importance, I plan to hold on to that power with all my might. In no way am I ready to give that up, especially to a child who rubs me so far the wrong way.

So I shall take a page from my mother-in-law's book. I told Aimee today that the Tooth Fairy only comes if the child believes in her. I will toe that line as long as I have to. I am fully prepared to engage in a game of psychological chicken: will she cave and continue to believe, or will I leave the tooth under her pillow, and sign all of her Christmas presents from us and not Santa?

In any case, I hope I can protect Aimee's innocence enough to shield her from the knowledge that she is smack in the middle of what I suspect will not be the last battle that I wage with that little horror. And from the putative Facts that turn up at the mouth of Ingrid. It almost makes me want to home school. Shudder. Okay, not really, but you get the idea. So for those of you reading who may take a notion to contribute a Fact or two to my child's database, beware my mother-bear instincts, and reconsider. I warn you.

Conspiracy

The ladder for the bunk beds was found, removed from the bed and propped against the dresser in the closet. I asked Jack why it was there.

"Because I needed to get the costumes down," he said.

"From the top shelf?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

To T, who was with Aimee: "Hey, T, guess what your son did?"

"I can't imagine," he said.

"He took the ladder from the bunk beds and used it to get the costumes off the top shelf in the closet," I said.

T laughed. So did A. "I'm sure you were an accomplice," he said to her.

"A what?" she said.

"You helped him," he replied.

"No," she said indignantly. "I just held the ladder."


****


Yesterday we had some rain and everything was wet outside. When we were heading out to school, the kids went out ahead of me while I found my keys and got organized. Jack came bursting back in, and exclaimed, "Mom! There's two slugs on the front step, and they're snuggling!" Sure enough, there were two slugs on the front step. I have limited knowledge of the life cycle of slugs, but I'm pretty sure that whatever those two slugs were doing, it wasn't purely platonic.

****

The other day we were getting ready to go out in the morning and Jack was driving me crazy so I sent him out to bounce on the trampoline. He disappeared, but returned shortly, saying, "Hey mom, the trampoline is all wet. I think it dewed last night!" Say it out loud. It's pretty cute.

Work

For the first time in a long, long time, I do not dread going to work.

Until now, I have rarely had a job that I liked. I mean really liked. All my other jobs were means to some end or other. This one, I think, while may end up being a means to an end, it's also an end in itself. For once, I am not desperately seeking the light at the end of the tunnel. I'm enjoying the ride.

Out of high school, I worked at a daycare, and more often than not, given my age and stage of life, I went in hung over and on too little sleep. I did not like that job. I knew the parents' cars and was always aware of exactly how many kids needed to leave before I would get to go home.

Then I worked at a law firm for a summer, where I made coffee for lawyers and their snooty secretaries. Or I delivered mail. Or I shredded things. More than once the human resources director hauled me into her office and asked if I took my job seriously. Hell, no, my mind was screaming, but I made nice and stuck it out until a week or two before school started again, when I told them a relative had died and I was quitting early to go somewhere far away for the funeral.

Then there was the time I worked for the Member of Parliament, stamping "Congratulations on the occasion of your 100th birthday" letters with his signature. That was a cool job, until I became disillusioned about the rapidity with which people with expense accounts lose their idealism and sell out to that which guarantees them another four years with said expense account.

Oh, and there was the bookstore. I did like the book store, for a while (which makes me wonder exactly how long I will like this one). I spent my days surrounded by the smell of old books. I had an excuse to read (I called it "familiarizing myself with the stock"), but I knew the stock so well that I could picture the spine of a book that a customer requested. I worked there from the time the store opened, until almost 5 years in, when I had two children, and discovered that the life of a bookseller does not leave room in the budget for daycare costs. And it goes without saying that babies and $1000 books do not co-exist harmoniously. And catering to the idiosyncracies of many fellow booksellers began to seem above and beyond the call of duty.

Other odds and ends jobs I have had include teaching assistant (power trip, holding the GPAs of business students in my hot little hands, plus lecturing meant everyone had to look at me, Graduate Student, and be impressed with my vast and complicated knowledge - much like parenting, actually, but with less guilt), grader/marker (paid well, but subject to the whims of the Nutty Professor and whiny undergrads), and respite worker for special needs children (not especially challenging, and much like babysitting large, minimally progressing babies).

Working as a ward nurse, I didn't mind the work, but hated the shifts. I spent my shifts hoping no one would die, or worse, code (or sometimes hoping secretly for a code, just to give me something to talk about). I spent my nights counting down until the stretch was done, and my evenings at home scouring the internet for a new job, one with good hours. I spent every second weekend wishing I was with my family and every other weekend dreading the next stretch. I hated the politics (budget cuts, don't give the little old ladies warmed blankets, it's too expensive; medicate them instead), the ethics (treating people who didn't want to be treated, due to Surgeon Ego Syndrome - I can cure anything), and the gossip (never tell anyone in a hospital anything you don't want everyone to know).

But now, I like my job. I am working this weekend, and I am not dreading it. I actually think it will be fun. I am working with people I like and respect. It should be pretty quiet, with few patients, and besides, I like the patients, and the work. It's minimally stressful, it's interesting, and it's rewarding. The job itself has lots of potential for education, advancement, and useful work and life experience.

Yesterday I had a patient who was getting chemo for the first time. When I called her in fromt he waiting room, she was absolutely unsmiling. Very stoic. Obviously very nervous. I explained what would happen, and that usually, the stories people hear are far worse than the actual experience of chemo. I started her IV, and by the time I hooked her up to the drip, she was crying. I got her kleenex, and reassured her that the first time is very scary because you don't know what to expect, but that by the next time, she would know where to go, how long it would take, and what her side effects would be. Her treatment took a couple of hours, and I was very careful to tell her as I went along exactly what I was doing and why. When she walked out the door, she was actually smiling. I like that I was able to reassure her and put her at ease, and at the end, it turned out it wasn't as bad as she expected. Now she knows that, and she trusts me, because I told her the truth.

It's a good feeling, to know you helped someone. You don't get that in the hospital. No one wants to be there, there's nothing pleasant about it. It's a cheerless place where you only go if you feel absolutely crappy, and your focus is on getting out. In the chemo room, patients are not acutely sick, they know where they are and why they are there (and as a bonus to me, most are even continent!), and what we do is not excessively unpleasant, most of the time. It is really not such a bad place to go, if you have to go there. It's a bright, new cheery building, with volunteer ladies that bring drinks and cookies and soup to people getting treatments. And the patient gets to go home and feel miserable (if they are even going to, many don't) in the comfort of their own home. Who doesn't want to be in their own bed when they feel rotten?

Anyway, this was a long way to say that although I am starting seven shifts in a row on Saturday, I am almost looking forward to it. I make no guarantees about what I will write here next week, though. It's a good job, but I do come home, in a good way, drained. I hope it's not just the honeymoon talking.

I'll keep you posted.

Chair

Ode to a chair.

There is a chair in the staff room at work. It was donated by a grateful patient for use by the nurses. It makes up for everything bad that could possibly happen at work.

This is the best chair ever. I might love this chair even more than I love my bed. And that's a lot.

It is a massage chair. And not one of those vibrator pads you tie to another chair. This is a big, soft, leather recliner that feels as if it has three Swedish masseurs inside it. I call it Sven.

Sven will knead, pummel, or effleurage. He will just do shoulders and neck, middle back, lower back, or all three. He will strategically prod your buttocks while you recline and converse, and believe me, this is a good thing. There are two channels in the footrest where you insert your legs, and Sven will squeeze them gently in a pleasantly ergonomic manner. Sven is comparable to nothing else in the world that one can do while fully clothed, in broad daylight, in a room full of people.

I had one of those knots in my neck today, you know the kind where you can't shoulder check safely when driving. I took my afternoon coffee break with Sven. I almost didn't make it back to work. Thankfully, Sven has a timer, and I set it before I sat down, because once I was there, I lost all will power. I mean, it just melted away, right along with the stress.

If I had Sven at home, I would have to retire, just to spend more time with him.

Unfortunately, my knot is back, and I am seriously thinking about going to work just a little early tomorrow. A date with Sven should start the day off right.

Transport

Tonight was one of those bus rides that makes me think that maybe it would be a good idea to have a second car.

When I left work, the sky was positively menacing, and worse to the west, which was the direction I was heading. The humidity was so heavy, it almost felt like breathing under water. Just as I got to the bus stop, big, fat drops started to fall from the sky. By the time I got to my transfer spot, it was a deluge. I managed to stay dry enough until my bus came. When it came, however, the bus was over census with damp, warm people, positively packed to the front doors. Added to the crush of bodies, was the rain of Biblical proportions, necessitating closed windows, lest we passengers become yet damper. A constant unharmonic din, from the ineffective fan struggling valiantly against the humidity, sounding much like a truck's horn when the drunken redneck falls asleep with his head on the steering wheel, whined its unsuccessful attempt to keep the windshield free of condensation.

It was only by some miracle that I was able to identify landmarks through the steamed up windows in time to ring the bell for my stop. But when I stepped off, into a puddle, no less, the sound of the rain pounding on my hood was, relatively, soothing music. Suddenly, I could breathe. The bus-noises were squelched abruptly as the doors closed, and once I had walked free of the gust of oily diesel smoke belched from the bus, the rain smelled clean. It was cool, refreshing, cleansing. It was quiet, except for the occasional drain pipe. No one was out walking, few cars, just me.

By the time I got home i was soaked to the skin, but T had a scotch waiting for me and supper on the table. The kids were in great moods. What more could a girl want?

Grumpy

To satisfy my legion of weblog followers (ha ha, you both know who you are), I am posting for the first time in a few days, despite the fact that I am colossally grumpy.

I am trying hard not to take it out on my family, but have been, apparently, unsuccessful.

So I shall whinge and whine for a moment, and then go to bed. Things that have pissed me off recently:

-one billion mosquitoes outside, making the one nice weekend of the entire summer misery
-the cool plan for our kitchen renovation is looking like it might be out of reach for cost, practicality and do-ability reasons
-I am incapable of any sort of spatial visualization unless it is rendered in 3-D, which makes the generation of renovation ideas and opinions that might actually be worth something quite difficult
-the cat peed under my desk and the little sock that is over my chair leg so it does't scratch the floor is damp and smelly, and now so is my foot
-work uses Novell for their email and it sucks
-I am tired and my stomach is upset
-my run today was shorter and harder than I had planned and there was nothing good on tv to watch while I treadmilled

Now I shall try to look on the bright side for a moment:
-it was a nice weekend, weather-wise
-I had a fairly good fitness week
-I am organized and ready for the week
-I don't have to be at work until 9 am tomorrow

And now I am going to retire to my cozy bed and read something until I fall asleep.

Goodnight.

Neighbourhood

When we drove by the kids' school this morning, there were police cars in the parking lot and the driveway was blocked off. The kids were with Pappa (Grampa) so we didn't face questions at the time, but I really thought little of it. This is suburbia, after all, and although I generally feel safe walking to work at midnight, there have been a few break ins in the past. Last time kids broke into the school, they stole a case of fundraiser chocolate bars. We figured they were smoking dope on the playground and got the munchies.

Well, it turns out, this was a little more than a break-in. Someone was shot in the head. In the playground behind my kids' elementary school. He died in the hospital.

Aimee said she heard that someone's arm got cut and there was blood on the slide. I don't think she saw anything. They weren't allowed to go out for recess, which I suppose is understandable. After all, their playground was a crime scene.

Both kids asked a lot of questions. Jack wanted to know what the police were doing at school. I avoided answering him. How do you explain violence and aggression to four and six year olds? These are kids who have rarely, if ever, been spanked. Not that maybe they didn't deserve it once or twice. But I haven't wanted to expose them to that sort of example. They haven't watched Teenege Mutant Ninja Turtles or Spiderman. They have seen every Disney and Pixar movie out there, most of which are little better, but I find often the violence in those is sanitized or presented more abstractly. Maybe not, but it's how I justify my decision to let them watch that crap.

I think I will call the school tomorrow and encourage the administration to talk to the school-age kids about what happened. It can be watered down and simplified, but I think that rumours need to be set to rest and feelings addressed. Who knows, maybe that would do more harm than good, but I think it should be considered, at least. I am fairly certain that Aimee is capable of understanding the situation without over-applying it. She is a clever kid. Tonight she told me that she would "prefer" one thing over another. She a product of intellectual parents, but still six. So I don't think I will avoid her questions tomorrow. But watered-down and simplified is the way to go, I think.

As for Jack and the preschool-aged kids that attend daycare at the school, I don't know what to think. He's already freaked out about hurricaines. I'm afraid if I tell him what happened, even in a simple way, he will get freaked out about guns or fighting or school. When something happens this close to home, literally, it gives new meaning to terms and expressions we toss around all the time. "I could have killed him!" "These mosquitoes are murder!" Do I really want his childhood tainted by that, before he is capable of the level of abstraction necessary to understand the context?

Anyway, now, thanks to poorly-parented gang brats with access to firearms (no mean feat in Canada), I no longer feel safe in my own neighbourhood, and I have yet more parental guilt. I know my outrage is but a fraction of what that boy's family is going through right now. It's too bad collective ire can't be a factor in sentencing. If it was, I suspect the pillory would be a popular choice. Perhaps it ought to be reconsidered.

Champions

Yay Canada! World Cup hockey champions! But did anyone have any doubt?

I wonder if the Finns are really bummed right now or just a little disappointed. After all, this was for glory, not cash.

I wonder if this was just another day at work for them.

I wonder if all the guys from both teams will go out for beers together tonight.

I wonder if the players give the photographers that are on the ice their email addresses so they can get pictures of themselves holding the World Cup.

I wonder if the players remained abstinent for the duration of the tournament.

I wonder if the understudy goalie is irritated that he didn't get to play much.

I wonder if Brodeur's wrist was casted and injected with steroids so he could play.

I wonder who washes their stinky jock straps.


I am going to bed. All this wondering has made me tired.

Peacocks

The lovely and talented MT has come for a visit. At the moment, he and T are upstairs, locked in a head-to-head testosterone fuelled Checkers grudge match.

I am trying to understand men and their need to compete. When T and OT (Other T) run in an organized race-type event, it isn't just about beating their own times, it is always a friendly rivalry. I remember once we ran in a 2x5km relay. We were one team, the OTs were another. According to the Ts, the male halves of each couple were pretty closely matched in terms of speed and endurance. Thus, it came down to Wife Racing. It was the wives who were responsible for bringing home the Glory. And Heaven help us if we failed to come through. Of course, to us, the wives, it didn't matter in the least who won. We were happy if we finished Not Last, and even happier if our times were pretty good. I cheered her on and she cheered me on. There was no hint of opposition there.

So while I am glad that it seems, under most competitive circumstances, the boys are not needing to resort to sabotage to gain an upper edge, I am framing the phenomenon, for the purposes of appellation, in a psycho-evolutionary manner.

I think it comes down to the fact that for men, for innate reasons, disporting in an atmosphere of friendly competition is simply fun. I assume it's an evolutionary thing; the ones with the balls to compete got the ladies, thus perpetuating the species. Within the pissing contests, though, there are deeper, Freudian subtexts, and, as a result, the fact is that things are just a bit more meaningful when there is some kind of a wager involved. Women have no need to measure our...ahem...selves against each other because we know that we outnumber the men and will never be mateless, if only from a purely evolutionary point of view. So women, I think, have more fun, and get more done, with than against. Our prehistoric matriarchs fed their families by gathering food together, while the males engaged in competitions demonstrating strength and prowess; the male who managed to avoid getting gored by the buffalo got to service the women and assure his genetic immortality in descendants.

This may be where my argument falls apart, though. Because whereas nowadays, male insecurity shows up in bigger, louder, more attention-seeking toys, female insecurity is prevalent enough to show up in bigger, rounder, more attention-seeking boobs. Somehow, the male-female genetic prescription has become derailed. Still, though, if you think about it, visible traces remain in twenty-first century North America. How about those obnoxious cars with huge loud tailpipes and stereos you can feel in your chest from six cars away with your windows up. They all scream "Look at me!!!" How often do you see a woman at the wheel? Not never, I grant you, but seldom, because the women have less to prove. It's the peacock phenomenon. But it's okay, it's not their fault. Billions of years of evolution is an influence too strong to resist.

Questions

The other day, Jack asked looked up into the sky and asked what was on top of the blue. How do you explain the universe to a four year old?

Aimee overheard news reports about the hurricaines in Florida, and she has fixated on the death toll. She asked about it, especially concerned because Gramma had been there recently. I asked who told her about the hurricaine, and she said, "The car". Hmmm, I guess the radio was on. Every once in a while, there will be questions about hurricaines and what happens. Jack wanted to know how the hurricaines got into stores and houses. Aimee wanted to know how the people died. They quickly reassure each other each time the subject comes up, though, that we don't have enough water near us to brew a hurricaine, so we don't have to worry. Thank goodness we have no active volcanoes near us. I haven't told them about tornados.

Jack has been very clingy since we got back from Seattle. I guess there are some abandonment issues going on.

Today I went out for a run with my dad. Jack was in their house watching tv. I didn't tell him I was going because I didn't want him to freak out. So when we got back, of course, he was very lovey-dovey. I had booted it from the corner, so I was out of breath when I got to the house and Jack came running out to hug me. I squeezed him back, and then said, "Hey, come for a walk to the end of the driveway so I can catch my breath."

His question: "Where is your breath, mom? Where did you leave it?"

Hot

I've still got it.

And I know this, because the photographer from the wedding hit on me. Yep, little ol' me, 33-year-old mother of two. I've still got it.

Assuming, of course, that I ever did have it. Whatever it is.

And he was hot, too. I mean really cute. I noticed even before he hit on me.

I'm not too sure if I still have the radar thing, though. He wasn't exactly subtle about it. T was off somewhere, and I was sitting there, enjoying the revelrie. He (photographer) bounded up and sat down. "Oh, good. Your husband's gone. I can come and hit on you now." he said. Not missing a beat, I replied, "Actually, I was thinking of hitting on you for your laptop. I wanted to download my pictures and delete all the crappy ones so I could take some more." He made some witty reply and bounded off again, snapping more photos as he walked. Now let me assure you, this guy just has the kind of personality that can carry off that kind of remark without coming across as creepy. I was genuinely delighted.

When T came back, I said, "Hey, guess what? The photographer hit on me!!" "Really?" he said, unable to completely subdue his incredulity. I decided not to take offense at his skepticism. After all, I did look pretty good, for a 33-year-old mother of two. I had on a cute flippy dress that hid all the spots I wanted hidden and accentuated the ones I didn't. I had high heels, and legs that just ran half a marathon. I even had on lipstick. I was feeling pretty cute, and it seems I even looked okay, too.

And to think I had briefly wondered if the photographer was gay. He was just fashionable and self-confident enough to make me curious... until I saw him chatting up some of The Groom's cuter cousins. In a way that made me think that he probably wasn't just looking for a few more models. But still, if I was included in that category, my night was made. And he certainly played the role of photographer well. He would walk past a couple dancing, thrust his camera in their general direction, snap a photo, and carry on. Not quite the Austin Powers "work it, baby, work it" style, but managing to elicit the desired poses, even from the most reluctant of subjects. While he didn't exactly blend into the background, he certainly managed to put everyone at ease enough to get a few good shots of each guest, and lots of good formals. No matter where he walked, it was obviously with purpose. He strode from shot to shot, at home anywhere if only he had a camera in his hands.

It's funny, though, because while I was thrilled by the overt flattery of his approach, even if it might have been a bit tongue-in-cheek, I was also more than a little embarassed (which should be obvious by my slightly sarcastic tone in relating the story). I haven't been ogled by someone other than my husband in a long time. And it felt good. I know T appreciates me for my charming personality as well as my smokin' good looks (okay, that was more than slightly sarcastic), but for him, I am and always will be a Sure Thing. We finished the courting ritual long ago. I'm his, and I have no plans to go anywhere else. There was nothing at stake for this stranger. T often tells me verbally or demonstratively that I am attractive to him, but I have to say it was a major ego boost to have someone with objectivity and no chance at a "reward" to offer an unsolicited compliment.

And so, my friends, I hope you aren't offended if I claim this as a major one of the fond memories forged at your wedding. I will always remember with warmhearted affection the hot photographer who hit on me. And I will certainly tune out the derisive rebuttal of my ever-loving, each time I proudly relate the story to some poor unsuspecting listener, "Yeah, but he was hitting on everyone". I refuse to believe this is true. The entire complex of my self-esteem is now built on the understanding that I was his one and only and he now sits, somewhere, pining for me and me alone.

Okay maybe not, but it's a fun fantasy, and the ego remains boosted. I've still got it, and now, I have proof. I'm off now, to sip wine and read Harlequin romances.

Music

I feel an I-told-you-so coming on.

I am about to do something which, I believe, will be met with disapproval, or at least indignation from my Grandmother.

No, Gramma, I am not getting anything else pierced.

I am looking seriously into music lessons for Jack. He was inconsolate again this morning when we took him to daycare. The staff agree that he needs a bit more challenge, and they have agreed to work with us and him to help him cope with this year of limbo. In the meantime, I am calling around for music lessons, since he has expressed serious interest for several months. Probably more interest than in hockey, if you can believe it. I think it will help keep him challenged until the academics start.

No, Gramma won't disapprove of music education in and of itself. She has been advocating, probably since before they were born, the benefits of exposure to music at very young ages. So I think she'll be all for the lessons.

It's the instrument she may not like. And the instrument he will play is Anything But Organ.

A moment or two of background. Several years ago, my Gramma bought an electric organ and began taking lessons. Never having played a musical instrument, this was a pretty impressive move for a fairly senior citizen. Each week, she had an instructor come to her home and tutor her in the finer points of notes and chords and reverb. She got pretty good, too, playing Christmas carols quite recognizably.

After a while, the interest, or ambition, or instructor faded, and she stopped the lessons. And a while after that, she confessed that she hardly played at all anymore, if ever. That's about when she started lobbying me to take the organ to my house "for the kids".

Her arguments were sound: it was free, it was a quality instrument, the kids should learn music, her place was too small for it. All quite valid. The biggest problem: I didn't want an organ.

It wasn't the visual aesthetic of the thing, although it doesn't really suit my decor. It wasn't even the junk-collecting potential of yet another under-used horizontal surface. It was the sound. I have never been a fan, to say the least, of the sound of organ music. I have always been impressed by Gramma's accomplishments with the instrument (I am convinced that her hobbies, her daily exercise and her volunteering (at a nursing home, no less) are what keep an octogenarian looking not a day over retirement). But I have never wanted to be subjected to it on a daily basis, and especially not at the hands of preschool aged children. To me, except possibly at the hands of a master, the organ sounds like a thousand tortured, if harmonic, mosquitoes.

When I worked at the bookstore, we played the CBC all the time. Thursday afternoon was always pipe organ day. The store sounded like a funeral parlour. I dreaded Thursdays. There is nothing anyone can do to liven up the organ. The instrument makes a cheerful jig sound like a dirge.

Gramma eventually found someone else who wanted to the organ, and I hear it is still being used to this day. That does assuage my guilt somewhat.

So Gramma, you were right (there, I said it). The organ would have been useful and educational. I'm sure I would have had a little Mozart on my hands if it was around for him to play with. I wouldn't be looking at exorbitant sums for a guitar, piano, or, heaven forbid, drum set. But I may well have needed to be in a room with padded walls, child prodigy or not.

I hope you are laughing, Gramma. I am. I will let you know what we end up with. And maybe when Jr comes back from China, we'll track the organ down and install it in the basement, if only on the condition that Jack practices with headphones on, to preserve what little sanity I still possess.

Elementary

Today was the first day of Grade One for Aimee.

She had her outfit all picked out last night and her gym shoes all packed in her backpack. This morning, she woke us up at 6:30 in a fantastic mood. She positively leapt into her clothes and for the first time in her little life, she brushed her hair and washed her face without protest. We walked her to school and she lined up with her class voluntarily. Today, there were no tears, no histrionics, no teacher earning her paycheck by peeling a wailing child off her parent's leg. She just hugged and kissed us, and marched up the steps behind the teacher, waving as she went in. She even smiled.

It is amazing how much she matured in Kindergarten. I wonder if it was nature or nurture; even two or three months before kindergarten, she would have preferred to have her fingernails ripped out to being separated from us in a new situation. Kindergarten took two weeks of tears and anguish at the start of each day before she was comfortable enough to relax and have fun. Yesterday, a short year later, the eye doctor actually asked if she was Gifted (haha), because she was so outgoing with him. Who are you, and what have you done with shy little Aimee, I asked. This morning, there was a little hair and finger chewing, but mostly, she was calm, confident, and unfazed. I can't decide if I am relieved for her positive state of mind, or mourning for her infancy. At least now she won't be the smallest kid, literally, in the school (in Kindergarten, when they did those math-readiness exercises like lining up in order of height, she was always at the short end). In her class, yes, but I know for a fact there are new kindergartners smaller than Aimee. And it doesn't seem like such a big deal to her anymore, now that she is in Grade One.

Unfortunately, Jack didn't fare so well. With a January birthday, he was cheated of the opportunity to go to Kindergarten this fall. All his best buddies have gone, even though most are not even months older than Jack. He was not pleased with the situation; he cried like his heart would break when we dropped him at daycare. Even playing up the you'll-be-the-biggest-kid-in-daycare card didn't improve his mood. Thank goodness for skilled child care staff; they managed to get him in the zone. Now our biggest task will be to keep our kindergarten-ready child challenged until the school division planets are in alignment and he is granted access to the hallowed halls of academia. He wants to learn guitar... maybe we'll investigate that. Hey, maybe his band will be my in with Dave Matthews when T leaves me for a nubile blonde with a convertible during his mid-life crisis.

And now I'm off to waste some grown-up time before we pick them up. I can't wait to see how they both did, although I have every confidence it will be fine.

Exertion

While in Seattle, we made a short day excursion to Mount Ranier National Park. For a while now I have wanted to climb something. Nothing major, nothing requiring technical climbing skills or more than a few hours. I guess what I really wanted was a bit of a hike with some elevation, so I could get to the top and look at things from above. I'm sure a therapist would have a field day with that. In any case, I managed to convince T that it would be fun, and that we were in a sufficiently fit physical condition to manage a 2 or 3 mile hike up a steep hill. After all, he just ran a marathon (something he later confessed to me was NOT the motivator he wanted halfway up), and, if that weren't enough, he has all this new expensive photography equipment to justify.

Our first mistake was in getting there. I was assured by people I met at the wedding that there was an excellent trail just inside the north west corner of the park, only 40 minutes from where we were. Well, somehow we missed the northwest and ended up on the east side, 2 hours later. But we did see a lovely section of rural Washington, and found a trail anyway.

So we got to the park, and ate some lunch. Of course, since we figured the drive would be less than an hour and the trail a mile or two, it was three o'clock before we started up our trail. We chose a short route up the Sunrise Ridge, which would give us a good view of Mount Ranier. The unobtrusive sign at the bottom of the trail said 3.1 miles. Not bad, I thought. How long could it possibly take? We run a mile in 10 minutes, could walking one be more than 20? Up we went. Not a super steep grade, but lots of switchbacks and some elevation. It was a quiet trail, not a speck of asphalt in sight, very rustic. We met a few people along the trail, all of whom looked far better prepared than we were (they all had LL Bean clothes and big daypacks and walking sticks). The reassuring thing was that those coming down all looked relaxed and barely winded.

It took less than, I would guess, half a mile to feel breathless. This elevation thing wasn't a Sunday morning prairie jog. The higher we got, the more difficult it was to put one foot in front of the other and haul my body weight up behind it. We trudged on and with each vertical foot, spoke less and less to each other. When either of us did speak, it was pretty obvious that the words were carefully chosen for minimal offensive impact.

After maybe two miles, we started wondering if we would make it to the top with enough sunlight left to get back down safely. No one knew where we were. At more than one point I told T we could turn back, secretly hoping he would want to press on. Thankfully, his male pride wouldn't let him admit defeat before I did, so we kept going. Whenever we would pass others coming down, I would ask them how much further. One woman, with a baby in a backpack (hey, if she can drag a baby up, I can drag my sorry butt up) said it was a bit futher but totally worth the effort. A German sounding man said we almost had it beat. A tubby, sweaty man said we had a ways to go. I told him I wished he'd lied to me.

Finally, a long long hour after starting, we got to an area where the trees were scrubbier and not as tall. All of a sudden, a clearing between, and a spectacular view of Ranier. We sat a minute, took some pictures, and drank some water. We did some math and figured we were pretty close to the top. I still felt the need to summit, so, despite fatigue necessitating a concentrated effort not to tumble off the edge of the path, we decided to keep going. Not 100 feet further, we met a family coming down. The woman said we had another 500 vertical feet, maybe 45 minutes. But, she said, the view wasn't a lot better from the top than where we were. Given the hour, our sore feet, and the woman's advice, we shot a few more pictures and headed down. I was quite satisfied with my effort, and not as bothered by the fact that we didn't actually finish the route to the top as I thought I would be.

Down took almost as long as up, but I was much less winded. Completely different muscles are used in descent. Although we were fairly cautious, it was nice to be able to look around a bit more. It did require less physical effort and less concentration. We even had a pleasant chat. It was a relief to get back down, but the exhaustion felt good. And I relived it every time I went up or down stairs for the next two days.

Now for the analysis of the hike. I loved it. Possibly the highlight of the trip. I liked the exertion. Ranier is a beautiful park, and so much cleaner and more pristine than so many of the tourist traps we had seen. I liked the scenery and the sense of accomplishment, even though I didn't make it to the top. And really, it wasn't the top of a mountain, but a ridge with a good view of a mountain, and I just wanted to get to the top of something (MT, you get your little mind out of the gutter). We figured out that we probably went about 1500 vertical feet and 2 or 2.5 miles. We stared out at 4400 feet above sea level. Mount Ranier itself is 14400 feet.

On the flight home, I started reading "Into Thin Air" by Jon Krakauer, about the 1996 Mount Everest expedition. I have been interested in Everest for a while, since I read about the archaeologists who found Mallory's body. I have never been interested in climbing it, although I would love to see it, maybe from Base Camp (I'm thinking I might some day volunteer my nursing services with an expedition). To put it into perspective, though, Base Camp on Everest is 17,600 feet, higher than the top of Ranier. Everest is about as high as our jet flew to get us back home. People walk up there. It blows me away.

Anyway, I have no illusion that my little hike was anything near the accomplishments of people who have ever attempted summits like Everest, or even the maligned Ranier itself. But I did get a tiny glimpse into what makes people want to do those things during my little 1000 foot walk. I still have no aspiration to extreme accomplishment; I feel no need to climb anything big, run a full marathon, do a triathlon (well, ok, maybe a small one), go backwoods camping, or run the Great Canadian Death Race. I love the ideas of all of them and have the utmost admiration for those who do them. Sometimes, I even pretend I am those people. When I run a race, I pretend all the people are cheering for me. When I cycle, I pretend I'm drafting Lance Armstrong, a man whose accomplishments probably merit a post in and of themselves. When I flail across a swimming pool, I pretend... well, I'm too busy trying not to drown to pretend much.

But the point is, I live vicariously through the accomplishments I secretly covet, and do my own scaled-way-down versions. I have fun, I stay active, and I gain new perspective with each event I participate in. I won't denigrate the sport of climbing by calling my hike in WA a climb, but I do want to do more. I want to stand on top of something huge and look out. I want to feel like I've come as far as I can. Unfortunately, I live in the world's flatest geography, so I'll have to travel (another bonus). But, hey, our new Y, which I am thinking of joining, has a climbing wall. Maybe I'll learn, and I can pretend to be on the Hillary Step, just below the summit.

Home

Well, we are back from our whirlwind tour of Seattle. It was a great weekend, and we managed to escape The Glove at the border, despite the distinct feeling that one is being watched and suspected at every turn. I got to do almost everything I wanted... the gaping exception was to see the Dave Matthews Band at The Gorge, but it was impractical and I eventually got over it, almost. What we did do, however, could fill numerous blogs, and probably will, eventually. Really, there is blog material everywhere you look.

Downtown Seattle is much like any other big city: tall buildings, funky districts, homeless people, plenty of camera-weilding tourists. The Pike Street Market was the distinguishing feature of Seattle. We found a few souvenirs, and our friend and esteemed travelling companion, we shall call him MT, bought a ridiculously heavy case of genuine composite 11 ounce poker chips, which he proceeded to carry, uncomplainingly, around Seattle for the rest of the day. I was convinced he would leave it somewhere by accident, but not only did it make it back to the hotel (via public transit), but we tested the contents in a rousing game of Texas Hold'em, at the end of which I, with one minor loan from T, walked off with the grand, winner-take-all prize, All The Glory. Interestingly enough, I managed to beat four guys, (I memorized the order of the hands on the bus ride home), despite MT's aspirations to professional poker playing (he's thinking of an LOA from his day job). Not bad for a chick, huh?

Other highlights of the trip: some touristy sightseeing, the requisite Shopping (not that I found that much to write home about) and a wedding, which, although aspects of it will be another post, was a fun affair, with a happy couple, a very nice triple ceremony, a rollicking speech by my own socially-anxious husband (of whom I have never been prouder, as he pulled it off, brilliantly, and with a minimum of alcohol on board), a nice sit-down dinner, plenty of dancing, and some colourful family dynamics.

As enjoyable as the trip was, I am glad to be home. I enjoy travelling, having adventures, experiencing new things. But every minute way from home, especially when it passes in a foreign country, makes me appreciate what I have here. What I have here is, among other things, neighbours who can't necessarily buy fireworks and discount ammunition at roadside stands (and believe me, I have some neighbours who would definitely use that power for evil, not good), and I feel safer for that. I have quality, reliable health care that I can afford whether I am employed or not (even though the country itself can't). I have affordable housing in a nice neighbourhood (well, except for the aforementioned freaky neighbours). I can get to work in 30 or 40 minutes without taking my life in my hands on a freeway (which doesn't seem all that much faster to me at rush hour anyway). My city has a drug problem that is relatively incognito (which means I am not often confronted by tripping acid freaks peeking suspiciously from behind newspapers held close enough to smudge newsprint on their noses). Of course, I also have higher taxes, a repressive society which will not allow me to buy my beer at the supermarket, and an apathetic voting public (with no real political choices anyway).

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am glad to be Canadian. I am glad to live where I do. I expect that, based on reactions from some of the people I met this weekend, that we come across as smalltown hicks. Maybe we are. We do a fair amount of (justifiable) grumbling about the weather. But, I am smart, I am educated. My husband and I are professionals, employable probably anywhere. But we stay, and we manufacture reasons for staying. Good jobs, low cost of living, close family support. Whatever.

I am quite willing to acknowledge that it may be merely a function of familiarity and discomfort (if not fear) of the unknown, but I feel safer here than in any other (of the very few) countries I have been in. And raising my kids in an environment where I feel safe counts for a lot. Would I feel safer if I spent more time there (wherever "there" is)? Probably. Am I willing to trade my life here for the unknown? I don't think I am that adventurous, at least not at this point. I admire those who do take the plunge and pull up stakes hoping for greener grass (our weekend's groom, and my sister are two successful examples). As much as I bitch and moan about wanting some excitment in my life, my overwhelmingly Canadian inertia keeps me where I am comfortable. Am I cutting off my nose to spite my face? Probably again. Would I rule out some true risk? Hell no. Just not right now. Ask me in ten years. I'll probably come up with the same answer, but at least I'll have had ten years to manufacture some more good reasons to stay put.