Senses

Either my senses are getting more...ahem... sensitive or I'm getting more crotchety in my old age. I've been noticing lately how loud and bright and obnoxious everything is.

Scents are bothering me more these days. I can't stand the smell of someone who has just come in from having a smoke. Do they not realize they stink? And perfume is almost as bad. Just because you've ruined your sense of smell by drowning yourself in it, doesn't mean I want mine destroyed. Honestly, they might as well let a big pickled-eggs-and-beer fart rip in your presence, because the perfume isn't really a lot nicer.

And noise. I've been guilty of playing music too loud, and of talking perhaps a shade louder than necessary, but really, is it necessary to have your car stereo turned up so that I can feel it in my chest, when I am two lanes of traffic away and have my windows rolled up? You are just ruining your own hearing, aside from irritating me. How about people chewing gum? Or this one... I was offered a ride home today by a girl from work who I like very much. We get along very well, she's great to work with. But all the way home, she had the radio on. Now, even though it was on low, it was distracting. We had to talk over it. It just seems inconsiderate, or something.

But aside from stupid things people choose to do to themselves, I have noticed that ambient traffic noise, for example, is bad. The volume level I have my little music player turned up when I am standing at the bus stop downtown and when I step off the bus in my own suburban neighbourhood is crazy. Downtown, I can hardly hear the song. When I'm walking up my street, where cars drive only infrequently, I need to turn it down several notches. I have taken to sitting closer to the front of the bus than the back because the engine noise is marginally quieter. I could never live downtown. I could, however, live on a lake, miles from my closest neighbours.

The smell of cigarette smoke, even outdoors, is yucky. I have noticed lately, too, that scents will make me sneeze and my nose stuffy, which they never used to do. There is a small dog somewhere near us that is let out at 10 pm every night and it yaps with a piercing, shriek to be let back in. Sometimes, they don't hear it for a while, and every bark startles me. I want to scream out the window to shut it up. The hum of the fridge, the trickle of water from the fish tank filter, the kids coughing. The rattling of clothes (or rocks from Jack's pockets) in the dryer. Squealing brakes, big fat tailpipes, the smell of any McDonalds in the world. Right now, I can hear a car engine revving somewhere a few blocks away. It sounds like a race car. All I can think of is how much gas it takes to prove your manhood - oops, I mean that your car can go from 0 to 60 in 12 seconds. Whatever. Who really cares?

I guess to get analytical about it, people who are noisy must be staving off silence for some subconscious reason. People who always have the radio on... are they afraid to be alone with their thoughts? What if there was no vacuous drivel going in? What would you think about? Oh, my, maybe an original, coherent thought might be born! Maybe we'd have world peace or a cure for cancer, if only we had time to think. My inlaws have a hot tub in their sunroom. In winter, when it is -20 in the sunroom, the hot tub produces a lot of steam. It's pretty cool to sit in the white noise of the bubbly water, which blocks out almost everything else, and let the steam get so thick you can't see your way back to the door. When your brain is not occupied by sorting out input, the output gets pretty interesting. I figure these heightened senses are all a sort of sensory turbulence which will eventually lead to the dulling of these same senses, and I will have the opposite problem - sensory deprivation. Some days I crave it. I almost envy those who can turn down their hearing aids and enjoy the sound of their own thoughts.

Some sensory experiences are good. The smell of spaghetti sauce cooking when I am really hungry, or fresh bread. The smell of fresh ground coffee beans or clean, hot laundry. The sound of the rain, or the wind in the trees or Jack's hysterical giggle when he is being tickled. The little noises our cat makes when she is about to get some milk. Newborn baby noises and smells. The colour of green koolaid and my sister's blue velvet couch. The feel of suedy fabric if you stroke it in the right direction. How smooth Aimee's little cheek is when I kiss it. A thunderstorm, during and after (doesn't it smell green after rain?). A rainbow. A campfire. The crispy autumn leaves in the gutter when you walk on them just to feel their noise. Waking up cozy and warm under the blankets, with your nose chilly from the fresh air from an open window in a 10 degree bedroom.

It is unfortunate that you seem to need to seek out the good sensory experiences, but the less desirable ones tend to be thrust upon you, often against your will. I'm thinking now of seeking my bed. The smell of fresh sheets and how they feel when you climb in for the first time after they are changed. They are smooth and the pillows are plump and the duvet is fluffed and everything is cool and clean and waiting for you to warm it up. Ok, I have to go and recharge before facing another noisy, stinky day tomorrow. You know where I'm headed.

Reading

Today I finished what was perhaps the best book I have read in years, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. It has been a long time since I read a book that engaging. It was wonderful.

For me, the mark of a good book is one I think about it when I am not reading. I can't wait to find out what happens and I feel like I'm missing the action when I'm not reading. I force myself to read every word in a book I am enjoying, because I know I will wish it isn't over when I'm done. A great book provokes sleepless nights, thinking about the characters and wondering what will happen. A great book end far too soon. This is one I'll keep thinking of for a while. Great books have something other than plot... there is something to learn from them, in them. There doesn't necessarily need to be a happy ending with everything tied up in a happy little bow, but closure is good. Others in the same category were any number of John Irving's books, Carol Shields' Unless, Memoirs of a Geisha, a few others not springing to mind. They are books I would read again, except that the sense of anticipation would be lost with a subsequent reading, and the experience would undoubtedly be paler. Anyway, there is so much in the world to read, I don't really like the idea of re-reading something. I might not have time to finish everything I want to if I waste time on books I've already been through. It's a good thing there's nothing worth watching on tv these days.

The Kite Runner is a book I would never have picked up, I don't really know why, except that a book club I have joined is reading it. I had no preconceived ideas about plot or themes or style. I did not know what to expect: it might have been too literary and heavy to keep my interest. It may have been a subject matter that didn't appeal. But it caught my attention with the first page. Had I the time to read it straight through, I would have. One day this week, I turned down a free ride home so I could have 45 minutes on the bus to read. With a bit of challenge to my self control, I stopped reading at a reasonable hour at night so I could get some sleep, and so I could drag it out a bit longer... like Charlie nibbling away at his Wonka chocolate bar to make it last, I knew I wouldn't want it to end. And now that it has, I wish I hadn't read it so fast. It's a balance... desperate to know what will happen, predicting the empty hours that will follow.

The other problem with a really good read, is how to follow it. Sometimes, if an author has written more than one book, the answer is easy. Kite Runner was a first novel. I want something equally good now, and despite the hundreds of books I have here, many of which are waiting to be read, I can't really see what could possibly be as satisfying an experience. My next book has big shoes to fill... which may be unfair, but what can I do? I want something literary like The Kite Runner, but not obscurely so. I don't feel like anything chick-lit, like the Shopaholics, although I did enjoy those. Not a mystery, not non-fiction. I'm looking for suggestions... I'm going to pick through my shelves now.

Support

Ok, here's a funny work story. At least I thought it was funny. The patient absolutely did not.

One of my prostate cancer patients called yesterday. I was in a clinic, so I wasn't answering my phone, but there were three voice mails from him in the space of half an hour, asking me to call him back. So I did, figuring he was in some sort of health crisis.

He asked if I knew of the magazine available for prostate cancer survivors. It's a peer support journal, written by and for survivors, providing information on treatments and groups and issues of concern to prostate cancer patients, like continence and potence and things. I said I didn't know of the magazine specifically but was aware there were such resources available. Well, he told me, he had picked up a copy while at the clinic for an appointment, and saw an ad for a free subscription, with a toll-free number to call if you wanted to subscribe. He called. Then he called me. He refused to tell me what it was, but said he was disgusted and shocked, and gave me the number to call. He said he had the number of the newspaper in his hand and if we didn't do something about it, he was going to call them, too. I promised to call it and call him back. I tried the number.

It was a phone sex line. "Hey, big guy. Are you interested in hot love with some wild pierced babes?" a sultry voice purred in my ear. I hung up. I didn't bother trying to stifle my giggles.

Needless to say, the magazines have been pulled from our waiting rooms. Interestingly, his copy must have been an old one, because the number had been changed sometime in 2003, and more recent issues had a correct number for subscribers. I don't know if the magazine made a typo, or if the number has since been reassigned, but the net result was that my prostate cancer patients are being propositioned when what they want is support.

Many comments flew around the clinic. Perhaps the punchline is that most prostate cancer patients, at least those on hormone treatments, are impotent, so it's not like our phone-sex goddess is preaching to the choir. And I'm not sure calling the paper would have the effect he desired, either; I can see it being spun into a jokey little sidebar piece, and the national organization suffering some mild embarassment, after a brief PR crisis. I can't see our funding being yanked or anything.

It's one of those situations that you have to laugh at. This poor guy wasn't laughing, though. Oh, well, his loss. I thought it was hilarious. Well, where I work, we take the laughs where we can get them. Some days they are few and far between.

Booker

Also known as Stinky, because he was.

My parents are dogless, as of today. He was 12. It was well overdue, but that doesn't make it any easier. How can a dog make me this sad?

He was diabetic, and completely blind as a result. He had been getting insulin and home-made dog food for months, because he wouldn't eat regular dog food. His fur was coming off in big raw patches and he was so wasted and cachectic that he hardly looked canine. We all kept hoping that he would just pass quietly in his sleep, but what we hadn't counted on was how tenacious he was, always.

I got him from my boyfriend for my 22nd birthday. He was this tiny black, rambunctious puppy. He was my first taste of adulthood. I house-trained him in the middle of the rainiest summer in history. Every four hours, out in the rain, middle of the night, dragging him back out from the shelter of the deck until he peed. It felt like I had a baby, except that I could leave him home alone while I went to school (a safer transition to adulthood, with fewer implications than, say, a real baby...). Of course leaving him home alone wasn't always the best idea. Once we got Stan, who died in July this year, we had a team of happy, wagging destruction. Gramma often said she wasn't always sure if the house would survive them. They chewed walls and stairs, ripped up huge sections of carpet, puddled everywhere. No food was safe left out. Stan, the brawn, would haul things off the counter. Booker, the brains, would orchestrate circumstances to get himself treats, usually because he was so small, he couldn't reach the tasty things up high. I remember the day they came home to find Stan's chewy bone on the kitchen counter, and a container, licked clean, formerly containing cookies, on the floor. Gramma would come every day and take them out in her car to go for a run in the field. They loved it, all three of them. I remember Booker's little head popping up from behind snowdrifts and tall hay as he searched for mice and followed fascinating scents, just keeping us in sight, lifting his leg on anything. They always trusted us implicitly.

I have to give Booker credit for widening my world view. Before dog, I was a typical self-centered teenager. Once I had something that relied on me, injustice in the world, mostly against animals, quickly became anathema to me. I would get a sick knot in my stomach when I heard about cruelty and abuse. Eventually this expanded to include humans, but really, it was a giant step toward adulthood to suddenly be responsible for something other than myself.

We had a pool for a while, and Booker would go mental whenever someone was in it, racing around and barking at the top of his little lungs like he wanted to tell us something desperately important. We always wondered if he was cheering us on or trying to save us from drowning. Or when we played pool on the table in the basement, he would race back and forth, popping his little head up to get a look at what was going on. He was so wierd. He blew up his knee one summer by the pool, and always had a limp after that. He was so cute and wild and full of personality. We would get him playing tug-of-war on a big old chew rope, and you could actually lift him off the ground by his teeth. He was strong and he was tenacious, literally and figuratively.

When he got sick last winter, none of us figured he would live until spring, let alone fall. Even the vet commented on how tough he was. We figure he actually died weeks ago but just forgot to stop moving around. He even had a date with the executioner the day Stan died... we were going to take both in at the same time, but after Stan made the decision for us, none of us could bear to bring Booker in. I was so sure it would be yesterday, he looked so awful. But he just kept trucking. Confused, blind, incontinent, but with his ear up, listening for food. My dad said that last night he looked so terrible that he just knew it was time. I wish I could have been the one to take him in. I felt so badly for both of them. We all knew it was long past time, but it is just so hard to do something active. It was hard enough to stop his insulin on the weekend. That was passive, though, because we figured it would cause him to slip into a coma and die peacefully. But he hung on, and my dad was faced with the prospect of actually having him put down. I should have been the one to take him in. The only comfort in the whole thing is that we know we did him a favour, and we know he wasn't getting better, and we know it would have been any minute anyway. It was the right thing to do. It would have been right months ago, but none of us (except Gramma, who has been quietly lobbying for it for a while) was ready.

So no more pets for them, dad says. Too unbearably sad when they are gone, worse when they are going, and not peacefully. Booker fought all the way. God, if it's this hard with a pet, how do people who have to make these decisions for a human ever sleep at night? When you know that something is right but it's the hardest thing you ever had to do, where do you get the courage? I've watched families struggle with this at work, but this is the first taste I've had of it myself. I guess it's another favour that little dog did for me, giving me a tiny bit of practice with making hard decisions. I've escaped relatively unscathed in life so far, but I can't help but feel that eventually, I will have my share of rough times, and I really hope I will live up to the challenge. We may have put it off too long, but we redeemed ourselves today by saving him any more suffering, and in return he taught us that life goes on, different and lacking something, but we know wecan carry on, even if at first it doesn't feel like it's worth it. But I hope like hell I never have to make a decision with literal vital importance about a human I love. Stopping treatment, pulling the plug, whatever. I don't know if I am that strong.

But here's to Booker and his legacy. My mom can reclaim her house. No more cold nose on her leg, begging for scraps in the kitchen. He can woof away in the happy hunting grounds knowing it will be years, if ever, before they ever evict the last dog hair. He lives on.
******

I will end with an amusing kid story, to lighten the mood.

The other night, Trevor, Aimee and I were playing cards before she went to bed. Aimee lost a hand. "Damn it," she said.

Our jaws dropped. She's 7 years old. We raised our eyebrows at each other. "What?" she said, completely innocently on seeing the looks on our faces.

"Aim, that's kind of a bad word," I said, trying not to laugh.

"Why? It just means 'darn it'," she said.

"Yes, but it's not a nice way of saying it. You should stick with 'darn it'," Trevor said.

"Where did you hear that?" I asked, hoping desperately that she wouldn't say it was from us.

"From Jenna. She's in grade one," she replied. Phew.

We kind of dropped it, stifling giggles. A few minutes later, she lost another hand. "Da... darn it," she said. Hey, I thought, she heard us. Score one for the parents. Maybe that evens up the cosmic parenting scoreboard a bit for the inattention that allowed her to learn the term in the first place. I am certain Jenna isn't the only guilty party here.

Hey, at least it wasn't the "f" word, although she has tried that one on us before. Another story, another time. I'm going to toast my dog now.

Breakthroughs

We had some breakthroughs this week. The first was Jack at swimming. He knew he didn't have a choice about going to swimming lessons- with Trevor's parents having a pool, there was no way I could let them go without some formal swimming training. So we signed them both up at the Y for Monday night. He started complaining that his tummy hurt at suppertime. I aksed if he was nervous about swimming lessons. He nodded and pouted. "It's ok to be nervous about stuff when you don't know what to expect, Bud. It's normal. I would be nervous too." He asked time and again if his class would be in the baby pool or the big pool. I reassured him time and again that it would be in the baby pool. He said he would be brave. Well, when we got to the Y his worst fear was realized. They had had a "fouling" and the baby pool was closed. He would have to have his first lesson in the big pool. He started to cry. I reassured him he could wear a life jacket and sit on the edge. The teachers reassured him.I got a little mileage out of explainign the term "fouling", but the tears started back up in short order (Aimee was tickled though, and had no problem calling all the grandparents and reporting that swimming was in the big pool because someone pooped in the little one). I told him parents weren't allowed to stay in the pool area and I was going to watch from the windows. He let me out, still crying, but not clinging. Victory number one. By the time I got out to the viewing area, he was in the pool. Still whining, but in. After five or ten minutes of reluctant participation, he looked over at me, and I gave an exaggerated grin and a thumbs up. He grinned back, and the rest is history. He floated on his back, he "jumped" in to pool (that is, he dropped to his knees and plopped in, holding onto the edge), and came out yelling, "THAT WAS SO MUCH FUN!!". He actually said to me, "Hey, mommy, can we come on Sunday and only go in the big pool?" I tell you, when this kid is ready, he's ready.

Aimee's breakthrough was at gymnastics. The kid has incredible hand and upper body strength. She goes back and forth on the monkey bars at school as easily as walking. Trevor has been suggesting she do gymnastics, and he managed to convince her, too. So we signed her up, for $300. She started today. However, Aimee has a history of wanting to do things and then clinging to my leg or crying or generally refusing to participate, once she is there. So I was reserved in my enthusiasm for the idea of gymnastics. But Trevor's argument was that if she has some sort of natural talent, we should nurture it. So I agreed. Anyway, as we were getting ready to go today, I asked her if she was nervous. "No," she said. She looked a bit concerned when we actually got to the facility, but the organizer lady checked her off her list, took her by the hand, and shoved her at the coach. We didn't even have time to say goodbye. She trotted in, without looking back. She participated, she played and ran and did cartwheels and walked on the balance beam. Her group didn't get to use the foam pit or the bars today, but she's all excited to go back next week and try them then. I was pleasantly surprised that she was so ready to join in. I credit school for bringing her out of her shell. She knows we would never let her go into a situation that was unsafe, and she trusts that we will always be there for her when she is finished whatever she is doing. She has finally figured out that it's ok to try things, risk free. I guess that's our job as parents, to create a safe, trusting environment to let them explore their talents and aptitudes. It will be very interesting to see how she develops as a gymnast. I just keep thinking of her hysterical fits at dance classes and other activities. It used to drive me insane. But she has grown up a lot and I couldn't be happier for her. She's not missing out anymore.

We made a big deal about how brave they both were this week. It's important to play that up a bit, I think. We'll play down the temper tantrums that still happen regularly, and reinforce the good stuff, in the hope that they will choose wisely more often than they choose emotionally. It wil turn out better, I think.

Trevor's breatkthrough was shaving his head almost bald. I think it looks great. It's something that most men eventually have to face... the growing bald gracefully (no combovers in this house). He's lucky enough to have a wife who thinks bald men are sexy.

My breakthrough was the mere fact of getting through the week. With the number of sick calls and my current position, I felt like I did a job and a half this week.I was exhausted last night. I'm catching up, though, and I'm hardly thinking of work at all. The new routine of the week looks like it will be me and the kids for dinner alone at least one night a week, and it worked out very well this week. I kept my patience and fed them healthy food, and Jack and I managed to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Now the exciting task is picking the next book to read. I'm lobbying for Harry Potter, but Aimee's suggesting Junie B. Jones. Either way, I am so excited that they are entering a chapter book stage. The world is opening up for them. They can do anything when they can read.

Oh, and in another bit of news I would like to record for posterity, Jack has announced he is going to try out for Canadian Idol when he is older. He figures he would like to be a rock star and a garbage man. I told him it was always good to have a day job to earn a living while you try to make it in the music business. "What's a living, mom?" he asked. The kid is full of questions. I'm pegging him more as a lawyer than a rock star, but you never know where his talents might lie. Only time will tell and sometimes it is the most intensely frustrating thing in the world not to be able to see the future. I guess life would be much duller without a little suspense, but really, would it hurt to know they were going to turn out well?

Anyway, after this crazy week, all I want to do is nap. I think I'll finish my book and do just that.

Marriage

The kids and I went to a wedding today, September 11, 2005. It was probably the most non-traditional wedding I ever went to. And it suited the personalities of the betrothed couple to a tee.

It was a beautiful day. The ceremony took place in the park behind the bride's childhood home. I have many fond memories of that park. The bride, my cousin Cristin, wore a knee-length, long sleeved dress of a regal royal purple (it was so purple that Jack argued it was blue) with ornate, sparkly gold embroidery. The groom, Danyel, wore a black kilt and motorcycle boots. They both looked utterly comfortable. Their daughter, three-year-old Hannah, a diminutive, curly-headed waif with the readiest smile you ever saw, wore a pretty white frock and flowers in her hair, and the groom's son, Jory, a nice-looking young man, stood proudly next to his dad in jeans and a white shirt.

As we assembled near the river, we could hear lovely, haunting singing coming from across it. I never did find out where it was coming from, but it set a wonderful atmosphere. The ceremony itself was informal and relaxed. It started late, and as the bagpiper piped them up the path from the house to a spot under a tree facing the river, the family stopped for pictures, and Cristin apologized for the late start. She told us that she had forgotten her vows and had had to go home to get them. It was almost conversational as they invited us to move our lawn chairs in closer. Danyel's sister read a lovely poem (Cris, I would also like a copy of that), and the two exchanged vows. Danyel said his in French, his first language, and the language in which they speak to their children, and Cristin said hers in English. They spoke about their united family, and each time Hannah heard her name, she gave a dramatic and spontaneous curtsy. She definitley stole the show.

After the ceremony, the piper brought the family back to the house, and all the guests picked up their chairs and walked along behind them. It was wonderfully informal and perfect for this family. There was nothing remotely excessive about it. We enjoyed a lovely brunch, courtesy of the mothers of the happy couple, outside under cloudless sky. They could not have asked for better weather. We all figure Betty had something to do with it.

Cognizant of the date today, I was thinking how apt a new marriage was to re-write its significance. This established family publicly declared their commtiment to each other today. As I was enjoying myself, I kept thinking of all the people in the world who remember this day for its awful events; people who lost their partners, their co-parents that day. Those people should know that they are remembered and thought about. We can thank Cristin and Danyel for giving us something else to remember this date by. Life does go on, and events like today's are defiant proof of our endurance.

Over

Well, they all survived the first day of school. Jack ran out yelling, "That was so much fun!" Aimee told me all about her little Reading Buddy, a first grader that sits beside her. Trevor tried to switch into an economics class with a less annoying prof. I baked cookies.






We went out for dinner, to celebrate. Jack, unfortunately, wasn't coping, and it was a miserable affair. Oh, well, I said. We can't do this again for a few months anyway, since Trevor is nearly unemployed now. Maybe by the next time he'll be civilized.

Back to the grind tomorrow. It was strange having a day off during the week. Although I don't miss shiftwork, that is the singular advantage, time to do stuff. But even with all the stuff to do, I played on my computer and read books. That's it. What do parents of school-agers do during the day, anyway? I guess they have hobbies. Maybe I don't have hobbies because I don't have time. Maybe if I had a hobby, I'd make time.

Anyway, I need to go to bed early to recover from my stressful day, out of my element. I'll feel better tomorrow, back with the cancer patients. The scholars did well, though, all three. I'm glad.

School

Well, here I am in the relative peace of my empty home. All my kids are at their respective schools.

Aimee set her alarm clock and was therefore up at 6:15 this morning. She went and played somewhere quietly until Jack woke up on his own around 7. They were both pretty excited about school. The got dressed voluntarily, and without fuss. Aimee looked adorable in her pleated skirt and her sweater. Jack's first day outfit was a little too warm for the weather, so he chose a Hot Wheels t-shirt. He even washed his face. As we were out in the front for pictures, the neighbours came out to exclaim on how cute they were. Jack proudly announced, "I'm going to Kindergarten today!" to anyone who would listen.

They posed, reluctantly, for pictures in the front yard. Unfortunately, the deadbeat across the street parked his stupid car right behind the tree, so we have it in some of the pictures, but Trevor managed to find angles that worked. Then we walked to the school. They posed going up the front steps and then we went around to the playground to find friends. Jack started chewing his finger and clingin when we got back there. Aimee played chase with the boys. When the bell rang, Jack clung harder, and the lip came out and the eyes started to water. Unlike Aimee, though, he went voluntarily when the teacher offered her hand, and by the time he went into the school, he was smiling and waving. I heard the teacher tell him his buddy AJ was inside the classroom, not having a good morning, and she needed Jack to help cheer him up. He was all over that. In the pictures, you can see Jack's teacher hoisting him up to wave at us before they went in.

Next, Aimee's class went in. She is no longer the smallest in the class. She marched confidently up the steps and disappeared into the school with barely a wave. A completely different kid from Kindergarten, when they peeled her off me and dragged her, crying, into the school. She is definitely a kid who thrives on the known. For her, it's picking up where she left off in June.

All that was left was a group of lost and forlorn, childless parents, standing around the school yard. We all kind of looked at each other and said, "Well, ok, I guess we leave now". I didn't see any adult tears, but I bet a few hearts were breaking.

I have a bit of a moment when Jack started to cry, but I know this is exactly what he needs to snap him out of his miserable stage, so it was not so heartbreaking for me to see my smallest go to kindergarten as I thought it might be. He is so ready, I probably should have sent him last January for an extra half year. The only other thing that made me stop a bit is the thought of him eating lunch in the chaotic gym, with the group of the smallest people. He knows most of them, and he knows the school, but he's always been sheltered by the daycare, and now he needs to be able to find his lunch bag, and organize his own food and everything... he just seems so young. I know I don't give him enough credit, but I just picture him getting lost in the frenzy. Although, when we got home, the neighbour told us that when he brought AJ into the classroom, there were two girls fighting over who got to put their stuff next to Jack's. I expect he'll give us a run for our money forever.

Trevor tells the story of his first day of kindergarten... apparently he kicked and screamed and cried and ran home on his own. I don't remember mine, but I have no doubt that Jack will. He remembers everything. I am so excited to pick them up and hear how it was. I'm sure they will have absolutely nothing to say, but I'll ask the questions nonetheless.

Trevor's first day today was a little more anticlimactic than the kids'. He just got in the car and drove off.

Well, I'm going off to the gym, and then I think I'll enjoy my empty house some more. I'll post pictures later, when they've been edited, and I'll give you the kids' version of the day.

Summer

Summer is officially over. School starts tomorrow, for everyone (else) in the family. We met the kids' teachers last night. Jack's teacher talks incessantly about herself but seems friendly and patient. A daycare staffperson, who I trust, says she is a good teacher, so I think it's safe to assume she will be up for the challenge of Jack. Aimee has the same teacher as last year, because she is in a multi-age class, so we already knew her, and Aimee was right at home. Jack has been given the official title of "Helper", because two of his buddies are pretty nervous about school. He ate that up.

Trevor also starts back tomorrow, after a several-year hiatus. He is going full-time for the year to finish his degree. He is anxious but will be fine. He's smart and responsible and mature. Thankfully, he is also not currently into one of those massively time-wasting online games. It will be quiet around here in the evenings, what with all the studying. I'm the only one not taking a course. Maybe over the winter I will, just so I don't feel left out.

Tonight, we celebrated the end of summer with a bike ride to Dairy Queen. Afterward, I had grand plans of reading a Kindergarten book with Jack, but he fell asleep in front of Canadian Idol while I was running on the treadmill, so we missed it. At least he got to bed at a decent hour.

So tomorrow we walk to school to drop them off. I got the day off, so I thought maybe I'd bake cookies or something, pretend I'm a traditional mom for a change. I made their lunches tonight, and I thought briefly of cutting the crusts off their sandwiches, to make amends for all my parental failings... but then I decided they could eat the damn crusts.

Anyway, I will be sure to post my experiences as a last time Kindergarten mom. I can't see being all weepy... this is the best thing that could happen to him. He needs to be a small fish in a big pond for a change. I think we will see him mature very quickly this year. I don't mourn his infancy tonight. I am excited for his childhood. He's ready and so am I.

Hell

Yesterday I went for a run, over to the inlaws house. It was a beautifyul day. A little warm for a run, and I am no longer trained these days, so it was more like a long walk with some running breaks, but it was great to be out and I got some good exercise.

My route took me though a very nice parkway along a busy road. Lots of paths, a man-made lake with families of geese or ducks or whatever they were. Trees and gardens and benches. It is all quite lovely. As I was running along, I saw a piece of paper on the ground. This park is very nicely kept, so it looked out of place. I saw a garbage can up ahead, so I figured I'd be a good Samaritan and throw away the paper. I got to the paper and used it as an excuse to slow down again. I bent over and picked it up. There was another, similar piece of paper up ahead, so I grabbed that one too. Just as I crumpled them up and started running toward the trash can, I looked at them. They were pages torn from a Bible.

Well, now what, I thought. I can't throw Bible pages in the trash. That's just wrong. But I was facing the prospect of another 15 minutes of running, dripping sweat, with no pockets to shove them in, and even if I did bring them home, what then? So I tossed them in the garbage.

There is definitely something wrong with throwing books, parts of books, and especially THAT book in the garbage. There was guilt. There is guilt. Add that to the list of other things that I'm going to hell for.

What I want to know, is how those pages got there. Did someone's well-loved Bible finally fall apart in the wind while they were reading it in the peace and calm of the park, watching the lake? Was it a little old lady who just couldn't chase the pages? Or was it some hoodlums who broke into (or stole a car) that had a Bible in it and tore apart the book while they joy-rided down the highway, tossing the pages out the window? I'm thinking if it was the latter, they are ahead of me in the line-up at the fiery gates, and I have a bit of hope that my garbaging Bible parts might be mitigated by the fact that I was trying to do my part to keep the park clean.

Of course, a few steps past the garbage can where I gently placed the pages, I saw another one. This one I didn't pick up. Maybe someone else will find it, read it, become a believer and be saved. It might all be worth it. Maybe the violent thunderstorm last night was Someone's way of telling me I did right (or wrong). What would you have done?

Tooth

The tooth finally came out!! She says she's even going to put it under her pillow for the tooth fairy. The tooth fairy better dig up a loonie and NOT FORGET.

Poor kid, though, it's painfully obvious that she will need braces. All her new teeth (all three of them) are crooked and crowded. She had a little friend over to play today. They are getting so grown up all of a sudden. At one point I heard the friend say"Oh. My. God." Just like a teenager. Trevor overheard Aimee saying "Geez, Louise, I can't get these things apart!". Where do they get this stuff? For our own entertainment, we've asked her several times if she wants to talk about babies. She is a master at ignoring us. I like Sio's suggestion of telling Jack about it and paying him to tell her. It might work. Better Jack than the little friend. Oh. My. God.

Further to my health, my back is better since the massage. I'm trying to be conscious of posture and ergonomics and stuff, but it just isn't top of my mind, so it frequently gets forgotten. Things are much better, though. I'll go back to him.In fact,. I'd recommend him to anyone with musculo-skeletal problems. He has a good handle on anatomy and physiology, and the therapy isn't rough or violent like chiropractic. It was just pleasant and relaxing and I felt better right away. Not creepy like massage parlour or anything. Definitely worth it, even if insurance didn't cover.

Our big problem these days is those little fruit flies. They are everywhere. Yesterday there were a good dozen in the bathroom of all places. We squished most but I just can't figure where they are coming from. We are going to try the fruit fly traps from Lee Valley. They especially like red wine. Crappy. Other suggestions are welcome. I suppose we should be thanking Someone if our biggest problem is fruit flies.

We are going to watch a movie now. Sahara. Cheesy Clive Cussler adventure. I'm surprised it took this long for someonw to make a Clive cussler novel into a movie... the books were like scripts. It was painfully obvious that he wrote them for the screen. Anyway, I will review later if anyone wants.

Health

So I have been having back pain. Nothing new, it feels like knots in the muscles between my shoulder blades. But it's been getting worse and worse, surpirse, surprise, since I took this new job. I figured it was time to see a doctor when it started radiating down my arms and making my fingers go numb. Oh, and radiating to my chest. Chest pain is not good. I'm definitely feeling my age.

I had a complete physical this week. My 34 years are showing. She xrayed my back to rule out nerve root compression, and she recommended massage and yoga. There were other issues, resulting in other tests, the details of which I will spare my loyal fans, mainly due to the "EEEEWWWWW" factor. In any case, I am on the verge of falling apart.

So tonight, dutifully, I went for a massage, to a licensed massage therapist. And not a moment too soon. I had the worst headache of my life this afternoon. It was bad enough to be distracting. I had spots before my eyes. I wouldn't have been able to drive, even if I wanted to. And my back was also worse than ever. So after supper, I went to see Gary, the massage therapist. Yes, I know what it sounds like. But I was pleasantly surprised. He was just out of massage therapy school, looked about 12 (in other words, not my type). He was full of thorough, useful knowledge of anatomy and physiology. I walked out feeling so much better than I had in weeks. My head still hurts, but not as much. So I am now a devotee of massage therapy. I even made another appointment.

I don't go in for chiropractic and such. I worry it's dangerous. But how could massage possibly be harmful? I am not opposed to the idea of acupuncture, but I would want to try it sometime. I do think I'll try to find a yoga instructor somewhere though. It would do me some good to stretch more. And drink less coffee. And more milk. And eat more veggies.

I do hear that coffee is good for you. The newspaper said it is full of antioxidants (so it must be true). It's good, now I don't need to stop drinking it. Of course so is green tea and red wine and grapes, so I could probably just use those and get my maximum cancer-fighting nutrients that way. But they are not the same as a cup of coffee in the morning. Too bad it'sa diuretic. But besides, I think that the caffeine headache would be far worse than the dehydration headache.

So now, although my back feels quite a bit better, I am tired and draggy. I feel kind of afflicted. Like suddenly I have a chronic medical problem. I've never had one of those before. My body has always been there for me. It can't start fighting back now. I live healthier than I ever have. Oh, well, I expect I will assimilate this new "condition", my "back problems", into life and carry on. What else can you do? At least it's not cancer.

Amusingly, tonight, as I was tucking Aimee in, I said, "So when do you want to talk about where babies come from and stuff?" "Never," she said quickly. "But you need to know how to avoid babies until it's time," I said. "Where is my blanky?" she said. "Stop changing the subject. If you don't want to talk to me about it, how about Daddy?" She looked mortified. "NO!" she said. "Don't you want to know when you are going to start growing boobs?" I asked. "NO!" she said. "Don't you want to know when you'll start getting hairy?" I said. "NO!" she said. "Well, we need to talk about it sometime, before you hear it from your friends," I said. "Can you reach my book?" she said. I gave up. The child may well get her first period without knowing what it is. Shameful, for the child of a nurse. I think my plan is to strategically time The Talk with Jack, who would like it now, I think, for when she is around but "not listening", so she at least has some idea of what to expect.

Anyway, as long as she gets it from me before she gets it from little Rebecca, we'll be fine.

Ok, diatribed enough. I am going to pee out all the toxins and metabolic waste that Gary released from my muscles, and then I'm taking my headache to bed. It's good for my health. Bed, not headaches and toxins. Nothing wrong with bed.

Aww, man! I hear Canada Geese flying over. It must be September. Happy autumn.