Memoires of a Young Gladiator/Teacher

I thought I was invincible. I thought I was strong. I had NO IDEA what I was getting into when I said "yes". I was a gladiator being thrown into a ring of hungry, ornery lions. I'm talking of course about my first real job as a teacher.

It was the spring of 2002 and I was fresh out of the B. Ed program. I mean, I had quite literally graduated seven days earlier when the call came. A principal from a "high needs" school inviting ME to sub until the end of June. Did I hear him tell me that I would be the 4th sub in that class since April? Did I hear him tell me that I would have to write report cards with NO previous record of assessment? Did I hear him tell me that the parents were convicts? Did I hear in his voice that he was a tool? NOPE! All I could hear was the "cha-ching!" of real money rolling into my bank account.

Months earlier, I had signed a contract with the Calgary Board of Education, but I figured a little experience before I started my full time position in September couldn't hurt and it was only 5 weeks until the end of June. I could do anything for 5 weeks. So without hesitation, I threw myself into the ring. The first ring of Hell, that is.

I showed up on that first Monday with all the optimism in the world, eager, cute, full of excitement and ignorance. The secretary didn't even look up when I proudly introduced myself. "Sign the sub book," She gruffed. I guess she was used to the turnover of substitute teachers and didn't hold out much hope for me. "I'll let the principal know you're here." She sighed. Whatever. This middle age, surly secretary wasn't going to trample my confidence.

The principal, a bald headed, skinny dude wearing a grey suit, yellow shirt and pale pink tie, skipped into the office. That's right. He skipped. He was giddy, so I was confused when the first words out of his mouth were, "Christina, I have some baaad news!"

"What's that?" I inquired, bracing myself for something along the lines of "we don't need you."

"The teacher you're replacing called me this morning. Her mother died. She won't be coming back to work so we definitely need you until the end of the year. Don't worry, I'll tell the kids. The bell is about to ring so go pick up the class in front of the side doors. I'll meet you in the classroom after announcements. Here's the key - it's room two."

Quickly, I rushed to my new classroom, took stock, dropped off my stuff and ran to the side doors BEFORE the bell rang. Three other teachers stood by me and politely introduced themselves. They showed me where my class was supposed to line up and I was grateful to them for their "help". Within minutes, three lovely rows of smiling, orderly children stood before three experienced, smug teachers. One perplexed novice teacher stood alone. Where the heck was MY class?

I was to teach the deaf children. The children that could not (or chose not to) hear the bell ring. The three classes to my left entered the school and left me by myself with the delinquents. "Good luck!" one wench called over her shoulder.

I kid you not, twenty-two six and seven-year-old monkeys continued to play in the field long after the bell rang. It was up to me to play shepherd. I herded them one by one to a line-up but, of course, the moment I turned my back to find more, the line would disappear. 25 minutes later, after a few silent curse words, and the emergence of a booming, menacing voice I hitherto did not know I possessed, we assembled into the lion's den...er...classroom.

Mr. Principal was waiting for us. He didn't seem to notice we were late. The kids didn't seem to notice he was there.

"Class, I have bad news." One or two kids looked up. "Your teacher's Mother died. Miss Deegan is your new teacher. Be nice to her." He winked at me and left. Seriously.

“OUR TEACHER DIED?????" One kid shrieked. Suddenly, twenty-two six and seven-year-olds were flooded with tears. Loud, inconsolable cries filled the room. Was I unnerved? A little, but I wasn't about to throw in the towel just yet. I explained to the class that their teacher was fine, but probably sad because her Mom had passed away. How could we help her to feel better? "Make cards?" The one bright child suggested. "YES!" and that's what we did.

Over the next five weeks, I was truly baptised by fire into the profession of teaching. It was painful but boy did I learn.

I learned about classroom management. Kids do, in fact, crave structure (especially those who have none at home). They learned to love the lining up game. By the end of five weeks we could make it into that building in less than fifteen minutes, post bell.

I learned how to plan a field trip. On Tuesday, Mr. Principal told me that there was money in the class fund that had to be used within the next two weeks for an end-of-the-year field trip. It was up to me to organize it. He suggested I make use of the parent volunteers to chaperone. It was a piece of cake. I planned a picnic at a local park. I booked the busses, sent home the paper work, collected the permission slips and organized the parent volunteers.

That’s when I learned about crazy parents. Whist planning the above field trip, I received a phone call at my house at 11pm on Saturday night. Mrs. X was delighted that she had been chosen as a parent volunteer for Monday's trip, but before she accepted, she needed to know if Mrs. Y was also going to be going on the trip. "Yes? Oh dear, that's a problem... you see she and me [sic] have a restraining order..."

I learned about writing report cards and my gift for writing the BS. How does one write a two page anecdotal report for 22 students after only knowing them for two weeks? Let me just say, it can be done and I did it well.

Most importantly, I learned that I had NO interest in teaching Grade 1/ 2 children.

AT the end of each day I would say a silent prayer, thanking God for survival and promising that if I managed to make it to the end of my five weeks without committing an unforgivable sin, I would NEVER teach grade 1/2 again.

Though I had a contract with the Calgary Board, I would not know what I was teaching until the end of June when a principal called me.

I did survive the five weeks. I tamed those lions, and though I was scarred I was stronger than ever before. AS I was celebrating my victory, the phone rang. "Miss Deegan? I'm calling from Calgary. I'm a principal here and I am hoping that you can come for an interview next week at my school."

"Yes! What grade is it?"

"It's grade 1/2"

"FABULOUS! I have experience with Grade 1/2!" Was I hearing myself correctly?

I got the job and on the first day of school we practiced lining up. They got it on the first try and I knew I was good.

School Days

Officially summer doesn't end until September 21, but in my books, summer closes up shop on the eve of the new school year. Summer = good weather. Summer = freedom. Both of these perks disappear the day school reopens its doors.

It's not a bad thing. I like cycles. I like familiarity. But I love summer. In summer, not only do I feel free from work obligations, I feel free period. It's like a there's a lightness that's come into life. I can walk around sockless. There's no need for heavy coats and ugly Sorrel boots. The daylight lingers and so does my energy, unlike winter's early darkness that entices me to hibernate.

So, despite all the excitement surrounding the new school year, I usually feel a little sadness when autumn rushes in three weeks early. BUT not this year! This year, summer gets to hang around a little longer- for me anyway.

I'm on Maternity leave. The teacher in me still has back-to-school dreams/nightmares (they start in late July) and part of me has already started to plan for the fictional class I'd be teaching if I were going back but, in reality, I am SO happy to be staying home on the first day of school.

It doesn't mean that I get to stop being a teacher though. I'll be "home schooling" Neal and Ella. I'll be the best teacher in the world. We'll go on field trips EVERY day. We'll do "hands on experiments" morning, noon, and night. We'll have a band - I'm a fabulous singer and pots-and-pans drummer - and film studies to boot (did you know that Spiderman is a CLASSIC?). Nature walks, cooking class, literacy, and more. It's all part of the Christina Wilson school experience.

The only snag: when the school bell rings at 3:30pm and my colleague's students head home, my littlin's will still be on my watch. But that's okay - they are cuter than ANY of my colleagues' students. Besides, our guest speaker (Daddy) will be on his way and I will be able to take a well deserved rest at the back of the class.

Of course, if I am to continue with the classroom analogy, things are about to get tougher. I am losing my teacher's assistant (our nanny, Edna) and the guest speaker booked for this week is kind of lame - quite literally, Daddy is physically damaged - and not up to the task of captivating the class so I can't rest during his presentation.

So with some downers here and on the horizon, perhaps my metaphorical summer is drawing to a close. Oh well. Happy fall everyone!

I'm Not a Plumber!

I'm an open minded person... I'll admit that it might not have been the best way to deliver a message, but I don't think I'm completely at fault...And yet here I am, banished to the dog house. So for today's blog, I'll give you the facts and you decide if I'm really guilty.

"Mommy! Let's go CAR RIDING!" Neal pounced on me the second I opened the door. Dripping with sweat after just finishing up the daily run, I greeted him with a hug. "Mommy, stink!" He announced.

"That's right, Buddy. I stink and I need a shower. I'll be quick and then we can go CAR RIDING!"

I washed my face in the sink and just as I was about to hop in the shower, I thought I heard the curious sound of water trickling. Glancing at the tap and seeing no signs of running water, I was about to chalk it up to my imagination. And then I saw the tell tale sign of water pooled on the floor under the vanity. Water covered the base of the shelf. "Jeez, we've had enough water issues in this stinkin' bathroom to sink a ship" I cursed to myself. I don't know much about plumbing, but this didn't look super serious, so I carried on with my shower and made a mental note to text Ken about it later on. Neal was waiting for me.

Neal was bubbling over with excitement when I announced today's errands to him. First, we were going to get a hot chocolate at Starbucks and then we were going to go CAR CART riding at the Co-Op (picture a race car grocery cart-it makes ALL the difference). I strapped him into his car seat and before putting the key in the ignition, sent off a text to Ken. It read:

"Are you ready for today's daily dose of 'WTF now' news?"

He answered right away. "Sure, give me the news. I'm in a meeting, but I'll call in thirty"

Neal was getting impatient in the back and he was starting to complain. So, we drove to Starbucks and I texted back once we were parked.

"We have a leak in the basement sink."

A similar incident had happened to our upstairs sink about a year ago and I remember that the first question Ken asked was: "What kind of leak is it?" I had looked at the piping and told him that water was "dripping out of the thing into the thing." This description did not go over well.

So, I was prepared this time. Before he had a chance to ask the question, I was conjuring up a proper description of the downstairs piping problem.

"Head and neck broken."

Neal and I went inside to order. As Neal was politely and oh so sweetly practicing his "May I have a hot cocklate[sic]" sentence to say to the barista, the phone rang. It was Ken but we were at the front of the line and I decided that it would be easier to call him back after our order was placed. Ken was being insistent though. The phone kept ringing. I picked it up. Our conversation went as follows:

Me: HI Hon.

Ken: (Nervous voice) WHERE ARE YOU?

ME: Starbucks.

(The whip cream that I forgot to tell them to hold is overflowing Neal's sippy cup, and he thinks this is great)

Ken: STARUCKS??? (Sounding a little incredulous). WHAT IS GOING ON?????

Me: (grabbing a dozen napkins and attempting to clean up the whip cream mess) I just told you. We're at Starbucks.

Ken: (sputtering) THE SINK??? WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Me: I told you! It's got a leak. The pipe at the top that looks like the head is no longer connected to its neck piece.

Ken: That's not the sink! That's the Pee-trap!

Note: (I think Pee trap is a funny word).

Ken: I JUST SPRINTED OUT OF MY MEETING TO MY OFFICE BECAUSE I PICTURED WATER GUSHING OUT OF A PIPE. I PICTURED THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF DAMAGE. I PICTURED SOMEBODY WITH A BROKEN HEAD AND NECK!

Me; hee, hee, he. That's Hilarious, Pooke!

He didn't seem to think so.

Normally, he has a pretty good sense of humour. I guess this, coupled with the earlier facebooking incident (I shamelessly broke into his account and announced to the world that he had hemorrhoids), might have been a bit much.

I suppose I'll have to bake a batch of my famous chocolate chip cookies this afternoon. That'll do the trick. I hope.

But seriously...you knew what I was talking about, right?

Lee

My dog is smart. She understands the word WALK. She even knows it starts with the letter "W". Say it and you get the same reaction as that of an old lady who's just won the bingo. You say the word, "Doggie Park" and she's bouncing up and down like a Kangaroo, tail wagging excitedly and dusting-or whipping (depending upon her haircut) every surface in sight. She knows the hidden meaning in putting on certain clothes too. A warmer jacket = excellent times. Put on boots and you can hear her little doggie brain scream, "YAHOO!" But throw on spandex shorts combined with a tank top and a pair of sneaks and she's outta there. You say the word "run" and she slinks away like a child presented with broccoli. If you insist, she will begrudgingly - tail firmly between her legs - come. It's pitiful really. But I am her owner and one of her doggie duties is to protect and keep me company while I'm exercising. So I do insist. And she does complain. Daily.

Every morning we start out with the rigmarole and I am forced to pull her for the first 100 meters. And then it happens. On the sidewalk leading down to the park, Morley sees her best friend, Lee. The next thing I know, Morley is pulling me and yelling loudly in her doggie brain, "hurry up, you two legged slow poke!" I want her to be a well behaved dog, so as we dash across the street I am uselessly insisting that she "heal", but the truth of the matter is that I am almost as excited as Morley is to catch up with Lee.

I think his name is Lee. I've heard him be referred to as Mr. Lee by some folks, but, after meeting him hundreds of times, it would be embarrassing to ask for clarification now. So I call him Lee and he doesn't seem to mind.

Lee is our Bownesian relic. He's 90 years old and he is cool. Lee's got that X-Factor that attracts every human being and dog (especially dogs) to his side. He is the friendliest man I've ever met and he knows everybody and every dog by their first AND last name. He's lived in the community for 60+ years so he's got some fabulous stories to share, but really the best part about Lee is that he's got a "warmth" emanating from him, and a sparkle in his eye that just makes being in his presence enough.

Morley knows he's special. She runs up to him and sits at his feet in a controlled "un-Morley-like” way. When he pats her head and scratches her back, she gazes lovingly at him in a way that she's NEVER looked at me. He loves her too. "Morley!" he bellows. " I was hoping to see you today!" then he proceeds to gush over her and praise her good behaviour. After a few minutes he will say, "Oh, hi there Christina! It's good to see you too."

Despite having old joints and a very sore back, Lee insists on walking to the park to meet his buddies every morning. He walks slowly and doesn't venture too far into the park, though you know he wants to. He's a twenty-year-old trapped in a ninety-year-old body.

Lee was married to a lady named Marie for 66 years and she died four years ago. I didn't know Marie, but I wish I had because I know that she too must have been special. When Lee mentions her name, his face lights up and then a shadow crosses it and I know he misses her a great deal.

This morning, the kids slept in (bless their hearts) and we headed out later than usual. I had to pull Morley further today because Lee was not at his post. We crossed the bridge, s-l-o-w-l-y, and I allowed Morley to have a little detour in the "illegal doggie park" for some play time. After a few minutes we continued on our way towards the river path.

It was a gorgeous morning. The sun was bright but not yet too hot. The river was shimmering and a cool (but not too cool) breeze made the air light. Yes, this is what we runners refer to as perfect running weather. By this time, even Morley didn't seem to mind jogging besides me. Suddenly I felt the pull of her leash and a renewed energy flowing through her tail. Her run turned into a giddy gallop and I looked around trying to figure out where the magic was. And there HE was. Lee had managed to cross the park and he was just steps away from a solitary bench overlooking the river. At first I was worried. This was a VERY long journey for him to get here.

We caught up and played our daily game and then I asked him what he was doing so deep in the park? There is no doubt in my mind that if he wasn't hurting from such a jaunt he will most definitely be in pain tomorrow.

"See that bench, Christina?"

"Yup." I glanced towards the bench overlooking the spectacular view of the Bow river.

"Marie and I sat in THAT bench everyday for 60 years and today I was bound and determined to make it here."

"That's terrific Lee, " I praised. I wanted to ask him more. Was today a special day in history for his wife and himself? Was he feeling particularly lonely today? "Was he feeling her ghostly presence calling to him? But, I could tell that he wanted to finish his goal and I was delaying him. So, Morley and I said goodbye and carried on down the path.

I was a little concerned about Lee and wondered if he would make it back home safely. As usual though, I left feeling energized and today I had even more energy than usual.

Thankfully as we were nearing the end of our run and crossing the street back to our house I heard a call from Lee's familiar voice, "Have a good run ,Christina?"

"It was awesome Lee! We went an extra 3 km," I responded. Little did he know that he was the inspiration that pushed us to go further today.

Happy Birthday Gordie

Next to my trusty BOB stroller, the Baby Bjorn is my favourite accessory these days. I don't know who invented it (was it a dude named Bjorn?) but I would like to thank him or her for the hours of convenient baby carrying it has given me. I used it to haul Neal around until I was too pregnant with Ella to fit it around me - probably a good year longer than most people wear theirs. Likely, I will carry Ella in the Bjorn until she is old enough to be embarrassed to be seen in it. In sum, I would be lost without my Bjorn....

So, the night I almost lost my beloved baby carrier is one I won't soon forget. After spending a fabulous month in the Promised Land (aka Halifax in September), it was time to return to Calgary. Neal was almost 6 months old, and Morley, our fur baby, had joined us on the trip. Anyone who tells you that travelling by yourself with an infant and a hyper labradoodle is easy is either a martyr or a fraud. We had no issues flying to Halifax, but I wasn't going to admit the simplicity of it all until we were back in Calgary, unscathed. So, lying in bed at my sister's house the night before our return, I was visualizing the controlled chaos that would ensue the next morning. I live by the mantra that "it's all about perspective". I knew things might be a little hairy, but as long as I didn't have high expectations, as long as I remembered that it was only ONE day's worth of travelling Hell, things would be okay.

Right. At two o'clock in the morning I awoke with a start. Our flight was in 3 hours and I had the feeling that I'd forgotten to pack something important. Neal was sleeping soundly beside me in the playpen, so I creeped silently passed him to the suitcase and quickly scanned its contents. Everything looked in order. I went back to bed.

1 hr. and 45 min. later, panic threw me out of my sleep. The Baby Bjorn! It wasn't at my sister's house. I knew where it was though. It was in my Mother's car trunk, 30 mins. away. Cursing myself, I mentally ran through all the possible solutions. 1) Go back to sleep and have Mom mail the bloody thing express post back to Calgary. 2) Steal my sisters SUV and go back to Halifax to retrieve it. That would take an hour, round trip, and it would be tight. I still had to dress and feed the kid (and myself), and walk the dog before we left for the airport. Hmm. Can you guess what curse words were going through my mind?

Well, I contemplated the first idea. I could carry my 20 lbs baby boy with my bare hands and manage my "crate hating" 61 lbs dog simultaneously.

NO I COULDN'T!!! Suddenly all that Zen and perspective I'm known for went out the window. There was no other choice. I had to get that Baby Bjorn back! Glancing at Neal slumbering peacefully, I knew that I had to leave him and run the risk that he might awaken during the time I was gone...actually who was I kidding? It was a foregone conclusion that he would wake during the time I was gone. I had to tell my sister and brother-in-law of my tool-ed mistake. So, to their room I went.

My sister Diana will tell you that she is a light sleeper. I believe she once told me that the sound of moth wings flapping could wake her. My brother-in-law, Gordie rarely finds the time to sleep. He is one of the busiest dudes I know. I'm guessing that when he does find the time to sleep, he does it soundly.

I gingerly opened the door to their room and expected Diana to sit up right away. I whispered her name. Nothing. I whispered his name. Nothing. I went over and prodded Diana gently. "mnph" was her response. Good, we were getting somewhere. "Diana, I need to borrow your car keys, where are they?" Nothing. I said it again and got the same answer. I glanced at my watch and realized we were losing precious time. I had to stop pussyfooting around. "Diana, I'm leaving. Please take care of Neal." That got a response.

Two dead to the world bodies sprang to life, literally flinging themselves off the bed. Two heads spun in my direction. Two sets of eyes that, seconds ago were firmly fastened, popped open wide and stared at me, confused. "WHAT?"

I explained my situation and they were relieved that I wasn't suffering from some perverse post-partum breakdown. I was not LEAVING my child with them indefinitely.

Before I finished asking again for their car keys, Gordie was already dressed. "Go back to bed. I'm on it" he said. Gordie, who had only just gotten to sleep after a long day at work, was saving my arse for the umpteenth time. The year before he had courageously driven me to New Brunswick in a blizzard so I could catch a flight. My brother-in-law rocks.

Gordie has been a part of my life since I was 5 years old, so he may as well be my brother. He is the funniest, most dedicated and hardworking person I know. His sense of honour and duty knows no bounds. I love that guy like a brother.

Today is his 44th birthday! Gordie, your support over the years has been as strong as my Baby Bjorn. Oh, I know that is cliché and a terrible ending, but the kids just woke and I've got to wrap this up.

Happy Birthday Buddy.

So I Married a Superhero

I have a secret. I'm married to Spiderman. Most people know him as Peter Parker (aka Ken Wilson). They see a brilliant geek. Sometimes they see a bit of a pompous know-it-all control freak. To the innocent bystander at a party he might be the aloof hairy guy lurking in the shadows but for the select few, privileged enough to truly know him, we recognize him as Spiderman.

Okay, to be fair, I'm not really a connoisseur of comic book superheroes. I suppose I could have easily told you that my husband was "Wolverine" or "The Incredible Hulk" but recently Neal has become quite obsessed with Spiderman so, knowing him a bit better than other superheroes, I've decided to cast him as my husband's alter-ego.

Oh, I've known since day 1 that he was a superhero. The first time we met, I was the perfect damsel in distress. Needing rescuing from a set of impossible "put-it-together-yourself Staples desk" directions, he appeared out of nowhere...well sort of...Years later my roommate Amy would disclose that she informed him of my desperate state. Nevertheless, he showed up. He put that desk together in no time flat and I thought he was HOT. So hot in fact that I even wondered if he was out of my league.

Part of the attraction of course was his personality. I found him refreshing. Ken is brutally honest and he doesn't play "guess who I am". He wears that Spiderman costume proudly. In our society, wearing a Spiderman costume is the equivalent to walking around naked. You just aren't supposed to "show yourself" that openly to strangers. So, people don't know where to look or think when they first meet him. Not me. All I could see was that big heart of his - I could say something dirty here too, but I digress… - and when you usually have to sift through stuff to find the good in people, I was relieved to be in the company of truth.

My husband has an extremely keen sense of right and wrong. He has taken a personal oath to always make the right choices-even when the alternative choice is more popular. He is fixated on being right - yes, annoyingly so - and before you write him off as arrogant, you should know that he usually IS right. Damn, I hate to admit that... But the truth is, in addition to knowing the answers to intellectual questions, he knows the right answers to the really difficult "life" questions.

I've often said that Ken is the “most Christian non-Christian" of anybody I know. It doesn't matter who you are, if you are in need, my Spidey is there. People (Ken included) have asked me the question: "how can you live with a person like him?" and it is a difficult one to answer. Ken is a tough guy to live with but not for the reasons you're thinking. You see, he actually is a better human being than I am. I'd like to fancy myself a "good" person...but when the cards are on the table, I'm gonna want to make the easy choice, which isn't necessarily the right one. Take for instance the time he won $4000 in a 50/50 draw. When he told me that he'd won, I immediately started imagining how we could play with the extra cash...and then he told me that he GAVE the money right back to the charity. Yeah...how do you live with that?!

The question people should be asking is: "How does it feel to be adored by Spiderman?" It feels great. I have won the proverbial jackpot when it comes to husbands. Routinely, my man professes his love for me...verbally, non-verbally, and in ways that would be "too much information". I get flowers on a weekly basis, "just because" and love poetry. Amazing love poetry (Spidey is a GIFTED rhymer, did you know that?). He recognizes that he's got a good thing (me) and he appreciates it. It ISN'T easy to be married to a superhero. All superheroes have flaws (that's what makes them good characters) and mine is no exception, but who doesn't have flaws?

This morning at Gymboree, Neal's teacher asked me if my husband was the "Dad that dressed up like Spiderman with his son". I admitted that he was. "I LOVE that Dad. He is my favourite Dad of all the classes I’ve ever taught," she gushed. "I love watching him play with Neal. He gets it. He is interactive and FUN and I love watching other parents WATCH him, they are in awe !!”

"I know," I said, beaming with pride, "That's my husband alright." I could tell she was jealous. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be married to Spidey?

My Saturday Odessey

It is a beautiful Saturday morning here in Calgary and the parade to Bowness Park has already started. We are so fortunate to live across the street from such a wonderful place and, indeed, we spend most of our weekdays enjoying its splendour. But I won't be going there today.

Bowness Park, like the Sirens and Circe, calls loudly to anyone with ears and enchants them to bask in its glory. On hot, summery days, like today, EVERY Tom, Dick, and Muhammad responds with a pilgrimage. But I won't be going there today. No way. I learned my lesson a few months ago.

Bowness Park seems to cast its spell over new immigrants more so than any other residents of Calgary. For a new Canadian, I think spending an afternoon watching the cheeky Canada Geese hiss at runners, and listening to the echo of hooligan rafters, is a marvelous way to get acquainted with our Canadian way of life.

On this particular Saturday in May, the park was calling to me too. My husband Ken was not feeling well and I decided to take my two year old, Neal, and my newborn daughter, Ella AND our four year old labradoodle, Morley (a.k.a. the Moo) for a much needed outing.

Neal, having just turned two, and realizing that strollers were for babies, begged to go for a walk "holding Mommy hand." Well, I'm nothing, if not a sucker. I strapped Ella in the Baby Bjorn and leashed up the Moo, holding the leash in one hand and Neal's hand in the other. Yeah, I know...I'm awesome.

As we skipped and sang happily across the bridge to the park, I remember thinking to myself, "This is what life is meant to be. I'm spending quality time with my children, I'm getting fresh air, and even though I'm functioning on one hour of sleep, I'm living it up and I feel strong!" Well, little did I know that the test of my true strength was just around the corner....

A few weeks earlier, Neal had celebrated his birthday party in style with balloons. Since that day, balloons had become his new fascination...that and cake. "Bawoons. Look!" he shrieked. Sure enough, midway across the grassy field, balloons were beckoning. They were colorful and bold- a complete contrast to their owners. No fewer than fourteen black Niquab clad Muslim woman were sitting silently on a beautiful hand woven carpet. It looked like quite a raucous party. Neal, possessed with balloon wonderment, didn’t care who owned them. As far as he was concerned, those balloons had his name on them and he was Hell bent on getting one. Morley was Hell bent on getting out of there.

Let me tell you about my dog Morley. She is part labradoodle, part PUSSY cat. She gets her personality from me. She pretends to be brave, but underneath all that curly blonde hair, she's a nervous wreck. She knows her dog duties well: be cute. be loved. protect the pack...er family. The first two duties she does extremely well and she enjoys those aspects of being a dog. The last is her downfall. Oh she'll put on a show when she has too, but confrontation (like her human mother) is her greatest weakness. And I should mention, she’s particularly afraid of people in masks.

So, on this fateful day when she spied those dark veiled people, her first instinct was to run in the opposite direction. But Neal had broken free from his Mommy and was running TOWARDS them, so begrudgingly, Morley put on her "brave dog" face and raised her "brave dog" voice.

Fourteen sets of big dark eyes stared us down. It was hard to tell if they were nervous, annoyed, or amused. Actually, I don't think they were amused. Neal was determined to get his grubby hands on a balloon and Morley was determined to let the ladies know that she did NOT approve of their wardrobe choice. I'm not going to lie to you. Running after a two year old, while being pulled by a 61 lbs. dog and carrying a wobbly headed newborn, is no easy feat. But with Spiderman strength and agility, I somehow managed to swoop up Neal just as he was about to take off with the prized balloons. Yup, now I was carrying two kids and pulling a very loudly barking Morley away from the party girls....

Neal was frustrated and PO'd and to demonstrate just how unhappy he was with me, pulled out the tried and true two year old temper tantrum, complete with the infamous kicking and head bucking techniques. Ella was also unimpressed by this point and decided that she needed to declare her feelings too. She may be a baby, but when she's mad, her temper can rival her Daddy's. Morley, relieved that she could lose the tough girl act, began to realize that we were no longer heading towards the doggie park and decided she needed to sulk too. In case you're wondering, that means walking very slowly and looking longingly in the opposite direction.

We were a spectacle. The 300 m walk back to our house was one of the longest journeys in the history of man. Somehow, by the grace of God, I did it. And I vowed never to go to the park on a Saturday again.

So, this afternoon, despite the fact that I hear the Bowness Sirens calling me, we will be having a pool party in our backyard.

Am I a Blogger Too?

I think I'm a boring person. Yeah, I know...that's got to be the world's worst introduction to a blog but I'm telling you this so that you can appreciate why I am compelled to start writing a blog in the first place. Everyone around me is talented. Seriously talented. We're talkin' prized poets, knitters your grandma would envy, mind blowing musicians, gifted athletes, artists, gourmet chefs. The list goes on. Then there's me.

All of these people are in fact MY friends...so there must be something that I contribute...but whatever my talents are, they aren't your run of the mill, obvious ones. I'm a mother (a pretty good one I think), a wife (a damn good one-I'm sure), a teacher (on hold for the moment), but at the end of the day, when the kids are in bed and I've finally got some time to myself, I'd like to do something more. These days, I'm a couch potato and an i-phone addict. B-O-R-I-N-G. I've attempted (half-assidly) to find a hobby, but for the life of me, I have not been able to find something I like. Oh the stress of trying to find a damn hobby!

I'm not an artist. My artistic abilities could rival those of a kid in Grade 1, but definitely not Grade 2. I know, I've taught both grades. The mere fact that I have even attempted to find my inner artist makes me shake my head. I don't think art is supposed to make you feel THAT incompetent.

I've often said that I'm creative but without the skills to express said creativity. This idea became evident during my tour of the music world. When I was little, my Mom insisted that I take piano lessons. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy piano, I did, but, to make a long story short, I could not read music well. Even after several YEARS of piano lessons, I was illiterate.

But I faked it well. I even won my class at the Kiwanis Music festival one year. Why? Because the judge recognized my musicality (if you can't make sense of a time signature, you're bound to make the music sound unique?). No, I could feel the music - just like my two year old who desperately wants to talk, but doesn't have all the words yet. He makes up his own language and I totally get it!

I am most envious of my friends who can write. In school I found writing to be a chore and often it was contrived. I knew the formula, but hid my voice (kind of the opposite of my music experience). Nevertheless, I did well and I was told by many teachers that writing was my forte. So, when I see and hear what my friends are writing, I harbour a bit of guilt because I wonder if I could possibly have some kind of hidden talent as a writer? Until now, I've been too lazy to test it out and to be honest, I'm not even sure that I have the stamina to write a regular blog. So, this will be a personal challenge for me. Who knows where this will lead? Maybe (God willing and the Creek don't rise) blogging is my hobby!