Socks

It's not that I don't enjoy wearing socks. In fact, I'll be the first to admit that on a cold morning, there is nothing more pleasing than pampering my tender tootsies with a fresh pair of soft Smartwool. Not only are my socks comfortable, they are also stink absorbers, and they aide in the prevention of foot blisters. But, as you may have guessed from the first sentence, this blog is not about my love of socks. Au contraire, mon ami, I want you to see that it will be socks that ultimately drive me to an early grave.

It was hard enough as a singleton to keep track of my own socks. I swear, I would put a pair in the washer and by the time the load was done, the pair would be reduced to just one. Puzzled, as though confronted with one of life's greatest mysteries, I would rack my brain for clues to the whereabouts of the missing sock. Did the washer machine eat it? Did the dryer's heat react with my eau de pied and cause it to spontaneously combust? Did the mischievous ghost of Tuscarora Manor think it was funny to watch me spin in circles? ‘Dunno. After a while, I had no choice but to mix and match...but it was hard to admit defeat. I told people that wearing a blue trouser sock with a white ankle was what all the cool kids were doing nowadays. Hell yes, I started that trend.

Then I moved in with Ken. Now, not only did I have double the socks to manage, I was dealing with a dude that believes that "like socks" should ALWAYS be paired together (*cough* he's an engineer). We didn't know it at the time (though, I myself suspected) that Ken has ADHD. He can be easily distracted when dealing with mundane tasks. Mundane tasks such as TAKING OFF ONE'S SOCKS. It's not unusual for Ken to take off one sock by the couch and the other one in the bedroom. So, when only one sock gets tossed in the dirty clothes hamper, is it a crime to match it with another lost sock soul? Hardly, especially when all of his socks are black anyway. To the naked eye, and when the foot is stuffed in a shoe, you can't tell whether the sock has 6 rows of ribbing or just three. So, passive-aggressive as it sounds, I will continue to encourage the mixed sock relationships, until Ken puts both his socks into the washer at the same time.

Now we have the children's socks to contend with. To all the new mothers out there, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Baby socks are tiny and babies HATE wearing them. They quietly (if you’re lucky) kick them off (if you’re unlucky they do it loudly). They throw them out of their strollers and smile knowingly to themselves. Baby socks have the life span of WWI front line messenger, which by the way is the riskiest job you could have in WWI, it was also what Adolf Hitler did – weird huh? They say, "don't sweat the small stuff" but dammit, those baby socks keep me up at night.

I'm not the only one in the house that has a love/hate relationship with socks. Our dog Morley believes that socks are small animals that need to be eaten. Who can blame her? They smell feral enough, they look furry, and for all I know, our socks really are possessed. I picture them inching across our floor in a mad effort to escape when we aren't looking. Only the dog sees them in action and as protector of the house, it's up to HER to put a stop to the sneaky sock shenanigans.

A few months back I got a startling phone call from Ken. He was walking Morley in the park while I was tending to our newborn daughter.

"We've had a bit of an emergency," announced Ken. My heart skipped a beat. I consider Morley our first born "adopted" daughter and any situation described as an emergency WILL take years off my life.

"Everything is under control now but..." Ken's voice started to take on a nervous tone.

"But WHAT?" I demanded.

"Morley and I were playing fetch and..." My mind instantly went to the worst possible scenarios. A rogue car plunged through the park and took out every tree and dog in sight; a reenactment of Alfred Hitchcock's, The Birds, played out in Bowness; the dog catcher apprehended Morley and arrested Ken for playing "illegal doggie park". I let Ken continue.

"Morley had to poop."

"Yes...?" my eyes narrowed. Where was he going with this?

He elaborated further: Morley had to poop and she started to panic. Ken didn't know what was happening. They locked eyes and she gave him a pleading, wild look, and the next thing he knew she was squatting like a baseball catcher and inching her way towards him. When she got to Ken, she literally sighed and showed him her problem. A sock was...stuck.

"Eeeee! Did you help her???" I inquired, breathing once again.

"Of course I helped her!" Ken defended. "But she won't look me in the eye anymore!"

I wish I could say that this event taught Morley a lesson. But for the next week, those darn socks kept getting the better of her. One day I came home to a stricken Edna (our nanny/housekeeper) who was quietly hovering over the kitchen sink. She whispered,

"Christina, I didn't know what to do... Morley threw up 5 socks. I'm trying to wash them...is that okay?"

My response: "Edna, it was very brave to try to rescue those critters-er-socks...but we will be throwing them out now. Thanks.”

The rate of disappearing socks slowed. We became more vigilant about keeping them out of sight but recently, I discovered that Ella's lady bug slipper has gone AWOL. Glancing accusingly at Morley, she slinks away with that guilty look in her eye.

I guess time will tell if she is the culprit. Until it's found, in whatever capacity that may be, I will continue to worry and Ella will be sporting one lady bug slipper and one flower slipper. All the other babies will be envious because that’s how the cool infants wear them.

I'm Cool.

Last week, my friend Shelley called me up. Shelley is a guidance counselor and she has recently started working at a High school in my neighbourhood.

"Hey Christina, you know what could be fun...?" She piqued my interest, so I bit.

"What?" These days, I don't have time to beat around the bush.

She paused. I could sense that she was really trying to sell this "fun" idea and I was listening intently. From superhero costume parties to murder mystery nights, Shelley usually does have good ideas.

"Wouldn't it be cool to see what teenaged kids get up to at high school dances these days?"

I could feel my eyebrows furrow and my eyes rolling up and to the left in confusion. Did she just invite me to a high school dance?

She clarified: "I've been asked to chaperone the first High School dance and I was trying to think of how I could make it fun and I thought to myself, if I had a friend to be here with me...a really cool friend...it could be kind of fun." Flattery goes a long way. I agreed to do it.

So last Thursday evening I found myself in the high school looking glass. My perspective reversed, I had the luxury to observe the world of teenagers without actually having to be mixed up in it.

As we approached the stinky sauna-like gymnasium, Shelley said: "Wow, doesn't this just feel like one of those movies where you step inside and are transported to the past?"

"Um...like Hot Tub Time Machine?” I giggled.

"Exactly."

Indeed, some things had not changed a bit. The majority of the kids were mashed together at the front of the gym, bobbing in a collective stew of hormones and pack mentality. Thin laser beams streaked in erratic patterns and highlighted the odd individual busting his moves on the fringes of the room. The deafening music rattled my core and tickled my feet. Shelley and I were posted in the far corner by the door. Our conversation was deafened, but we tried to share our observations anyway. Something shocking and disturbing caught my eye.

Several girls were dressed in seventies style jogging shorts and yellow and gold tube socks. Dear God, I thought to myself...is this really where teenage fashion has gone? I can, sort of, come to terms with the slutty shirts, skirts, and Pretty Woman hooker boots...but Chariots of Fire-2011? Never. It's like a new age feminist insisting that you need to iron your underwear.

Shelley explained to me that the students were told to wear their school's spirit colors. "Ahh", I said...not really sure that this was the best excuse, but I'd take it for the moment.

A hefty, nerdy looking boy with loafers and bad posture, approached us.

"I just have ONE question!" He yelled at Shelley. "Why?"

"Why what?", Shelley asked.

"Why is there NO FOOD??? I came for the FOOD!!!!" He stormed off. Hmm… yup. I remember that kid from my high school years. I chuckled and shook my head. Nerds...such interesting kids.

Shelley and I mused that we were still cool cause we recognized most of the tunes...albeit I admitted that I wasn't used to hearing the techno version of Ke$ha, but I was pretty damn proud that I knew who Ke$ha was (watching Glee has proven once again to be more than just mind numbing entertainment).

While on the topic of "cool", I decided it was important to text my 15 year old niece Robyn to tell her exactly where I was. To my horror, she had announced this past summer that she would have to block me from twitter if I ever tried to follow her because I was...too...too old!!! Shocking, I know! I pulled out my iPhone and typed, "I'm at a high school dance"

Her response: "Oh dear God...Why?"

"’Cause I'm young and cool...duh" I typed back.

"Hahahah, I know! Did you volunteer? Are you...partyingg?? (side note: I AM cool, but for the love of God, could somebody please tell me why teenagers add extra letters to the end of every word they text?)

"Hell ya", I informed her.

"Oh Goodness"

Our texting was interrupted by two sleek boys who emerged from the shadows. They were the high school players-you know...the over confident, good looking enough, cheeky dudes that all the popular teenage girls like to flirt with. The kind of boys that I found pretentious, annoying, and a little intimidating when I was in high school. By this time, Shelley and I had opened the door to let some fresh night air into the sweltering , sickening, stinking gym. They wanted to know if it was okay to stand by the door (and us) for a few minutes. We were nice and agreed.

"So...are you two teachers?" they inquired.

Shelley answered for both of us, "I am. But my friend is here to hang out with me and to see what high school dances are all about."

Suddenly I was being "checked out" by two oversexed, over-hormoned, boys. EEEWWWWW.

"How old is your friend?" The tallest cheeky one asked.

"OLD ENOUGH THAT YOU SHOULDN'T BE ASKING MY AGE!!!!" I yelled.

"You don't look that old...I'm 19! Want to come groove with us?"

EEEWWWWW. Suddenly I felt like Mrs. Robinson...or worse...a cougar...or worse...a teacher being hit on by a student. Gross!

"NO!!!!" They left us alone, feeling unfairly admonished.

Later that evening, I resumed my texting with Robyn.

C: So a High School boy hit on me. It was awkward but clearly somebody thinks I'm young and cool.

R: Right Antie[sic – this is a pet name]. Was he being dared????

Hmph...Hadn't thought of that.

The truth is...I am a young 32 and DAMNIT I am cool. Deal with it.

Thank God for Glee, Smut and Ice Cream

It's a dark and stormy night. A five year old and an eighteen year old stare out the rain streaked window at a suspicious black car, parked across the street. It is suspicious because the girls do not recognize it. This car does NOT belong to any neighbour on Sunnybrae Ave. The older girl clutches a butter knife and mutters, "whose car is that? Why did he just leave the car there?" She pictures a shady character with bad teeth, clad in a dirty trench coat, lurking on the property. She's positive that at this moment, he's strategizing the best way to break into the house. He knows that she's there all alone with her sister. The five year old recognizes the frenzy in her older sister's voice, but she thinks this is exciting and she's happy to stay up late. She pats her sister's hand and says: "It's okay. Maybe, the Retiffs are having a dinner party and the car belongs to their guest."

"The Retiffs are old and anti-social," responds the elder sister. "I'm calling Mom and Dad"

The 18 year old in this story is my sister Diana. I remember the scene just as I described it and it characterizes the way we saw the world then and the way we still see it today.

Diana has always been a bit nervous and cautious. She alarms her doors. She scrutinizes every person she passes on the street. She doesn't trust anybody with bad teeth.

I am more laid back and laissez faire. Often, I forget to lock the door. Once when I was babysitting for Diana's kids, I forgot to CLOSE the door and that is a whole other blog in itself. I am often unaware of my surroundings, and I don't usually notice people's teeth or clothes.

Unless I'm six months postpartum.

When Neal was six months old, I happened upon a TV show about real life "Sixth Sense” kids. It profiled several children who saw ghosts. Suddenly, my world turned upside down. Lying in bed that night, quivering under the covers with a nervous stomach, my husband asked me if I was okay. "No!" I bawled. "What if our kid sees dead people?"

He wasn't ready for that. "Uh, Hon, do you have post-partum depression?"

"Depression?? NO!" I defended myself. In fact, most of the time I felt euphoric. After surviving pregnancy, labour and six months of sleep deprivation, I was surprised at how well I could function under duress. Admittedly, I was feeling a tad silly for sharing this new fear with my husband, but the fear was very real...and it was fear not sadness. Depression = sadness, right?

For about a week, I was stuck in the world of "What if…". The rest of the sentence was never a pleasant idea. "What if, the Mayans had it right and the world is going to end in December 2012?"; "What if the Scientologists have it right and the world was once invaded by Aliens....Are they coming back?" The fears were usually irrational, but any sad or scary stories could team up with my imagination. I decided that I was watching too much daytime television. I turned off the news and most crime shows and made sure there was chocolate and ice cream on hand. My irrational dramatic episodes stopped.

Ella turned six months last week.

Ella was born on a Tuesday. Tuesday's child is full of grace. We needed grace in our lives and that's what we got. Since that day, my husband has suffered and battled through severe depression (I learned that anxiety is part of that disease), our basement flooded, our dog had a cancer scare, our son's eardrum almost burst, and… you get the point...a lot of crap went down. And through all of that our girl was the essence of grace.

Good stuff happened too. Our children gave us joy and purpose, the dog is fine, Ken discovered anti-depressants and Ritalin, and I discovered Glee.

The first time I tried to watch Glee, I thought it was ridiculous. I had heard that it was a show about high school "outsiders" trying to fit in within the confines of high school's social hierarchy. I started to watch and realized that American's just don't get it. Degrassi is a show about real high school kids. The kids in Degrassi are for the most part...ugly. Well, ugly for what we're used to seeing on television. The kids on Glee are gorgeous (even the wheelchair kid and the fat girl) but playing the role of losers? It just didn't make sense to me.

And I wasn't able to get past the cheesy musical numbers. I was in high school choir. We didn't sing and dance nearly as well as those kids but we were FAR from social outcasts.

Sitting on the couch with baby brain, unable to focus for more than a minute on anything, a catchy tune made me lift my eyes to the TV. Glee. I was mesmerized...and hooked. The singing, the dancing, the beautiful, mohawked bad-ass who looked like my husband....Yeah! I could get behind this now. There was no need to concentrate too hard on the plot. There was no scary drama to give me nightmares and, above all, it had Jane Lynch. I recognized her from those funny documentary films: “A Mighty Wind” and “Best in Show”. She cracks me up.

Actually, they all crack me up. Flamboyant Kurt, Ditzy Brittany, The wrestler chick (Zizes) who plays hard to get with Puck (mohawked bad-ass). I can suspend my disbelief for an hour and in return I’m left feeling a little whimsical.

When the show went on hiatus for the summer, I invested in the Season 1 DVDs. I credit them for helping me to survive those LONG sleepless nights. When I finished the DVDs, I looked forward to Tuesday night repeats of Season 2, and when those stopped airing, I turned to books.

When I need a good read, I go to my sources for suggestions. I have a few select friends who have the same tastes as me - teenage-esque fiction with a light sprinkling of smut - and I trust their judgment completely. This is important because there is NOTHING worse than investing money and time in a lousy book. One of said friends is Brigid. We've known each other since Grade 11 and we can pick up where we left off every time we see each other, which isn't very often, given that we have lived in different cities since second year university. This is a test of a true friendship. So when she insisted that I read "Little Bee" I didn't hesitate. I reminded her that I didn't have time or the emotional capacity to deal with scary or sad stories these days. She told me that it was "a little sad" but I still HAD to read it.

The first chapter, well written though it was, was about a woman who had a Batman obsessed son and a clinically depressed husband. In the second chapter, the husband offs himself. WTF? This was hitting way too close to home. Have I mentioned Neal’s Spider-man obsession? I had nightmares.

The next morning as I was flipping through channels, trying to get to Treehouse. I stopped in my tracks. "An amber alert has been issued after a three-year-old Sparwood boy was stolen from his bed”, announced the news anchor. I didn't have nightmares that night. In order to have nightmares you actually have to fall asleep. There was no way I was going to sleep with that much adrenaline and worry coursing through my veins.

For three days, I couldn't eat, sleep, or take my eyes off my children. What was happening to me???

….

Right.

….

Ella has turned 6 months and, with that, I am turning off the TV (until Glee starts up for the new season of course). And I'm going to do some to reading. Starting with my classic "intelligent smut" aka Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon, a guaranteed exciting read with no anxiety so long as that sexy Scott, Jamie Fraser, is sharing my bed…oh and Ken too, of course. I’ll probably seek out more literary advice from my trusted circle but only if they read this blog entry first.

And I'll gorge on ice cream and chocolate until Ella's seven months…just to be safe.

The Vas Man

On TV shows and in the movies, the birth of a baby is presented as a beautiful thing. The baby pops out, smiles and coos at its blissful parents and life goes on. Though my labour experiences were quick (thank God) and relatively "normal"...only a hippy, pretentious pratt would describe the scene as beautiful. Yes, my children are gorgeous. Yes, raising them brings me joy and purpose. Yes, it's a beautiful thing that I am alive after the excruciating Hell of delivering them. But the tears I shed when my children were born were tears of relief. The first words I spoke after my breathtaking 9 lbs daughter appeared on the scene, were not loving ones, nor were they directed at her. My voice was visceral and it growled these very words at my weary husband, "I AM NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN!"

He took those words to heart. Last Thursday, as we were settling in for the night, Ken announced that he had made THE call. A date with The VAS MAN, had been made for early November. The VAS MAN, in case you are wondering, is the name of the doctor that performs vasectomies. Ken chose him because his name was easy to remember and he was even more stoked when he found out that he sported a moustache. Personally, I think a dude who calls himself, THE VAS MAN and sports a pseudo-Tom-Selleck is a bit creepy...but I wasn't going to say anything. After years of taking birth control, suffering through pregnancy, and having my body shredded in labour, Ken was now offering to take one for the team.

The human memory is an interesting thing. Within weeks after birthing Neal I had completely forgotten all the hassles of pregnancy and the horrific pain of labour. By the time Neal was one I was hot to trot to recreate the whole experience. It's true what they say. If they remembered it, women would NEVER have more than one child. But there is a survival mechanism fixed in the brain that deletes it all. Oh, it is stored somewhere on your cerebral hard drive because the moment I got pregnant for the second time, it all started coming back to me. What a cruel joke. So after Ella was born, I was bound and determined to keep the memory fresh. And I did remember, for a few months. But when Ken announced that he was getting permanently fixed, some (stupid) part of my brain said, "but our babies are so friggen’ cute, how can we possibly/selfishly deny the world more Wilson children???" Ken looked at me like I had just checked into the psych ward. "I am NOT having more children," he said. And that was that.

What it boils down to is that I don't really like abrupt conclusions. I like gradual transitions. This operation was going to catapult us out of our "child bearing" phase. It was one more sign that we were "getting on with our lives" or "getting older". But Ken’s appointment wasn’t until November. There were a few months to get used to the idea; or so I thought...On Friday, Ken called at 11:00am to tell me that he was on his way to sever his baby making junk. There had been a cancellation and he jumped at the opportunity - yes, you read correctly. I've told you before that he is not a typical fellow.

I was worried about him. After all, he was mutilating himself so that I wouldn't have to endure the birth control, pregnancy, labour experience ever again. I was worried that the weekend would be a man's ridiculous attempt to secure the same kind of sympathy that a recovering new mother deserves. But no such thing happened. My superhero arrived home with a beautiful piece of jewelry for me and a mere knick in his family jewels. Oh, he had some discomfort, but I had to tell him to "taker-er easy" God forbid that we'd come this far and he'd be rendered impotent or worse incontinent (which is the scare tactic that the midwives used on me to "take-er easy".

He hobbled around for a few days but didn't really complain and on Monday he was ready to go back to work. I won't go all graphic on you, dear readers...but you need to know for the next part of the story that he wasn't completely healed. There was still a bit of unpleasant bruising.

On Monday morning, it was raining. It had been a pissy night for me- my teething baby woke up no fewer than six times and by 5:30am, as I collapsed into the bed for the last time, Ken announced that he couldn’t sleep anymore and felt ready to go to work. Having spent all of Sunday in bed, convalescing, I believed him. He told me that if he left for work now, he was worried that he wouldn't have a lot of energy left over at the end of the day to play with the kids. I told him to go to work. Frankly, I just wanted him to stop talking so that I could get back to sleep.

I love my husband, but I was cursing him as he left that morning. One, he BOUNDED up the stairs loud enough to wake the dead (but thankfully not loud enough to wake the sleeping children) and Two, he forgot to lock the front door. I was too tired to drag myself up once more, so instead I laid in bed and imagined the vile intruder that could so effortlessly walk through our front door. I was imagining this when all of a sudden I heard the front door open and a person ran loudly up the stairs.

I looked at Morley, our dog. She was sound asleep at my feet. Useless. She barks at every creek and shadow during the night but when I need her to be on duty, she's in REM, eye lids a-fluttering.

"Morley!" I gave her a gentle nudge. Ok, actually I kicked her and she fell off the bed. I agree - I'm cruel when I'm tired. "What was that?" Before Morley had time to register what was happening, we heard the God-awefullest crashing sound on the stairs. The image of a masked bad guy racing up my stairs only to be confronted with the menacing baby gate made me feel slightly vindicated-for a moment.

We heard moaning. Morley was en-garde now, but not ready to leave my side. She was scared and when Morley is scared she gets very quiet and her first instinct is to hide (we have a lot in common). I barely recognized the voice coming out of the heap on the landing, but curiosity got the better of me (much to the Moo's dismay).

"Ahhhhhh," moaned the dark shadow. "Hon, help me!"

I raced up to my fallen hero. He was doubled over and in a lot of pain. His face was white and laden with pearls of sweat. His left hand was clutching his right elbow. His right hand was clutching his crotch.

Seeing this image was scarier to me than if it HAD been an intruder. But not to Morley. She was relieved AND excited. She knew this old lump on the floor. It was Daddy! Daddy was playing a GAME!!!! And when she and Daddy play games, she jumps and wraps her paws around his neck. Usually they both love this game. But today, because of his unusual position, Morley didn't get her paws around his neck. He attempted to push her away and she lost her balance and came crashing down on...you guessed it: His nuts. Let's just say, Morley was in the dog house for a few minutes after that...

In fact, his nuts were fine, but his funny bone was badly injured. He howled in misery for 20 min. and was convinced that it was broken. The swelling convinced me- so I convinced him to go to the hospital.

By the time he got to the hospital, the pain had subsided quite a bit. The doctors told him he had deep contusions and maybe some ligament damage (aka. a very bad bruise).

I wonder how my husband would have handled labour. I'm guessing that there would have been a lot more swearing...and one less baby.