I've got a dirty little secret. I've been known to mess around in airplane bathrooms. It's true. I have an intimate acquaintance with that disgusting, smelly, shit house (pardon my language, but it's really the only way to describe it) at the back of the Airbus. Before your mind gets stuck in the gutter, let me give you a few details.
I'll get to the real dirty stuff later but I'd like to begin by telling you that I've never been a fan of flying. As a child, my ears would ache desperately as the pressure changed. My head would throb, my throat would gag and my stomach would empty all its contents, usually onto my sister's lap. As I got older and more experienced, my ears stopped being an issue, but my desire to vomit only eased slightly.
Even now, as I conjure up the smell of that rancid airplane - the kind of smell you get when you combine old people and stale chips in plastic zip-lock bags - my nose crinkles and my tongue withdraws to the back of my mouth. I'm not the ideal flying partner. In the last five years, I've managed to ruin my husband's favourite cowboy hat, and deface my sister's designer jeans.
But I continue to travel. Not unlike the pains of labour, at the end of the journey I quickly forget the short-lived misery and I've made friends with the old WC. So long as there are no long line ups, my sister’s jeans and Ken's hats are probably safe.
My family lives far away and it is not an option for my children to miss out on knowing their grandmother, aunt, uncle, and cousins. The Promised Land, as I like to refer to my Nova Scotia, has interesting history, unassuming beauty, and charming people. It is important to me that Neal and Ella grow to appreciate their maternal roots. So, in spite of my queasy tendencies, I've already made numerous trips back home, little ones in tow.
In all honesty, when Neal was an infant, flying with him was fairly relaxing. He was the most easygoing baby on the block. As long as he was in his car seat, he was content and happy to sleep away the hours. While he slept, I could convince myself that I felt fine as I devoured a book, delighted in trashy TV, and sipped my smooth ginger ale, pretending it was really gin.
Things became a little more complicated travelling with Neal whilst pregnant with baby number two. I did not glow, as some pregnant chicks do. My face was consistently a pale shade of green and I had to pee every five minutes. This made air travel particularly...interesting. Thankfully, the kind people at Westjet recognized the significance of my bulbous shape and sat us directly across from the bathroom.
Neal remained angelic but, on this particular flight, space did not allow for his car seat and I had to hold him on my disappearing-by-the-minute lap. As he bounced up and down on my bladder, desperation set in. There was no holding it. The flight attendants had kindly offered to hold Neal if I needed a break, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Sitting next to me were some lovely Scottish blokes. While I can't say enough nice things about the typical service we get from Westjet employees, it didn't go unnoticed how the female flight attendants were paying extra special attention to these gentlemen before take-off. They were practically tripping over-themselves to assist and flirting mercilessly with the kind but somewhat bedraggled salt and pepper, big-haired fellas. I assumed these guys had clout. They must be pilots, I thought to myself.
Whatever their status, they seemed friendly enough and more importantly: close by. So I casually inquired if the gray haired grandpa could hold Neal while I checked out the loo. "Love to!" was his response.
A few hours later, after the plane had landed and us kids at the back were not-so-patiently waiting to exit, the flight attendants resumed gushing over my new buddies. Eavesdropping a little more intentionally, I gathered that they were NOT pilots after all. They were members of a some band that was putting on a show in Halifax. Later on Ken figured out they were Nazareth. Never heard of them? Neither had I, but you'd be surprised by how many people were impressed when I told them that the lead singer of Nazareth babysat my boy! Ken was impressed.
Now I have two babies to juggle. A few weeks ago we spent ten glorious days basking in the autumnal glow of maritime paradise. The flight there was completely uneventful. I have TWO angelic, not to mention adorable, mini jetsetters. I figured that all of my own childhood travelling woes must have been dues paid in advanced to the god of travel (Its Hermes by the way – god of travel, messengers, trade, thievery, cunning wiles, language, writing, diplomacy, athletics, and animal husbandry, an interesting mix).
Watching the innocence in Neal's animated eyes as we sat on the tarmac and hearing him yell, "wook, airpane!!" as other aircrafts rolled by, made the long journey before us almost exciting for me. Ella, bouncing on my knee and charming all the passengers with her big brown eyes and contagious grin, generated unashamed pride. As I said, the trip to Halifax was a breeze. We were the model family (minus the dad who was staying home to take care of the dog). I felt like a superstar mom. I thought I was ready to be presented with my golden wings. Clearly, Hermes has a short memory. I had more dues to pay. And I'm pretty sure that I did...on the trip home.
We're about to get into the dirty stuff.
An hour into the return trip, Ella was sleeping in my aching arms and Neal was enjoying the silent animated "winkinocks" on Treehouse. I hate that stupid kid's show and I'm glad that Neal doesn't seem to mind watching without earphones. I'm pretty sure Neal's second language of Gibberish was partially derived from that show and I kick myself for letting him watch it during such formative years. Most likely, when he's a middle aged man in therapy, all his issues will be traced back to Iggle Piggel's subliminal messages. I'm sorry. I digress.
As per usual, we were seated next to my trusty old stink house. A steady stream of visitors stopped to greet us (mostly Ella) before and after they checked out the facilities. The repeat customers had become very friendly and believed that a single twenty-second polite exchange gave them the right to stroke Ella's hair and pinch her cheeks. Needless to say, she didn’t sleep for very long.
It also didn’t help that the lady kitty-corner to us was on her fourth glass of wine and was about to be cut off. She'd gotten louder and louder as the journey wore on. On her third trip to the washroom, she stopped to tell me that she'd just been to the Cape Breton Celtic festival and had had a fantastic time. She was particularly impressed with Cape Breton's whisky. The following day she was supposed to compete in a rowing competition in Victoria. She didn’t look like a rower to me. She was slurring her words through sips of wine, and I predicted that she probably wouldn't do very well.
Suddenly the plane lurched and reminded us all that we were in fact, FLYING in the sky. My stomach reminded me that it doesn't like flying in the first place. Neal was stoked. "Woo HOO! Hold on tight Mommy!" Turbulence. The pilot flipped on the seatbelt sign.
The turbulence subsided and Neal had lost interest in Treehouse. Suddenly he was singing a little ditty that I'm ashamed to say I taught him. It was the song we sing when I want him to do his business. The next thing I knew, a very serious look appeared on his face. Oh no. I recognized that serious look. The mother-of-the-year in me said a silent prayer and asked that he didn't just do what I think he did. Then I tried to erase the look from my memory...ignorance is bliss, right? Bad mother!
No such luck. Neal, who had NEVER really expressed interest in potty training, who normally could care less what was in his diaper, decided that the "Poo Poo Potty" room could be a rather interesting distraction. He informed me for the first time in his life that he NEEDED me to change his diaper. Let the initiation to the fun club begin...
Once again the flight attendants were MIA. What to do with Ella? There was no way I was going to let Silken Shiraz across from us hold my baby. The other folks around us were fast asleep. I had no option but toss Ella in the ol' baby Bjorn. I braced myself for an interesting experience.
Remember the old shtick where they try to see how many clowns can fit into a car? There's a new version out there, where they try to see how many Wilson's can fit into an airplane bathroom. The answer? Two and a half. We were at capacity and could barely close the door behind us. I work well under pressure though, and I coaxed myself into believing that changing Neal with Ella was plastered to my chest was not an impossible feat.
I managed to flick down the toilet seat with my foot and lift Neal up to stand on it. There. This was a start. Ella laughed wickedly as I tried to pull off Neal's Spiderman pants. Her little hands managed to also grab his pants and as I was attempting to pull down, she was pulling up. As the pant battle wore on and Ella started to lose her grip, she began to get irate. The subtitles on her screams read: "What are you doing woman??? If you take that diaper off in this tiny cubical, we're all going to be asphyxiated!"
Meanwhile, Neal thought the whole experience was fabulous! He had never seen the inside of an airplane bathroom before. He had never seen so many napkins stuffed behind a shiny metal wall. He had NO CHOICE but to pull them out one by one, fling them in the air, and watch as they fell like silent snow on Mommy and Ella's head. This was fun.
I'll spare you the rest of the Gory details of my initiation into the Mile High club. Just know that it wasn't pretty… but it rhymed with pretty.
As we exited, sweat dripping off my forehead, my big frizzy hair (with a few more grey ones than before) plastered to my head. I felt breathless and, needless to say, very nauseous but I’d made it through hell and come out the other side.
The flight attendant asked if I needed a drink.
I was tempted to point to the happy rower and say, "Yes! I'll have what she's having"...but instead I heard my voice say, "GIN-gerale" please.
In a few weeks we will be taking another airplane trip, but this time Daddy will be with us. I wonder if he's ever been initiated into the mile high club. If he hasn't I'll have a chat with Hermes. I'm pretty sure Daddy has some dues to pay.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Watch the Stinker
During Ella's first month of life, she slept most of the day. She was the most peaceful thing I had ever laid eyes on. No jostling, loud noises, cold face clothes could wake her from that deep dreaming state. I know she dreamed. Her eyelids would flutter and her little mouth would twitch into a blissful smile. Our nanny, Edna, who is very catholic, would make the comment, "look, she's talking to her angel." That would make me smile. Despite a turbulent environment filled with Daddy's dark days of depression, Mommy's swinging hormones, Neal's two year old excitability, Ella slept. Her presence, in spite of all these outside disruptions, brought calmness. She was perfection and peace.
All (sleeping) babies are perfect, I think. At least mine were. We celebrate a baby's birth because it is a joyous time. Babies don't DO anything. They just ARE and people are drawn to their stillness. For the first six months, people have no serious expectations of babies. I felt like a superstar, walking through the park with my little bundle strapped to my chest. People of all walks of life would gaze in my direction and look at me with kind soft eyes, and flash me warm smiles. I would have to remind myself that they weren't really lavishing this adoration on me; they were naturally drawn to beautiful baby anchored to my chest. I remember experiencing the same thing when Neal was an infant not to mention when the Moo was a puppy. I also remember how short that period of perfection lasted.
I think it ended at 12 weeks. At 12 weeks, babies are handed their first expectation. They are expected to sleep for longer periods of time. Chatting with other new Moms, the topic would inevitably land on sleep or lack thereof.
Thankfully, my baby boy had been a pretty good sleeper, so I had no concerns. He measured up but a few months later, the question on everybody's mind was:."Is he sitting?" Then: "Is he crawling?" and of course the big one: "Is he walking?"
We desperately want our children to succeed and those first milestones, meaningless as they are in the grand scheme of things, are so laden with expectation among parents. The idea that one's child may not keep up with their peers intellectually, or worse that the parent, him or herself, has not provided the right kinds of opportunities for their child to succeed, stirs the pot of insanity. As a teacher, before having children of my own, I had observed many parents inflicted with this inner turmoil, or as I had come to describe it wing-nuttiness.
My personal favourite wing-nut was the mother of a student in my Grade One class many years ago. "Flexible Grouping" was a common practice at this particular school. There were multiple classes at each grade level and the teachers worked together and frequently traded students for various subjects. In Math, we decided that it would be helpful to have homogeneous classes - that is, students of like ability working together. We created the classes based on a "pre-test" and then placed the students in their appropriate level.
The students were never told WHAT level was what, merely that each class was working on different skills that would challenge them. One day shortly after the new Math classes were underway, I had a request from a parent to meet with me. She was flustered as she attempted to explain her concerns. She knew that we had leveled the students in Math. She knew who the “top students” were. She asked her son if he was in the same class as them and when he told her "no" she was SHOCKED and presumed that we had made a mistake. Her son was GIFTED in Math. To prove that her son belonged with the "top students" she invited several of these kids over to her house after school and gave them a test of her own.
"See," she said, "my child outdid them. He BELONGS in the high level class." Mindboggling. As a childless teacher, I swore up and down that if I ever had children of my own, I would NEVER be that nuts...
Flash-forward 9 years.
When Ella was three weeks old, I enrolled Neal in a gymnastics class. Yeah, I know. The idea of attempting to do anything when you are three weeks postpartum is insane enough, but my heart was in the right place. I figured that having a fun one-on-one activity with Neal would help ease the transition for him.
The key word is fun. It was supposed to be fun. After twenty minutes of the first class, we were NOT having fun. He was over-stimulated by the colourful apparatus and throngs of children. An empath by nature, he was absorbing the exciting energy emanating from the thirty-some kids ranging from eighteen months to four years in age who were bouncing everywhere and every way. My little dude was ready to jump out of his skin. To top it off, the coaches expected us to sit still and listen to long, drawn out instructions, and to, politely, wait for our turn on the trampoline. The experience could be likened to taming a butterfly. It wasn't going to happen. We recognized that he wasn't ready for this kind of chaotic structure and politely asked the head coach if we could defer our admission until the fall session. Her response: "How old is he?"
"He just turned Two."
"We don't refund or defer admissions. He will be fine though. EIGHTEEN-MONTH-OLD kids do this class.
And there it was, BAM! the loaded expectation that if kids six months younger than ours could do this, we had NO CHOICE but to prove that ours was equally capable. So, for the next three Wednesdays, Neal and I stumbled our way through the corridors of toddler/parent wonderland, pretending that the grotesque, enchanted gym was fun, but in reality feeling quite trapped and bitter. Tantrums ensued. I listened to my own voice repeating: "no" while my inner voice screamed expletives.
Fun? Oh yeah, it was a barrel of monkeys, I tell ya! I knew before starting the third class that my energy reserves were low. Ella had been up most of the night. I was running on sheer adrenaline. I tried to prepare myself mentally for gymnastics class but Neal was in monkey mode before we even set foot on the mats. The instructor had gathered all the toddlers in a circle. "Put your hands on your head, if you're listening," she sang. Neal's hands (and feet) were thrashing about as I tried to hold him on my lap. It seemed all the other automaton children were sitting calmly. Mine was a tornado. The other parents sat smugly, with thoughts so loud they could rival Neal's shrieks: "Thank God my kid is listening". Ouch.
Neal managed to propel himself free from my grip and stormed across the sea of blue bouncy mats, hurling himself into the quicksand pit. No, really. I'm not being poetic here. There was a pit of endless foam blocks and once one was immersed in them, he or she would have to perform the Michael Phelps butterfly stroke in order to avoid suffocation.
It was beautiful. By the time I rescued Neal, sweat dripping off my forehead, our teacher was demonstrating to the class how to do handstands against the wall. I felt my little contortionist, go limp as I dragged him across the mat back to the three ring circus. I was enlightened by a flash of truth for brief moment. This was NOT fun. We were outta there and never looked back.
By the time I got to the car, both Neal and I were flooded with tears. Feeling like a failure, I tried to figure out where we had gone wrong. Suddenly, my perfect, beautiful, baby boy was a muddy reflection of my own shortcomings. Disturbing thoughts trampled through my mind. Why couldn't Neal sit quietly and follow the instructions like his toddler peers? Was he developmentally delayed? What if he had a severe learning disability? What if he was emotionally stunted? What if he had some form of autism? How did this happen? What were we going to do? Yes, I suddenly identified with those scared wing-nut parents that I vowed I would never be.
My husband, who is no stranger to wing-nut land, was in the midst of reading Eckhart Tolle's book, "The Power of Now" and kept repeating the mantra, "Watch the Thinker". He tried to impart Eckhart’s theory that our mind imprisons us in the past and future and that our thoughts (certainly our negative ones) serve no purpose but to cause suffering. If we can live in the "now" and be aware and separate from our thoughts, only then will we master our emotions. Living in a society that values intelligence and good thinkers, it is a difficult paradigm to appreciate. Yet, my mind was certainly causing me a great deal of pain and, when the anxiety started to creep in, I decided I needed to try to further my practice of "living in the now".
A friend of mine suggested I try meditation. I pondered the idea. Meditation, like the thing you do at the end of a yoga class. Oh dear God, did I really want to attempt another Yoga experience? I have tried Yoga on three previous occasions and while I know that Yoga is supposed to be all about finding Zen and serenity, it has only caused me humiliation and pain.
Simply put, I hate Yoga. The first time I tried it was with my staff in the school library. We were told to take off our socks and shoes. It was at the end of a long day. I did as I was told and seconds later the polished Parisian lady a few mats over was turning her nose up with extreme concern. "What is zat stink? It smells like feet!" I knew I was the culprit, but I wasn't about to raise my hand and tell the staff, "yes, fellow Yogis, it's MY feet that you smell." When I saw the fastidious French lady pulling her own foot towards her nose and shaking her head, I got the giggles, immature giggles that you can't control. The rest of the class was an exercise in extreme pain. I couldn't concentrate on anything other than trying to hide my foot stink.
The next time I tried Yoga it was with a friend I was carpooling with. We decided to stop by the university on the way home and check out the class. It was really her idea, but I tagged along anyway, thinking that maybe my second Yoga experience would be better. It wasn't. It didn't bode well that we were late. People stared at us as we quickly tried to melt into the "peaceful" studio. The teacher wasn't impressed with my lack of flexibility and kept trying to correct my positions. I didn't really want to be corrected. I wanted to be invisible.
Just when I thought I could be invisible when we started the cool down meditation, my cell phone rang. Embarrassed and angry with myself for neglecting to turn it off, I looked at my choices: Ignore the phone - because who would know it was mine? Or suck it up and turn it off. Ignoring the phone didn't work. The person calling (my Mom) was persistent. She called three times.
The last time I tried Yoga, I was pregnant and flatulent. Need I say more?
So, it took a lot of courage for me to seek out a PRIVATE meditation session with a life coach last week. In the 90 minute session, she walked me through various "Mindfulness" routines and sent me off with homework. My task was to take time each day to truly focus my attention on living in the present moment. To fully engage my senses in every way and to observe my thoughts as though they were playing on a movie screen.
In the meantime, I’ve read that book Ken was quoting The book added a structure and set of rules to something that had been a part of my approach to life. Watching the thinker changed from useless advice from my husband to something I could put into practice. It was almost like learning magic spells.
So I've been putting forth my best effort to "watch the thinker" and my first real test came a couple of days ago. It happened at Chapters, in the kid’s area, a frequent haunt for Neal and I. Neal was quietly pushing Thomas the Tank Engine along the tattered train table and my attention was drawn to a Mom and little boy sitting at the table next to where I was standing. The Mom was touching the bright colours of an abacus, her fingertips sliding each ball from one side to the other. Clearly and precisely, the little boy was counting as she moved the colourful balls. I couldn't help but watch impressively as he made it all the way to 100. Knowing that it was a goal for my grade 1 students to count and understand the concept of 100, I figured that this little boy must be a very bright a 4 year old. He didn't look much bigger than Neal, but then again Neal sometimes fits into size 4 clothes. I smiled at the boy and the Mom and exclaimed in my familiar teacher voice, "What a good counter you are! How old are you?" He answered, "I'm two!" BAM! There it was again, that sharp kick to my emotional intestines. And then I managed to catch the thinker.
Babbling confidently to himself, wearing his best Spider-man apparel, my Son looked up at me and shrieked, "HI MOM!" and once again I was momentarily enlightened. He may not sit for a twenty minute gymnastics dissertation, he cannot count to 100, but my two year old has what every adult human envies: He is happy. He loves life and he has not yet internalized the burden of expectations. I hope he never does.
All (sleeping) babies are perfect, I think. At least mine were. We celebrate a baby's birth because it is a joyous time. Babies don't DO anything. They just ARE and people are drawn to their stillness. For the first six months, people have no serious expectations of babies. I felt like a superstar, walking through the park with my little bundle strapped to my chest. People of all walks of life would gaze in my direction and look at me with kind soft eyes, and flash me warm smiles. I would have to remind myself that they weren't really lavishing this adoration on me; they were naturally drawn to beautiful baby anchored to my chest. I remember experiencing the same thing when Neal was an infant not to mention when the Moo was a puppy. I also remember how short that period of perfection lasted.
I think it ended at 12 weeks. At 12 weeks, babies are handed their first expectation. They are expected to sleep for longer periods of time. Chatting with other new Moms, the topic would inevitably land on sleep or lack thereof.
Thankfully, my baby boy had been a pretty good sleeper, so I had no concerns. He measured up but a few months later, the question on everybody's mind was:."Is he sitting?" Then: "Is he crawling?" and of course the big one: "Is he walking?"
We desperately want our children to succeed and those first milestones, meaningless as they are in the grand scheme of things, are so laden with expectation among parents. The idea that one's child may not keep up with their peers intellectually, or worse that the parent, him or herself, has not provided the right kinds of opportunities for their child to succeed, stirs the pot of insanity. As a teacher, before having children of my own, I had observed many parents inflicted with this inner turmoil, or as I had come to describe it wing-nuttiness.
My personal favourite wing-nut was the mother of a student in my Grade One class many years ago. "Flexible Grouping" was a common practice at this particular school. There were multiple classes at each grade level and the teachers worked together and frequently traded students for various subjects. In Math, we decided that it would be helpful to have homogeneous classes - that is, students of like ability working together. We created the classes based on a "pre-test" and then placed the students in their appropriate level.
The students were never told WHAT level was what, merely that each class was working on different skills that would challenge them. One day shortly after the new Math classes were underway, I had a request from a parent to meet with me. She was flustered as she attempted to explain her concerns. She knew that we had leveled the students in Math. She knew who the “top students” were. She asked her son if he was in the same class as them and when he told her "no" she was SHOCKED and presumed that we had made a mistake. Her son was GIFTED in Math. To prove that her son belonged with the "top students" she invited several of these kids over to her house after school and gave them a test of her own.
"See," she said, "my child outdid them. He BELONGS in the high level class." Mindboggling. As a childless teacher, I swore up and down that if I ever had children of my own, I would NEVER be that nuts...
Flash-forward 9 years.
When Ella was three weeks old, I enrolled Neal in a gymnastics class. Yeah, I know. The idea of attempting to do anything when you are three weeks postpartum is insane enough, but my heart was in the right place. I figured that having a fun one-on-one activity with Neal would help ease the transition for him.
The key word is fun. It was supposed to be fun. After twenty minutes of the first class, we were NOT having fun. He was over-stimulated by the colourful apparatus and throngs of children. An empath by nature, he was absorbing the exciting energy emanating from the thirty-some kids ranging from eighteen months to four years in age who were bouncing everywhere and every way. My little dude was ready to jump out of his skin. To top it off, the coaches expected us to sit still and listen to long, drawn out instructions, and to, politely, wait for our turn on the trampoline. The experience could be likened to taming a butterfly. It wasn't going to happen. We recognized that he wasn't ready for this kind of chaotic structure and politely asked the head coach if we could defer our admission until the fall session. Her response: "How old is he?"
"He just turned Two."
"We don't refund or defer admissions. He will be fine though. EIGHTEEN-MONTH-OLD kids do this class.
And there it was, BAM! the loaded expectation that if kids six months younger than ours could do this, we had NO CHOICE but to prove that ours was equally capable. So, for the next three Wednesdays, Neal and I stumbled our way through the corridors of toddler/parent wonderland, pretending that the grotesque, enchanted gym was fun, but in reality feeling quite trapped and bitter. Tantrums ensued. I listened to my own voice repeating: "no" while my inner voice screamed expletives.
Fun? Oh yeah, it was a barrel of monkeys, I tell ya! I knew before starting the third class that my energy reserves were low. Ella had been up most of the night. I was running on sheer adrenaline. I tried to prepare myself mentally for gymnastics class but Neal was in monkey mode before we even set foot on the mats. The instructor had gathered all the toddlers in a circle. "Put your hands on your head, if you're listening," she sang. Neal's hands (and feet) were thrashing about as I tried to hold him on my lap. It seemed all the other automaton children were sitting calmly. Mine was a tornado. The other parents sat smugly, with thoughts so loud they could rival Neal's shrieks: "Thank God my kid is listening". Ouch.
Neal managed to propel himself free from my grip and stormed across the sea of blue bouncy mats, hurling himself into the quicksand pit. No, really. I'm not being poetic here. There was a pit of endless foam blocks and once one was immersed in them, he or she would have to perform the Michael Phelps butterfly stroke in order to avoid suffocation.
It was beautiful. By the time I rescued Neal, sweat dripping off my forehead, our teacher was demonstrating to the class how to do handstands against the wall. I felt my little contortionist, go limp as I dragged him across the mat back to the three ring circus. I was enlightened by a flash of truth for brief moment. This was NOT fun. We were outta there and never looked back.
By the time I got to the car, both Neal and I were flooded with tears. Feeling like a failure, I tried to figure out where we had gone wrong. Suddenly, my perfect, beautiful, baby boy was a muddy reflection of my own shortcomings. Disturbing thoughts trampled through my mind. Why couldn't Neal sit quietly and follow the instructions like his toddler peers? Was he developmentally delayed? What if he had a severe learning disability? What if he was emotionally stunted? What if he had some form of autism? How did this happen? What were we going to do? Yes, I suddenly identified with those scared wing-nut parents that I vowed I would never be.
My husband, who is no stranger to wing-nut land, was in the midst of reading Eckhart Tolle's book, "The Power of Now" and kept repeating the mantra, "Watch the Thinker". He tried to impart Eckhart’s theory that our mind imprisons us in the past and future and that our thoughts (certainly our negative ones) serve no purpose but to cause suffering. If we can live in the "now" and be aware and separate from our thoughts, only then will we master our emotions. Living in a society that values intelligence and good thinkers, it is a difficult paradigm to appreciate. Yet, my mind was certainly causing me a great deal of pain and, when the anxiety started to creep in, I decided I needed to try to further my practice of "living in the now".
A friend of mine suggested I try meditation. I pondered the idea. Meditation, like the thing you do at the end of a yoga class. Oh dear God, did I really want to attempt another Yoga experience? I have tried Yoga on three previous occasions and while I know that Yoga is supposed to be all about finding Zen and serenity, it has only caused me humiliation and pain.
Simply put, I hate Yoga. The first time I tried it was with my staff in the school library. We were told to take off our socks and shoes. It was at the end of a long day. I did as I was told and seconds later the polished Parisian lady a few mats over was turning her nose up with extreme concern. "What is zat stink? It smells like feet!" I knew I was the culprit, but I wasn't about to raise my hand and tell the staff, "yes, fellow Yogis, it's MY feet that you smell." When I saw the fastidious French lady pulling her own foot towards her nose and shaking her head, I got the giggles, immature giggles that you can't control. The rest of the class was an exercise in extreme pain. I couldn't concentrate on anything other than trying to hide my foot stink.
The next time I tried Yoga it was with a friend I was carpooling with. We decided to stop by the university on the way home and check out the class. It was really her idea, but I tagged along anyway, thinking that maybe my second Yoga experience would be better. It wasn't. It didn't bode well that we were late. People stared at us as we quickly tried to melt into the "peaceful" studio. The teacher wasn't impressed with my lack of flexibility and kept trying to correct my positions. I didn't really want to be corrected. I wanted to be invisible.
Just when I thought I could be invisible when we started the cool down meditation, my cell phone rang. Embarrassed and angry with myself for neglecting to turn it off, I looked at my choices: Ignore the phone - because who would know it was mine? Or suck it up and turn it off. Ignoring the phone didn't work. The person calling (my Mom) was persistent. She called three times.
The last time I tried Yoga, I was pregnant and flatulent. Need I say more?
So, it took a lot of courage for me to seek out a PRIVATE meditation session with a life coach last week. In the 90 minute session, she walked me through various "Mindfulness" routines and sent me off with homework. My task was to take time each day to truly focus my attention on living in the present moment. To fully engage my senses in every way and to observe my thoughts as though they were playing on a movie screen.
In the meantime, I’ve read that book Ken was quoting The book added a structure and set of rules to something that had been a part of my approach to life. Watching the thinker changed from useless advice from my husband to something I could put into practice. It was almost like learning magic spells.
So I've been putting forth my best effort to "watch the thinker" and my first real test came a couple of days ago. It happened at Chapters, in the kid’s area, a frequent haunt for Neal and I. Neal was quietly pushing Thomas the Tank Engine along the tattered train table and my attention was drawn to a Mom and little boy sitting at the table next to where I was standing. The Mom was touching the bright colours of an abacus, her fingertips sliding each ball from one side to the other. Clearly and precisely, the little boy was counting as she moved the colourful balls. I couldn't help but watch impressively as he made it all the way to 100. Knowing that it was a goal for my grade 1 students to count and understand the concept of 100, I figured that this little boy must be a very bright a 4 year old. He didn't look much bigger than Neal, but then again Neal sometimes fits into size 4 clothes. I smiled at the boy and the Mom and exclaimed in my familiar teacher voice, "What a good counter you are! How old are you?" He answered, "I'm two!" BAM! There it was again, that sharp kick to my emotional intestines. And then I managed to catch the thinker.
Babbling confidently to himself, wearing his best Spider-man apparel, my Son looked up at me and shrieked, "HI MOM!" and once again I was momentarily enlightened. He may not sit for a twenty minute gymnastics dissertation, he cannot count to 100, but my two year old has what every adult human envies: He is happy. He loves life and he has not yet internalized the burden of expectations. I hope he never does.
Monday, 26 September 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, 22 September 2011
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.
"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.
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
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 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.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
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.
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.
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