Mommy Dearest

Dear Mommy,

You've been really busy lately and we haven't had time to talk much, so I thought I would write you a letter about some things that have been on my mind.

I know that I have been growing over the past few months, but I am still relatively little and you need to remember that. I get scared in the night and every so often, I need you to cuddle me and make me feel safe. Sometimes I will need you to help me deal with conflicts that I have with other girls at school. One day they're your friend, one day not. And then it changes again. It's hard. I know you went through it, as did your mother and likely your grandmother, but that doesn't make it any easier.

I need help with stuff at home, too. I dearly want to help out around the house like a big kid. While I can sort of clean my room, I cannot yet do laundry and I do not really understand the vacuum. Of course, from the look of our house most days it appears that you have trouble with these things, too, despite being in your 40s, and so you probably shouldn't hold out too much hope that I will master these skills anytime soon.

Daniel and I used to like watching "Supernanny" together. We had fun laughing at how a bunch of little kids could drive their parents absolutely nuts and get away with murder. It seems that they do it largely by taking advantage of the fact that the parents are zombie-like working stiffs who get up early, drop kids off, go, go, go all day, come home, make dinner, try and keep the house in some sort of order, bathe the kids, fall into bed and then get up and do it all over again the next day. I was just starting to plot out how Daniel and I could take advantage of you and Daddy this way when the two of you started watching Supernanny with us. Frankly, it pisses me off that you now give me a warning and then stick me on a "naughty" spot when I misbehave or don't eat my dinner, instead of just giving in and rationalizing it by saying that you pick your battles "strategically".

I have a bone to pick with you over the distribution of beds in the house. I spend the most time sleeping in our household and yet, I have the smallest bed (I measured and Daniel's mattress is a full inch wider than mine). This seems somewhat inequitable and I would like you and Daddy to consider letting me have the queen-sized bed in your room. While we're on it, not only is my bed small, my room is small, too. I have the most toys and trinkets in the house (not counting your shoe collection) and yet I have virtually no storage space. You guys, on the other hand, have the living room, kitchen and your offices to store all of your toys. Moreover, I rarely, if ever, see you and Daddy playing in your room anyway. As you can see, there are a number of reasons that I should have your bed and bedroom and I hope you'll give due consideration to this request.

Can we talk about meal planning? I think you need to "think outside the box" a little more. For example, you tell Daniel and I that calcium is important for our bones. Did you know that you can get calcium from ice cream? It's true. It also has proteins in it. Maybe it's not enough for a main course, but I see no reason that we cannot have ice cream as a side dish or an appetizer. Icing and raw cookie dough might also be worth trying, just for a change.

Oh, and here's a news flash, Mommy: NO ONE LIKES BROCCOLI. NO ONE. So, stop buying it and going through the motions of cooking it and serving it to me, as I will continue to refuse to eat it and you will continue to toss my broccoli into the trash.

Well, Mommy, I have to sign off now. Remember that I love you unconditionally and that no matter what, I will always be in your corner.

Love,

Janet

P.S. - When can I have an iPhone?

Life Lessons

Get your insulin ready. This is the kind of story that might leave you smiling inside, but which also carries with it a significant risk of making your teeth hurt from its sugary sweetness. It's about a boy, a good deed and the lesson learned by all, proving that the world is filled with good, honest people and that even a failed mommy like me, who feeds her kids Zoodles and Sweet Tarts for dinner, can raise kids who do the right thing.

The kids went out to the skating rink the other day and there, in the snow, was an iPod. Daniel was the one who found it. He picked it up and brought it in the house after skating. We let it warm up and then plugged it into our computer and, surprisingly, it charged up right away. I figured that we had no hope of finding the owner. After all, the rink is used by all kinds of people, who come and go and, like most iPods (I imagine) this one did not have anything that identified the owner by name. There were no pictures, either. I figured that the iPod would wind up a "spare" that sat in the miscellaneous electronics drawer (formerly, the junk drawer) until we finally got tired of looking at it five years from now and tossed it out.

Still, as Daniel pointed out, there was a lot of music on it, which probably represented someone's memories of good times, old friends, loves and broken hearts.

But now, it was lost.

We had to find the owner.

The first clue was from Daniel, who noted that iPod was a little different than what he had seen before. He noticed as well that the iPod had writing on the back in French. Then we turned to the music. There were a variety of artists, none of whom I had ever heard of. That, in and of itself, is not unusual - I stopped following popular music in 1984 - but what struck us was the collection of rap music, in French. It was Janet who noticed that. Suddenly, it dawned on us that the iPod likely belonged to one of the exchange students in town who often use the rink.

We made a call to one of the host families.

She made a call.

We got a call.

We found the owner!!! A nice, young exchange student from France, who happens to be staying with friends of ours. We couldn't believe our luck.

Through his host family, he sent a message of gratitude and remarked on the honesty of Canadians. I read the message to Daniel, who beamed and said that it made him feel good to have found the owner.

The owner came to claim his iPod tonight and he insisted on giving Daniel a reward. It was unexpected, which made the moment even better for Daniel. He was excited enough to know that he had reunited the owner with his great music. I doubt he knows it, but he helped me teach my kids a great lesson: when you do the right thing, everyone wins.

Back with a Vengeance

Despite my best intentions and an endless stream of resolutions, I've been neglecting my blog site. Of course, it's not like I have legions of readers who anxiously wait for me to post, but nevertheless, I like to hang with a group of local bloggers, all of whom have wonderful, creative sites to which they post regularly. They're nice folks, but I fear that if I don't get cracking and start posting with some regularity, my blogger friends will break up with me, or I will feel bad and break up with them. Then we'll see each other occasionally on the street, or maybe even at the office, and it will be awkward. We'll have conversations like this one, where I fish desperately for a coffee date (Note: all characters are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or individuals are purely coincidental):

Me: "Oh hey, Megan. Are you headin' out for coffee"?

Megan (my fictitious co-worker) will look at me and smile nervously as she sees me glance down at her refillable coffee mug.

Megan: "Um, yeah. I'm actually meeting someone".

Me: "Oh. Cool. Anyone I know?"

Megan: "I . . . I don't think so".

Me (smiling and a little too desperate): "Hey, let me get my coat and I'll walk over to Gourmet Cup with you".

Megan: "I'm not going to the Gourmet Cup."

Me: "Oh. Where are you going?".

Megan: "Somewhere else. I can't really remember".

Me: "Gee. Maybe you should call your friend".

Megan (teeth now clenched): "Yeah. I think I'll phone a friend".

Awkward silence. I head into my office, and she into hers. She slams down the mug and pulls out her iPhone. Desperate to hear the conversation, I put my refillable coffee cup up against the plastic partition that separates our offices. Unfortunately, all I hear is muffled voices, reminiscent of Charlie Brown's teacher, and old coffee, with curdled cream, drips into my ear and down my neck.

My boss comes into my office and sees this. She pretends not to notice. I pretend not to notice that she is pretending not to notice that my behaviour is utterly bizarre and that I now have a big, brown coffee stain on my blouse. As she is speaking to me, I am also pretending to listen to her, while desperately straining to hear Megan's conversation. I manage to make out "Java Roma" and something that sounds like "that was close", but that's it. Then I hear Megan leave her office and run. I want to follow, but I am trapped in mine. My diabolical plans foiled, once again, by pesky work commitments.

It's a frightening scenario and one that I never want to face, so I will start posting again. It will be frequent and it will be regular. Stay tuned.

What the . . . ?!

I've been a naughty blogger these past few months, publishing very randomly. I think it is the time of year, and, perhaps, that I have not really seen anything that has left me with an urge to share (foist?) my opinion on others. Then, just as I started to wonder if I should give it all up and focus my creative efforts on cross-stitching or embroidery, my friend, Amy, posted this on Facebook:

I must admit, I have wondered for years why it is that Haiti and the Dominican Republic are so different. How can one side of an island be so prosperous (comparatively, that is), and the other be so desperately poor and so prone to devastation from AIDS, hurricanes, violence and, as of this week, an earthquake? Like many, I surmised that the causes are many, and arise out of the interplay amongst a set of random demographic, economic, historical and geological factors. It certainly never occurred to me that, as asserted by Pat Robertson, the devastation resulted from the Haitian people collectively swearing "a pact with the Devil" several years ago to get out from "under the heal of the French". I was also surprised to learn that, just as the cause could be explained in simple terms, the solution to all of the problems in Haiti, again, according to Pat Robertson, could be an earthquake which has, in turn, destroyed was little infrastructure was there.

Mr. Robertson's comments, as well as the stunned look on his co-host's face, are almost funny, but only "almost". Hundreds of thousands of dead people, people without water, food or shelter, people without access to medical facilities and supplies and children without parents is, in fact, beyond sad, and suggesting that Haitians have done something to deserve all of the horrors that have been visited upon them is nothing short of cruel.

Shame on you, Mr. Robertson.

Santa: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

It's another Christmas morning. My forty-fifth, the nineteenth spent in Name-of-Town-Withheld, the ninth with kids, my third as blogger. Having not written anything for nearly a month, I have had themes and half-written essays on Christmas and all that it brings - the good and the bad - swirling around in my head, making it hard to write anything coherent at all. Should I start with what I love or with what I hate about the season? Should the story be funny or serious? Should there be many posts or one? There were just too many questions for my already over-stuffed brain. Thus, the hiatus.

Then, suddenly, late last night as I drifted off into sleep, it occurred to me that I write about something that I both love and hate about Christmas: Santa.

Daniel "knows" about Santa. He suspected for a long time before finally coming forth and sharing his views, which I had no choice but to confirm. I'm not surprised. After all, his father and I started teaching him at an early age to be careful around strangers, and that "strangers" can be people that you know, like a neighbour, a school-mate's mom or dad or a parent's co-worker. It follows logically that the term "stranger" would encompass a fat guy in a red suit with a fake beard who asks children to sit on his knee and tell him secrets whilst parents watch and smile from a safe distance. The guy then has the nerve to enter your house in the middle of the night and leave "gifts" that may or may not match the request whispered earlier by the child but for which the child must appear grateful lest he or she winds up on the "naughty" list the following year. In retrospect, I really don't think Daniel found Santa all that "magical".

On the other hand, Janet still believes in Santa Claus and Daniel, despite his own views, likes to perpetuate the myth. I think he finds it fun to toy with his little sister's vulnerabilities, taking full advantage of her fear of being placed on the "naughty" list to manipulate Janet into behaving a little less like a princess. When it happens, I can literally see the cost-benefit calculations occurring in Janet's head and I must admit that I have resorted to engaging in this kind of extortion myself as a means of convincing Janet to go to bed, brush her teeth and clean her room. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that effectively outside of the November 30-December 24 window.

Santa can make things tricky, however. Having a young child sitting by the tree at 6:00 a.m. Christmas morning, sobbing uncontrollably because Santa didn't bring what she requested (perhaps because he was out breaking into houses and stuffing his face with cookies, milk and, in one case that I know of, beer) is, to say the least, disconcerting. With Daniel, of course, narrowing down exactly what he wanted for Christmas has been easy these past few years. I simply ask him for some options and he tells me what he wants. Moreover, since he knows that the gifts must come from the income of his two working parents and not from a guy with a limitless supply of materials and cheap child labour, the gift requests are reasonable.

One Christmas, when I was about Janet's age, I personally experienced the disappointment of Santa screwing up my order. Shortly before Christmas, my best friend, Bethy, had a birthday and for it she received a pair of beautiful silver sling-back shoes, with bows on the toes. Oh, how I coveted those shoes! Bethy's mom forbade her from sharing them, and so I, along with the other six-year olds on the street, admired them from afar. They looked expensive - not the kind of shoes my parents would be able to buy me. They were rich people shoes. Still, I reasoned, it was possible for Santa, with his endless resources, to bring them to me for Christmas. I whispered my request to him when my mom took me to see him a the mall that Christmas season. Unfortunately, I didn't tell my mom what I had I asked him to bring me. I cannot remember why I didn't, but I may have had the rules regarding making requests of Santa confused with the rules on making a wish while blowing out birthday candles, where, of course, disclosing the wish will nullify it. On Christmas morning I awoke with the enthusiasm of a typical 6-year old and ran to the tree. There, underneath, were beautifully wrapped boxes of gifts that had not been there the night before. Santa had come! I tore open the boxes, growing more and more anxious as each one failed to reveal the beautiful silver shoes. Finally, there were no boxes left and, despite an array of wonderful gifts, all of which I wanted, I started to sob. My mother asked me what was wrong and I told her of the shoes and my request of Santa. Eventually, sometime between Christmas and New Year's Day, the shoes materialized. The whole experience felt horrible, however, a mixture of disappointment, disillusionment, guilt and greed, all rolled into one. And to this day, whenever I think of it, I get that same feeling in the pit of my stomach.

This year, I managed to get Janet's gifts right. She was overjoyed to receive exactly what she had requested from Santa (a doll bed, and an outfit and hairbrush for the doll). She did, however, ask me directly why there were no gifts for her and Daniel from her dad and I under the tree. My mouth went dry and I hoped that Janet would not read anything into the puzzled look on my face as my mind raced to come up with a reason. And then, it came to me.

"Your dad and I get you RESPs for your schooling" I explained. "That way, you will have lots of money for university". She seemed to believe me, although I fully expect to find her on Wikipedia, looking up "RESP" just to make sure she is not being ripped off by her parents.

Merry Christmas, all.

God is a Man

The other day at skating, I overheard two youngsters talking about God. One of them was talking about all of the great things that He makes and does. The other interjected and suggested that perhaps "He" is a "She". I smiled to myself, remembering the days when I was young and innocent and wondered myself why we assumed that God was male. It was just as likely, I (and no doubt, many others) surmised, that God was female. While I didn't make up my mind one way or the other, I remained "unconvinced" that God was male for a very long time. Finally, however, I feel that I know the answer. I have seen the evidence and it is irrefutable: God is most definitely not female.

There are plenty of indicia. For starters, if God was female, children would be born liking everything we put on their plates. Moms everywhere could stop being short-order cooks. There would be no fussing over brocolli or peas. Kids would like vindaloo beef and feta cheese and grilled vegetables and pork tenderloin. If we poured milk at the table, there would be no whining for Diet Coke. There would be no pleading for pasta, even though everyone else in the house is eating chicken and potatoes for dinner. We could stop bribing the kids with ice-cream Moreover, there would be no need for those do-gooder, nutrition-police mommies to preach to those of us too exhausted to do battle over string beans or turnips, about the perils of Kraft Dinner and Super Fries.

A female God would have figured out that a 28-day menstrual cycle is too damned short and changed it to a 120-day cycle, striking a better balance between the need to reproduce and populate the Earth and the need for women, who are already stretched very thin in this busy world of ours, to have one less thing to deal with Every. Flipping. Month.

There would be no Space Channel. Anywhere. Ever.

John Deere would make a rideable vacuum.

Men would put their socks in the hamper. Always.

Have you ever heard of androgenetic alopecia? That's the scientific term for male-pattern baldness. It happens to women, too, but, unlike the case with men (those with comb-overs excluded, of course), it is not sexy. Think about it. Was there ever a female Kojak? A female God would have thought this through a little more and ensured that alopecia in women affected the legs, underarms and bikini line, leaving the scalp out of the equation completely. Women would all be blessed with lustrous hair, well into middle-age, and many spas would be out of business.

Chocolate truffles, like the ones my friend Leanne (the Chocolatier) makes would not be fattening. Indeed, they would comprise their own food group and they would be considered meal in themselves. Ordering a plate of four truffles would be like ordering the "big" Ceasar salad in any restaurant. They might even be treated as an appetite suppressant in some countries.

Husbands would understand that housework should be its own reward. In other words, a man cleaning the bathroom does not count a foreplay and his folding the laundry will not make his wife or girlfriend want to dress up in leather bustiers and thigh boots. In fact, we might want to just sit down with a nice glass of wine and enjoy the cleanliness that is so rarely bestowed upon us. (And when women do the housework, they are not looking for sex as reward. Consider something with resale value instead.)

A female God would see to it that straight men were a little bit more like gay men. Just a little. It's not that I want to stereotype gay men, but it seems to me that my gay male friends have an appreciation for some of the finer things in life, include nice window treatments and tasteful furniture. Most of the straight men I know would, without a girlfriend or a wife, live in a square box with wooden crates for furniture. ( "It's functional. What's not to like?") My husband would appreciate my quilts more. He would care about wall colours and curtains and blinds. He would read Better Homes and Gardens over my shoulder.

If God was female, the world would make more sense to women. As it stands, it doesn't make much sense to me. Ergo, God is male.

Go Team - NOT!

A week or so ago, Daniel arrived back from school extremely upset and close to tears. He wasn't sad. He was frustrated. I let him calm down, and then we talked about what was wrong. As he explained the problem, it turned out that I could really, really relate to it. He had been assigned a class project - and assigned a partner with whom to work on it. They had to do research and then do a presentation. I knew what was coming next. And, if you went to school in Canada, you do too.

It seems that his partner was rather uncommitted to the project, and after a number of days of cajoling and nagging his partner, and pleading with his teacher to intervene, Daniel had had enough. On the day it was due, his partner had not done his part and Daniel was convinced that he would receive a failing grade. He was devastated.

Not surprisingly, every other parent to whom I have related this tale understands the issue, and has their own plethora of like examples, not only from their children but from their very own school experience, and they remain as mystified as I as to why on Earth our educators continue to insist on pairing the doers with the non-doers, and giving out a group mark, thereby forcing the doers to perform and letting the non-doers coast along and reap the benefits. What kind of lesson is there in that?

I once complained to a teacher in junior high school that I was carrying the load for my pre-selected team (one of the members of which has had a wonderful career as a Zamboni driver for the past 25 years) on a project where we would get a "group" mark. Her response was nonchalant and she simply indicated that this was how things worked in real life. I found her position puzzling at the time and, I must confess, it left me a little skeptical of just what the adult working world was going to be like when I entered it. Did my parents work in places where they had carry slackers? When I grew up, would I be denied a promotion or a raise because my boss made me work with someone who didn't do what they were being paid to do? If I complained about the inequity, would my boss simply shrug and tell me this was "real life"? Could someone that stupid really be a boss?

Fortunately, just as I suspected at the time, real life is not like that. Sure, there are slackers in every workplace, but they rarely go anywhere other than their desk, and if I have had to work with one or two on a team, I have never had an difficulty convincing the higher powers that they either do not deserve any credit or that they need to be cut from the team altogether. Indeed, I and several of my professional colleagues have made a nice living advising employers that - yes - they can cut the slackers from the team, and how to do it. It was also comforting to confirm that most bosses did not get to the top by being slackers themselves. I have no doubt they paid their dues in school, carrying a slacker or two themselves for that "group" mark.

I have often wondered over the years why educators pair or team kids up this way. If the point is to ensure that the teams are evenly "matched", then teachers should at least be prepared to provide the oversight necessary to ensure that work is distributed equitably amongst team members, and they need to be prepared to address failure to complete the work undertaken. It is simply unfair to ask children in elementary school to supervise other team members. There is no power of sanction at their disposal. If the teacher doesn't enforce the work, the only lesson I see for the kids who do not do the work is that they can, in fact, coast along and there will be no consequences. Likewise, the lesson for the kids who do the work is that no matter how good they are, or how hard they work, they will pay the price for shoddy or no work by other team members.

What would the result be if teachers put the slackers together? When this was suggested to me the first time, I automatically jumped to the conclusion that chaos and failure would ensue, but on closer examination, I think it would create incredible opportunities for more kids to learn leadership skills and the value of pulling one's weight on a team. Students who would ordinarily coast simply couldn't. Students would not ordinarily feel confident enough or have the opportunity to lead, would get that chance. Wouldn't it be easier to learn this in grade 4 than in first year university or in one's first real job?

Daniel's story has a happy ending. On the sage advice of my dear friend, She of Many, I told him to stand up for himself and to go to his teacher and tell her that he would finish the project on his own. He would have to ask her for an extension. He did all of that, and his teacher, thankfully, accommodated him. In the end, though I say this with reluctance, I suppose that he learned something very valuable from the experience.