Pandora's (Lunch) Box

I've been in the law game for more than twenty years in one capacity or another.  Law, and more particularly, litigation, is not for the faint of heart and certainly not for those with thin skin. It's a world of judgment.  Other lawyers send you nasty letters, challenging your analytical abilities and the path you've chosen for your client.  Clients second guess you, and sometimes fire you and tell all of their friends what a crappy lawyer you are.  Judges remind you (usually quite justifiably) that they are smarter than you.  Eventually, you accept that you are the not right lawyer for everyone, that some lawyers are just really aggressive and that judges will sometimes suggest that your arguments are specious.  All you can do work hard and try your best. 

So, I should really be able to handle being judged.  Most days, and in most circumstances, I can handle it.  On Sunday, for example, I wound up driving Arnold to the golf course in the sweat pants and grungy tee-shirt that I slept in the night before.  On the way back, I figured that I might as well stop at Canadian Tire and buy bedding plants.  Who would be there at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday anyway?  In the moment, it mattered not that I was bra-less and, while I had brushed my teeth, I had not brushed my hair.   It is apparent to me now, however, that most everyone goes to Canadian Tire on Sundays at 10:00.  And most of them are wearing bras, have changed out of their PJ's and have brushed both their teeth and their hair.  

Still, I was unconcerned.   This is because the judgment that follows being caught bra-less and unbrushed in a retail store on Sunday is nothing compared to the stress of having the contents of your child's lunchbox scrutinized by the Nutrition Police. 

The Nutrition Police is  comprised of a group of  parents (mostly moms, but I suspect that there also some uptight dads) who are, apparently, highly trained in nutrition and as a result, are the definitive authority of what should properly be included in a lunch, and what is verboten.  I'm not sure where they are trained but, damn, they're good!  Typically, they work under cover, so you may actually know one or more members of the Nutrition Police without being aware of it.  Be careful.  This can lead to inadvertent confessions of sending the occasional mini-Pepsi, Kool-Aid Jammer or Dunk-a-Roo snack to school in the lunch box.    You might even blurt out that for 102 of the 105 "lunchable" school days, your child took Zoodles for a main course, and heated them up in a plastic bowl in a microwave.  

If this happens, you will be judged immediately, and forever.  And you will know it.  Although the members of the Nutrition Police Squad are highly trained, upon hearing that you feed your child processed food or, occasionally let your child ingest pre-made icing from the tin, they will instinctively recoil in horror and take a step back from you.   They cannot help it.

If it does happen to you, you can take some steps to mitigate so that your child is not forever shunned from play dates with his or her classmates who are being raised by people who are obviously much smarter and more caring than yourself, at least when it comes to food.  You can try pretending that you were "just kidding" and laughingly say that you would never buy that crap or allow it in your house.  For greater effect, slap your knee lightly as you say this or, better, lightly touch your fingers to lips, as though you are trying to stifle a very hearty laugh.   Note that if you use this strategy, you should refrain from placing the forbidden items in your child's lunch box for at least ten school days.   

Another strategy you can use to cover up a lunch box deficiency is simply blame your husband.   Again, make light of it and perhaps combine it with some joke about how your family would simply fall apart if you were not there to supervise, among other things, lunch preparation.   Do exercise caution, however, if you are using this strategy with a male member of the Nutrition Police.  He may not be quite so accepting of your explanation.

Personally, I have had very good luck with the "weasel words" strategy.  This is where I suggest that everything is just fine in moderation and that, in our house,  sugar is the exception, rather than the rule.  To make this a little more believable, I usually throw in some bullshit story about how Janet ate a whole bag of carrots, or how Daniel enjoys a fully-loaded Greek salad.   It does not always work, but usually I find that by the time I start bragging about the vegetables that my kids have eaten throughout their lives, the Nutrition Police officers are nodding in agreement that refined sugar and white bread do, indeed, have a place in our diet.  You may even succeed in getting them to question their own abilities. 

Take heart.  Officially, there are three more days of school and, consequently only three more lunches to go. 

Failed Mommies:  Be careful out there.

 

Head Games

Last weekend I was in the drug store (ostensibly to pick up some toothpaste and deodorant and certainly not just to get away from the chaos of my house) when I noticed something in the shampoo aisle that piqued my interest.  It was a man.  He was middle-aged and appeared physically strong, yet he seemed dazed, confused and maybe even just a little bit sad.  His head was cocked slightly to the left and his hand went up to his chin and stroked his beard as he squinted at the labels on the shelves.  I recognized his problem then and there:  his wife had sent him to buy hair products.

There are many jokes and urban myths about men being sent out with marching orders to pick up contraceptive foam or tampons. Most such stories include tales of inconvenient and very public "price checks" on these very sensitive items and personal embarrassment that inevitably ensues.  These are nothing, however, compared to the challenges that present when a straight man is unleashed amid a sea of complex hair products.  

Feminine products are basically divided into three categories, namely, light (crabby), medium (bitchy) and large (murderous).  Indeed, even if the product purchased is from the wrong category, whatever he does  purchase is usually useable and will do the trick until you can make it to the drug store yourself.  The same does not hold true for hair products, however.   My drug store devotes an entire aisle to hair products.  There are shampoos, conditioners, hair masks, hair moisturizers, anti-frizz treatments, gels, mousses, pomades and sprays.  Each of these are divided into several sub-categories, like shampoo for coloured hair (does she or doesn't she?), shampoos the include conditioners, medicated shampoos, shampoo that doesn't sting the eyes and conditioners to make curly hair curlier or straighter.   Then there are the price differences.  Women know instinctively that the cheaper the hair product, the crappier your hair will be.   Middle-aged guys with brush cuts,  on the other hand, don't really get this. 

Just as women should not be imposed upon to prepare food on a barbeque, I firmly believe that, with few exceptions, men should not be asked to buy hair products.  I know first hand what the results can be.  I think my father washed his hair with a bar of Zest until I was finished university and I expect that if most men had their way, there would be one - and only one - product used to clean dishes, toilets, clothes and hair.   

As for the poor man in at the drug store, he moved from reading the labels on the bottles to actually opening them and sniffing the contents.  I watch him surreptitiously, while feigning interest in coal tar shampoos.  Ultimately, he settled on a bottle of  something pink and funky-looking and headed to the cashier.   All things considered, he probably did okay.

Hip to the Groovy Scene

Many years ago, when I was an articled student, one of senior partners was extolling the virtues of one of the firm's young associates.  He thought highly of the associate and expressed that the young man had the makings of a master litigator.  Indeed, the partner predicted that nothing, would ever stand in the way of the young man's success, not even the fact that he was  "a little light in the loafers".    

I choked a bit on my coffee right then.  In case you haven't figured it out, "light in the loafers" is an antiquated - and terribly derogatory - way of saying  that someone is gay.  Feigning a cough, I put my hand up to hide the corners of my mouth, which were turning upwards, and I tried to narrow my eyes back from the temporary saucers they had become.  Then in my early twenties, I had heard that these "generation gap" moments would come but still, I was taken aback.  This was a fellow who was open-minded and modern in his thinking, but his language just hadn't kept pace.  What unintended faux pas was next?  Would he introduce his wife as "the little woman" at the next firm/client function?  Or refer to Oprah Winfrey as "negro" in some casual conversation?  I vowed right then and there that I would always be careful to keep my language current.

Some expressions, though old, are timeless.  I worked for a delightful man for years who used golden oldies like "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" or "We need to make sure our powder is dry".  He also used to the term roger, which always made me chuckle and which, in my view, made him seem all the more well-brought-up.  

I thought I was doing all right, until I had a discussion with Daniel about his birthday part. His dad and I planned a scavenger hunt and skills games for the party.  Although we could give him some general information, we had to keep the details to ourselves so that all of the guests would be on a level playing field.  I assured Daniel, however, that  his party would be "a rockin' good time."

"Mom", Daniel chastised me.  "Don't ever say that!  It's cave man language".

What??!!!  I was horrified.  I use the terms "rockin' " and "rock" all the time.  I've been using those words for years . . .  I also use "awesome", "beauty" and "hoser" all of which are, I now understand, out of vogue or non-existent. 

Yet, I couldn't accept that I was uncool (I've checked - "cool" is still used in common kid parlance). Daniel was surely mistaken.  My friends use "rockin'" all the time, and they're cool.  Of course, they are also in their mid-forties, like me, and trying desperately to connect linguistically with their kids and the younger crowd generally.   Could I be wrong?

Feeling guilty for doubting Daniel's "coolness" but nevertheless needing to find out for sure, I consulted our summer student, who in his twenties and, currently, the hippest person I know. He was very diplomatic, but, in the end, had to come down in favour of Daniel.  It was devastating.  As hard as I try to be "hip", I fear that my language may be antiquated and I will no doubt become one of those "groovy" parents whose kids roll their eyes and make faces at their friends whenever their parents say something.

These darned kids today . . .    

 

Happy Birthday, Daniel!

Nine years ago today, it was snowing.  I remember looking out the window of my hospital room, holding my new baby in my arms, and not really caring all that much that it was snowing in June. After all, I had my little guy and at that moment - and even today - that is all that mattered.

Now he is nine.  He doesn't like to snuggle all that much anymore and he won't kiss me goodbye (or even acknowledge me, for that matter) when I drop him off in the morning.  Still, every once in awhile he grasps my hand or comes and sits beside me on the couch, quietly.  

Daniel has once again decided to raise money and awareness for a charity in lieu of gifts.   His charity of choice this year is the Schizophrenia Society of Canada.  Schizophrenia is a mental illness which, even in this day and age, is largely misunderstood.  It often strikes people in their teens and early adult years.  It's hard to acknowledge and therefore, hard to treat, and there is no cure.  That said, over the last few years there have been great strides in research.  Someday, there may even be a cure.

Way to go, Daniel.  I'm so proud of you.