When I was 20, and a smoker, losing weight was a cinch. If I had a big party to go to on the weekend, by Wednesday, I would start pounding back the water (pure Canadian tap), smoke 3 packs a day and just not eat. That worked like a charm and I would be down 10 ell-bees by Friday night. Simple, effective and at the indestructible age of 20, I felt 75 cigarettes a day seemed like a reasonable option.
Well, the decades have passed, the smoking has stopped and the ass has grown. (Can I write ass?) Let’s move on. My ‘behind’ now includes behind and beside. And the two major contributing factors are nixing the smoking and having kids. Both are life enhancing. Both are butt widening.
First off, there is the quitting of the smokes. I mean, after 19 years, I had to quit. And I certainly don’t regret it. Quitting is listed under Major Accomplishments on my resume. I realized the physical addiction, those sticks owned me, but wow, emotionally, everything that happened, good or bad, included smoking. “I got the job! Let’s smoke”. “I’m working like a dog – let’s smoke”. “I got the promotion – let’s smoke”. “The company folded. Let’s smoke”. Smoking was always invited to the party and when I quit, it was hard to say “I got a better job – let’s eat carrots sticks”. So “Lets eat chocolate” became the substitute.
Secondly, having kids forced me into elasticized waistbands. There’s only one way out of a 9 month pregnancy so when my mind wandered to the ‘do date’, which is like anticipating getting hit by a bus, my body wandered to the fridge. I also spent a lot of time as the official designated driver so why not cruise by the dessert table one more time when he’s bellying up to the bar? Now, with those pregnancies quite literally ‘behind’ me, I finish the grilled cheeses and left over chip crumbs. If the youngest can’t lick that ice cream cone fast enough in the summer sun, he can count on his mom to clean up all the drips and dribbles.
Where has all this left me? On a diet. Listen to this radical approach I’m taking to weight loss. I’m eating fruits and vegetables, choosing lean cuts of meat, reading labels to ensure low fat, low salt, low carb and high fibre, consuming lots of water, limiting my coffee and including exercise in my daily routine. Yuck. And by adopting this new lifestyle, I can expect the pounds to slowly melt away. Its not fair that I get slow weight loss in an instant messaging world.
Maybe I’d be better off seeing a psychiatrist and working through my dysfunctional eating patterns. After all, they are nicknamed ‘Shrinks’, aren’t they?
Friday, March 27, 2009
Not a bad view from the back of the line
My ‘man in the middle’ son Itchy and I were talking the other night about school. My oldest son Drew made all the sports teams he tried out for this year. Very cool for him and certainly garnering him a lot of attention for his athletic prowess. But Itch isn’t old enough to try out for any of the school teams yet.
It seems he does want to get rolling with some fun extra curriculars at school though.
“Are there any Clubs that interest you that you could join?” I ask him.
And without missing a beat, he replies:
“Yeah. The Breakfast Club.”
Ha! The donut hole doesn’t roll far from the Double Chocolate Glazed, does it?
Itch smells the buttered toast in the halls of his school in the morning and wants to know when the try-outs are.
I would have thought the same thing back in my day and it got me thinking about the similarities he and I share. We are way more into writing and art then the rest of our household. We would giggle through every meal if it wasn’t for our other, more serious family diners. And we’re both the second born. So, I hit the internet.
As you would guess, sources report that the first born children in families are (sigh) touted as the responsible ones. They are achievers, perfectionists and reliable. Notable first borns are Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather, Ted Koppel and over half of all U.S. Presidents are first borns. Bill Clinton is a first born.
Second borns get hit with (apparently) wanting to overcome the first born but knowing that we never will because no matter what, at the end of the day, we can’t change the fact that we will always be ‘second’ or ‘next’.
We wait for the second hand clothes. We’re next in line for the bigger room – we just have to wait until the older one moves out. That’s only 18 human years or 126 dog years.
Being next is not always a complaint though.
“Which of you is first?” Asks the receptionist at the dentist’s office.
“He is. I’m always next”, grins Mr. Second Born.
Many say we #2’s feel we can’t compete with our over achieving older siblings so that’s why we choose different paths.
If you saw a busy street up ahead, wouldn’t you take a detour? Hind sight is twenty twenty so from back here, we’ve got perfect vision. It only makes sense to opt for the road less traveled.
Bill Clinton’s younger brother, Roger, became a musician and formed a rock band. Roger Clinton could have worked his butt off in University, become a lawyer, and fought in politics, run a State, then get publicly humiliated and bashed during a stint in the Whitehouse.
But why?
Eating buttered toast and being in a band sounds like way more fun! At least from this second borns point of view.
It seems he does want to get rolling with some fun extra curriculars at school though.
“Are there any Clubs that interest you that you could join?” I ask him.
And without missing a beat, he replies:
“Yeah. The Breakfast Club.”
Ha! The donut hole doesn’t roll far from the Double Chocolate Glazed, does it?
Itch smells the buttered toast in the halls of his school in the morning and wants to know when the try-outs are.
I would have thought the same thing back in my day and it got me thinking about the similarities he and I share. We are way more into writing and art then the rest of our household. We would giggle through every meal if it wasn’t for our other, more serious family diners. And we’re both the second born. So, I hit the internet.
As you would guess, sources report that the first born children in families are (sigh) touted as the responsible ones. They are achievers, perfectionists and reliable. Notable first borns are Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather, Ted Koppel and over half of all U.S. Presidents are first borns. Bill Clinton is a first born.
Second borns get hit with (apparently) wanting to overcome the first born but knowing that we never will because no matter what, at the end of the day, we can’t change the fact that we will always be ‘second’ or ‘next’.
We wait for the second hand clothes. We’re next in line for the bigger room – we just have to wait until the older one moves out. That’s only 18 human years or 126 dog years.
Being next is not always a complaint though.
“Which of you is first?” Asks the receptionist at the dentist’s office.
“He is. I’m always next”, grins Mr. Second Born.
Many say we #2’s feel we can’t compete with our over achieving older siblings so that’s why we choose different paths.
If you saw a busy street up ahead, wouldn’t you take a detour? Hind sight is twenty twenty so from back here, we’ve got perfect vision. It only makes sense to opt for the road less traveled.
Bill Clinton’s younger brother, Roger, became a musician and formed a rock band. Roger Clinton could have worked his butt off in University, become a lawyer, and fought in politics, run a State, then get publicly humiliated and bashed during a stint in the Whitehouse.
But why?
Eating buttered toast and being in a band sounds like way more fun! At least from this second borns point of view.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Nothin' Like the Holidays!
Christmas is a joyous time of year and a brutally expensive time of year. But despite the beating my wallet took, I still managed to buy myself a few pricey things. Hey, a girl needs to pamper herself from time to time, doesn’t she? And fasten your seatbelts because I splurged!
I bought myself a shiny new Cadillac! Can you believe it? I'm the Princess of Spending! Oh, wait, I just re-read that. That’s wrong. Not a Cadillac, a Catalytic – yes, that’s it, I bought a Catalytic Converter for my van.
Let’s face it. Anybody can blow a muffler. Whoopee. But I wanted to show off.
Heads used to turn as my mighty Mom Van roared around town. I felt like a street racer, a rebel-chick without a cause - well, last Thursday, I was only heading out to get the boys healthy snacks for lunches, but still, I was soundin’ fierce doing it.
I've noticed when you say to a guy “I need to replace my Catalytic Converter”, he winces. It’s the same wince you get from a female when you say “forceps delivery”.
But lucky for me, I got to pick from a few Cat Cons (the pet name we ‘spare no expense’ vehicle repair people call them). Gee, do I want the $1300 brand name that would dazzle onlookers whenever I’m on a hoist or do I go with the less expensive no-name that doesn’t come with the same coast to coast warranty?
Well, close to fifteen hundred dollars two weeks before Christmas in a household that buys gifts-a-plenty for our 3 kids, their teachers, pals and dog, 54 family members, friends and co-workers, tack on several bottles of adult beverages to have on hand or take with us, the giant holiday grocery order, a few extra tanks of gas for travel, a couple nights out – hmmm, I’m not thinking we’ll be needing any brand name ‘coast to coast’ warranty in the near future.
Maybe ‘block to block’ or ‘east end to west end’ but that’s about it. Any 2009 travel plans we make will be classified as ‘No GPS required’, if you get my drift.
Oh and did I mention that the repairs didn’t stop with my gleaming new Catalytic Converter? They stopped when I got some shiny new brakes, too.
I toyed with the notion of not fixing anything. The way things stood, after all, you would have heard me coming a mile away if my ABS (Ain’t ‘Bout ta Stop) braking system kicked in.
Back in the day, when I was bombing around in my beat up 1977 yellow Honda Civic, mufflers and brakes would have been a luxury.
I was pulled over once and the cop said “You must know why I’m stopping you. The noise has to be bothering you as much as it’s bothering the rest of us.”
But in those days, one perfectly timed “its no big deal, they’re just the brakes” at my parents dinner table would have erupted into the standard issue lecture on the importance of vehicle maintenance and how I’m responsible for the safety of not only myself and my passengers but others on the road. Then it would have steer itself to the “take the car in, get the brakes fixed properly and you can pay us back later” victory lap.
Come to think of it, I better not let my mother read this. There may still be an outstanding balance on my account.
Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email her at alisondavies@moreaboutlife.ca
I bought myself a shiny new Cadillac! Can you believe it? I'm the Princess of Spending! Oh, wait, I just re-read that. That’s wrong. Not a Cadillac, a Catalytic – yes, that’s it, I bought a Catalytic Converter for my van.
Let’s face it. Anybody can blow a muffler. Whoopee. But I wanted to show off.
Heads used to turn as my mighty Mom Van roared around town. I felt like a street racer, a rebel-chick without a cause - well, last Thursday, I was only heading out to get the boys healthy snacks for lunches, but still, I was soundin’ fierce doing it.
I've noticed when you say to a guy “I need to replace my Catalytic Converter”, he winces. It’s the same wince you get from a female when you say “forceps delivery”.
But lucky for me, I got to pick from a few Cat Cons (the pet name we ‘spare no expense’ vehicle repair people call them). Gee, do I want the $1300 brand name that would dazzle onlookers whenever I’m on a hoist or do I go with the less expensive no-name that doesn’t come with the same coast to coast warranty?
Well, close to fifteen hundred dollars two weeks before Christmas in a household that buys gifts-a-plenty for our 3 kids, their teachers, pals and dog, 54 family members, friends and co-workers, tack on several bottles of adult beverages to have on hand or take with us, the giant holiday grocery order, a few extra tanks of gas for travel, a couple nights out – hmmm, I’m not thinking we’ll be needing any brand name ‘coast to coast’ warranty in the near future.
Maybe ‘block to block’ or ‘east end to west end’ but that’s about it. Any 2009 travel plans we make will be classified as ‘No GPS required’, if you get my drift.
Oh and did I mention that the repairs didn’t stop with my gleaming new Catalytic Converter? They stopped when I got some shiny new brakes, too.
I toyed with the notion of not fixing anything. The way things stood, after all, you would have heard me coming a mile away if my ABS (Ain’t ‘Bout ta Stop) braking system kicked in.
Back in the day, when I was bombing around in my beat up 1977 yellow Honda Civic, mufflers and brakes would have been a luxury.
I was pulled over once and the cop said “You must know why I’m stopping you. The noise has to be bothering you as much as it’s bothering the rest of us.”
But in those days, one perfectly timed “its no big deal, they’re just the brakes” at my parents dinner table would have erupted into the standard issue lecture on the importance of vehicle maintenance and how I’m responsible for the safety of not only myself and my passengers but others on the road. Then it would have steer itself to the “take the car in, get the brakes fixed properly and you can pay us back later” victory lap.
Come to think of it, I better not let my mother read this. There may still be an outstanding balance on my account.
Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email her at alisondavies@moreaboutlife.ca
How do we get more?
Mickey D had his knickers in a knot but good last Saturday! We were out with the boys at a bonspiel and while they bellied up to the hot dog bar that was included as part of their day’s festivities, we ordered lunch off the menu. We had a pretty good barbequed chicken pizza but Mickey stewed about it for hours. He was all crumpled up about how much the bill was. I finally broke it to him on the way home. “It wasn’t the food. They add an automatic 15% gratuity there”. I reached for something sturdy to hold onto because he was cracking up and it was a 9.5 on the Richter scale! Or should I say a 10.925 – which is 15% more than a 9.5.
We both earned our keep during the school years by serving up the drinks and grub in restaurants. And we loved getting a guaranteed gratuity but now that we’re on the wrong side of the tipping, it’s all amiss. It doesn’t feel like we’re getting what we’re paying for. No one is working 15% harder. No one is saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ 15% more often. No one is smiling or welcoming us with 15% more enthusiasm. People just think they deserve 15% more.
I want 15% more free time. I deserve it. I would pay 15% for free time. I want my van to drive 15% further on a tank of gas. And I want a 15% bigger windshield wiper antifreeze holder because I don’t feel I’m getting enough squirts. I deserve 15% more squirts.
I want my shoes to last me 15% longer. While the rest of me seems to keep growing (sideways, of course), my feet are holding at a solid Size 10. So if I’m not outgrowing my shoes, I want them to last me longer than they do. And an extra 15% longer would suit me and my feet fine.
The buttons on my new Blackberry need to be 15% larger. I need that. Or I need my vision to improve by 15% so I can see the tiny buttons better. Either is fine.
My children need to help out around the house 15% more often. And give me 15% more time in the shower before they begin the “Mom! Where are you?” thing.
Sure, I say “I’m trying to take a shower!”, but I’m thinking ‘I’m trying to escape out the bathroom window and make it to a single’s resort in Bahamas’. If the bathroom window was just 15% bigger.
I know what Mickey D would like more of. He’d like 15% more … oh, shoot! The column is over. Sorry about that, Mick.
Hey, you know what? Forget it. This week, you folks are getting 15% more! And much like the automatic gratuity, you get it whether you like it or not.
I think there should be 15% more cashiers working during Christmas time. And I should get 15% more Air Miles if I don’t bring any items up to the cash that are missing price tags. If the cashier didn’t have to do the ‘Ladies Wear, Call 262 for a price check; Ladies wear, call 262’, things would move faster for everybody. The people behind me in line would have 15% more of the free time they deserve. Maybe they would meet someone for lunch in a restaurant. And then tip the waiter 15%. What goes around comes around. Well, 15% of the time if the waiter had his way!
We both earned our keep during the school years by serving up the drinks and grub in restaurants. And we loved getting a guaranteed gratuity but now that we’re on the wrong side of the tipping, it’s all amiss. It doesn’t feel like we’re getting what we’re paying for. No one is working 15% harder. No one is saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ 15% more often. No one is smiling or welcoming us with 15% more enthusiasm. People just think they deserve 15% more.
I want 15% more free time. I deserve it. I would pay 15% for free time. I want my van to drive 15% further on a tank of gas. And I want a 15% bigger windshield wiper antifreeze holder because I don’t feel I’m getting enough squirts. I deserve 15% more squirts.
I want my shoes to last me 15% longer. While the rest of me seems to keep growing (sideways, of course), my feet are holding at a solid Size 10. So if I’m not outgrowing my shoes, I want them to last me longer than they do. And an extra 15% longer would suit me and my feet fine.
The buttons on my new Blackberry need to be 15% larger. I need that. Or I need my vision to improve by 15% so I can see the tiny buttons better. Either is fine.
My children need to help out around the house 15% more often. And give me 15% more time in the shower before they begin the “Mom! Where are you?” thing.
Sure, I say “I’m trying to take a shower!”, but I’m thinking ‘I’m trying to escape out the bathroom window and make it to a single’s resort in Bahamas’. If the bathroom window was just 15% bigger.
I know what Mickey D would like more of. He’d like 15% more … oh, shoot! The column is over. Sorry about that, Mick.
Hey, you know what? Forget it. This week, you folks are getting 15% more! And much like the automatic gratuity, you get it whether you like it or not.
I think there should be 15% more cashiers working during Christmas time. And I should get 15% more Air Miles if I don’t bring any items up to the cash that are missing price tags. If the cashier didn’t have to do the ‘Ladies Wear, Call 262 for a price check; Ladies wear, call 262’, things would move faster for everybody. The people behind me in line would have 15% more of the free time they deserve. Maybe they would meet someone for lunch in a restaurant. And then tip the waiter 15%. What goes around comes around. Well, 15% of the time if the waiter had his way!
Monday, March 23, 2009
Infestation
“Maybe it’s a raisin.”
“It’s definitely NOT a raisin” I assured my oldest son Drew as we examined the scattered particles on the kitchen counter.
It chilled me to the bone but I knew …. my house had rats.
Okay. Maybe not rats. But mice, for sure.
Probably infested with hundreds and hundreds of toothy, pointy nosed, bulgy eyed, pot bellied rodents living within the walls of what was once my beloved home!
What else could I conclude after this alarming early morning discovery of droppings next to the toaster oven?
“Mom, are you sure they aren’t crumbs?”
I wish.
My fear of mice is not a girly “yuck, I don’t like them”. It’s a full blown, get me to a shrinks couch, phobia.
Brownie the Rat-Faced Gerbil from my kindergarten class came home to spend the 1971 Christmas holiday season with us. It immediately escaped from its cage and stalked and tortured me for two weeks. It ran out of closets, jumped from dresser drawers and crawled out of shoes. Blah! I’ve never been the same since.
I picked up the boys after school and took them out for dinner and a Wal-Mart run. I couldn’t go in that rat-trap house! Mickey D was out of town as he always seemed to be during times of great crisis.
Finally, reluctantly, we headed home. I dashed to a tall stool so I could pull my legs up. When MD called, I relayed the news of the droppings and frantically explained that we were under mice invasion.
“How can this be?? I only left yesterday!”
He instructed Drew to go downstairs and get one of those plug in do-dads that supposedly sends out a high pitched screech which is offensive to mice and yet inaudible to the human ear. I’m sure it comes with a voucher for swamp land in
“I can’t go down to get it.” Drew reports from the top landing.
“There’s a dead mouse on its back at the bottom of the stairs.”
“OKAY, THAT’S IT!” I could feel my world closing in on me.
“Pack your bags! We’re heading to the Holiday Inn. I’m not staying in this mouse infested, dead rodent dumpster. What’s next? Giant snakes slithering in through the sump pump hole? A Mutual of Omaha Safari Jeep patrolling the street for wild boar?”
Mickey D was so calm on the phone that he obviously was not taking this seriously.
“Just scoop it up and throw it out. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? I’m in the trenches today, My Hero.
I knew I had to call G, Mickey’s dad. He’ll be mad at having to come at
“Mom. Mom.” Drewpy had ventured half way down the stairs.
“Leave it. I’m calling your grandfather. I can’t sleep with a rotting carcass in the basement.
“Mom. It’s not a dead mouse.”
“Then what is it?” Please don’t be a rat. Please don’t be a rat.
“It’s a plastic alligator”. Thank you, God.
After a sleepless night, I clanked and banged my way down the hall to the kitchen so any gang of swarthy party rodents would have a heads up I was coming. I had the boy’s shovel down cold pizza and we got outta there.
Mickey D was home before me and had already pulled out the appliances and inspected the counters, floors, small spaces etc.
“Did you ever see a mouse?” he asked.
“Well, no, I didn’t actually see one.”
“There are no mice here.”
“But there were droppings.”
“No, Drama Queen. That was flax seed off your bagel.”
Rats.
Time to put the politicians to pasture!
The Federal government is like a cow – big and slow moving. They spend most of their time out in a field. They hang out with other cows but don’t really communicate with them – just a lot of standing around and looking at each other, grazing, and passing time.
The Provincial government is the udder on the big cow. Whether it likes it or not, the udder has to go in the same direction as the cow. The udder holds all the milk that is produced by the cow. And udders don’t leak – they try and hold onto the milk as long as they can. You have to actually milk the cow – the udder doesn’t give you milk unless you ask.
There are a lot of teats on an udder. Each teat is like a Municipal government. Teats pull on the udder in hopes that milk will trickle down. Some teats are better than others at getting milk. Usually, the more often a teat tries to milk, the better it gets at tracking down the milk. Once the milk is collected, it gets sent in different directions depending on where it’s needed most. Should it be used to make butter? Or combined with other stuff to make cheese?
Holy Heifer! Kids. What crazy imaginations they have, eh? The Federal Government just mingling about with no clear purpose. And the Province holding on to their resources until they are asked. Ha Ha. Then the Municipal offices have to work so hard for their share and then having to pick and choose where it ends up because there just isn’t enough to go around.
The teacher thought their idea was very imaginative. To be so young and have come up with that analogy – well, clearly it was bovine intervention!
Smile and say'Overdraft'
Did you know that ‘Braces’ is a short form used by Orthodontists? The full name is ‘Brace Yourself Against the Counter – this is going to be an expensive.’
When a baby’s teeth start coming in, it seems like such a joyous milestone.
“There is the smallest spec, a glimmer of white, on Drewpy’s bottom gums! He’s getting a tooth!!” I yelled into the phone interrupting Mickey’s work day.
Well, proud Papa rolled in that night with teething rings and baby cookies ready for sucking on. He ran his finger over the gums to feel the little bud of enamel and we were as thrilled as when we found change down the back of the couch.
How naïve we were to the hell of teeth.
We honestly figured teething meant Drewpy would let out a little moan, we would hand him a sucky ring to chomp on and that would be the lovey dovey end to it.
Hah. Our home became a giant spit sink with gobs of slobber plastered everywhere, drool-soaked shirts and bibs filled the laundry hamper, fiery red cheeks accompanied screaming, fever, and countless sleepless nights. There was knuckle gnawing and Tylenol doses being doled out – in infant and adult strength!
And no sooner did we get to the end of teeth cutting when we were on the look out for those white demons as they started falling out and hitting the carpet or doing a half gainer with a twist into a bowl of Alphaghetti. We shook our heads each time we tucked another chicklet under a pillow knowing the ‘Tooth Fairy’ was actually having to pay top dollar to cart the blasted thing away.
The big teeth came in wherever, whenever they pleased leaving us with school pictures showcasing a mixed bag of teeth sizes and shapes plopped into otherwise airy smiles.
Dental appointments have always dominated our calendar.
And based on the age of our kids, allowing for the rare occasion when my command was heard by all three boys and then adding back in the times I had to say it more than once (!!), “Brush your teeth” has come out of me a frustrating 18,303 times.
There’s apparently no easy answer to the “Did you brush your teeth?” question.
“Ah, like, today?”
“Why? Are we going somewhere?”
“What do you mean by brush exactly?”
“Yes. Well, no. What was the question again?”
I’ve even heard “I lost my toothbrush”. The toothbrushes are 3 inches from the sink – retrace your steps!
But that was all child’s play, meant to push me to the end of my bicuspids and build dental stamina.
For the day has arrived, as perhaps it has for many of you, when your son or daughter, tears streaming, cheeks flushed, argue how unfair it is that you are about to spend a years salary on straightening their teeth.
“I’m not getting braces! You can’t make me!”
“That’s true. I could buy a Lear Jet instead but it was my grand master plan to raise you this far and then, whoosh, pull the rug out from under you.”
So, we’re back to paying for teeth -- not to cart them away but to straighten them. And the irony is, no one seems to be smiling about it.
Well, except our new ‘Tooth Fairy’, who requires a credit check, two personal references, statement of debt to asset ratio and proof of a pre-approved line of credit.
Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email her your comments to alisondavies@moreaboutlife.ca.
When a baby’s teeth start coming in, it seems like such a joyous milestone.
“There is the smallest spec, a glimmer of white, on Drewpy’s bottom gums! He’s getting a tooth!!” I yelled into the phone interrupting Mickey’s work day.
Well, proud Papa rolled in that night with teething rings and baby cookies ready for sucking on. He ran his finger over the gums to feel the little bud of enamel and we were as thrilled as when we found change down the back of the couch.
How naïve we were to the hell of teeth.
We honestly figured teething meant Drewpy would let out a little moan, we would hand him a sucky ring to chomp on and that would be the lovey dovey end to it.
Hah. Our home became a giant spit sink with gobs of slobber plastered everywhere, drool-soaked shirts and bibs filled the laundry hamper, fiery red cheeks accompanied screaming, fever, and countless sleepless nights. There was knuckle gnawing and Tylenol doses being doled out – in infant and adult strength!
And no sooner did we get to the end of teeth cutting when we were on the look out for those white demons as they started falling out and hitting the carpet or doing a half gainer with a twist into a bowl of Alphaghetti. We shook our heads each time we tucked another chicklet under a pillow knowing the ‘Tooth Fairy’ was actually having to pay top dollar to cart the blasted thing away.
The big teeth came in wherever, whenever they pleased leaving us with school pictures showcasing a mixed bag of teeth sizes and shapes plopped into otherwise airy smiles.
Dental appointments have always dominated our calendar.
And based on the age of our kids, allowing for the rare occasion when my command was heard by all three boys and then adding back in the times I had to say it more than once (!!), “Brush your teeth” has come out of me a frustrating 18,303 times.
There’s apparently no easy answer to the “Did you brush your teeth?” question.
“Ah, like, today?”
“Why? Are we going somewhere?”
“What do you mean by brush exactly?”
“Yes. Well, no. What was the question again?”
I’ve even heard “I lost my toothbrush”. The toothbrushes are 3 inches from the sink – retrace your steps!
But that was all child’s play, meant to push me to the end of my bicuspids and build dental stamina.
For the day has arrived, as perhaps it has for many of you, when your son or daughter, tears streaming, cheeks flushed, argue how unfair it is that you are about to spend a years salary on straightening their teeth.
“I’m not getting braces! You can’t make me!”
“That’s true. I could buy a Lear Jet instead but it was my grand master plan to raise you this far and then, whoosh, pull the rug out from under you.”
So, we’re back to paying for teeth -- not to cart them away but to straighten them. And the irony is, no one seems to be smiling about it.
Well, except our new ‘Tooth Fairy’, who requires a credit check, two personal references, statement of debt to asset ratio and proof of a pre-approved line of credit.
Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email her your comments to alisondavies@moreaboutlife.ca.
What kind of person are you anyway?
Kids are people, too ... Or at least that’s what they would like us to believe. I’m sure there was a focus group of kids in a lunchroom somewhere that fine tuned that expression. There are no adjectives, I’ve noticed.
Kids are tidy people, too, wouldn’t cut it. From the youngest simply dropping their action figures in mid run down a hall to teens clearly not getting how a hanger works – kids are not tidy and they were clever to leave that part out in their proclamation of their people-ness.
Kids are agreeable people, too. No. And that’s not me disagreeing with the statement. That’s the first word out of their toothless mouths after ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada’.
“Oh, I think its time for someone to have a nap”.
“No.”
“Just one brussel sprout. Please?”
“No”
And speaking of trying new foods, its not ‘Kids are daring people, too’. The young focus group knew enough to omit any word implying openness to venture beyond the feel-good of a cardboard box filled with carb-packed noodles and powdered pretend cheese.
Kids are financially responsible people, too. I don’t think so. No savers in my house. But we do have some budding politicians.
“I promise not to wear my shoes in the house ever again in exchange for getting all my 2008 allowance today.” If they knew the power that a pledge to lower taxes had, they’d throw that in.
Kids are attentive people, too. I still marvel at the time wasted by me and Mickey D to find good names for our kids. If we knew they wouldn’t respond when we called them anyway, we would have just slapped something together for the birth certificates.
Kids are knowledge seeking people, too. You know this isn’t the case when you witness the sheer jubilation a snow day with cancelled buses brings. Or, joy to all, the newly crowned Fog day that shut things down. Now they are hoping for a Drizzle Day, a Winds Coming In From The North Day, or a Possibility of Excessive Dew Day.
Kids are loyal people, too, wouldn’t fly.
“Mom. Can I rent a game for the GameCube?”
“No.”
“Okay. Dad, can I rent a game for the GameCube?”
Kids are discreet people, too. Not.
“My mom is way older than your mom and none of her clothes fit her after she ate so much chocolate at Christmas.”
The fact they were bright enough not to include any adjectives would lead you to Kids are smart people, too. But they ditched ‘smart’ so they could respond with the parental pleaser “I don’t know” when asked “Who put the empty milk container back in the fridge?” or “Who wrote on their little brother with marker?”
Every kid or teen has had to have the ‘I don’t know’ at their disposal. “But where is the car now?” was posed to me by my parents many years ago to which I found the ‘I don’t know’ very handy.
So we’re left with ‘Kids are people, too’. Yeah, I guess we can give them that.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Don't face off with a Mom
Don't face off with a mom
Have you ever had a dream, a really scary dream, like where you are surrounded by an angry, tense mob and there seems to be no clear path to the exit? Well, I had it this week. Only I wasn’t dreaming. I was smack dab in the middle of a crowd on the edge, just waiting for a reason to snap. I was at a Bantam hockey game and I was sitting with the hockey mom’s.
This is a rare breed of mom. Sure, they have their hair done and coordinate their mittens with their winter coats, but underneath their skin refreshing foundation and shimmery pink lip gloss beats the heart of a World Boxing Federation champion ready to go a few rounds and fight to the death if the ref makes one more bad call or misses one more high stick.
These are the same mothers who refused drugs during their deliveries and asked only for a piece of wood to bite down on.
Every time the whistle blew, one side had Stick Chicks yelling “Oh for god sake, he barely touched him!” while the other side of the stands, with spit balls hitting the Plexiglas, offered something like “Well it’s about time you manned up and called something, Ref!!" Maybe from the players side of the ice, the bleachers look like a huge penalty box.
I’m certain the referee walked cautiously through the parking lot after the game for fear of yet another mini-van ‘accidentally’ getting thrown into reverse.
“The last thing I saw, Officer, before I leapt to safety, was an ‘I’m proud to be a Hockey Mom’ bumper sticker.”
Welcome to the ‘hood, brother…Motherhood.
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Say something bad about my kid
You’ll get what’s coming to you!
These mommy’s and grannies are jacked up on green tea and multi vitamins so keep your distance. Don’t ask them if they know the rules or if they themselves have ever played hockey. It’s not your business.
And if you have a question about the upcoming bake sale or have an
Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email your thoughts to alisondavies@morebusiness.ca
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