Some people call this time of year summer.
Gosh the word ‘summer’ has a lovely ring to it. It warms me up just thinking about breezy days, backyard bbq’s and firefly-filled evenings under a starry sky. Mmmmm.
We don’t call this time of year summer in our house. We call it Soccer Season.
May kicks off four months of sweat soaked nylon socks, muddy cleats, injuries, arguments, road trips and folding lawn chairs.
From the satiny black shorts to the shiny jerseys and rain suits – we turn into a slippery bunch!
We also become a team of play running conversationalists:
“Pass the empty Dorito’s bag to your brother. He’ll take it up the wing to the garbage.”
“Clean up this room or you’re getting a red card and a two meal suspension.”
“You were off-side. Stay in our backyard.”
And if we’re not penalizing each other with a corner kick, we’re peppering each other with soccer related questions:
“Where is your soccer uniform?”
“Is your soccer bag packed?”
“What time is the soccer game?”
“What city are we playing in?”
My golden tan sure doesn’t come from stretching out by a pool. It’s the product of sitting, on purpose, in the middle of a field under a scorching sun on a collapsible chair. I’m a soccer mom.
Game schedules, quick dinners and running late make up my daily routine. Looking for me? I’m in Reverse, backing out of the driveway and heading to a game.
Achey is shameless when he scores a goal. His mighty fists rise over his head, he jumps up and down and then ultimately drops to the ground in a 5 year old puddle of exhilaration. Ah, sorry, Other Teams Goalie, we’re working on toning it down.
Itchy needs to get a little meaner. He’s the gentle giant so while he looks like he’d be hard to get by, I’m sure if you said “Hey, could I scoot around you and go score a goal on your net because it would make me feel good”, he would gladly step aside.
Drewpy plays on an outstanding Rep team of scrappy 11 year olds. My sideline coaching is really starting to pay off!
And let us not forget the man who introduced me to the Soccer Season --– Mickey D, the ultimate sports enthusiast.
Dear old Dad is bucking for his own entry in the New England Journal of Medicine. Thanks to soccer, he has ripped his knee apart many times and holds a permanent position on the MRI waiting list.
As far as I can tell, there is only one difference between soccer for the young and soccer for the, ah, ‘mature’, as in Mickey D.
And it’s not the skill level – it’s the equipment needs.
Eleven year olds wear a jersey, shorts, socks, shin pads and cleats.
Forty-something’s get their equipment (and their anti-inflammatory’s) delivered to the field on a flatbed truck about an hour before the game: knee braces, chest protectors, inhalers, elbow pads, sun block, helmets, mouth guards, soft casts, orthodics, neck aligners, bug repellent, hip belts, prescription goggles, ankle splints, tensors, shoulder padding and lycra leggings.
Oh, and young kids all dye their hair green on tournament day. Old kids get their health card numbers and emergency contact names tattooed across their chests.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
It’s a shame it has to end
They fail to mention in the ‘Endless Joys of Motherhood’ reference manual that the day will undoubtedly come when you feel like handing in your resignation without even the consideration of two weeks notice.
Well, lets say, I’m about ready to walk off the job.
I feel taunted by some old John Denver lyrics that keep running through my head – the ones for (I’m a) Leaving on a Jet Plane. Remember that song? I’ve reworked it to better fit my mood:
My bags are packed;
I’m ready to go,
I'm standin' here, outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye …
But the day has come; I can take it no more
The house is a mess, my back is sore
And all of you think that I’ve lost my mind…
So you’re on your own, good luck to you
Friday’s dentist appointment, is for half past two
You’ll find clean underwear, inside your top drawer.
Cause I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
But right now, I feel its time to go….
There are far too many, socks on the floor
Lunch bags bursting with old apple cores
Toys and homework, simply thrown around
I guess you figure, I’m the one
That needs to pick up, after everyone
But here’s a shocker for you all to bear…
I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
But right now, I feel I’d better go…
The calendar, is jammed packed
Music, karate, birthday parties a fact
Laundry, lunches, science projects due.
“Here she goes again”, you all say with a yawn
When I tell ya the dog has pooped on the lawn
I know I’ll end up cleaning it my-self.
The milk is low, the hampers heaped high
I’m shrugging my shoulders, and think with a sigh
It’s too bad, it had to end this way
But I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know if I’ll be back again
But right now, I’m heading out the door.
“Hey!”
“Mom!”
“What’s wrong with her?” one son asks another.
“I don’t know. She looks comatose. Maybe she’s been drinking dad’s homemade wine.”
“Yeah. That must be it. She looks all happy.”
“Well, of course she’s happy. She’s got us, doesn’t she?”
Well, lets say, I’m about ready to walk off the job.
I feel taunted by some old John Denver lyrics that keep running through my head – the ones for (I’m a) Leaving on a Jet Plane. Remember that song? I’ve reworked it to better fit my mood:
My bags are packed;
I’m ready to go,
I'm standin' here, outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye …
But the day has come; I can take it no more
The house is a mess, my back is sore
And all of you think that I’ve lost my mind…
So you’re on your own, good luck to you
Friday’s dentist appointment, is for half past two
You’ll find clean underwear, inside your top drawer.
Cause I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
But right now, I feel its time to go….
There are far too many, socks on the floor
Lunch bags bursting with old apple cores
Toys and homework, simply thrown around
I guess you figure, I’m the one
That needs to pick up, after everyone
But here’s a shocker for you all to bear…
I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
But right now, I feel I’d better go…
The calendar, is jammed packed
Music, karate, birthday parties a fact
Laundry, lunches, science projects due.
“Here she goes again”, you all say with a yawn
When I tell ya the dog has pooped on the lawn
I know I’ll end up cleaning it my-self.
The milk is low, the hampers heaped high
I’m shrugging my shoulders, and think with a sigh
It’s too bad, it had to end this way
But I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know if I’ll be back again
But right now, I’m heading out the door.
“Hey!”
“Mom!”
“What’s wrong with her?” one son asks another.
“I don’t know. She looks comatose. Maybe she’s been drinking dad’s homemade wine.”
“Yeah. That must be it. She looks all happy.”
“Well, of course she’s happy. She’s got us, doesn’t she?”
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Meeting to meet about meetings
Two things signaled adulthood to me when I was a kid: meetings and getting mail. My father would talk about the meetings he had been in that day as he sorted through a stack of mail before dinner. He seemed immersed in important, grown-up things.
Now I’m the grown-up. And I’d rather get stuck with a fork than go to another meeting.
Blech! What I learned in high school Law class helps though – oh, not stuff about codicils or liabilities, no, I’m referring to the ability to clench my jaw and yawn into my mouth.
No one can tell when I’ve slipped into a boring-meeting induced coma. If my head was under a scanner, there would be very little brain activity detected on even the most sophisticated pieces of equipment.
“Can you join us, Alison? It’s going to be a quick meeting”.
There is no documentation to prove there has ever been a quick meeting during the entire human history of meeting.
Cavemen used to draw pictures on the walls of their Stone Age boardrooms to pass the time. Egyptians chiseled hieroglyphics into caverns in the pyramids that when translated by leading archaeologists said “Help. I’ve been in a meeting for 6 hours and we still haven’t broken for lunch!”
Oh, sure, when my first real job meant getting to go to meetings, the thought was exciting. I brought paper and two pens, in case there was a flood of info to take down. I eagerly awaited hearing something meaningful – but it never happened. Someone would open their mouth – a string of nonsense would roll out – and then the next guy would add more big words or statistics or acronyms. Meetings were as painful as a comedy show with no funny jokes.
The job training included how the filing system worked, what my extension was and where the washrooms were. When it came to learning how to ‘do’ meetings--I had to figure it out on my own.
The agenda was the cheat sheet on what to expect in the Bored Room. You bring it to the meeting so you can flip it over and doodle.
Minutes regarding the previous meeting were handed out at the beginning of this meeting.
Here’s where it got crazy for me. We were going to waste time in this meeting going over the details of the last meeting?? Like that meeting wasn’t lackluster enough, we were now going to rehash it! I wanted to fake an appendicitis and crawl out on my hands and knee’s.
A Motion was passed to accept the Minutes and we begin rolling through a list of stuff. Then New Business gets introduced. New Business never gets resolved in the same meeting so someone needs to, you guessed it, bring forth a Motion.
“Who will second the motion of the motion to motion to move the New Business to the next meeting?
Ahhhh. Get me a Gravol! I’ve got Motion Sickness!
Fake smiles and water drinking also goes on in meetings. That’s because the attendees zone out and need to buy some time when called upon.
Some snoozer throws out the “Here’s another point we may want to consider…” and we’re forced to consider it even though everyone knows he only brought it up because he wasn’t listening to what was already being considered.
I did figure out why everyone checks their watch to make sure they aren’t late for meetings though.
It’s a race for the window seat so at least you can stare out at the world as it passes you by.
Plus, these days, if you get to a meeting early enough, you can pull out your Blackberry and go through your stack of e-mails. Boy, nothing screams good times like being a grown up.
Now I’m the grown-up. And I’d rather get stuck with a fork than go to another meeting.
Blech! What I learned in high school Law class helps though – oh, not stuff about codicils or liabilities, no, I’m referring to the ability to clench my jaw and yawn into my mouth.
No one can tell when I’ve slipped into a boring-meeting induced coma. If my head was under a scanner, there would be very little brain activity detected on even the most sophisticated pieces of equipment.
“Can you join us, Alison? It’s going to be a quick meeting”.
There is no documentation to prove there has ever been a quick meeting during the entire human history of meeting.
Cavemen used to draw pictures on the walls of their Stone Age boardrooms to pass the time. Egyptians chiseled hieroglyphics into caverns in the pyramids that when translated by leading archaeologists said “Help. I’ve been in a meeting for 6 hours and we still haven’t broken for lunch!”
Oh, sure, when my first real job meant getting to go to meetings, the thought was exciting. I brought paper and two pens, in case there was a flood of info to take down. I eagerly awaited hearing something meaningful – but it never happened. Someone would open their mouth – a string of nonsense would roll out – and then the next guy would add more big words or statistics or acronyms. Meetings were as painful as a comedy show with no funny jokes.
The job training included how the filing system worked, what my extension was and where the washrooms were. When it came to learning how to ‘do’ meetings--I had to figure it out on my own.
The agenda was the cheat sheet on what to expect in the Bored Room. You bring it to the meeting so you can flip it over and doodle.
Minutes regarding the previous meeting were handed out at the beginning of this meeting.
Here’s where it got crazy for me. We were going to waste time in this meeting going over the details of the last meeting?? Like that meeting wasn’t lackluster enough, we were now going to rehash it! I wanted to fake an appendicitis and crawl out on my hands and knee’s.
A Motion was passed to accept the Minutes and we begin rolling through a list of stuff. Then New Business gets introduced. New Business never gets resolved in the same meeting so someone needs to, you guessed it, bring forth a Motion.
“Who will second the motion of the motion to motion to move the New Business to the next meeting?
Ahhhh. Get me a Gravol! I’ve got Motion Sickness!
Fake smiles and water drinking also goes on in meetings. That’s because the attendees zone out and need to buy some time when called upon.
Some snoozer throws out the “Here’s another point we may want to consider…” and we’re forced to consider it even though everyone knows he only brought it up because he wasn’t listening to what was already being considered.
I did figure out why everyone checks their watch to make sure they aren’t late for meetings though.
It’s a race for the window seat so at least you can stare out at the world as it passes you by.
Plus, these days, if you get to a meeting early enough, you can pull out your Blackberry and go through your stack of e-mails. Boy, nothing screams good times like being a grown up.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Wait til the cows come home
My oldest son Drewpy is working on a Grade 5 group project to describe the various levels of government – Federal, Provincial and Municipal. The goal is to understand how everyone works together in a democratic society for the good of the people. He explained it to me in the simplest of terms so I could understand. Here’s what he and his colleagues came up with to help create a visual.
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Nursing Students slapped with restraining order
I’m hunched over the keyboard today grimacing every time I hit the ( or the ) key. Perhaps it’s the additional requirement of holding down the Shift key. I don’t know but don’t expect much in the way of bracketed text.
I just had a procedure done on my stomach. It’s all very technical but essentially, my doctor cauterizes (ouch, aka, burns, ouch, I forgot the bracket thing), the lining of my stomach with a laser to prevent it from bleeding. I know, up until now, you thought ‘That Alison, she’s got everything going for her’ but the truth is, I’m but a mere mortal afflicted with a skinny stomach lining. We all have our crosses to bear.
So,my doc belly blasts me every couple months. And he maintains “it doesn’t hurt”. Note that I’ve had to utilize the “ “ because IT DOES HURT and my inability to use simple punctuation would underscore that point if I could indeed underscore!
Over the years during prep, the nurses give me a pleasant grin when I warn my veins are lousy for intravenous. They seem to go ‘game on’ as they tighten the tourniquet. Poke, poke, poke in the back of the hand – no go. Slap, slap - lets try this one – and so goes the ‘spear the fish’ adventure.
“I think, hmm, if I just, jeez, get back here and stay still.” Jab, jab, jab. I never know which nurse it is because I squeeze my eyes shut and “I’m a human being!” screams out in my head. I reportedly have ‘rolly, skinny veins’. Have you noticed that all my skinny is on the inside of my body?
There have been some that get the i.v. on the first try and others that after a few attempts in the back of my hand, move to the thumb and then ultimately give in and go to the elbow – then to my chart to memorize my name so they can avoid me next time. And I’ve had to slap a few restraining orders against nursing and ambulance students that had an unwavering ‘can do’ attitude. You’re not getting an A for Intravenous and leaving me imitating a leaky shower head!
It’s not all bad times, though. I play “Who is here for a colonoscopy?” when I’m in the waiting room. Those folks typically have dark, sunken eyes and their clothes are hanging off them.
If you’ve ever endured the prep, you know what the 24 hours prior to a colonoscopy is like. You drink the poison that the doctor has prescribed and it hurls you into a full blown war with their innards. You are in pay back mode for every lie you ever told your parents and for every time you sped and didn’t get caught.
It’s when you are convinced you are ‘empty’, that the prescribed devil’s juice really kicks in. You must still repent the time you didn’t give back the extra change the cashier mistakenly handed you, all the times you called in sick when you weren’t and the occasion you said you made the avocado dip but it was actually store bought.
You’ll convince yourself you’re allergic to the liquid you’ve ingested because in no way can this be right. You’ll search the bottle for a 1-800 number but none will be listed. On and on you’ll cleanse until your shoulders disappear into your weakened frame, your hands tremble and you are within 27 pounds of your birth weight. It’s only then, that you will emerge from the bathroom – truly empty!
While I’m waiting in day surgery for my turn to get wheeled in for the “it doesn’t hurt” procedure, I hear the nurse ask the guy next to me:
“You’re here for a colonoscopy. Did you do the prep?”
Some wispy noise escapes from his lips but he is obviously too weak to actually summon up a vowel or consonant.
“Good. I’ll get your i.v. going. Hopefully, you’re not a mutant, no veined, alien from another planet.”
Hey, I heard that.
I just had a procedure done on my stomach. It’s all very technical but essentially, my doctor cauterizes (ouch, aka, burns, ouch, I forgot the bracket thing), the lining of my stomach with a laser to prevent it from bleeding. I know, up until now, you thought ‘That Alison, she’s got everything going for her’ but the truth is, I’m but a mere mortal afflicted with a skinny stomach lining. We all have our crosses to bear.
So,my doc belly blasts me every couple months. And he maintains “it doesn’t hurt”. Note that I’ve had to utilize the “ “ because IT DOES HURT and my inability to use simple punctuation would underscore that point if I could indeed underscore!
Over the years during prep, the nurses give me a pleasant grin when I warn my veins are lousy for intravenous. They seem to go ‘game on’ as they tighten the tourniquet. Poke, poke, poke in the back of the hand – no go. Slap, slap - lets try this one – and so goes the ‘spear the fish’ adventure.
“I think, hmm, if I just, jeez, get back here and stay still.” Jab, jab, jab. I never know which nurse it is because I squeeze my eyes shut and “I’m a human being!” screams out in my head. I reportedly have ‘rolly, skinny veins’. Have you noticed that all my skinny is on the inside of my body?
There have been some that get the i.v. on the first try and others that after a few attempts in the back of my hand, move to the thumb and then ultimately give in and go to the elbow – then to my chart to memorize my name so they can avoid me next time. And I’ve had to slap a few restraining orders against nursing and ambulance students that had an unwavering ‘can do’ attitude. You’re not getting an A for Intravenous and leaving me imitating a leaky shower head!
It’s not all bad times, though. I play “Who is here for a colonoscopy?” when I’m in the waiting room. Those folks typically have dark, sunken eyes and their clothes are hanging off them.
If you’ve ever endured the prep, you know what the 24 hours prior to a colonoscopy is like. You drink the poison that the doctor has prescribed and it hurls you into a full blown war with their innards. You are in pay back mode for every lie you ever told your parents and for every time you sped and didn’t get caught.
It’s when you are convinced you are ‘empty’, that the prescribed devil’s juice really kicks in. You must still repent the time you didn’t give back the extra change the cashier mistakenly handed you, all the times you called in sick when you weren’t and the occasion you said you made the avocado dip but it was actually store bought.
You’ll convince yourself you’re allergic to the liquid you’ve ingested because in no way can this be right. You’ll search the bottle for a 1-800 number but none will be listed. On and on you’ll cleanse until your shoulders disappear into your weakened frame, your hands tremble and you are within 27 pounds of your birth weight. It’s only then, that you will emerge from the bathroom – truly empty!
While I’m waiting in day surgery for my turn to get wheeled in for the “it doesn’t hurt” procedure, I hear the nurse ask the guy next to me:
“You’re here for a colonoscopy. Did you do the prep?”
Some wispy noise escapes from his lips but he is obviously too weak to actually summon up a vowel or consonant.
“Good. I’ll get your i.v. going. Hopefully, you’re not a mutant, no veined, alien from another planet.”
Hey, I heard that.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Cleared for take off
“Attention, all passengers. We are boarding in approximately 2 minutes. Our trip this afternoon does not allow for additional stops prior to arrival at our destination so we request all travelers attend the restroom before departure.” It’s guaranteed that one of the boys won’t heed the warning to take a second and go right now. With Amazing Kreskin-like accuracy, I predict an emergency stop within 16 minutes of getting on the highway.
“All carry-on knapsacks, bags, books, buckets and electronics must be managed by the individual passenger. All items brought onboard are vulnerable to confiscation if their presence causes unbearable hardship to other travelers.” The boys aren’t even in their seats when they start looking around to see what brother slipped in with something better than what they brought.
“We will be cruising at approximately 60 miles per hour today eastbound to Kingston. For the safety of everyone, please keep hands and feet to yourself and remain seated at all times.” On a previous trek down the highway, I heard this little ‘click’ sound. I flipped down my mirror and my 4 year olds car seat was empty. He had taken off his seatbelt and was wondering around the van – you know, just stretching his legs!
“Our in-flight movie will be Shrek 2 starring Canadian funnyman Mike Myers as Shrek with the lovely and talented Cameron Diaz in the role of Princess Fiona. We ask for silence so all passengers may enjoy the film.” Portable DVD player - $249.00. Crowd pleasing movie release - $19.99. 93 minutes of silence while driving -- priceless.
“Snacks are available upon request and consist of bananas, boxes of raisons and chocolate chip granola bars. A plastic bag is available for all wrappers and peels. Small juice boxes are stocked but we remind you there will be no restroom stops during the traveling portion of today’s expedition. Once we reach our destination, Cosmic Adventures, you will be provided with all the necessary amenities.”
“Mom. You’re losing it”.
I bet my neighbours look out and think I’m simply backing out of the driveway. Little do they know, it’s more aptly described as taxiing down the runway.
“All carry-on knapsacks, bags, books, buckets and electronics must be managed by the individual passenger. All items brought onboard are vulnerable to confiscation if their presence causes unbearable hardship to other travelers.” The boys aren’t even in their seats when they start looking around to see what brother slipped in with something better than what they brought.
“We will be cruising at approximately 60 miles per hour today eastbound to Kingston. For the safety of everyone, please keep hands and feet to yourself and remain seated at all times.” On a previous trek down the highway, I heard this little ‘click’ sound. I flipped down my mirror and my 4 year olds car seat was empty. He had taken off his seatbelt and was wondering around the van – you know, just stretching his legs!
“Our in-flight movie will be Shrek 2 starring Canadian funnyman Mike Myers as Shrek with the lovely and talented Cameron Diaz in the role of Princess Fiona. We ask for silence so all passengers may enjoy the film.” Portable DVD player - $249.00. Crowd pleasing movie release - $19.99. 93 minutes of silence while driving -- priceless.
“Snacks are available upon request and consist of bananas, boxes of raisons and chocolate chip granola bars. A plastic bag is available for all wrappers and peels. Small juice boxes are stocked but we remind you there will be no restroom stops during the traveling portion of today’s expedition. Once we reach our destination, Cosmic Adventures, you will be provided with all the necessary amenities.”
“Mom. You’re losing it”.
I bet my neighbours look out and think I’m simply backing out of the driveway. Little do they know, it’s more aptly described as taxiing down the runway.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Provincial Action against Distraction
Hey, over here. Put down that Tator Tot for a second and mute the volume on Dr. Phil so I can have your complete, undivided attention. And I’m not being bossy. I’m trying to get you used to ‘mono-tasking’.
During a recent telecommunications presentation (don’t ask), I heard a few comments about Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty’s proposed Anti-Distraction legislation.
Can the Government do that? Force us not to be distracted?
Hmm, I wonder if I would have gotten better grades in High School if I had – oh, sorry, I zoned out there for a second. Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Legislation enforcing anti-distraction. Whew, that’s a big one. For now, the proposed rules will make it illegal for us to be distracted by electronics while we’re driving. I’m all for eyes on the road, who isn’t, but they regulate these high tech devices and then decide they don’t like how we’re using them.
Holy power play, Batman. Is there a ‘Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth’ ordinance around the next corner?
McGuinty originally opposed the notion of banning cell phone use in cars. We do have a ‘careless driving’ charge which carries lofty penalties. But then, in a surprise government move, he flip flopped on the issue. Well, maybe just a flop. He says we can use our phones, but we can’t hold them. Opposite to the new smoking law where you can hold your cigarette, but you can’t smoke it.
No Cell Phones; no in-dash DVD Players; no Blackberry’s; no GPS. That’s right. You have to turn off Cecile or Stella or Gracie – whatever name you’ve given that sweet talking lady with the slight British accent that lives in your GPS. When you need directions, stop the car and then flip her on. Just when I thought we were done with the “We MUST be lost – all the street signs are in French!” arguments.
If the folks ruling the roost are concerned about us being distracted while driving, we shouldn’t stop with electronics. Shut down the entire drive thru eating industry:
“Yo, Joe. This is the Premiers office calling. We’re making it illegal to shovel in any food that could ooze or spray or otherwise distract while driving so sorry, Friend, you’re not getting that permit to build the Sloppy Joe Drive-Thru Splatter Puss Emporium”.
Next, let’s ban hot coffee, hot chicks that turn heads and big eye-catching signs that scream hot savings.
When I’m behind the wheel, I find myself breaking up brotherly fights, passing around snacks to my road crew, assembling KinderEgg toys, rockin’ to the musical stylings of Miley Cyrus and ducking as an action figure grazes my temple.
If there is still room in the STUFF TO BAN Suggestion Box in the Premiers Office, I’m going to insist on the immediate end to transporting all life forms under the age of 10.
During a recent telecommunications presentation (don’t ask), I heard a few comments about Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty’s proposed Anti-Distraction legislation.
Can the Government do that? Force us not to be distracted?
Hmm, I wonder if I would have gotten better grades in High School if I had – oh, sorry, I zoned out there for a second. Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Legislation enforcing anti-distraction. Whew, that’s a big one. For now, the proposed rules will make it illegal for us to be distracted by electronics while we’re driving. I’m all for eyes on the road, who isn’t, but they regulate these high tech devices and then decide they don’t like how we’re using them.
Holy power play, Batman. Is there a ‘Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth’ ordinance around the next corner?
McGuinty originally opposed the notion of banning cell phone use in cars. We do have a ‘careless driving’ charge which carries lofty penalties. But then, in a surprise government move, he flip flopped on the issue. Well, maybe just a flop. He says we can use our phones, but we can’t hold them. Opposite to the new smoking law where you can hold your cigarette, but you can’t smoke it.
No Cell Phones; no in-dash DVD Players; no Blackberry’s; no GPS. That’s right. You have to turn off Cecile or Stella or Gracie – whatever name you’ve given that sweet talking lady with the slight British accent that lives in your GPS. When you need directions, stop the car and then flip her on. Just when I thought we were done with the “We MUST be lost – all the street signs are in French!” arguments.
If the folks ruling the roost are concerned about us being distracted while driving, we shouldn’t stop with electronics. Shut down the entire drive thru eating industry:
“Yo, Joe. This is the Premiers office calling. We’re making it illegal to shovel in any food that could ooze or spray or otherwise distract while driving so sorry, Friend, you’re not getting that permit to build the Sloppy Joe Drive-Thru Splatter Puss Emporium”.
Next, let’s ban hot coffee, hot chicks that turn heads and big eye-catching signs that scream hot savings.
When I’m behind the wheel, I find myself breaking up brotherly fights, passing around snacks to my road crew, assembling KinderEgg toys, rockin’ to the musical stylings of Miley Cyrus and ducking as an action figure grazes my temple.
If there is still room in the STUFF TO BAN Suggestion Box in the Premiers Office, I’m going to insist on the immediate end to transporting all life forms under the age of 10.
Friday, April 3, 2009
No Green Beans -- No Dessert
The McDonalds Playplace is a great spot to take the boys. They get to goof around while I write. And for a girl writing about bizarre day to day stuff with the added charm of family weirdness, it’s the premier feeding ground for new material.
Today brought back memories of how much I hated the threat of no dessert getting thrown in my teary face as a kid.
“But I don’t like green beans!” I would plead.
“They’re good for you and there won’t be anything else tonight if you don’t eat them”.
There won’t be anything else? I don’t even get a heads up on exactly what I’d be missing? I imagined my green bean loving brother sinking his spoon into a mountainous heap of ice cream topped with chocolate sauce while I spent the evening pushing little inedible green stumps around my plate.
What else could a dessert lover do but plug her nose and shovel ‘em down? I threw in choking and gagging to underscore the point that I believed green beans were the work of the devil.
It would be so disappointing if a bowl of fruit cocktail arrived in front of me. Of course, my green bean loving brother also loved syrup soaked fruit chunks. My parents always loved him more than me (but I’ll save that for therapy).
“Eat all your french fries or I’m taking that toy away” I overheard a mom say from the next table over in the Playplace.
I was convinced, way back when, that my mom was trying to kill me via vegetables. A kid nowadays with similar thoughts about being force fed deep fried potatoes rolled in salt, would have a compelling case.
And ‘no green beans, no dessert’ – that was the natural order of things. But when the child has already received ‘the dessert’, in this case, a toy from a Happy Meal, you’ve lost your leverage. You aren’t threatening to withhold, you’re threatening to withdraw. Been there, done that temper tantrum.
This nearby Mom demanding complete french fry consumption doesn’t realize her Precious is prepared for a full blown melt-down if anyone makes a move towards her newly acquired Bee Movie toy mosquito.
“Emily. Mommy loves you and is very proud of you. You walked instead of running today. You let Mommy help with your coat. You sat in a chair. You are my clever Princess. But Mommy thinks you have taken your listening ears off so Mommy must take back that toy.” Emily’s eyebrows crunch together. Her plastic tiara rides forward on her head.
Instinctively, I yell out to my boys:
“Drewpy. Itchy. Achey. Come on, Fella’s. We have to go!”
I clear away the garbage on the table in record time.
“Emil-eeeeeeee” Coos the Too-Much-Dr. Phil-Mommy. “You have a decision to make. Eat your whole lunch like a big girl or give me your mosquito so I can give it to another little girl who is behaving nicely and listening to her Mommy.”
“BOYS!”
My three sons come into view. My eyes point them in the direction of Princess Zelda and they immediately get it. I’ve noticed that boys, right from their first multi-gender experience in the playground, recognize that chicks can be, well, how would you say, ...they display a full range of emotions.
Emily has pulled her entire 2’ 11” frame onto the chair. She stands strong with her Tinker Bell rain boots firmly planted as she leans into the table. Her eyes narrow and her pudgy-fingered grip tightens on the mosquito. The bejeweled tiara has now settled across her forehead in full Ninja warrior fashion.
“Get outta here! She’s gonna blowwww!” cries Itchy as he wraps a protective arm around his younger brother. Drewpy and I are making our way to the nearest exit -- we’ve seen this kind of thing too many times before.
None of us know for sure what happened next. Everything seemed to go dark. We were disoriented. When the dust finally settled, there were a lot of fries on the ground, drinks overturned, debris strewn about and ‘Mommy’ was trying to get all the ketchup out of her hair.
And Emily? She played happily with her Bee Movie toy mosquito. I wonder how she feels about green beans.
Today brought back memories of how much I hated the threat of no dessert getting thrown in my teary face as a kid.
“But I don’t like green beans!” I would plead.
“They’re good for you and there won’t be anything else tonight if you don’t eat them”.
There won’t be anything else? I don’t even get a heads up on exactly what I’d be missing? I imagined my green bean loving brother sinking his spoon into a mountainous heap of ice cream topped with chocolate sauce while I spent the evening pushing little inedible green stumps around my plate.
What else could a dessert lover do but plug her nose and shovel ‘em down? I threw in choking and gagging to underscore the point that I believed green beans were the work of the devil.
It would be so disappointing if a bowl of fruit cocktail arrived in front of me. Of course, my green bean loving brother also loved syrup soaked fruit chunks. My parents always loved him more than me (but I’ll save that for therapy).
“Eat all your french fries or I’m taking that toy away” I overheard a mom say from the next table over in the Playplace.
I was convinced, way back when, that my mom was trying to kill me via vegetables. A kid nowadays with similar thoughts about being force fed deep fried potatoes rolled in salt, would have a compelling case.
And ‘no green beans, no dessert’ – that was the natural order of things. But when the child has already received ‘the dessert’, in this case, a toy from a Happy Meal, you’ve lost your leverage. You aren’t threatening to withhold, you’re threatening to withdraw. Been there, done that temper tantrum.
This nearby Mom demanding complete french fry consumption doesn’t realize her Precious is prepared for a full blown melt-down if anyone makes a move towards her newly acquired Bee Movie toy mosquito.
“Emily. Mommy loves you and is very proud of you. You walked instead of running today. You let Mommy help with your coat. You sat in a chair. You are my clever Princess. But Mommy thinks you have taken your listening ears off so Mommy must take back that toy.” Emily’s eyebrows crunch together. Her plastic tiara rides forward on her head.
Instinctively, I yell out to my boys:
“Drewpy. Itchy. Achey. Come on, Fella’s. We have to go!”
I clear away the garbage on the table in record time.
“Emil-eeeeeeee” Coos the Too-Much-Dr. Phil-Mommy. “You have a decision to make. Eat your whole lunch like a big girl or give me your mosquito so I can give it to another little girl who is behaving nicely and listening to her Mommy.”
“BOYS!”
My three sons come into view. My eyes point them in the direction of Princess Zelda and they immediately get it. I’ve noticed that boys, right from their first multi-gender experience in the playground, recognize that chicks can be, well, how would you say, ...they display a full range of emotions.
Emily has pulled her entire 2’ 11” frame onto the chair. She stands strong with her Tinker Bell rain boots firmly planted as she leans into the table. Her eyes narrow and her pudgy-fingered grip tightens on the mosquito. The bejeweled tiara has now settled across her forehead in full Ninja warrior fashion.
“Get outta here! She’s gonna blowwww!” cries Itchy as he wraps a protective arm around his younger brother. Drewpy and I are making our way to the nearest exit -- we’ve seen this kind of thing too many times before.
None of us know for sure what happened next. Everything seemed to go dark. We were disoriented. When the dust finally settled, there were a lot of fries on the ground, drinks overturned, debris strewn about and ‘Mommy’ was trying to get all the ketchup out of her hair.
And Emily? She played happily with her Bee Movie toy mosquito. I wonder how she feels about green beans.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Anyone for seconds?
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 wants to get rolling with some fun extra curriculars at school though.
“Are there any Clubs that interest you that maybe 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 which is 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 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 wants to get rolling with some fun extra curriculars at school though.
“Are there any Clubs that interest you that maybe 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 which is 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 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.
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