Snow Blind

This is what my front yard SHOULD look like

I am writing this in my living room, on my laptop which sits like an island amidst a sea of tiny Lego bricks and assorted Ninja Turtle weaponry.  I can see out to my front yard and beyond from here. I can see the frost gray asphalt of the residential street, the neighbour vacuuming out his car, my dull green front lawn.  In a few minutes, my son and I are going to go for a bike ride so he can perfect his mad wheelie skillz before spring.

Did I mention the condition of the lawn?

The LAWN.

The neighbour vacuuming out his car? Riding BIKES?  THE LAWN? 

 It’s February, and I live in Canada. As in, The Great White North, home of the 2010 Winter Olympics, the place where Santa Claus and polar bears live?  The only thing I should see this time of year when I look outside are half frozen children stuck to metal fence posts, and irate fur trimmed parka clad citizens giving plow drivers the finger after he barricades their driveways behind a five foot wall of packing snow.

I don’t want to see my lawn in February. The snow offers a four month reprieve from the leaves I didn’t rake in the fall. What I want to see are blue flashing salt truck lights, delighted children seeing their schools on the “closed” list, and frantic blizzard forecasting weathermen wiping the sweat of fear from their foreheads. We should be on our third container of cocoa and been through two pairs of snow pants each by now.  Instead, last week we sat in the hot tub eating BBQ chicken and watermelon, and the toboggans the kids got for Christmas still have the ribbon and bows on them. I haven’t ONE SINGLE TIME had to scrape ice off my windshield with a metal BBQ spatula. PM bought me a snow blower and I haven’t even touched it. I may use it to cut the grass in the summer.

I want snow. The weather channel is calling for our area to get 5-10 cm tomorrow, but I’m not holding my breath. I want 5 feet! Five cm? Too little, too late, weather man. How can I appreciate the spring and summer when I have no winter horror stories to complain about? So much of our identity comes from the fact that we are a winter country. Quite frankly, I’m feeling very on edge and I fear for my constitution should we get no snow this winter. I feel like up is down, black is white, everything is something it wasn’t before. Between the freaky winter weather and my boyfriend Conan getting his show cancelled are making me feel really vulnerable right now.  

The season started off by looking promising. We had snow and cold temperatures by December, but nothing since. Apparently there is snow all around us, and the kids come home with red cheeks and helmet hair after weekends snowmobiling at their dad’s cottage 3 hours north of here. So what up, Mother Nature? Was it the fact that I was actually prepared for you this year? It’s been pretty cold some days, with several stints of -40 wind chills, but with no snow outside the winter feels so fake; so hopeless. It’s as depressing as getting a Boston Cream donut from Tim Horton’s with no velvety cream inside.

I have friends in the Washington D.C. area who have been bombarded with snow this year. They’re frantically stocking their cupboards, topping up their gas tanks, and swapping tips in case of power outages. They’re being driven crazy by snow bound children kept home from school. They’re breaking their backs shoveling pathways to the mailbox. They’re rubbing frozen toes and shivering under multiple layers of down and felted wool.

They’re so lucky it makes me sick.

The $186.00 Toothbrush

Today I made another trip to the dentist. I was dreading the visit  because of our experience last time. But this time around we were there for a check-up for my daughter.  Not having my son with me made things a bit easier, however I would have welcomed his recall when we arrived, because the office looked “normal” again, and all the furniture was back in the “right” spots. I started wondering if I had dreamed our previous visit, but sadly I had not. This was further confirmed when I got my MasterCard bill. In Canada we may have Universal health care, but we also have good beer,  Caramilk chocolate bars and maple glazed donuts, and so it goes that we have to pay for the resultant tooth damage.

Today we were just there for an exam, but there was talk about her needing braces in the future. The talk was mostly wishful pleading on behalf of my daughter. She is anxious to get them “before high school when my life really starts.”

Neither her father nor I look forward to paying for braces, but if she needs them, she needs them. Her dad is handy though; maybe he can rig something up using metal twist ties industrial strength Velcro. This, and not crooked teeth, should be her worst fear. The man once made me a “portable party radio” from an early 80’s cassette player, empty Stove-Top stuffing box and electrical tape.

I understand her desire for good teeth, but unfortunately genetics are not on her side here. Her dad had braces when he was young, and I should have. My bottom teeth currently look like a picket fence after a wind storm. I needed braces, but so did my sister and she won the coin toss. Although in retrospect it hardly seems fair since she also got the good hair.  So when it comes to her genetics, all my daughter can count on is 60 years of plucking her eyebrows, a disdain for multiplication tables, and a remarkable ability to beleive she is right in any given situation – which will come in handy when trying to explain to her ninth grade math tutor that 6 x 8 SO DOES EQUAL 46, SO SUCK IT MR. MATHLETE…

After the exam was finished, the dentist came out and spoke with me, and explained that X-rays reveal that my daughter has no adult teeth in the back of her mouth, and so her molars will need to last her until she is in her twenties. At that point they will need to be replaced with either expensive inserts or other costly dental apparatus. This is why she has been slow to lose her baby teeth and why the tooth fairy has not been seen in our neighbourhood since early 2008.

At this point I’m thinking that if I wanted to spend this much money for nothing but criticism and stress, I would have been better off taking my high school nemesis to an expensive wine bar to talk about the “good ole days.”

I confirmed with the dentist that she said her twenties and not the twenties (meaning 2020) and was told yes, her twenties. I  turned to my daughter and gave her the same advice any responsible, caring mother would give a daughter in this situation.

“Marry someone with a comprehensive dental benefits package.”

A Night at the Circus

There he is! Can you see him? NEITHER CAN I.

Friday night I had the chance to get out to a Colin James concert at good midsize venue with my sister and her dude. I was really looking forward to the concert, not only to get out, but because I love the Swing/Jazz/Blues Rock style of music James plays. Oh, and every time we go out with my sister, someones underwear is inevitably found in a jacket pocket the next morning.

I was also curious to see what Colin James looks like, because he is like Van Morrison, Steve Miller and the donut baker at Tim Horton’s in that I am a huge fan of what they do, but wouldn’t know them if I ate them in my soup.

PM had to work Friday night to support my Payless Shoes habit, so it was just my sister and I, her man and his friend. The theatre was built in 1970, before the eruption of Supersize portions and double caramel frappuccinos with whip cream, and so subsequently we were all squished into tiny velvet seats. It was like being in a little dollhouse, and I was surprised when the first act was not actually the Fisher Price “Little People” Family Band.

The opening act finished up and the place was starting to really fill up when Colin James took the stage. Finally I would put a face to the music I have enjoyed for years! I was on the edge of my seat, wishing  I had brought my binoculars. Then he arrived.

Nope; not Colin James.

In the seat directly ahead of me, sat a body to which was attached the world’s biggest head.

I spent the night bobbing my head from side to side in an attempt to piece together an image of the man on stage. I was so dizzy from vertigo that I almost threw up in the parking lot, and I haven’t thrown up in the parking lot after a concert in like, 3 weeks.

The man sitting to my right looked like a roadie for a Grateful Dead tribute band, and he kept doing this weird Maestro Conductor thing with his fingers all throughout the show. With all the finger wagging next to me and the head bobbing to try and see the wings of the stage, I was getting very dizzy, and very irritated. And Leonard Bernstein’s  date had either bladder issues or a raging nicotine habit because she left the theatre 43 times during the two hour show. She hit me in the head with her handy dandy fanny pack on the way in and out of the row every time. This caused my sister and I to have a serious discussion about getting the “front parts” vs.  the “back parts” in the face during row entry and exit.  I was on a rant about the preference of back parts when Maestro nearly stabbed me in the ear while directing the sax player on a high note.  Normally I would have said something, but I’m not willing to go three rounds with a man who dates a woman brave enough to wear a fanny pack in public.

By this point my sister and I were laughing hard and debating the age of the clearly 80+ year old security detail officers guarding the stage with Air Traffic controller orange day-glo jackets and tiny flashlights. Unfortunately this was all happening while the band played a ballad and so I had to pretend I was emotionally overcome and sobbing.

My sister turned to me and whispered, “I’m so glad we’re perfect.”

“Me too,” I replied, wiping the tears from my eyes. “Me too.”

Career Training

The start of a shanty town

Sometimes people show their calling early on in life. Wayne Gretzky lived in his hockey skates, wearing them even to the dinner table, Mozart was composing symphonies at four years of age, and now my son is showing no less dedication towards his own future vocation. Pardon me for bragging, but he displays the same dedication and passion for what I am sure will be his future career. But it’s not hockey, or soccer, or even snowman massacre.

He is practicing really, really hard at becoming a hobo. I’m not talking your run of the mill homeless dude. I’m referring to your stereotypical 1930’s “will-work-for-food-ride-the-rails-to-shanty town” variety. The only thing he’s missing is the four day stubble and a Sterno can, and I’m sure the can will be on his birthday list.  

The child no longer submits to daily clothing changes, preferring to wear things two or even three days in a row. He says “they smell better.” Socks are only worn if mismatched, preferably with three toes poking out. He has taken to building massive couch cushion forts, stripping down to his boxers and taking canned beans to eat within. He’s pretty quiet in there, but sometimes if you listen closely you can hear the soft whining of a harmonica and “Box Car Willie” songs.

Hair cuts, nail trimming, ear cleaning, and facewashing are a constant struggle. Traditional baths are completely out of the question. Luckily we have a hot tub that he tolerates. If I throw coins into it, he’ll jump in for “travellin’ money.”  He’s usually in long enough to at least get the Mini Wheats dust out of his hair. It’s either that or I have to fill a tin bucket with rain water, give him an old sliver of “Life Buoy” soap and tell him to clean up “cuz’ folks is comin’ by with work.” He made a sign for his fort that reads “Will work for Bakugan.”

Today when I was trying to wrangle the kids into the van for school, he was poking around looking for something. Usually he is the first one out the door in the morning. He hates being cooped up in the house and consents to indoor sleeping only because he still likes to climb into my bed at night. But today he insisted on finding his “stick” before we left. His “stick” is a five foot tree limb I let him keep when we finally chopped a dead tree down in October. (Well, not so much that I *let* him keep it as I found it under his bed a few days ago.)

He finally located the branch and was much relieved. He needed it to carry his knapsack over his shoulder.

Does Wii make an “Emergency Medical Clinic?”

First off, please excuse any spelling errors or grammatical issues in this post. I am so sore that it hurts to type. I feel as though my body was out all night doing tequila shots off a bass player’s sweaty chest, dancing the limbo under a loaf of French bread at an all night steak house only to be thrown out of a  rock band tour bus onto a freeway off-ramp. You know what it’s like. We’ve all been there…

 The cause of my misery? My dedication, perseverance and strong will. I knew my most awesomest qualities would get the best of me one day.  That’s why – when I recover physically - I am going to dedicate my energy to just sitting around eating donuts.

But in the meantime I am HURTING.  I have been full bore excercising every day. It’s my blood pressure’s fault. It’s been high for years– not scary high – but too high none the less. In my quest to get it under control and avoid taking stronger medication, I have been dieting and exercising. And when I commit to something, I don’t go halfway. No; I am ALL THE WAY Jeni. In fact, that was my nickname in high school.

High blood pressure you say? Alright – I’ll show you. I’ll get it so low I start a hibernation cycle.

I decided  enough was enough, and so after the holidays, I acquired a Wii Fit, bottle of Treadmill lubricating oil and an industrial strength sports bra. I poached my daughter’s play list from ITunes, tucked my Ipod under my armpit (nothing holds a MP3 device as stable as a sweaty fat flap) and hit the ground running.

Literally.

When it comes to exercise or dancing I have the co-ordination of a three legged cat that ate brownies from a dumpster at Woodstock. I was on the treadmill for only 10 minutes when I stepped down wrong and was thrown into a freezer at 6 miles an hour. On the plus side, the grainy track on a treadmill performs a great facial dermabrasion. I probably won’t have any pimples on my left cheek for months…or skin, but whatever…

Then I thought it safer to use my new Wii Fit. My daughter synced the board and tested it out for me. She stepped onto the board and it said softly, “Oh! Measuring…measuring…measuring…normal…”  My son got on.  “Oh! Measuring…measuring…measuring…normal…” 

“This is cool! Let me try!” I stepped on, hit the “fitness test”  button, and I swear the thing went “Ugh.”  Hint taken, Wii Board. Oh, sorry! Did I kick you COMPLETELY BY ACCIDENT when I was trying to turn you off with my foot? And that comment about your flat chest and lack of curves? I apologize; it was TOTALLY uncalled for.

But it’s not all insult slinging with this thing. I think the thing I love most about the Wii Fit is that the board is the perfect height to be used as a step stool so I can reach the potato chip cupboard.  It also gives irritating “fitness tips” like asking you if you ate breakfast (yes; bacon and donuts) and ”did you know that it takes 43 muscles to frown, but only 17 muscles to smile?”

Well that may very well be, but I also know that it only takes 6 muscles to eat a donut.

Not Ready to Let Go

I took my son to the dentist this week for his semi-annual check-up.  When we got there, we noticed the office looked different; the furniture configuration had been changed since our last visit and the faces behind the glass were new. That’s fine; I understand that the world cannot be static for my benefit.  But I noticed the difference, and my son did as well.  We have great recall, and remember smells, feelings, who bought us what, what we bought who, dinner on Tuesday six weeks ago, and who is gonna pay for that comment about my pants in 1979.

He is 5. He is a “big boy.” A 38 lb. little boy brave enough to go into the dentist’s exam room all by himself. And I let him. I let him because I have gone to this dental office for over 30 years, and I’ve had nothing but positive experiences there. A hygienist I didn’t know came out to collect him, but I could hear my dentist’s voice in the back, so I sent him off almost dismissively, not wanting to create for him an atmosphere of false cheeriness. Let’s face it; it’s the dentist, not Disneyland. He smiled at me and was gone.

He came out of the exam with his head down; his cheeks red with pale centers. He didn’t look at me, just slowly opened his soft fist to reveal a small container of tooth floss and a sweat softened Spiderman sticker. He put them on the chair next to me.

“What’s up? How did it go?” I asked him. He wouldn’t answer me.

The same woman who had taken him in came out and reported quickly, “He has cavities. You need to make an appointment to have them fixed. They are in different areas in his mouth so he will need several appointments.” With that said she looked uncomfortable and left. I could hear my heart beating  in my ears. Why didn’t the dentist come and talk to me? I hadn’t seen her yet, and sure that I would soon, I sat and waited.

Nothing.

I gave up waiting and got up to pay. The receptionist took my credit card, and again asked me to make several follow up appointments. “The cavities are in different places,” she said, restating the assistant’s news. “He’ll need more than one appointment because he’ll need, you know, freezing needles in all different sections.” 

Where was the dentist? It felt very weird, very “man behind the green curtain.”

I looked down at my son. He is small; lower than the counter, and the sitting receptionist could not see him from her chair. But I could see him. I saw the brown swirl of hair on the top of his little head. I knew that if I leaned over it, I would smell his scent of warm sand, Ivory soap and apple juice. But she didn’t know that. She couldn’t even see him.

My face was burning. I was so angry I was afraid to speak.

“Well? When do you want to come back?” she asked me again, pen in hand and appointment book open. I was trying hard not to cry. As much as this little boy sends me to the edge – hell, he sends me to the edge, knocks me down , forces me to hang there and then steps on my fingers – as much as he does that, he is my son. My five-year old son. He still has dimples in his knuckles.

I’ve dealt with cavities before, many in fact. I could broadcast Radio Free Europe signals through my mouth before the Berlin Wall came down. It now seems as though my children have inherited my teeth – teeth that despite twice daily brushing and flossing still disintegrate like sponge toffee in a rain storm.

I feel terrible that this is how his bravery was rewarded. But what bothers me most is that today I realized, with alarming clarity, that I was the only one in that office who knows, cares, or loves that my son’s head smells like warm sand, Ivory soap and apple juice.

Thinker’s Block

My winter semester courses have been picked and they are online and ready for me. I have a lot of work to cover today, and I should be able to get a lot done, because I have been preparing for the start of school since after New Year’s.

The house is clean. The laundry is folded and put away. Groceries have been purchased and the cupboards are full. Facebook has been checked, re-checked, commented on, and laughed at. Twitter status is current, favorite websites read. I have coloured my grays, plucked my strays, softened my hands, and flossed my teeth. Dinner is in the crock-pot, lunch is prepped, recycling is at the curb and the driveway has been cleared. Emails have been answered, the carpets vacuumed, hard floors washed, van gassed up, water cooler re-filled. Hamsters poked (still alive,)  cages cleaned, closets organized, toy boxes de-cluttered, bills paid and new cheques ordered. I’ve re-filled my blood pressure medication and watched half of the sixth season of M*A*S*H. I ran walked considered the treadmill for fifteen minutes, and while down in the basement I changed the furnace filter. I have refereed two fights, started one, and said yes to another sleepover. Pat Robertson heckled, newspaper read, flyers checked for specials and conservative op-ed argued with. Cell phone charged, toilets flushed, Transformers transformed, 11,456 piece Lego Space Station constructed, Wii synced and dishwasher emptied.

Coffee perking. Bailey’s at the ready. There is no reason why I should not be able to focus on school for at least the next few hours.

I have my books. I have my pencils, my pens, my notebook, my laptop, my snacks, my slippers, my cozy sweater. My Philosophy textbook is open to the proper page and the assignment is waiting for me to make a move.

Here I go.

Wait…. is that picture hanging crooked? Well, this must be rectified IMMEDIATELY.

Addicted to Leisure

Too much work

Hello. My name is Jeni,  and I am a Leisure Suitaholic. 

My drugs of choice are cotton leisure suits, track sets, lounging wear, and all manner of Yoga pants/hoodie combinations. 

My addiction to leisure wear started innocently enough. I discovered their stretchy comfort during my first pregnancy. J Lo had recently turned velour into daytime apparel, and suits were everywhere. Soon I was “using” almost every day. Oh, sure; I rationalized my use and justified it with completely fabricated reasons.  “They’re more comfortable, and easier to wash,” I would say. “They’re made in North America, and better for the environment!” I reassured myself smugly.  “They’re water resistant and provide a cozier lap for my small children to cuddle!”  Clearly I was sick. Even worse, I was starting to associate strictly with those who shared my velour vision. 

I truly thought I could control it by limiting my use to weekends or days where I didn’t have to leave the house. But it didn’t work for long. One day I even put on jeans to take the kids to school, but came right home to change. Yes. I was hiding my pants use, so often times, no one knew I was wearing them. Once I even wore them UNDER a pair of cargo pants just to feel them against my skin. But it was when I started considering adding jewellery or a fancy matching scrunchie to jazz them up as formal wear that I had to recognize that I had hit rock bottom. 

And so I am here.  My presence at this meeting of Leisure Suitaholics is also in part due to an intervention. It was staged by my daughter, and stemmed from an incident during a shopping trip that got particularly ugly. I had taken her to a discount store, where she was looking to spend a Christmas gift card on jeans. How many pair of jeans does a 10 year old need? I mean, come on! She already ha…..sorry. I’m “projecting.” Forgive me. I’m trying, and it’s a process. 

She was browsing the jean rack and I was getting antsy to leave. Then I spotted it. There, shining under a pinpoint florescent beam of discount store lighting, hung the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. 

It was an Eggplant Purple velour lounging suit with sparkling rhinestones and a polished silver zipper. 

It looked like something your 86-year-old great-aunt would wear for a night of Bingo and dinner at Ponderosa Steakhouse. Oh, yes.  IT WAS PERFECT. 

My daughter tried to catch me as I ran towards it, but I heard nothing, saw nothing but the suit. At that moment, I wanted only the softness of its tender crushed pile in my fingers. 

Dog Lover pleaded with me. ”Please, Mommy! Get some jeans, or cargo pants or something. No more Yoga pants or leisure wear! It’s not right!”  I shoved her away, lost in my high. She cried. She threatened to leave. I told her to go. My suit and I needed no one; together, WE WOULD CONQUER THE WORLD! Or at very least, the A&P. 

I scoffed at her suggestion of jeans. Jeans?   It’s not that I don’t like jeans. I don’t want to be done with them. I have close to 20 pairs in my cupboard. But none of them fit right or feel good. There’s nothing like sliding into a cozy pair of pull up drawstring pants on a cold morning, especially when the alternative is two cylindrical tubes of stiff, frozen denim. 

I am rational enough to get that velour and rhinestones are not exactly daytime casual. But I am also irrational enough to NOT CARE.    

And jeans have ZIPPERS. And BUTTONS. Sometimes BOTH. Eh. Really, who can be bothered with all the work? 

I get that Yoga pants are intended for the performance of Yoga, and so I did try it a few times. I attended two classes (6 months apart) although one didn’t count because I feel asleep during the beginning meditation. I had to leave the other session early when my ears started leaking cranial fluid while in the “Scratch Your Back With Your Nose” position. Now I can’t pronounce anything that starts with a “D” and my fingers twitch when the temperature drops below 15 degrees. According to my math, Yoga OWES me those pants now. 

I was rubbed my cheek on the suit and was whispering into its hood stories of all the good times we were going to have together. In less than five minutes we had courted, become engaged and were on our way to meet the Minister to set a date. That’s when the proverbial needle scratched off the album. 

“They only have it in an extra small,” Dog Lover said. 

I am bound by court order not to talk about what  happened next, but the good news is that my doctor says that with intense jeans therapy, a good 12-step program, and a little luck, I just might kick this thing. 

I can do this, right? Anyone want to be my sponsor?

I’ll Think of a Title for this Later

I’ve always had a problem with procrastination.

Check that; it’s never really been a problem, just more of a coping mechanism. Besides,I work best under pressure. Sometimes it is hard to recognize when my delay at doing something is really procrastination, or merely the demands of other, more pressing things (or people) needing to be met. To have to stop and think about whether I am not completing a task due to procrastination or neccesity can be exhausting.  It makes my brain hurt, and then I have to lie down on the couch and have a nap. But only after I have alphabetized my CD cabinet, dusted the interior of the linen closet and stacked our toilet paper supply in concentric circles. 

And soon the fun of holiday procrastination projects will end, since my classes at University start again on Tuesday. I’ve had a nice long Christmas break, during which I actively practiced my procrastination habit. But I think I  hit rock bottom when I was roaming the house in my pajamas, Phillips head screw driver in hand while telling the kids December 30^th  was now going to be “Screw Tightening Day.”

I was avoiding the crumpled and torn Christmas wrapping paper bundles blowing through the kitchen like tumbleweed, our lack of clean laundry and an empty refrigerator. It was only when the kid’s legs started to buckle from lack of sunlight and vitamin C that I realized we also hadn’t gone outside in a while. I hadn’t been grocery shopping and we were down to a half eaten gingerbread house,  sweet pickles, and beer. Clearly, there was a problem; my daughter won’t eat gingerbread.

But I recognize that I have procrastination issues, so I decided to get with it and take control. I got motivated. I got hungry.I got sick of wearing baby blue velvet Yoga pants.

So I did the laundry, went shopping for groceries, and took down the decorations. Then I cleaned the house from top to bottom in preparation for the busy semester of school ahead. I was back on top, baby! I was in control! I was large and in charge!

I…I…I forgot to make my course selections for the soon to start winter semester.

And so this weekend finds me staring at only a skeleton of a course selection chart. All the good ones are taken, and any classes I find remotely interesting or related to my major are marked with a red “X” with the words “FULL, YA  LOSER!” in watermark over them. I need to choose three courses, and as of now I have narrowed my search to the following list:

Conversational Mandarin Level IIII

Darn! I never made it past level two.

Complex Applied Matrix Algebra Analysis         

You lost me at ”Complex.”

Herbal Plants and Human Use         

Took it. We called it high school.

Good times ahead, people. How do you say “Dumbass” in Mandarin?

Second Child Syndrome

Future Dog Lover aka Easiest Baby EVER.

 

When my daughter was small, I was surprised at just how easy parenting could be. And it was, because she was a baby who slept through fireworks and seemed to need only air for nutrition. She was just like a doll I had when I was little – lay her down and she closed her eyes, and she didn’t open them again until you picked her up. 

When my daughter cried – which was rare – she mewed like a baby kitten.  She was easily soothed – a brightly coloured magazine picture or dust particles floating in sunlight would enchant her. And when she pooped it smelled like buttered popcorn and birthday cake icing. 

See? E-A-S-Y. 

So what was up with people telling me I was embarking on the hardest job ever? Those people were clearly not up to the task, that’s all. Of course I was too polite to say so, and what with my 26 years of supermarket candle aisle parenting observation I obviously knew more. How could this “job” be hard? Really, hadn’t people been doing it for millenia? I consider myself a fairly intelligent, articulate person; I would ROCK THIS JOB. Plus, I had read BOOKS, PEOPLE. 

Then after five years of relatively peaceful existence, my son was born - screaming. He protested his arrival to the world like a drunken cheerleader arrested for disorderly conduct during Spring Break in Cancun. Minus the beer smell. 

Even while I was pregnant I knew I was in for it. I didn’t know what I was having before he was born, and with the internal punches I was receiving, I was just hoping for human. Or at the very least mammalian. Once when I was attempting to relax from a knock out round of uterus boxing by soaking in the bathtub, he kicked me so hard that water splashed onto the floor. 

Photo taken during the 5 minutes he was quiet in 2004

 

This was a child who was satisfied with nothing less than playing with the knife block, licking kitchen chemicals bottles, or demanding that I alter the time/space continuum by screaming at me until I perfected the mathematical formula.  My regular weeklyshopping items were milk, bread, and earplugs. I AM NOT KIDDING. And not those crappy foam ones from the drugstore, either. I’m talking industrial strength ones like a highway construction rock driller wears.  

He never slept, ate constantly, and cried screamed so loudly that I had to stuff newspaper around the cracks in his window to prevent calls to Children’s Aid Services. This boy refused to acknowledge any cutting of the cord, and did not respond well to any part of his body touching air. He spent the first eight months of his life attached to me by various baby carrying contraptions. My favorite was the one that looked like conjoined octopus twins and had a front pocket big enough for a diaper, car keys, a wallet, and a 26 oz bottle of tequila. 

But you can’t drive with those things on, so anywhere we went was usually within walking distance. This was fine, because any effort to put him into a car seat was protested by a prolonged session of screaming  that left my ears ringing for hours.  

One day I picked up a signal on our baby monitor from a neighbour 3 houses over. This family also had a young child. The husband and wife were talking about how the wife thought she heard their baby crying in the night, but when she went into his room he was sleeping and their monitor was off. She told her husband that she realized that the baby she heard was MINE. THREE HOUSES AWAY. I do actually live in a house made of bricks and not a tar paper shack. This kid could/can/does YELL. 

So you can imagine how surprised I was when I picked him up from school a few weeks ago. I asked the teacher how his day had been. She replied, “Good!  Same as always; very pleasant, very quiet.” 

Of course he was. He’s saving it for me. 

Easiest job ever? I’ve definitely re-thought that one.  But her comment was a great reminder that Karma wears bigger shoes than I do, and it hurts when he kicks your ass.