Choking on her dust

My daughter starts high school next September. Her grade eight teacher tells me she should be placed in the Advanced Program at high school – that my daughter is a hard worker, a fast learner, and that she retains information.

I hope they offer “Emptying the Dishwasher 101,” and “General Laundry Folding Techniques” next semester.

She does indeed have excellent study habits, and refuses to miss school  for almost any reason. I say this not to brag, but in the same way that I would tell you my son once buried our compost bin in 3 feet of mud and that I am 39 years old and need compression stockings and blood pressure medication– because it’s true.

Last night her future high school hosted an orientation for grade eight students and their parents. Bubbly high school seniors in black polo shirts with popped collars gave the kids warm cookies and a tour of the school while telling them what to expect in terms of uniforms, dances and clubs, and delicious hot cafeteria lunches. They told them all about study abroad possibilities and travel opportunities and how they could earn credits by building schools in the Dominion Republic!

At the same time, parents were corralled into the freezing audigymnateria where school officials in suits and ties told us how much we had to pay for uniforms, how much we had to pay for dances and clubs and lunches, and also how to begin the organ donation process so that we could afford to have our kids build schools in the Dominion Republic.

When the parent presentation was over, the parents of these intelligent, quick-learning studious children in the Advancement Placement program were invited to another room for further discussion.

I was almost late getting there, to that Advanced Placement meeting.

My finger was stuck in my purse zipper.

Semantics

I settled in the single bed next to my son. There’s a hollow in the mattress in the shape of my body, and when I leave the bed, he will roll into my spot and sleep cradled even in my absence. But I won’t leave until he’s sleeping.

I’ve been on “vampire watch” for months, as I have been every night since he saw a scary movie commercial on television. (Thanks again, Cartoon Network!)

Tonight his face seemed smaller somehow, younger and softer than his eight years. Lately I’ve seen glimpses of an older boy, but since last Friday both my children appear again as babies before me. I search for dimples in their knuckles.

I look until I find them.

On this night my son looked sad. I asked him if he was upset. He knows nothing about Sandy Hook, nothing about what happened there. He knows nothing about the 20 children who were killed – the 20 children who quite possibly slept with their parents still. He knows nothing about the 20 sets of parents who would do anything to further imprint the outline of their own bodies in the mattresses of their small children.

The flags at my children’s school fly at half-mast this week in memory of the dead. I thought maybe my son had overheard me talking with my 13 year-old daughter about the events last week. (If I keep referring to “it” as “the events last week” does it soften it? I don’t think so. But still, this is what I am doing.)

I’ve kept the television off and I speak to my daughter about it only when he is not around. Still, I’m sure he wondered why suddenly I wasn’t complaining about going to sleep in a bunk bed fort anymore and even suggested that my daughter join us.

I asked him if he was okay. Was there anything he wanted to talk about? Something he was upset about or had overheard and wanted to ask me?

He looked at me for a few seconds and said yes. He was worried about something.

“I’m worried that when I wake up I will forget that I wanted to put the mop head under my Santa hat and pretend to be Santa Claus at school tomorrow.”

It is not lost on me how lucky I am that I have a boy for whom this is the biggest fear in the world.

And our bacon ain’t half bad, either…

“Hey, Frank? Look, I know we’ve already put our chin-strap frying pan hats on, and we’re ready to battle, but… well, it seems I’ve got my entire hand stuck in this here rifle. Since my other hand was blown off in the “incident” last week, I think I may just forgo this one, okay Frank?

Besides, you seem really, really happy to be firing solo at an invisible enemy with your double pistol line shooters.

So we’re good then?

And maybe after we get my remaining hand outta this rifle we could play some hockey, or smoke some of what is pictured on our flag? So, whadda ya say?

Thanks, Frank. We’re saving the world, ya know.”

Spilled

My son is home this morning. He’s not quite so sick that he shouldn’t be at school; rather he just needs a few extra hours of sleep to catch up on what he’s missed from some late nights recently. He’s in a split grade 2/3 class this year, where he is only one of six grade three children. His school – like the one I attended my elementary years – is quite small.

Grade three was a school year I remember well. Our teacher was very artistic, had a ferocious temper, and was easily frustrated. And our teacher was a man. A MAN! I had never seen a male teacher. He sat at his desk and read the paper every morning and he always had ink on his fingers. He left big black fingerprints on our worksheets which would transfer to our faces when we pulled at a ponytail or picked at our noses, but this was only one of the ways he left an indelible mark on our 1980 school year.

I loved him and I hated him and I’m sure he felt the same about me. I wasn’t special, but I was very smart and I asked a lot of questions – questions he sometimes couldn’t answer. He divided our class into groups according to ability and I was in the “advanced” group. Of course no one called it “the advanced group” but you didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that the “panthers” were quicker studies than the “earthworms.”

One day a boy in my group sang a version of “O, Canada” which combined biting wit, astute political awareness and perhaps a smidgen of treason. This boy’s version of our national anthem was smart and inappropriate and very, very funny. It was then – in grade three – when I realized that the funniest things usually come from a place of absolute truth and intelligence, but this teacher did not appreciate this sentiment. He was not impressed  and he took shit from nobody.

The teacher gave this boy a choice for his punishment: Sing the proper version – solo, at the front of the class – or miss every single recess all week. This was akin to imprisonment in a Turkish prison and so of course the boy chose the solo and the teacher told him that he respected his decision. This was the first time I ever heard any grown-up person say they respected a child, and I have heard it pitifully little since.

This man let us do fun arts and crafts projects with exotic materials like something called “India Ink.” In all fairness, this was a mistake from the get-go. Giving a room full of wiggly eight year-old children high on Wagon Wheels unlimited access to an industrial size bottle of permanent liquid stain was not a good idea. “Do NOT spill it,” our teacher said. Then he added, “I trust you.”

When a girl spilled it all over the wool reading-circle carpet the teacher had brought special from home, we all sat, scared silent, and waited for the hammer to fall. The teacher was calm. Finally he said – in the measured tone of an adult who has made the decision to change career paths – “Never, in my entire teaching career has anyone ever spilled the ink. My carpet is ruined.”

The half empty jug of ink disappeared from the art shelves and so did the ruined carpet and I think maybe the girl did, too.

The spilled ink was thick and it smelled heavy like blood. It seemed as much a living force as anything inside of us. It was potential and it was creation and it was relief from primary school baby crafts and safety scissors. It was trust and belief and freedom. I haven’t smelled anything remotely like it since.

Shortly before the Christmas break that year our teacher came to school and he looked upset. After the morning announcements and “O, Canada” (sung properly) he switched off the classroom intercom and faced the class. He told us that he was very sad because his favourite musician had died the day before. This musician was a young man, a talented man, a man with a family and a long life ahead of him and that he had been killed, his blood spilled needlessly by someone with misplaced fascination. We were horrified and sad, but our sadness was for our teacher and not he man we did not know and could not love or hate.

Our class often listened to The Beatles on a turntable during reading time. But there was no “Yellow Submarine” that day. Instead our teacher sat quietly at his desk and did not read the paper. It lay folded on his desk. There would be no ink on his hands this day.

Sometimes I wonder if my son will remember things that happen during his third grade year. On the surface he appears unaffected by the things that happen around him, but I don’t know what feelings run in his veins. What would he think of spilled ink on a wool carpet? I’m not sure.

He’s a quiet boy.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

I will cry real tears when this child stops spelling phonetically.

Life is awesome, amIright? I mean, what 8-year-old boy doesn’t want a Cowasocee dirt bike? Especially one that is fun and not at all scary? For doing cool jumps and stuff?

THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER.

Oh; but wait.

I swear it didn’t actually hit the floor. It was more like it kinda rolled out.

Tip Thursday: School Picture Day

Source: http://www.ellentv.com

School has been back in swing for weeks now, and in our region, the school photographer is making the rounds. Every year my children head off to school looking reasonably tidy, with me waving good-bye and knowing that this year?

This will be the year they hit the mark.

A few weeks later they’ll pull crisp white envelopes out of  their backpacks and proudly show me their school photos.

Photos I paid for.

And this year? This year will not be the year.

So in the interest of preventing our children from becoming a horrible Facebook meme, I’ve prepared some school photo tips for this Tip Thursday:

1. Write the date down as soon as you receive notice. I can’t tell you the number of times my son has been photographed in a skull and cross-bones bathing suit simply because I didn’t mark the date on the calendar. (Note: Three.)
2. Practice photo poses at home. Showing your child how to smile at a stranger may not keep him safe on the playground, but it’ll pay off come Christmas card season.
3. Send a tidy lunch. Picture Day is no time for marinara meatball surprise in the thermos, parents. Keep it dry and keep it tidy. Crumble free crackers or soft pieces of bread are a good bet. Actually, it may be best to “forget” to pack your child a lunch altogether that day. Offer a big breakfast instead. Bonus: gaunt, pale cheeks in photos are flattering to all body types.
4. I’m a firm believer of the “If you’re not the worst, then you’re pretty much almost sorta the best” principle. It works like this: if in a class of say, 25 kids, mine aren’t wearing the most unmatched patterns, have the most unkempt hair, or sport the most mustard on their t-shirts, we’re in the clear. No one’s gonna remember my son as being the standout if another kid in that year’s picture is missing one sleeve of his hoodie and he looks like he’s been crying because his lunch was stolen.
5. Before children assemble for pictures, sign in at school as snack-parent. Find your child’s locker, then move two lockers to the right. In that locker you will no doubt find school gear including a hoodie and a lunch box. Tear one sleeve off the hoodie, and steal the lunch box. Pro tip: hoodie sleeve can be used to wipe down fingerprints left at scene.
6. If you’re lucky and your school offers a green screen “choose your own background” option, request “pig pen” or “mud pit.” This will pre-emptively quell the “What the hell is on his face?” questions you’ll no doubt get from well-meaning relatives who clearly never had male children.

Finally, if – despite all your best efforts to starve, vandalize, and bribe your way to successful photos – cherish the ones you get. They’re a clear snapshot of who your child was that day. If that means he or she is wearing a superhero themed pajama top, mismatched bedroom sneakers, and a hat they took from the bowling alley lost-n-found, then so be it.

Unlike the hat, the photo won’t smell like beer and urinal cakes. 

If it’s in “Comic Sans,” you know it’s serious

This is not a “parenting is so hard” post, because if you’re a parent, you already know that. I’m not whining about it either. What’s the alternative? I tried the “Let’s go for a walk in this here dark forest!” but they always find their way home.

But there is a difference between “hard” and “impossible.” Hard can be accomplished. It might take outside the box thinking and some blood, sweat, and tears, but hard can be done. I’ve done hard. I’ve got hard handled.

HARD IS MAI BITCH.

Impossible, though? I’m still working on that.

Perhaps I should be flattered that my children give me requests that are impossible to fulfil. Maybe it’s a sign of their confidence in my abilities. It’s as if they actually believe that I am able to do things like alter the time/space continuum, recharge dead batteries with a blink of my eyes, or make the last broken chocolate chip cookie in the bag restore itself to its former glory.

I don’t think my kids are more demanding than any others. Maybe some of the problems they bring to me seem harder to handle because this is a one-grown up household. As of yet I have not been able to be in two places at once, although I have tried to convince law enforcement officers of this in the past.

My son often requires that I dry laundry immediately, as though I could breathe fire. He gets attached to things with fervour, and if he’s into a particular piece of clothing, then good luck getting him to wear anything else. My rule is that you can wear an article of clothing only while it is clean and unable to propel itself on its own power. I had to institute this rule after our camping trip in the summer of ’10. He had worn a John Deere t-shirt and pair of jeans for a week straight by the time I noticed. (You let a lot of things go by the wayside when you’re camping, like hygiene and not drinking at 8am.) Finally his clothes gained enough steam (and microscopic organisms) to stage a mutiny and make a break for it, and they threw him, unclothed, out of the tent.

Recently my daughter was lamenting my failure as a mother because I have not provided her with an older sibling.

“Who’s gonna pave the way for me? Who’s there to break you down, and make things easier for me as second in line?”

I let her vent. I’ve learned that it’s for the best to just let her blow off some steam. Otherwise, she’ll write me a letter. One day, if I get her permission, I will share one with you. They’re quite dramatic. She’s also a very good writer, and will write complaint letters the likes of which would make even a jaded telephone company representative crack.

When she was nine I found an email in my outbox that she had sent to a large toy manufacturer complaining about their website and how it was not “user-friendly.” I knew she was pretty mad because the letter was written in three different typefaces, with specific passages in 36-point font. She used every colour in the Word template, and things were in bold and underlined.

Her most recent complaint is in specific regard to high school. She starts next year, and of course the worrying has commenced. What classes should she take? Will she see her friends? Is it scary? What kind of food do they have in the cafeteria? Will she be forced to, you know, like, learn stuff?

Going from a school of 200 students to being one of almost 2000 is going to take some adjustment. But why waste away your last year of being a big fish in a small pond worrying about something you have no control over? It’s going to be fine, I reassure her. But I can only do this for so long until my “nice mom” outer layer breaks and she has my gooey irritable centre to contend with.

She sighs. “If I had an older brother or sister, they would be able to tell me what to expect at high school!”

I reassure her that I can tell her what to expect, because I went to high school, too.

For a whole year.

Things that I am not

It’s cold here in the morning, and it’s harder to stir sleeping children. It takes patience.

I am not patient.

The maple tree in our front yard is mostly green, but it’s the faded green of defeat. It’s conviction of colour is waning to the resistance autumn pushes against it. The edges of its large border are red and brown, and the dead which have fallen clog the gutter in the street.

One day it is rainy and damp, the next it is chilly and crisp.

Animals prepare for their upcoming winter-long sleep and I am cooking food indoors. I am cooking.

 The children walk to the bus stop, and complaints of cold fingers and numb noses have begun. This year is the first year my son has “textbook” homework and some of his books weigh more than his right leg. He is mighty, but he is still small, and I fear a 6 lb math textbook may crook his spine.

I am not cruel.

I am caring mother and crooked spines are not what I wish for my children.

Yesterday I told them I would pick them up from school. When I stepped outside, leaves spun in circles, frantic like a school of panicked fish. It was damp outside and the leaves were slick. They stuck to the side of my house and covered the roof of my car; confetti thrown at a parade heralding the end of summer.

One large brown leaf twisted itself loose from its branch and covered a lens of my glasses. I laughed at my new-found eye patch, dreamed briefly of the pirate’s life, and got in my car.

Perhaps I’d raid a mini-van in the school pick-up line for its booty of after-school granola bars and juice boxes.

I decided it best not to drive with sight only in one eye despite the laugh it guaranteed from my saved-from-being-crooked-spined children.

I pulled the leaf from my lens and it winked at me.

IT WINKED AT ME.

It was not a leaf.

I am not a pirate.

Party’s Over

I graduated from University a few months ago. It’s summer now (or rather it was as I wrote this; in the past few days leaves have started turning colour and falling, so it appears that party is over.)  

With the long break from school and having kids at home there was little opportunity for me to work full-time without it being a huge clusterfuck of daycare arrangements, complicated play date co-ordination, and begging strangers to offer my kids candy to keep them occupied. So I ended up taking the summer “off” to re-group my post-graduation plans and decided to work part-time and write only on the side.

The job I have for the summer and early fall sucks all sorts of horrible things available for sucking. It’s not my bosses (they’re great,) or the schedule (I pretty much set my own.) It’s not even the amount of work, as it is relatively easy work and not many hours each week.  It’s the kind of work. I’m not “above” it – no, that’s not it at all. It’s the mind-numbing boredom and the fact that it’s the same work you’d do if you’d served 2/3 of your manslaughter sentence and weren’t considered a “runner.”

Why they gave this job to me in the first place is a mystery, because I am most definitely a runner. Unfortunately, my bosses have learned this, and have developed strategies to trick me into working, including saying really mean and manipulative things like, “You we’re only paying you if you show up and do the work, right?”

I am grateful to have employment, this particular job is one which involves many things I hate, including:

• nature
• condom wrappers
• bending over
• small dead animals
• being on my knees
• dog shit
• dirt
• worms and slugs
• talking to people

It’s HORRIBLE.

And worse, it is not what I want to do with my life.

So while it’s not a job I particularly like doing, my family does enjoy things such as food and shelter, so I do it. The job run ends in sometimes in late September, right around the time the kids are back in school full swing and the regularity of our lives is restored. So what do I do then?

I will write. I plan to write. I need to write. I want to write. I am going to write?

I will write.

Shower Power

School starts this coming Wednesday and I think we are ready: new clothes have been bought, the backpacks are packed, HB#2 pencils are sharpened, and healthy lunch ingredients wait in the fridge.

All we need now is a good night’s sleep and a shower.

But therein lies the rub. Or rather, the rub-a-dub-dub, because one of my children doesn’t like to bathe.

I have three days left to reintroduce this child to warm soapy water. Soap has not touched his skin since the last week of June and that was because he accidentally grabbed a bar thinking it was white chocolate.

I’ve drawn a battle line in the dirt on his back and told him he’d have to bathe or shower the night before school starts.

Until now, he simply would not do it. Thankfully he’s had a lot of creek play and swimming pool time this summer. While those activities have kept his skin looking mostly dirt-free, I shudder to think what a microscope would reveal.  I’ve tried all the usual bath tricks, including bubbles, coloured water, free rein with my beauty supplies for “making potions,” but he will not get in.

I cannot remember the last time he showered or bathed indoors and that can’t be right (or legal?) Maybe it was last Monday? Nope. We were out that night. Wednesday? No. No; on Wednesday we had baseball and were home too late for a bath. Thursday was laundry day so there were no towels, and Friday…well, on a Friday what’s the point of a bath if he’s going be making mud forts in the sandbox all weekend?

Is it possible that he hasn’t had a bath all month? All summer?

I’ve decided to not going to worry about it. We swim a lot, and chlorine is a disinfectant. Plus, he likes to roll in dirt, and I know in nature some animals clean themselves that way and I am all about nature. (I’m not actually; but I am great at self-justification.)

He weighs 2 pounds more than he did when school ended, and it’s not like he’s increased his food intake, because during the summer he subsists on peaches, snap peas, and frozen waffles. By the end of August he’s encased in a protective cocoon of sunscreen, bug spray and dirt. I’m glad that at eight years old his body doesn’t actually stink yet; I’ve spent time with older boys and they all smell like A&W onion rings.

I really, really don’t want him to smell like deep-fried fast food.

I also don’t want him to ever grow body hair, move far away, say something he thinks is innocuous but hurts someone forever, or marry a partner without a twisted sense of humour.

Today I stopped him in the hallway and sniffed his head. It smelled exactly how a boy’s head should:  like garden hose water and popsicles.

If a bath takes that smell away, then I’m against them, too.