tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2579286988657481072024-03-21T16:17:29.955-04:00EdenSkyEdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-14817038173981044502010-08-03T20:34:00.006-04:002010-08-03T22:12:21.049-04:00I uh, don't know how to tell you this...but I may have VBS, it's pretty contagious.It's summer vacation here (wait, wasn't it May a minute ago?) right, well, anyway, moving right along... On the last day of school I brought my daughter home in tears. The idea of spending 2 months at home with me instead of at school with her friends and teacher was just too awful for her to bear.<br /><br />Adam and I have no friends (fine, maybe a couple, but seriously not a lot.) While we like to get out and have grown-up fun once in a while, for the most part we tend to stay home alone, content with each others company and/or a good book. Were it not for the demands of parenting, I think I would probably live all alone and go for days or weeks at a time without any human interaction whatsoever. Adam likes people, but he's too lazy to bother leaving the house unless he has to work. When we are forced into social situations outside of our comfort zones we are inevitably the most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">awkward</span> couple in the room. I loose the power of speech and sit there fidgeting in a corner until I force myself to say something I think is funny, but it turns out that after a few hours of sullen-looking silence my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hysterical</span> commentary comes off as sarcastic and bitchy and completely inappropriate. Adam, on the other hand, can't shut the fuck up to save his life. He starts to babble incessantly and is unable to detect the subtle social cues that would indicate to a normal person that the party to whom he is speaking has no interest whatsoever the the subject matter that he refuses to drop, no matter how many times they might try to politely change the subject. Alcohol helps. A lot. It helps <em>me</em> anyway, actually it just makes Adam talk louder.<br /><br />All of this would seem to indicate that our anti-social tendencies far outweigh our honest desire to make friends. How is it then, that the two of us combined have created the most outgoing, friendly, social butterfly of a child on earth? Skylar loves people. People are absolutely crucial to her happiness on a day to day basis. She wants friends over every single day, she adores school and organized activities and she just sucks at playing quietly by herself. While all of my school report cards said " needs to participate more in class" Skylar's report cards say "needs to remember to give the other children a chance to speak" The kid thrives on company and structured activities, which, given my aforementioned <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">general</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">suckyness</span> in those departments, I am simply not able to provide her with for 2 long months.<br /><br />The obvious solution is summer camp. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Yay</span>! Summer camp with the friends and the games and the crafts and so on and so forth, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">whoo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">hoo</span>! Except I'm still out of a job and summer camp is blindingly expensive, so scratch that idea. If only there was something like camp...but free.<br /><br />Thus we arrive at my decision to send her to Vacation Bible School. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">VBS</span> as the cool Christians call it. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">VBS</span> where children play games and sing songs and make friends and are cheerfully brainwashed by Faith. I'm not an atheist, nor am I vehemently anti-christian, but I really don't have much use for organized religion as a whole. (I'm not a bigot. I think they're all equally bullshit) That being said, I do believe in spirituality and I respect every persons right to believe whatever they like. I just wish more people would put an honest effort into deciding what that is, instead of unquestioningly following their parents religion because it's the only one they know. I want my children to be free to ask questions and be given thoughtful answers. I do not want people telling them that THIS is the only right answer and you'd better get on board with it or you're going to hell. So I was nervous about sending Skylar to a place where she would be on her own with kids who have been going to church all their lives and adults who feel called upon to spread their faith like a VD to anyone they possibly can.<br /><br />I wish there were more options around here. I wish I could send her to Hebrew school one week and Buddhist camp the next to balance out her theological education, but I really can't. Around here all the churches have different names, but they all preach pretty much the same dogma. Yet another drawback to small town life.<br /><br />But it's free!<br /><br />So I sent her off to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">VBS</span> to learn about "Joseph's Journey to Egypt" Which, hey! I saw the musical! Donny Osmond kicked ass! How bad could it be? And she loved it. And apparently she had no problem with being the only kid there whose knowledge of the Bible was less than sub-par. And she came home every day singing about being a Child of God (That part bothered me a bit but damn those songs were catchy!)<br /><br />The last day arrived and we all got ready to attend the show/presentation/<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">sneak</span> attack church service that night. The kids were adorable in their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Egyptian</span> make-up and the brainwashing songs were upbeat. Then there was a prayer. All through the hall people bowed their heads and fell silent as Adam showed Eden how to close her eyes and fold her hands. She looked around at all the quiet adults with their eyes shut, grabbed the hand of the little girl sitting beside her and yelled "Come on! It's our turn to hide!"<br /><br />We're going to hell.<br /><br />.............<br /><br />P.S. Yes, Adam and Eden. Ha ha ha. Irony.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-59901227485947995952010-05-27T20:22:00.003-04:002010-05-27T22:02:44.852-04:00Classification of Little Old Men.My year of serving the public as a cashier in a small town convenience store has given me the opportunity to meet a wide variety of human beings and to judge them unfairly for my own amusement. <br />People generally fall into one of several broad categories- Male, female, kid, geezer etc. Which can be further divided into sub-categories such as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">hippy</span>, farmer, rich bitch, hot guy, crack-head and so on and so forth. One of the most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">interesting</span> and diverse groups is the one broadly know as "Little Old Men" I have classified them into six easy groups for people-watchers to spot.<br /><br />1. Cute.<br />The Cute Little Old Man is one of my favorite types of customer. Cute Little Old Men have white hair, sparkly eyes and rosy cheeks. They may well have little round bellies that shake when they laugh like bowls full of jelly, but it's not a requirement. They mostly buy milk and lottery scratch tickets. They have adorable nicknames like Jigger, Sonny or Bear. They give change to small, stupid children who can't afford their baggies full of penny candies. They call me Sweetie, Love or even Beautiful. They may well be racist child <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">molesters</span> in private, but they give off an air of old fashioned <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">gentlemanlyness</span> which I find very endearing. They are grandfatherly in a way your own grandfather may never have been. They wink.<br /><br />2. Angry.<br />The Angry Old Man has come to your place of business today because he wants to argue. He is an ass-hole, but you're not allowed to refer to him as such because he is over the age of seventy-five. Ass-holes grow up to be Angry Old Men in the same way puppies grow up to be dogs. It's unavoidable. The Angry Old Man is very good at finding reasons to be upset: Perhaps he feels the small jug of milk is ludicrously overpriced in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">comparison</span> to the larger jug of milk but he doesn't want the larger jug of milk because it will spoil before he can drink it. He will explain this predicament to you loudly and repeatedly, secure in the knowledge that he will be able to carry on being Angry because there's nothing you can possibly do to ameliorate this situation, particularly because he is unvaryingly deaf as a post and unable to hear any solution you might suggest to him. They never call me by any name.<br /><br />3. Lonely.<br />The Lonely Old Man is sad. He is quiet when the store is busy, but given the opportunity he will stand at your counter for hours on end talking to you about his youth. You talk to him because you feel bad for him despite the fact that you have an extensive to-do list and talking to Lonely Old Men is not on it because your manager is kind of a jerk like that. They mostly buy chocolate bars. They call me by the name on my name-tag. <br /><br />4. Dirty.<br />Dirty Old men must be further divided into literal and figurative sub-groups.<br />Dirty Old Men (lit.) are old farmers and mechanics so deeply encrusted with dirt that no amount of bathing will ever get them clean again. They stink of manure, gasoline and tobacco. They are generally missing one or more fingers. They communicate mostly by grunts and hand (stump) gestures. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Their</span> overalls, shirts and hats are stiffened with sweat and filth to such an extent that they could easily maintain the form of their owners even after having been removed from their bodies. They mostly buy cigarettes and coffee. They call me *<em>slight nod of the head</em>* if they are in a good mood.<br />Dirty Old Men (fig.) are aging perverts. They mostly buy porno magazines. Sometimes they claim they are too old to climb the stepladder which is required to access the top shelf where such magazines are kept and ask me to climb up for them while they stay below, ogling my ass and giving directions such as "The one on your left...further...further...reach a little further...yeah, that's it Honey." Or asking for a description of the magazine's content, specialty or price, claiming that their eyes are no longer strong enough to read for themselves without <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">acknowledging</span> the fact that if their eyes are that far gone this magazine will do them little to no good anyway. They call me Honey, Baby, Cutie or Sweetheart.<br /><br />5. Crack-headed Old Men.<br />They are usually dirty (lit.) They have long, straggly hair that is grey or tobacco yellow. They have red or yellow eyes and teeth rotted by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">meth</span>. They may not actually be all that old but their faces are made of creased leather so it's hard to tell. They mostly buy penny candies or individual coffee creamers and rolling papers, for all of which they pay with pennies, nickles and the occasional dime. They smell of piss, sweat, pot and failure. They don't call me anything, Thank God.<br /><br />6. Utterly Bat-Shit Crazy Old Men.<br />Always entertaining, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">UBSCOM</span> can usually be identified by his wild, staring eyes and the smell of goat and vomit. He may well have <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">forgotten</span> one or more <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">important</span> articles of clothing this evening. He will be carrying something- possibly a broken <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">walkie</span>-talkie, possibly a can opener, possibly a human foot. He believes aliens may try to communicate with him via the ATM in the corner. Sometimes they are furtive and paranoid and you feel bad for them, but other times you luck out and get an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">UBSCOM</span> who has embraced <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">dementia</span> with open arms and he will regale you with stories better than anything you might see on TV. They usually don't bite under the bright lights inside the store. There's no telling what they might buy, but it's possible that they will try to pay with cat food. They call me Susan.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-27076361138550216892010-05-21T22:54:00.005-04:002010-05-22T11:58:41.675-04:00PHD, it's real.Hi! I'm back from Florida!<br /><br />Right, fine, actually I've been back for like, two weeks now but I've only just got over the post-holiday depression. Does everyone else get this? It's almost enough to make me swear off vacations all together, but that's an even more depressing thought so then I figured I'd plan my next vacation right away to give myself something to look forward to, but I have no money so I really can't justify another holiday for a few years yet...I have almost decided to give in and get married just to have an excuse to take another trip. That's totally a good reason right? Stop judging me or you will not be invited to my fantasy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Caribbean</span> wedding cruise!<br /><br />Basically, on the final day of every trip I've ever taken I start to get mopey and sad because it's over and I don't want it to be over and it will be I<em> forever</em> before I get to go away again so I have nothing to look forward to anymore and suddenly my life is so boring and I hate my job and the weather back home sucks and my house is extra cramped and messy and I hate hate hate having a routine and so on and so forth. This time it was even worse because while I was away I got to meet the family I never knew I had and (much to my surprise) I fell in love with them, hard, and I'm not likely to see any of them again for an extremely long time, sigh.<br /><br />Then the night I got home I found half of my fish swimming in an aquarium full of green tea (the other half were no longer swimming) because my well-meaning aunt had decided to feed them from an unmarked <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Tupperware</span> container instead of the little jar with the picture of the fish on the label so I got to spend several hours cleaning out a fish tank (FYI if you don't have fish: this is a dirty, smelly, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">awkward</span>, messy, time consuming job.) after having travelled since 8 am with a 6 year old through 2 flights, 3 airports and a 2 hour drive.<br /><br />The next morning I picked up my 2 year old from her grandparents house. It felt wrong. I had missed her like crazy and I just wanted to pick her up and squish her back into her place in my heart but somehow... I don't know. She was different. It's as though she has always been a part of me, an extension of my own body if you will. But by abandoning her for 10 days I had strained that connection. Suddenly she was her own little person, independent of me. I was not ready for that. Much guilt ensued.<br /><br />The next day I went back to work at my crappy minimum wage job at a convenience store, which is still the best job I've ever had, only to find out that the store will be closing at the end of the month and I'll be out of a job with rent to pay and credit card bills freshly rung up from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">holiday making</span>.<br /><br />Soon after that I developed a massive rash. It's ugly and so itchy I want to take a potato peeler to my skin except then I would have no skin left because it's all over my body including my face: ears, nose, motherfucking eyelids I tell you...but yet not on my feet or my butt which is cool because scratching that all the live-long day might be socially <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">awkward</span>. My doctor's official diagnosis, corroborated by 3 other medical professionals (one of whom was googling my malady on his phone I swear) was: "Huh, weird!" He referred me to a dermatologist who called to set up my appointment: November 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">th</span>. I will have no skin left by November 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">th</span> people! Sorry, being itchy makes me grumpy.<br /><br />Seriously though, it was an awesome vacation and I will totally tell you all about it when I'm in a better mood, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">m'k</span>?EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-44978241931786295832010-04-12T21:56:00.004-04:002010-04-15T00:34:26.563-04:00There's a perfectly good explanationMy six year old takes a gymnastics class at the local high school every Monday evening.<br /><br />Because this class starts before Adam gets home from work, I have no choice but to take her two year old sister along to watch.<br /><br />Because she's a two year old, she has no interest in watching; she wants to join in and climb on the balance beams and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">bounce</span> on the trampoline and run around with the cool <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">flowy</span> rainbow ribbon things.<br /><br />Because I don't want to spend an hour and a half wrestling with her while she screams in the bleachers, I opt to take her out into the hallways of the school and let her run up and down, playing with combination locks and trying to outrun the reflections of the lights on the tiles.<br /><br />Because several lockers are empty and unlocked she likes to hide in them, then jump out and yell BOO!<br /><br />Because she told me to, I ran away from the locker and hid in a little alcove after she shut the door.<br /><br />Because I thought it would be funny, I jumped out of my hiding spot and grabbed her when she eventually came out and ran down the hall looking for me.<br /><br />Because she laughed, we did it again.<br /><br />Because I had to move fast to hide before she opened the door, I stopped paying careful attention.<br /><br />Because I heard little feet running, I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">leaped</span> out with a yell to grab my daughter.<br /><br />Because the child in front of me was not my child, he started to cry.<br /><br />Because his mom was clearly wondering what the fuck was wrong with me, I apologized and explained that I had mistaken her son for my daughter.<br /><br />Because my daughter was nowhere to be seen, his mother looked at me like I was on crack.<br /><br />Because she has awesome timing, my two year old started banging on the inside of her locker, begging to be let out.<br /><br />Because I'm a psychopath who likes to scare the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">bejezus</span> out of toddlers and then trap them in school lockers.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-2688513241296927562010-03-20T11:27:00.003-04:002010-03-20T11:35:27.267-04:00SpringWe went for our first bike ride of the season this morning. I strapped Eden into her seat in front of me on my bike and took off down the street. She began to laugh and called out:<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Da</span> wind! I'm catching <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">da</span> wind in my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">mouf</span>! Uh Oh, I swallowed it, now I'm eating all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">da</span> wind."<br /><br />Thank God for spring time.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-25827646832533424952010-03-18T13:27:00.006-04:002010-03-18T14:07:01.071-04:00The Price of LuxuryI have had an amazing stroke of luck. March break has coincided with the best phase ever. Skylar has taken a liking to playing restaurant. Specifically, she wants to bring me breakfast in bed. Every day. How cool is that? She made a menu, with options such as: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">cerel</span></span>, toast, waffles, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">watr</span></span>, milk and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">juos</span></span>. Sure, improvements could be made. Perhaps the toast could be topped with something besides air, or the waffle could maybe not be floating in a bowl of syrup, but hey, if I get to stay in bed an extra half hour, it's all good.<br /><br />Yesterday, Adam was off work so he was looking forward to partaking along with me. We lounged in bed, listening to the kids fight downstairs until Eden was banished from Skylar's kitchen and came upstairs to crawl into bed between us where things might have gone on being peaceful if only Adam wore a shirt to bed.<br /><br />Eden: Daddy, what's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dat</span></span>?<br /><br />Adam: Armpit hair.<br /><br />Eden: I don't got armpit hair?<br /><br />Adam: Nope.<br /><br />Eden: Mommy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">got's</span></span> armpit hair?<br /><br />Me: Nope.<br /><br />Adam: Liar.<br /><br />Eden: Daddy, what's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">dat</span></span>?<br /><br />Adam: My nipple.<br /><br />Eden: I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">got's</span></span> nipples, too!<br /><br />Adam: Yep, so does Mommy.<br /><br />Eden: No, Mommy have boobies. You have boobies too Daddy!<br /><br />Adam: No, I don't!<br /><br />Eden: Ya, you do have boobies right <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">d'ere</span></span>. See? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Biiig</span></span> boobies!<br /><br />*Adam rolls onto his stomach to discourage further remarks*<br /><br />Eden: Daddy, you got spots on your back. See? I count <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">dem</span> for you. One...Two...Free...Seven...Eight...Nine...<br /><br />Adam: Hey, hey, hey what are you doing?<br /><br />Eden: I moving <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">da</span></span> blanket. I gotta count <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">da</span></span> spots on your bum too!<br /><br />Adam: No, you don't!<br /><br />Eden: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">D'ere</span></span> are spots Daddy! Spots!<br /><br />Adam: I don't need my spots counted!<br /><br />Eden: What <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">dat</span> hair is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">d'ere</span> for?<br /><br />Me: It's not there for anything, it's just a big mutant hair on Daddy's back.<br /><br />Eden: I get it off. *much pinching and pulling ensues* I can't geddit! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Da</span> hair is stuck! Mommy you get it!<br /><br />Sorry, Adam. I should have warned you. You get either breakfast in bed OR personal boundaries. Not both.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-63223491441526251872010-03-12T22:18:00.002-05:002010-03-12T23:40:41.486-05:00Making a MemoryIn my earliest memory I waddle into an enormous kitchen, squatting on my heels. My grandma is washing dishes. She looks down at me and asks if I have a tummy ache. I nod.<br /><br />In my next memory we are moving. The hallway is full of boxes and I am digging through them, looking for a doll named Brenda, scared that she will not get to the new house. We moved when I was three.<br /><br />I remember being in the hospital to get tubes put in my ears and being offended when the doctor told me I was going in a "big girl crib" instead of a bed. There's no such thing as a big girl crib, stupid. <br /><br />And then being in the hospital again, waking up suddenly to find my bed surrounded by strangers, rolling me down the hall. Screaming for my mom. <br /><br />I have a lot of fantastic memories from later on in my childhood. I know I was loved and played with and spoiled. So why are the scary or painful memories the earliest ones my mind chose to keep? I guess trauma makes a big impression. Then I wonder about the things I don't remember, at least not in any concrete form, and what effects they may have had on me.<br /><br />Just after my mother brought me home from the hospital when I was born she had to take me right back again. I had meningitis and I have been told that I owe my life to baby fat. Had I been a 6 or 7 pound baby I wouldn't have had a chance. As it was, I was nine pounds and might possibly survive, although I would definitely be brain damaged and probably blind and deaf as well. I was spinal tapped and had <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">IV's</span> in my head because my veins were too tiny anywhere else. I got better. I'm not blind or deaf and any brain damage I suffered didn't prevent me from getting on the Honour Roll. I don't remember this, but does it explain my hatred of needles?<br /><br />I learned to walk when I was nine months old. At that time my mother was working and I stayed with a babysitter. One day my mom got off work early and came to pick me up. When she pulled in to the sitter's house a little boy ran up to her and said:<br />"Oh good, you're here! She's been crying all day!"<br />My mom was worried and asked if I was hurt or sick as she headed into the house. The kid said:<br />"No, she wants out of her seat. Mom keeps her there so she doesn't fall down the step."<br />It turns out the woman had been keeping me strapped firmly in a stroller for hours every day, supposedly so that I wouldn't topple down the single, three inch, carpeted step between the kitchen and the living room. I never had another babysitter besides my Grandmother again.<br />I don't remember this, but does it explain why I cannot stand to be physically restrained in any way, for any reason, by anyone? <br /><br />We try to protect our kids. But everyone gets hurt, or sick, or hurt by someone sick at some point in their childhood. We may not be conscious of the memories, but are they deep inside, shaping the people we will become?<br /><br />Will Skylar remember me holding her down on an X-ray table as she screamed and tried to claw her way into my arms while a nurse pulled on her broken leg just before her first birthday? I know I'll never forget it.<br /><br />Will Eden remember being bitten by that dog?<br /><br />Are my children's first memories more likely to be of us laughing as we jumped over waves at the beach last summer or wrestled in the snow last week, or of us yelling at them for doing something bad?<br /><br />I have been guilty of assuming my children are too young to remember, telling myself they are not quite real people yet. I have had bad days and told myself it wouldn't matter. I loose my patience and yell at my kids to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">CALMDOWNBEQUIETSTOP</span>! and longed for the day when they will be old enough to talk to and enjoy being friends with, while telling them that no, I do not want to play hide and seek or Barbies or Snap! I have to quit this or they won't want anything to do with me when they are old enough to do the things <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> want to do. Skylar is six years old now and she has an awfully good memory. I have started asking myself 'Is this what I want them to remember?' when the urge to yell creeps up on me. I just hope I can put on a convincing enough act of being a happy, involved, playful mom to make up for the times when I am not, and that we can make more good memories than bad.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-56649032156084998442010-03-11T13:14:00.003-05:002010-03-11T14:50:00.410-05:00I Don't Know Which Way To GoA while ago Adam and I went to Toronto to visit a friend of mine, Erin (people who know how to work their Internet would make her name <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">glowy</span> and then you could click on it and be magically transported to her blog to read about her adventures as she lives my dream life, but seeing as how I barely know how to turn my computer on, all I can do is this: <a href="http://madhatter848.blogspot.com/">http://madhatter848.blogspot.com/</a> So, there ya go) who was passing through as she works her way around the world. We went to the hostel (yeah, hostel not hotel, she's that bad ass) where she was staying. It's called the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Canadiana</span> and holy shit is it ever Canadian up in here, y'all. You can tell by the stuffed animal heads on the walls and giant wooden Canadian figures and free pancakes for breakfast with real imitation maple syrup..<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">erm</span>, yeah. This is where they got all that shit for the Olympics closing ceremonies. Anyway, the guy at the desk presented me with an envelope marked "Top Secret" which contained the directions we were to follow in order to find Erin and the Band Camp reunion she had organized. (Band rules, tell your friends!)<br /><br /><br />Erin, like anyone who knows me at all, knew that these directions would have to be painfully detailed and clear, since I am quite capable of getting lost in my own kitchen. When I visited her in BC this past summer she had to write out step by step instructions to get me through bus/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">skytrain</span>/ferry transfers that would otherwise have left me sobbing on the sidewalk or bound unwittingly for Yellowknife. Even with those instructions I failed to get off a bus at the right place and missed my ferry, then on the return trip I gave up after only the second of eight or nine steps and instead made friends with a nice young man on the ferry who took me on a bus right inside the boat that then took me all the way to the train station, where we parted ways... and I proceeded to get on a train going in the wrong direction. Yes, I'm that dumb. The point is; I require really good directions. Erin certainly delivered. I am going to share those directions with you now, just in case you ever need to get from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Canadiana</span> Backpackers to the Hard Rock Cafe in Toronto.<br /><br /><em>Step 1: Put your party pants on.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 2: Remember your room key. Trust me.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 3: Exit hostel. You are now standing on a wee step in front of the hostel, facing the street. Get the fuck out of the way, you're blocking the doorway! You're not the only guests here for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">chrissake</span>...</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 4: Walk down the steps. At the bottom, you'll be standing on the sidewalk of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Widmer</span> street. Turn to your left and begin walking. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Widmer</span> dead-ends very quickly, with an Extreme Fitness on the right-hand corner and a parking lot ahead. The street you have dead-ended at is Richmond Street. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 5: Turn right. You will need to keep walking, passing Extreme Fitness, a cinema and Chapters on your right. Chapters is on the corner of Richmond & John Street.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 6: Look up to your right. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Oooooh</span>! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">CN</span> tower! Like a freak accident between a Tim <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Hortons</span> doughnut and a Juno award. The World's Ugliest free-standing structure!!</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 7: Turn left and cross Richmond Street. Walk away from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">CN</span> tower! Flee the tower! Run, run away! You will now be walking North on John Street. Do this for ONE BLOCK ONLY. You will see a pub on your left called the Friar & Firkin. Ignore this pub. You do not want to stop for a drink. Resist the urge. You've barely begun your quest!</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 8: After ONE BLOCK on John st. you will find yourself on the corner of Queen st. & John st. Looking to your right, you will see Much Music's famous studio. To your left will be a Second Cup and across the street is a Starbucks. Resist the urge for overpriced refreshment and walk to your right, past Much Music. You are now on Queen street.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 9: Pass the Condom Shack. Giggle. (*note: after exiting the shop, be sure to go RIGHT to keep yourself headed in the right direction).</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 10: Walk, walk, walk, walk. You will pass Duncan st, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Simcoe</span> st, University Ave, The Sheraton Centre, Nathan Phillips Square, Bay street, James street and the Hudson Bay building. You will then find yourself at the corner of Queen & <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Yonge</span> st. This is NOT your final destination. Do not sit on the curb and cry. You're almost there! Cross <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Yonge</span> street.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 11: Turn left and walk North on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Yonge</span> street, AWAY from the monstrous tower. The Eaton Centre Mall will be on your left. You will be on the right side of the street. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 12: Walk, walk, walk. The Hard Rock Cafe is on the right-hand side of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Yonge</span> street, corner of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Yonge</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Dundas</span>.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 13: Enter the Hard Rock Cafe. Ask hostess for the 'reunion table' if you are unable to spot me dancing on a table already. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 14: Get your party pants hitched up and join the fun!</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 15: Get Erin very drunk!</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Step 16: Read these instructions backwards to find the hostel again. Unless they've moved in the hours since you left. Then you're fucked. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>PRETTY MAP</em><br /><em>Follow the pencil mark route, for optimal sight-seeing pleasure.</em><br /><br />Then there was a hand drawn map, complete with route marker and Points of Interest. <br /><br />I think Erin needs to work for GPS. I would never get lost again. The best part is that the directions would be delivered in the truly fucked up Scottish/Australian/Canadian West Coast accent she has cultivated over the course of her travels. Entertainment AND accuracy? Done.<br /><br />I didn't get lost! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Whoo</span>! We found the place and a good time was had by all...all five people, including us and Erin, who showed up that is. But no matter, we ate, drank, and made merry all evening and walked back arm in arm singing horrendously offensive camp songs (and this was a military camp so the songs were truly filthy) Then sat around at the hostel drinking with interesting young people from around the world for a while, until Erin got sick (she claims it was food poisoning, not booze and I'm inclined to believe her) and Adam and I retired to our private room, because having sex on bunk-beds is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">embarrassing</span> enough without six other people sharing your room. <br /><br />P.S. all this happened over a month ago. I'm just writing about it now because I only just found those directions in my coat pocket last night and I was pleased to find I hadn't lost them.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-28778558191250149942010-03-01T12:57:00.003-05:002010-03-01T13:18:22.514-05:00YummyEden: Mommy, I have some apple pie, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pleeeease</span>?<br /><br />Me: We don't have any apple pie, Baby.<br /><br />Eden: Ya! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">D'ere's</span> a apple pie in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">da</span> fridge. Daddy put it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">d'ere</span>. Come see!<br /><br /><em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Hmm</span>, could this be correct? Maybe that nice grandmotherly lady Adam works with has been baking again. Those cookies he brought home last week were yummy! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Mmm</span>, pie. I could really go for some pie. I wonder if we have any ice cream...</em><br /><br />Me: Eden, this is not an apple pie...this is a pineapple. I'm horribly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">disappointed</span>. Get your boots, we're going to the store.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-24495081625866402542010-02-19T16:21:00.005-05:002010-02-19T17:31:02.860-05:00On Raising HeathensI'm not into religion. I believe in a greater consciousness and a sort of immortal spirit and the interrelated miracles of life in the universe and doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. But I don't go in for mass religion. It's too impersonal for me and too tainted by terribly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">un</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">divine</span> human beings. That being said, there are times when I wonder if I should make more of an effort to educate my children.<br /><br />Times like when we went to a church rummage sale and my then 4 year old asked:<br />"Is this a jail?" as she gazed around the church hall.<br />"Of course not." I told her, smiling nervously at the three <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mennonite</span> ladies who were selling baked goods. "This is a church."<br />"Oh" she replied. "What's a church?"<br /><br />Or when, just before Christmas this year, we were driving past a cemetery and the child, now aged 6, asked:<br />"What's with all those big lower case 'T's' over in that dying yard?"<br /><br />Yes, these are the times when I wonder if I've failed her somehow. But then this week we helped to move Adam's parents from their big old farm house and I came across this composition, written by Adam while he attended a Christian School. Brace yourselves folks.<br />The original is in italics and my commentary is added.<br /><br /><em><strong>Christian View on Rights</strong></em><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><em>In Canada there are a lot of rights that go against what the Bible teaches. One of the people responsible for two of these rights is "Pierre E. Trudeau". Trudeau changed the B.N.A. Act the Canadian Bill of Rights and Freedoms. This new constitution gave a lot more power to the Courts and Judges. </em><span style="color:#663333;">Damn you Trudeau for trying to separate Church and State!</span><br /><em>One problem which was against Bible teachings and was legalizing homosexuals. Now, the gays and lesbians are trying to get more rights such as same sex marriages, spouse benefits, maternity leave for 2 men or women who adopt a child. They should not be allowed to adopt. It is emotionally damaging and disturbing to the child. </em><span style="color:#663333;">I really don't think I can even begin to cover how wrong this is.</span> <span style="color:#663333;">Encouraging hatred is emotionally damaging and disturbing to me.</span><br /><em>The second was abortion. In my eyes abortion is basically saying have as much sex as you want and don't worry about the baby. We'll just kill it! Abortion should be put up there with murder. It is just like walking up to someone you don't know but have seen and kill them. God probably created diseases like AIDS to stop abortion. </em><span style="color:#663333;">Which came first? Disease or abortion? It's a chicken or egg kind of question isn't it? </span><br /><em>By allowing too much freedom, we have started worshipping material gods. Money, gold, silver, treasures or any other material possession that is treated and thought of more often than God is a God. People used to be punished by God and probably still are but it is not made known. There is no fear of God. </em><span style="color:#663333;">Freedom is never a good thing. Down with Freedom!</span><br /><em>Canada should be more harsh with criminal penalties. Criminals are getting off easy because Canada is getting More and more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">whimpy</span>. Capital punishment should be brought back in. "Those who kill man shall be killed by man." </em><span style="color:#663333;">Wait, I thought we were against killing. Didn't the bible say something about not killing? I'm sure it was in there, maybe somewhere near the back?</span><br /><em>Honouring your parents doesn't seem to happen too much anymore. The kids think that when they're 18 or 19, it's party time, no respect. </em><span style="color:#663333;">Dude, if you can get past 13 you're doing great.</span><br /><em>Keep the Sabbath day (or Sunday) Holy. Stores are open, people are shopping, working. Gangs fight, there are killings. This day doesn't seem Holy anymore. There was punishment for these things just a few years ago but they have been lifted. </em><span style="color:#663333;">I don't care if you've got kids to feed! It's Sunday, get home and sit on your ass! And you gangsters can just wait until Monday for your killings like everyone else!</span><br /><em>In conclusion there should be more respect for what the Bible teaches us.</em><br /><em>Adam, Gr. 8</em><br /><em></em><br /><span style="color:#663333;">From the mouths of babes</span>.<br /><br />This, this right here? This is why I'm never sending my kids to Christian School. Things like this make me glad my daughters are ignorant, because they are also innocent. They have crazy values like not hurting other people and being free to enjoy your own life. As they get older I want my daughters to explore beliefs from around the world. I want them to remain open to new ideas but to think about the things they hear before accepting them as facts. I want them to benefit from spirituality, but not to be enslaved by it.<br /><br />Teaching them these things may take more effort than shipping them off to Sunday School each week, but I think it will be worth it.<br /><em></em><br /><em>When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad, and that is my religion. - Abraham Lincoln</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>P.S.</em> Adam has evolved, thank God (or whatever) but I'm still opposed to brainwashing children, you know, just in case it should stick.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-45120371292513804182010-02-15T13:47:00.004-05:002010-02-15T17:00:04.788-05:00Happy Valentine's Day!Me- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Eew</span>, what are you doing?<br /><br />Adam- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Uum</span>, kissing you?<br /><br />Me-Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen. You're all sick and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">mucous-y</span> and gross.<br /><br />Adam- But I'm extra warm, that's a plus right?<br /><br />Me- I like warmth, not germs.<br /><br />Adam- We could do this without any kissing?<br /><br />Me- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Hmm</span>, maybe...no wait...Does <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">jizz</span> have germs?<br /><br />Adam-Huh?<br /><br />Me- I mean, it must have germs. That's how <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">STD's</span> work, right? But does it have cold germs? Like spit and snot? Or is it somehow immune?<br /><br />Adam- I...don't...think so..?<br /><br />Me- Research that and get back to me.<br /><br />..........................<br /><br />Hope your Valentine's Day was super romantic too!EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-60695390480344776492010-01-29T17:33:00.007-05:002010-01-29T21:59:50.979-05:00Just stuff your kid in your suitcase and hope for the best.In order to escape the cold...and also for some other less compelling reasons like family togetherness and shit, we're going to Disney World! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Whoo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Hoo</span>! But wait! To go to Disney World we need passports. OK fine, I'll get right on it, you know, in a few weeks. Maybe after the holidays. We're not going until the end of April, after all.<br /><br />I finally got down to business and downloaded the forms from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">uber</span>-helpful Service Ontario website and we began the tedious process of getting photos taken, ID photocopied, Guarantors and References signed on and so on and so forth. Then, when everything was in order, we set out for the Passport Office in person so that we could skip the waiting and potential loss of official documents (Birth Certificates) in the mail.<br /><br />My paperwork went through without a hitch. Fantastic. Adam's signature was too faint. Easy Fix. Then it was Skylar's turn.<br /><br />"Is this the only birth certificate you have for her?" asks the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">courteous</span> government employee.<br /><br />"Yes?" <em>I was under the impression that having multiple birth certificates would be illegal, wouldn't it? "Why no sir. I have a whole bag full of birth certificates right here. Would you prefer her to have a different name? Perhaps a nice Christmas birthday would suit you? I'm afraid she's pretty set on gender."</em><br /><br />"You're going to have to get a Long Form birth certificate. You see, these standard ones don't have enough information for us to confirm that you're her parents. You'll have to request a Long Form from the Service Ontario website." He explained and helpfully wrote the address and steps to follow on the top of our form.<br /><br />"It has to be that form specifically? A copy of the birth Registration or Statement of Live Birth wouldn't be good enough?" Adam asked hopefully.<br /><br />"No, this wouldn't be something you're likely to have at home. You have to request it from the government."<br /><br />I went home and got online, wondering why Service Ontario didn't tell me I needed this form the first time I was here. Then I followed the directions given to me by my friend at the Passport Office and soon found out that he'd clearly never been to this site and had no idea what the hell he was talking about. There was no such frigging thing as a Long Form Birth Certificate.<br /><br />So I clicked "Contact Us" and asked the invisible person on the other side of the web where I might find a Long Form Birth Certificate. The eventual reply was that what I was looking for was actually called a "Certified Copy of Birth Registration." Fine. Fuck You, Passport Guy.<br /><br />I went back to stupid Service Ontario and went through the paces to order a Certified Copy of Birth Registration. I was alright with answering questions pertaining to my own name and where I was born, but then the questions got harder. They wanted to know crazy things like the attending physician's name. So I got Skylar's Statement of Live Birth out of my files and found that, luckily it contained all of the pertinent information. I finished the form and payed with a credit card and breathed a sigh of relief that it was all sorted out and then I promptly called my cousin, who would be travelling with us, and told her she'd better get one of these Long Form Birth Certificate/Certified Copy of Registration thingies for her daughter too. Then I forgot about it for a few weeks.<br /><br />Do you know where I'm going with this yet?<br /><br />Today I got a letter from the office of the Registrar General. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Yay</span>! This must be the Certified Copy of Birth Registration! No, it was a note telling me I had underpaid them by $10.00 and asking me to please pay up in order for my request to be processed. The fuck? I paid online. I paid exactly the amount you asked for. Why do I owe you $10? So I called the number at the top of the page and wended my way through the robots who answered until I was directed to the best possible person to handle my enquiry. The following transcript of our conversation may not be exactly verbatim:<br /><br />Me- I ordered a Certified Copy of Birth Registration for my kid and now I get a note asking for more money. What up wit that?<br /><br />Girl- Oh, you must have paid for a first copy when what you wanted was a replacement.<br /><br />Me- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Nuh</span> uh. I don't have one, and I need one so we can get a passport.<br /><br />Her- Our records indicate one was issued in 2004.<br /><br />Me- Your records are full of shit. The one area in which I am organized is where it pertains to my kids legal type papers. I am all over that shit.<br /><br />Her- Are you sure? It's a yellow sheet of paper <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">with</span> a seal type thingy in the corner and at the top it says Statement of Live Birth.<br /><br />Then my head exploded.<br /><br />Me- Statement of Live Birth? I HAVE a fucking Statement of Live Birth. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">That's</span> where I got the information I needed to apply for the fucking Certified Copy of Birth Registration/Long Form Birth Certificate. Nowhere on my Statement of Live Birth does it say anything about Registration or Birth Certificate. Why in God's name doesn't the web site tell you that when applying for a Passport for a child you will require a Birth Certificate and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Goddammedmotherfucking</span> Statement of Live Birth? Why did the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">douchebag</span> at the passport office tell me that this was something I didn't have? Why doesn't the website say that a Long Form Birth Certificate (aka Certified Copy of Birth Registration) would in fact have a great big heading at the top of the page proclaiming it to be a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Cocksuckingshitencrustedpusspewingcunt</span> Statement of Live Birth!?<br /><br />You know what, it's fine. Ive got one and that's what matters. Sorry to bother you. I'll just take the Statement of Live Birth I have here in my hand and get my kid's passport and all will be well.<br /><br />Her- I'm sorry, once you apply for a replacement the original is no longer valid.<br /><br />Me- What? But they refused to issue me a new one because they want another ten bucks.<br /><br />Her- But it's already in the system. The one you have will be invalid and you won't be able to get a passport with it. You'll have to send the ten dollars and wait for the new one.<br /><br />Me- I have to send another ten dollars, bringing my total up to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">forty</span>-five dollars, for a form that I already have? Well that sucks. So can I just go back to that shit-hole Service Ontario site and add the $10 to my previous order?<br /><br />Her- No, we don't offer that service online.<br /><br />Me- Why the hell not? They already have my credit card information and clearly some sort of primitive banking capabilities, so why not just...<br /><br />Her- I'm sorry, you'll have to fill out the form in the message you <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">received</span> by mail and then mail it back to us like it's the fucking dark ages before the advent of all this brilliant technology that lets us ass rape you for forms you've already got because that way we make way more money than we ever would if we pulled our heads out of our twats and asked for things by their correct titles and then told you to bring those same things when you wanted to apply for things that you need so that you can take your kid to the happiest fucking place on earth.<br /><br />Me-How long?<br /><br />Her-About 8 weeks.<br /><br />Eight weeks takes us close to April. If you felt I might be a wee bit testy today, just imagine how pleased I'll be if we miss our vacation because we had to wait for a form that I had all along. This is why people blow up Government buildings folks.* This is exactly why.<br /><br />*Disclaimer: I'm not going to blow anything up. Seriously, forget I said that. The last thing I need is to straighten all this shit out only to be shot at the airport for uttering death threats. But I did fill out the "Rate Our Service Today" survey on fucking Service Ontario very harshly.<br /><br />P.S. I just called my cousin to let her know that I may have instructed her to do something really stupid and she said thanks for the heads up, but she really DIDN'T already have that form and it arrived 2 days after she applied for it. Yeah: 2 days for a new form, 8 weeks to replace the one you already have. Fuck you Service Ontario, Fuck you.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-4517444905905404342010-01-23T21:07:00.003-05:002010-01-23T22:03:20.659-05:00Have I mentioned my hatred of winter?I was a good mom today, if I do say so myself. This is worth mentioning because lately I honestly have not been.<br /><br />It's winter up here in the godforsaken North and that really brings out the worst in me. I abhor cold. I loathe cold. I can't think of a word vile enough to express my dislike of cold. Cold makes my bones hurt. Cold makes me tired. Cold makes me a hateful bitch. I hate having to wear bulky layers of clothes. I hate wet socks and snowsuits and toddlers screaming because their fingers are cold and they won't keep their damned mittens on. I hate the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pissy</span> grey sunshine. I hate the wind whistling through the cracks in my house. I hate being afraid to drive. I hate getting out of my warm bed in the mornings so much that my kid is late for school pretty much every single day. I hate walking the dog. I hate the noisy squirrels living in my roof, I hate the dead, black skeletal trees. I hate the filthy slushy mud. I hate the dark that seems to fall just after noon. I hate scraping ice off of my car, but not as much as I hate dragging a sled or wrestling a stroller over snowbanks or carrying a 30 pound child in 50 pounds worth of outerwear or trying to coax that same child to please for the love of god walk faster, and straighter, and without stopping to climb every mound and taste every clump so that we can get wherever the hell we're going and get inside again. I hate lying awake all night because my feet are frozen and I can't sleep until they thaw out and they won't thaw out for hours.<br /><br />I remember being excited about snow when I was a kid. I know I used to have fun building snowmen and forts and going <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tobogganning</span>, but there is not a single trace of those feelings left. I have played outside with my children exactly 3 times since November. Instead I stay inside and lay on the couch drifting in and out of sleep all day. I let my kids watch entirely too much television and I yell at them constantly to be quiet, or calm down, or go play somewhere else, or stop making a mess, or quit bugging the dog, or stop fighting, or close the frigging door, or get their own damn juice or...<br /><br />But today I was good. Today we made crafts together (paper snowflakes of all things) and I pulled my girls around the living room by the hands while they each stood on one roller skate. I got 7 loads of laundry done and cleaned the floor and did 2 loads of dishes and still had time to build a stable out of Mega Blocks and read a story and tickle them until they turned purple. I sent them out to play in the yard and watched them having fun through the window. Maybe tomorrow I'll go out with them. I didn't yell or order a single time-out. I laughed and I smiled and I stayed awake all day long.<br /><br />See, my eldest daughter is 6 now and somehow she's become literate. She loves to read and write all the time and the phrase she writes most often is "I love mom." I want to deserve that. I want her to remember a mom who played with her and listened to her and enjoyed spending time with her instead of a mom who yelled and bitched and was lazy as hell. So I'm trying. I have to work hard at it, because some days it seems as though every single thing that child does or says is calculated specifically to annoy the living crap out of me. But I am trying, and I was good today.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-49268292366934611162010-01-04T22:16:00.004-05:002010-01-21T14:15:26.909-05:00HI, I'm still alive! I know, you were worried right?<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Sooo</span>...where were we...early November. Shit. OK something must have happened since then huh?<br /><br /><br />We went to a play. An English Pantomime to be specific. My mom has some mobility issues, so she's decided that it will be her role to enrich my children's lives through the magic of live theatre since taking the girls ice skating, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tobogganing</span>, skiing, or anything else that requires walking, running, standing or any other kind of movement is pretty much out. <br /><br />When she told me she'd bought these tickets I've got to admit that the words "English Pantomime" made me think of a mime with bad teeth, but it turned out to be a really hysterical production of Robin Hood where you get to yell at the actors and boo the bad guys (one of whom was portrayed by Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Bedhead</span> from the Big Comfy Couch, parents will know who I'm talking about) and featuring some new characters like the drag queen Nurse and Larry the Snow Fairy. The kids loved it. Even Eden sat through the entire thing without getting squirmy or bored. <br /><br />After the show Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Bedhead</span> (who probably has a real name, but who really cares? Besides him I guess, and maybe his mother) called a few kids up on stage for some audience participation game type things and Skylar was one of the chosen few. As she took her place on stage he complimented her elegant dress and she responded by picking her tights out of her crotch. As he went on down the line asking names (and making fun of them) Eden noticed that Skylar was up on stage and there followed an intense wrestling match with her father as Adam tried to prevent her from running up to join her sister. Eventually the two year old kicked his ass and made a break down the aisle towards the stage. Skylar saw this and started yelling to Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Bedhead</span><br />"My sister! My sister wants to come up too!"<br /><br />Since the Major knows entertainment value when he sees it, he helped Eden crawl up onto the stage and everyone "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Awww</span>"d as she took her sister's hand. Then the two of them stood there beaming and waving and ignoring instructions until the interlude was done and candy was distributed to one and all. As we walked out of the theatre they were graciously applauded and hailed as the stars of the show. <br /><br />Next year's show is Peter Pan.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-61159394551264637742009-11-08T13:10:00.003-05:002009-11-08T13:27:21.933-05:00That's what sisters are for<em>Overheard via the baby monitor after putting my 6 and 2 year old girls to bed:</em><br /><em></em><br />thump thump thump...<br /><br />Eden: My want snuggle, Sky'yer.<br /><br />Skylar: OK, get in. I'll tell you a story.<br /><br /><em>aww, how sweet!</em><br /><em></em><br />Skylar: You know, when you're four I won't let you sleep with me anymore. Well, not all the time. Maybe when you're scared.<br /><br />Eden: My not scared.<br /><br />Skylar: I know you're not scared right now, but someday you might get scared that there's monsters under your bed.<br /><br />Eden: Monsters? In my bed?<br /><br /><em>Uh Oh</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Big Sisters: Always there to comfort you...but probably the reason you were scared in the first place.</em>EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-62701750523349862322009-10-15T22:46:00.003-04:002009-10-15T23:36:00.434-04:00Terrible Two-year-old Terrifies Thoughtless Tmama (best I could do, I'm still recovering)When I put Eden down for her nap this afternoon I was sure she'd sleep for a good two hours or more, because she's a kick-ass napper. I knew I had plenty of time to go next door to my mom's place for a cup of tea. Our apartments are connected through an upstairs bathroom and Eden's room is right above my mom's kitchen, so I would be able to hear her if she woke up. But of course she didn't make a sound. I knew she was still asleep when I went back to my side an hour later.<br /><br />I began to suspect she was <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> asleep when I saw the sofa, covered with disassembled tampons. My suspicion grew stronger when I found the cat's water dish filled with a congealed mass of kitty litter and biscuits (stirred with yet another tampon) and this theory was proven correct when I looked in her bed and found it vacant. So where the hell was she? Did she crawl into my bed? Yes, I could tell because my bed was covered in kitty litter (and tampons!) but she wasn't there anymore. Was she in the toy room? Of course not. Who wants to play with toys when there's kitty litter and tampons available? The storage room? No. The laundry room? No. I called my mom and asked if Eden had gone down the stairs to her place, but no. So now the both of us are searching, calling Eden's name, checking under beds and inside closets. No kid. <br /><br />I'm getting desperate now. There's no way she could have opened the doors and gotten outside right? The screen doors, yes, but certainly not the big heavy wooden doors that adults have to slam with their shoulders to shove through their swollen frames, right? Please God?<br />So she's got to be in the house. But we've been yelling and shoving furniture and slamming doors and yelling louder for fifteen interminable minutes now and she hasn't made a sound. If you're playing hide and seek child I'm going to kill you. But shit, what if she crawled under a bed and choked on a marble? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Omygodomygod</span>!<br /><br />I'm running around frantically now, rechecking places I've already checked twice, when I see two little legs hanging out the door of an old wardrobe shoved back in the corner of the storage room. Not moving. Not so much as a twitch when I called her name or crashed through the boxes in the middle of the room. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">OMYGODOMYGODOMYGOD</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">She was climbing the shelves and she fell and broke her neck and when I pull back this door her face is going to be purple and I was sitting downstairs doing a crossword puzzle and drinking tea and why didn't I take the monitor over and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ohmyfuckinggod</span> she's dead! </span>I yanked back the door, while reviewing CPR steps in my head (shit, is she an infant or a child?) and there she was, out cold on the floor of the wardrobe, head pillowed on an old bridesmaid dress. Her eyes popped open and she mumbled "Mama, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">seepin</span>' in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">da</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">dra'wer</span>." And I picked her up and ran to tell my mom that I'd found her, and hugged her and then put her on time out for playing in the kitty litter, 'cause that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">shit's</span> gross and should be corrected, no matter how glad I am that she's alive.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-73251801439077310742009-10-08T21:45:00.002-04:002009-10-08T23:22:59.021-04:00Giddy Up!Skylar has been talking about her sixth birthday party since the second her fifth birthday party ended. Over the past year she has invited several hundred classmates, team mates, relatives of friends, vague acquaintances and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">random</span> strangers to this party and every time she has told them it was going to be a "Cowgirl" party. Her non-stop party <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">gibber</span>-jabber drove me to the edge of insanity until the day that I finally snapped and forbade her to mention The Party again for the next nine months. This didn't actually work, but at least it took the round-the-clock badgering down to a more manageable tendency to mention it only when attending someone <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">else's</span> birthday party, seeing a party in a book or on TV, viewing a toy commercial or meeting a new friend (which happens to my child any time she is allowed out of the house)<br /><br />So you can see how I could totally have forgotten to plan her a birthday party. 'Cause I suck.<br /><br />OK, maybe I didn't forget. Maybe I just procrastinated due to my total lack of social skills and my inability to organize and my horror at the thought of having to communicate with other parents and my even greater horror at the thought of exposing my tiny, dingy home to those other parents and the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">depredations</span> of their sugar-crazed offspring. <br /><br />In the end I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">punked</span> out. I just couldn't stand the thought of playing hostess and planning <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">asinine</span> games and decorating with a suitable "Cowgirl" theme. No way, we had to take this show on the road. <br /><br />Me- <em>So Goober, do you still want a Cowgirl Birthday Party?</em><br /><em></em><br />Skylar- <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">YESYESYESYESYESYYYESYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS</span>!!!!!</em><br /><em></em><br />Me- <em>Do you think we should go ride some real horses?</em><br /><em></em><br />Skylar- <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Holyfuckingcrap</span>, YES! </em>(not exactly, but that's definitely what she meant to say)<br /><br />So I embarked on a quest to find a horse. <br />-<em>Hell no, I don't want you to bring horses to my house!</em><br /><em>-Not available until November?</em><br /><em>-How much!!!??</em><br /><em></em><br />And eventually we found a place where we could rent a couple of horses (and a matching set of handlers) for an hour and then eat some cake in a barn. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Whoo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Hoo</span>! The only down-side was that it was a 45 minute drive away. <br /><br />We sent out invitations. I forced Skylar to pare down her guest list <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">ruthlessly</span>. I told her that since she was turning 6 she could invite 6 kids (That's it, just six. 1 2 3 4 5 6, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">nooooo</span> kindergarten!) Every single one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">RSVP'd</span> in the affirmative, saying that such and such a child would be thrilled to attend, but no, the parents had no desire to come along, thanks. So with Skylar and Eden and a couple of cousins we had 10 little girls to transport. Skylar picked out an ice cream cake. We got loot bags and Hannah Montana plates and paper hats. Then Skylar told me she'd changed her mind. She thought maybe she didn't want horseback rides after all. <em>What the hell, child? There are starving children in Africa who would give their left nut for a cowgirl birthday party and you are getting fucking pony rides and you will bloody well like it! </em>But it turned out she had just remembered that she wanted a pinata, which had to hang from a certain tree in the yard, which would mean we would have to stay home. So we got a pinata (do you have any idea how much pinatas cost? Too much to smash with a freaking bat, that's how much) and promised to do that once we got back to the house but before the parents came to collect their kids. The spoiled, spoiled little princess was appeased and the plans went forward.<br /><br />On the day of the party (a week after the real birthday, because again, I'm a slacker) the kids began to trickle in and we collected gifts and booster seats and loaded up the two vans we had commandeered for the occasion while the screaming little psychopaths ran wild after the cats. Did you know that three booster seats will not fit on the rear bench of a mini van? We didn't. We do now. Shit. We would need a third vehicle, dammit. Then at the last minute we were saved by our good friend alcohol. It turns out one mom had spent the previous night at a much more grown-up party and had completely forgotten to bring her daughters over thanks to her mind-numbing hangover. We would be two kids short, which is sad for boozy mom's kids but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">hella</span> convenient for us because we could now dispense with the third vehicle.<br /><br />If you can possibly avoid it you should never let yourself be trapped in a car full of six year old girls. The shrieking. The squealing. The endless bathroom humour. That road has never been so long.<br /><br />We collected helmets and signed waivers on behalf of other people's children and herded them into a barn. The first two kids were mounted onto bored looking ponies and the rest were subdued with cheese and crackers. Then the handlers led those two kids outside to walk around the yard. Except as they were leaving the barn the ginormous sliding door took a homicidal plunge downward and attempted to decapitate one of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Emilys</span>. Funny, this scenario never <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">occurred</span> to me while I was signing those waivers. Luckily, the kid shook it off and declined to get off of the horse, so I hopefully won't be hearing from her parent's lawyers.<br /><br />We rotated all the girls through their pony rides, but the highlight of the day was the big ass pile of hay. They seriously enjoyed that hay. If you're planning a birthday party you should probably just get a big pile of hay. They'll be talking about it for years. They'll probably also be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">picking</span> hay out of their ears and ass cracks for years.<br /><br />We had ice cream cake, because Skylar will not eat non-ice-cream cake. Some kid decided the time had come to tell us that she was allergic to dairy and was not allowed to have milk, ice cream or cheese. Surely if this was serious her mother would have SAID SOMETHING? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Meh</span>, the child was still alive and showing no signs of distress when I handed her over and it became officially <em>not my problem</em>.<br /><br />We got everyone home and survived the pinata and present unwrapping ceremonies without injury or loss of life and the parents arrived to whisk their sugar filled, hay covered, horsey-smelling daughters home for dinner. Good luck with that.<br /><br />Basically, it was a great day. Lots of fun, lots of laughs. Almost no tears (except for that poor kid who almost got her head cut off and that's a reasonable excuse) and no mess at all in my house. Nice.<br /><br />Did I mention Skylar is six? SIX. Not a baby or a toddler or a preschooler or a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">kindergartner</span> or anything but a full fledged six year old, full time schooling, gymnastics taking, eye-rolling, smart-talking, joke-telling, big-sistering, breakfast-making, book reading, brilliant, awesome kid. Wow.<br />*sigh* well I almost made it through this post without getting sentimental. Happy Birthday, Goober.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-23344425713322154902009-09-03T14:28:00.005-04:002009-09-11T22:47:14.472-04:00The end of my summer, condensed.It has been pointed out to me that I have not written in a while. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Whoo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hoo</span>, somebody noticed!<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Sooo</span>...let's see:<br /><br />I went on vacation! It was great. I drank wine and climbed mountains (fine, I rode up a mountain in a gondola-like-tram-thing, I'm not a super-hero here) I shopped and took pictures and caught up with friends I haven't seen in years and drank more wine and splashed in the ocean (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ish</span>) and fell in love with the scenery and rode ferries and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">skybusses</span> and other exotic forms of transportation. I'd tell you all about it, but in all honestly there's only like three people who actually read this and two of you were there. I'd like to thank you both for your organization, hospitality, entertainment, and all around awesomeness as well as for your patience with my public transit retardation (I totally failed to follow even your most basic written instructions) and for the phrase "Gear down, Big Rig." <em>best delivered with a Scottish brogue. </em>To the other one: Sorry, you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">shoulda</span> been. It was boss.<br /><br />I worked, but I don't get paid enough to deal with shit like this:<br />Stupid Kid:What can I get for this? <em>dumping a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">hand full</span> of coins on my counter and waiting expectantly.</em><br />Me: I can't do this with you today. I've got a line-up. You're going to have to count it yourself and figure out what you want. <em>translation: you're not cute enough to get away with this bullshit.</em><br />Stupid Kid: How much would it be for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Froster</span> and a Skittles and a Rollo and a Push-Pop?<br />Me: What size <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Froster</span>?<br />Stupid Kid: What's the biggest I can get for this much money?<br />Me: How much money do you have?<br />Stupid Kid: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">uuuuuuhhh</span>...less than three dollars?<br />Me: You can't get all that stuff.<br />Stupid Kid: How much is a large <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Froster</span> and a bag of Skittles with tax?<br />Me: Around 3 dollars.<br />Stupid Kid: How much exactly?<br />Me: Here's a calculator if you'd like to figure it out.<br />Stupid Kid: Huh? can't you just scan it all in?<br />Me: <em>No, because I only get the taxes included if I push it in as a sale and total it and then I'd have to cancel it and do it again a dozen times as you fuck around trying to spend every last penny and every time I void a sale I have to print a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">receipt</span> and write the reason WHY and I can only do that so many times a day and I'm not wasting them all on you AGAIN. Do you see the line of people I'm dealing with here? Do you think this stack of porn is going to price and shelf itself? Guess what kid, porn doesn't just happen. It's my JOB. "</em>No."<br />Stupid Kid: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">UUh</span>...what do I do?<br />Me: <em>Jesus, this twit has got to be 13 years old, what the hell do they teach them in school these days? </em>Add the prices of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Froster</span> and the Skittles together. 1.69+0.99.<br />Me, to another customer: <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">That's</span> $1.34, Sir. Debit?<br />Stupid Kid: A dollar thirty four plus what?<br />Me: No, not you.<br />Stupid Kid: Then what?<br />Me: multiply by 0.12 for the tax.<br />Stupid Kid: Divide by what?<br />Me, to another customer: Sorry, only the bags of milk are on sale, not the jugs.<br />Stupid Kid: Is that all?<br />Me: No, add that number to your original total.<br />Stupid Kid: A dollar sixty-nine?<br />Me: No, the Skittles and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Froster</span> together.<br />Stupid Kid: I forget that.<br /><em>we repeat the process, step by step, between serving customers, making coffee and pricing chocolate bars.</em><br />Stupid Kid: I got a hundred and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">forty</span>-two dollars and seventy-three cents.<br />Me: Yes, that's exactly right.<br /><br />My kid started school. Grade school. Real, 5 day a week, no longer any kind of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">pre</span>-school school. Where the big kids go. Every day.<br />In first grade there is homework. We get a book at the beginning of the week. This week it was "Feet." On Monday we're supposed to talk about the pictures. On Tuesday I'm supposed to read the book to her. On Wednesday she's supposed to pick out a few words and so on and so forth until we're so sick of "Feet" we could just puke. Finally she's supposed to answer an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">asinine</span> question about "Feet." each day. That's the procedure anyway. Except my kid read the book to me on the first day without assistance and her answer to the question "I wonder..." was:<br />"I wonder why I can't read a properly written book? Who says 'I keep my feet warm. I wear socks'? Why wouldn't you just say 'I wear socks to keep my feet warm? And who cares about feet anyway?"<br />Well done, my child.<br /><br />I got a dog. Skylar has been begging for a dog for years and my response has always been: When we get a bigger house. It doesn't look like that's going to happen any time soon, but that didn't stop her from telling everyone she meets that we are going to be getting a dog. A three year old dog, with curly ears, to be specific. So I started reading adds and searching shelters and signing up for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Internet</span> dating type services where you are matched up with the pet of your dreams based on age, race, interests and astrological signs. Have you tried to adopt a dog lately? I'm not trying to adopt a baby from China here people, do we seriously need to know about my obedience philosophies, nutrition plans, household income, the lives and deaths of all my past and present pets, and so on and so forth? I'm not even exaggerating here. They wanted to interview every member of my family and come over for a house check, from Toronto, not for free either. They require references and an account with a veterinarian. And it's still around $300-$400. I was bitching about all this while my mom was on the phone ('cause I'm considerate like that) and her friend had a friend of <em>hers </em>in the background and she said she was looking for a home for her dog. He's a three year old C<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">ocker</span> Spaniel (read: curly ears) and he's free. The next day we had a dog.<br /><br />More on that later.<br /><em></em>EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-83514308101145230742009-08-08T21:17:00.005-04:002009-08-08T21:42:51.558-04:00Lil Rainbow Rides Again!I remember the day I got Lil Rainbow.<br />I remember bouncing with excitement as she was assembled.<br />I remember being awed by her perfect purple <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">rainbowey</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">girlishness</span>.<br />I remember my Grandpa holding on to the hoop at the back of the big banana seat to steady me.<br /> I remember riding down the road calling out to my neighbours that I had to wear this skating helmet because it was my first time riding a two wheeler.<br />I remember putting beads on her spokes to hear them tinkle as the wheels spun.<br />I remember my cousin learning to ride on her too.<br />I remember racing kids from school down the street when I was far too big for her and my knees bumped my elbows.<br />I remember pulling her out of the shed to teach the little girl I babysat in junior high.<br />I remember refusing to allow her to be sold at a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">yard sale</span>, despite the fact that I obviously couldn't ride her anymore.<br /><br />Now I get to remember this:<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367768085605842290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizE9aKUYHZ_-w-MM0jBo60ENawhv1Svrt6JE8BlA7OsGCR-I6pPhLMv89yFg5uDmdzCjPe7EYvCWvCpr9kLyGK0_CEgnGVeKsAMfCYlsuhW_ZPjYFQKWJSLOA989vRBsUlRXhPp2KwYaGb/s400/IMG_1491.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367768094684547650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvOZIuJV4kE6iOwghr7rD6vNVBbqj1ASPrNtTviaPEFgyEIucVqvNf2qarvfpi4c4d10TtfncQBEh5_EEKSuNBsdefWqaskA7YqPXlBnbW7vwqrJtCKhVtuvV6zdxyh2MJ1nXIJSjYKh3/s400/IMG_1493.JPG" border="0" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimt-spgVX2iJrSEF9jGQ463JN2IamfD7-t6xoHCHbxKmP_wqKraPaCczRXryoI37SiVSh0UX_oXvx9FGBz0lnJ2CHP-GrU33P0xsdDTytvbhrEfVlJc4UMB54UfdJ-p3TTSdggIJMX85tn/s1600-h/IMG_1500.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367768109064370290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimt-spgVX2iJrSEF9jGQ463JN2IamfD7-t6xoHCHbxKmP_wqKraPaCczRXryoI37SiVSh0UX_oXvx9FGBz0lnJ2CHP-GrU33P0xsdDTytvbhrEfVlJc4UMB54UfdJ-p3TTSdggIJMX85tn/s400/IMG_1500.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHWTDiA_i_n_AMotGWh6obg_gW8fApPr7hqBkYatf0QOAMtboFlwY_xd6r5H_romSJMXJVvXNbBwC9KXEGj2uORMpnNjIbtokCGrKBrxqywaQCSPfwTXDJ98KcIlnugEu81ovwca0hwwy/s1600-h/IMG_1494.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367768100801456786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHWTDiA_i_n_AMotGWh6obg_gW8fApPr7hqBkYatf0QOAMtboFlwY_xd6r5H_romSJMXJVvXNbBwC9KXEGj2uORMpnNjIbtokCGrKBrxqywaQCSPfwTXDJ98KcIlnugEu81ovwca0hwwy/s400/IMG_1494.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />"Mommy, I think this bike really is magic!"<br /><br /><br />Yes, yes it is.<br /><div><div></div></div>EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-87659341783735971882009-07-29T00:30:00.005-04:002009-07-29T00:37:50.225-04:00I have nothing entertaining to say. Luckily I have a 5 year old who never stops talking. Ever."She lives over there. You can tell by her going that way."<br /><br />"*sigh* Would you please take this seriously Eden? We're surrounded by monsters here!"<br /><br />"I had an adult dream last night. I don't think it was appropriate for my age. It was just a bunch of stupid grown-up stuff. You probably would have thought it was funny, but I didn't really get it."EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-84238396288939868942009-07-23T21:31:00.005-04:002009-07-23T22:58:33.703-04:00beware: sentimentality and TMI ahead.So like I said, my baby is 2. She is not, in fact, a baby anymore. Gone is the floppy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">squooshyness</span>, the immobility, the need to remain in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">vicinity</span> of my boobs at all times, the sling sleeping, the quiet complacency, the gummy smile, the chubby thighs and the soft bald head. These things have been replaced by skinned knees, long, skinny arms and legs, dirty fingernails, scruffy hair, a chipped tooth, a rapidly growing and increasingly hilarious vocabulary and some world-class hugging and cuddling skills. She is well on her way to being a real person. The second amazingly complete and perfect person to be hacked together from pieces of me and Adam.<br />Two human beings seems like a pretty staggering accomplishment to me, so we're done...I think.<br />Another baby is just not feasible for us. We're broke. We are crammed into a tiny <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">apartment</span>, quite literally on top of each other most of the time. I want to go back to school. Adam wants a better job. We want to travel. We want to boot our kids out of the house by the time we're in our early 40's...<br /><br />Still, permanent measures seem a bit extreme. We're young and practical enough to know that we're not ready for the big snip. If anything should happen to me, Adam would likely find a new chick who still wanted kids, etc. So last week I went to get a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Mirena</span> IUD installed (implanted? inserted? there's really no good way to say it.)<br /><br />Do you know one of the worst things about small town life? It's not the lack of amenities, the isolation, the inconvenience or even the smell; it's the fact that you only have one doctor. People in cities have pediatricians, family doctors, podiatrists and chiropractors. They have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">proctologists</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">naturopaths</span>, obstetricians and dermatologists. Most importantly, they have gynecologists. In small towns the doctor who treated your croup when you were three is very likely the same doctor who gives you a pap smear. You have to talk to the same guy about your kid's foot fungus who told your mom you had Mono.<br /><br />So here I am, waiting for <em>this guy</em> to come in and insert some hardware up my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">hoo</span>-ha. Hoping to God there will be no chitchat, while the nurse does the preliminary work on which the doctor doesn't waste his valuable time. Inevitably she asks:<br /><br />"When was your last menstrual period?"<br />"First week of June."<br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Uum</span>, Honey? Do you know what day it is."<br />"Yes, yes it's the middle of July, I know. But really, this is totally normal for me. 6<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ish</span> weeks is my usual."<br />"It's more like 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ish</span>."<br />"...(<em>mental math) </em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">hmm</span>. Still...I really don't think..."<br />"You're supposed to get these in the first week after."<br />"Someone should probably have told me that. Anyway, Doc was on vacation. Can you run a quick test?"<br />"Sure, but if you got pregnant in the last week or two it won't show up yet. I'm not sure if the Doc will do it at this point."<br />"I <em>really </em>don't think..."<br />"Is it at all possible?"<br />"Well...there's always a <em>slight </em>possibility<em>.</em>"<br /><br />I waited, they conferred. Questions were asked on all sides and in the end we decided to go ahead with the<em> procedure</em> and if Aunt Flo didn't come to visit in the next week or two I was to get me to the nearest drug store for a test and if need be we'd yank out the IUD. Because while I'm all about the prevention, I'm not interested in killing anyone who might already be living in there, nor yet causing any strange and terrible mutations by having hypothetical Junior develop with a hormonal IUD clenched in his little fist. Finally I was bare <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">arsed</span> and be-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">stirruped</span> and staring at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ceiling</span> in the attitude of non<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">chalant</span> mortification common to women the world over. Then it was done.<br /><br />I went home. I waited. I thought. I got to visit the same damn Doctor 3 days later when I took my mom to the ER after she threw out her back.<br /><br />I hoped, for two completely different things:<br /><br />-I can barely handle the two kids I have sometimes, I don't want more!<br />-A boy might be nice, for a change.<br />-We can't afford it.<br />-People make do with less, and you already have most of the baby stuff.<br />-I want to dedicate my attention to the girls I already have.<br />-Never again to feel the liquid acrobatics of a baby in your belly?<br />-What right do we have to keep bringing people into this uncertain world?<br />-Tiny, fuzzy head nuzzled, sleeping on your chest.<br />-There's no room in this house.<br />-No more first baths? First steps? First giggles?<br />-I want to go back to school.<br />-A tiny little bottom that fits perfectly in the palm of your hand?<br />-I'll be working at fucking Macs forever!<br />-Shopping for tiny <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">onesies</span>, fluffy diapers and wee little shoes?<br />-Putting three children through school?<br />-Seeing the world through completely new eyes again?<br />-The crying, The whining.<br />-The toothless smiles, the totally unrestrained laughs?<br />-The LABOUR?<br />-The contentment on a tiny face feeding at your breast while a small hand plays idly with your hair?<br />-The very real fear of insanity and depression?<br />-The chance to pick out the perfect name?<br />-I'm not a good enough mother. I don't deserve any more.<br />-The chance to watch a new person grow?<br /><br />For a week I waited. And finally it happened. I am NOT pregnant. And, for the most part, I'm glad. We're done. For the next 5 years anyway. By which time my kids will be 7 and fucking 10(!!!) years old. And I most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">definitely</span> won't want to start over with all the baby crap then right? Right?EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-69691651209584003452009-07-16T00:25:00.002-04:002009-07-16T00:31:57.597-04:00The most amazing 2 years of my life.<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrn_mUqMvMhuw7xB5nF5ubIgl0HQGLgTiHfviO3YFLWWaS27J05hYXziv2Gs9DRUOW9iRtVpkLrm87Ymf7TNbq5cy-M1EnX5pL7NfW3ixdXBkEvHnCR9tjowQMEflfZ9a83B5aBYg8v0oq/s1600-h/063.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358910323017569554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrn_mUqMvMhuw7xB5nF5ubIgl0HQGLgTiHfviO3YFLWWaS27J05hYXziv2Gs9DRUOW9iRtVpkLrm87Ymf7TNbq5cy-M1EnX5pL7NfW3ixdXBkEvHnCR9tjowQMEflfZ9a83B5aBYg8v0oq/s400/063.JPG" border="0" /></a> <em>Shortly after midnight, July 16 2007.</em><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358910325253654114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVD8yQvl7vtz9FbSUkZOth7W5V6s9SJdHPgjnih0C1A7f0SKFKvr6kI-hBsZ3jjhcfplurKMTQb1ZJa_VGlDlE8r8-NUfYD4N3My06tpxKyBBSRUWbkbGjmIkaOfYOIlDSzpNaqJwoEUAg/s400/IMG_1368.JPG" border="0" /></div></div><br /><p><em> Shortly after midnight, July 16 2009</em></p><p><em> Happy Birthday Eden Ariana.</em></p>EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-41992199353545185682009-07-11T14:07:00.002-04:002009-07-11T14:38:19.742-04:00Evil genius in training.We were playing in the front yard when the phone rang. <br />"Goober, could you watch your sister for a sec? Just make sure she stays right here on the porch, OK?"<br />"Yep, I sure can."<br />"I'll be right back."<br />A minute later I came back outside to find Skylar quietly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">skooting</span> around in a ride-on car and Eden...nowhere.<br />"Skylar, where's Eden?"<br />"She went that way." *pointing down the sidewalk beyond our house*<br />Note- Five years is too young to babysit. Who knew?<br />Ah, yes. That way. The way that leads to the park. The way that leads to the pool where my not quite two year old likes to jump off the diving board. The way that leads to Main Street.<br />I leaped across the lawn to the sidewalk and saw her nearing the end of the block.<br />"EDEN, STOP!"<br />She turned around and looked at me. Then squealed with delight before charging blindly across a residential street. Now she's running as fast as her pigeon toed little baby feet will take her, arms waving erratically in the air, towards the only really busy street in town. But I'm running too, and my legs are longer. She looks back over her shoulder and realizes she doesn't stand a chance. <br /><em>Oh, shit. Here comes Mom and she looks pissed. What to do? What to do? I've got it!</em><br />She stops dead and turns toward me. Then she opens her blue eyes to their full round capacity and spreads her little arms up in the air as she calls out:<br />"MAMA, HUG?"<br />I defy anyone to spank that.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-64141960632286670712009-07-04T21:12:00.006-04:002009-07-05T12:05:50.699-04:00mini vaycayHI! It's been a while, I know. Been busy. Lots to do. Also, I'm lazy and easily distracted.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Sooo</span>...where were we? Father's day. Right. On that day we dumped our adorable children at Adam's parents place to celebrate with their Papa and we hightailed it to Niagara Falls.<br /><br />It had <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">occurred</span> to us (Me) that not once in seven years had the two of us gone away for a weekend. We've gone to visit friends or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">camp out</span> with old buddies or gone our separate ways for a few days now and then, but never actually spent a child-free weekend alone together. I felt it was time to remedy this omission, if only out of morbid curiosity as to whether or not we still had the capacity to get along without the prop of day-to-day life.<br /><br />So, yes. Niagara Falls, where we enjoyed the most fantastical hotel room our poor, lower-class eyes had ever beheld. With floor to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ceiling</span> windows around two walls overlooking both the Canadian and American falls, a king sized bed which we tried out within minutes of walking through the doors and a jacuzzi big enough for the two of us and a bottle of wine.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354793097295300146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc0TepqoAG757o2KgzPWTAHZvvy79x4__3LnyjtCjJSYBMNy36I51WBNrlywo6X3Xjj8cwsVqee8zE3nILRHW4vYa2uCEJBMdBU3tWvGowkaAWHnIvDpiTxUz7p0K5hpFZW6PNkYeM0Xcs/s400/IMG_1252.JPG" border="0" /><em>Fireworks at Niagara Falls. I was going to delete this picture, cause it's boring, but Adam said not to because:</em><br /><em>"Look at all those Orbs!"</em><br /><em>"Orbs?"</em><br /><em>"You know, that's how ghosts look in photographs."</em><br /><em>"Uum, we're at Niagara freaking Falls. I think that's caller Water."</em><br /><em>"Maybe lots of ghosts decide to come here before they cross over."</em><br /><em>"Unfortunate to come on a fireworks night then. Just imagine! Hey, don't go towards the lights! They buuurrnnnn!" </em><br /><em></em><br />The next day we went to Wonderland and rode the kick-ass new roller coaster: Behemoth ( I highly recommend it, as a roller coaster <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">aficionado</span>) and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">generally</span> had all the fun that theme parks can provide when you don't bring along kids to whine and complain about standing in line, and get tired and throw fits when they're too short to get on the good rides, and throw more fits because they want some over-priced crap that you'll then have to carry around for the rest of the day, and fall asleep, and slather with sunscreen, and demand to be carried, and beg for ice cream, and throw up the ice cream, and why the hell do they allow children in amusement parks anyway?<br /><br />We spent that night at what turned out to be a university residence rented out as a hotel for the summer. Less grand yes, but dude, we had a microwave!<br /><br />Then off to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Wasaga</span> Beach for relaxing in the sun. Which was pretty much all we <em>could</em> do there since the water was frigid and filled with some nasty yellow plant-life or sewage spill residue (we debated which it might be and decided we didn't really want to swim anyway) and the entire tourist district burned down a year or two ago and hasn't quite been rebuilt yet.<br /><br />Then we came home, collected our offspring and enjoyed the first week of summer vacation by: Attending swimming lessons with Skylar. Going to work. Babysitting a crippled dog. Turning 24 and 26, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">respectively</span>. Playing the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">wii</span> my mom got us for our birthdays (thanks Mom! p.s. my mom doesn't read this). Filling a kiddie pool in the back yard. Trying to find a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">teenage</span> babysitter (no luck whatsoever, know anyone?) and going to see UP, which I found hilarious but my kid found by turns terrifying and sad, except for the part about the squirrel, that she liked.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354792390144512290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MHVLhKaKoJ5MBe4daHj6uHPBlP6eshCCW5E5lhzqwlpYupGlgZg125mLtK-8yxPTO9vlBIj60OZiOMzE0gL3ltnRksRiTOh8qTS8YOVPkzOmv9vBXX_OcS9sZl81adxJgAIyWdRog3dc/s400/IMG_1275.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><em>Fun in our own backyard. Happy Canada Day! </em>EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-257928698865748107.post-4507816054321066082009-06-19T22:22:00.004-04:002009-06-20T16:07:58.431-04:00Happy Father's Day"What's your daddy's name?"<br /><br />"I don't have a daddy."<br /><br />"Did he die?"<br /><br />"No, I just don't have one."<br /><br />"Well, if he didn't die then you <em>must</em> have one. Everyone does."<br /><br />"Well, I don't."<br /><br /><br />I had this <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">conversation</span> a few times when I was a kid. Not many, mind you. I was never teased or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ostracized</span> or anything old-fashioned like that. But every once in a while someone would ask.<br /><br /><br />Of course everyone <em>does</em> have a father, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">mine's</span></span> name was Tom. He was a liar and a drunk and my mom left him when I was just a few months old, because it was best for me. But she never stopped loving him. She missed him. She never dated anyone else while I was growing up. Maybe because she didn't want me getting attached to someone who might not stick around, maybe because she was afraid of getting hurt, maybe because she simply wasn't interested in male companionship. Whatever the reason, she raised me alone and she did a damn fine job. I never wanted a father, never felt I lacked for anything, never blamed him for leaving. I was perfectly happy in my place at the center of the universe with all of my mom's attention focused squarely on me.<br /><br /><br />Every Sunday my aunts would bring my cousins over to our place and we would play together while the grown-up ladies chatted and played cards. I didn't have any uncles. My cousins were not the ones who asked my daddy's name. Not all of them knew their own. Fathers were an obscure concept. A little frightening, as the unknown always is. And nothing of any real importance anyway. Sure, some people had them, but they certainly weren't necessary. Children belonged to their mothers and it was as simple as that.<br /><br /><br />When I was eleven my mom started seeing Tom again. I was not supportive. As I said before, I never blamed him for leaving, but boy was I ever pissed with him for coming back. I resented the intrusion. I was a spoiled brat and I hated the thought of sharing my mom's affection with anyone, whether he happened to be my father or not. I barely spoke to him. I stormed off to my room to sulk when he visited. She was happy when it was just the two of us right? Why did he have to come and ruin everything! I hated the sound of his big stupid booming laugh coming up the stairs.<br /><br /><br />Then he got sick. My mom started spending most of her time at the hospital with him and I was alone a lot. Finally I consented to go see him.<br /><br /><br />He was more than half delirious and in his more coherent moments he declared he was going to die that night. He wanted a priest. Luckily, hospitals have some of those handy and someone went to fetch one. While we waited I stared at this stranger who was my father. He was shrunken and emaciated, with waxy skin drooping from his wrinkled face. He kept pushing his oxygen mask up onto his forehead, so his fingers were turning purple, yellow and green. He asked my mom to pick him up and shake him. He said he'd be just fine if she would just lift him up and give him a good shake to get everything back in it's proper place. She told him she couldn't. He was too heavy. I thought she was probably wrong about that. She asked me to help her move him <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">instead</span>. She told me to grab the corners of the little sheet he was laying on and we'd slide him up in the bed a bit. I took hold of my side and we started to lift, but as we moved him his blanket started to slip and I could see that his gown was all rucked up around his waist and his bony hip underneath and part of a bedsore and oh my god I did NOT want to see him naked and holy crap he's so light and...I let go and ran out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom. When I came back the priest (minister? padre? whatever, it was a woman with a bible) was there. She asked if I was his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">granddaughter</span> and I said nothing. My mom choked out that I was his daughter. The woman asked if I was remembering all the good times I'd had with my dad and I continued to say nothing. This time Tom answered for me. "She certainly <em>is not." </em>The man had only the barest grasp of reality at that point, but one thing he was aware of was that I hated him. His eyes rolled around the room and he jammed a finger up his nose to get at the pesky dry itch. Then he reached out to me. "I think he wants to hold your hand" my mom explained, as I stood there dumbly. Are you serious? Did you not just see him picking his nose? I managed to overcome my raging <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">brattishness</span></span> and took his hand. It was an odd sensation. The skin was hard, calloused and cold, but it felt like warm liquid inside. Like a leather water balloon, half full and squashy. The fingertips were green from lack of oxygen. I was surprised that the overall impression was one of life. It was the first and only time I remember ever holding my father's hand.<br />.......<br /><br />"Adam, please call me, or come to my house or something <em>as soon as</em> you get this message, no matter what time it is..."<br /><br />"What's going on? are you OK?"<br /><br />"I went to the hospital today and got a test...Adam, it was positive."<br /><br />"...Well...that makes things...interesting."<br /><br /><br />...<br /><br /><br />Shit. Why did I freak out and tell him? Why couldn't I just keep my damn mouth shut and get an abortion or break up with him and then put it up for adoption. It's none of his business anyway right? This is MY life, not his! Stupid, stupid, stupid!<br />...<br /><br /><br />"Look, I just want you to know that I'm not expecting anything OK? I mean, you can be involved if you want to, but I don't want you to feel obligated or anything. Like, I'm fine on my own, OK?"<br /><br />"What are you talking about? Of course I'm involved!"<br /><br />"If that's what you want, fine. But just don't, you know, feel like you have to stay with ME or anything, you know, if you don't really want me..."<br /><br />"Do you want me to leave?"<br /><br />"Let's just see how things go, and see what happens."<br />...<br /><br /><br />I finished my senior year of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">high school</span> and found a prom dress that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">accommodated</span> my 6 month belly. Adam went to school in Toronto and drove back so visit me every weekend. While my friends prepared for university, I spent the summer renovating the tiny, run-down <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">apartment</span> we would live in. It was the loneliest summer of my life. Adam moved in at the beginning of September, when his course was over, and we had 2 weeks to get accustomed to each other before we became parents.<br /><br />Despite having tried to push him away, I soon realized how glad I was that he hadn't accepted the offer. I couldn't have done it by myself. I know there are women out there who rock the single mom thing, but I'm not one of them. During those first few crazy months of adjustment, reassessment, sleep deprivation, depression and anxiety, Adam's presence probably saved Skylar's life and my own as well. I was a mess. My self-centered upbringing had left me totally unprepared to dedicate my life to someone else. I was resentful and bitter towards my baby for stealing my freedom. Instead of bonding with her I grew more and more distant. I began to hate breastfeeding her. I would spend her feeding sessions crying and fighting back the nausea that filled me as this big pink parasite sucked me dry. She would cry for what seemed like hours every evening and images started flashing in my head of just how easy it would be to <em>make the screaming STOP.</em> The worst part is that it wasn't any sense of love or decency that prevented me from doing it. It was just a small, bored voice in the back of my mind that told me not to bother, because I'd just end up in jail and I still wouldn't be free. To this day I still feel sick when I think about what might have happened if the screaming had gone on just a bit longer, or louder, and drowned out that voice. I used to think mother's who claimed post-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">partum</span> depression made them kill their babies were lying monsters, but now I just feel sorry for them. If it wasn't for Adam I might have been one of them. But he was there. He was there pacing the floor for hours on end with an inconsolable baby on his shoulder while I hid uselessly in another room. He was there rubbing my back and telling me it was OK while Skylar nursed. He was there wearing a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">snuggli</span> and carrying the baby for miles while we explored the countryside together, growing calm and happy with the physical exertion and fresh air. He was there making meals when I couldn't be bothered. He was there holding me at night while I cried myself out, thinking about what an awful, worthless person I was, making me believe that maybe there was someone in the world who wanted me anyway.<br /><br />I got better. I fell in love with my baby and came to appreciate it all the more because it hadn't come naturally. Time and experience made me a better person, and while I can still be selfish and impatient, I have learned how to put others first. Adam taught me that. It still surprises me that I learned to love a man. I'm still pleasantly shocked every time he holds me in his arms and I realize that I feel completely safe and comfortable and <em>right.</em> <br /><br />Over the next six years we grew into a real family, as opposed to a couple of scared kids and a baby unfortunate enough to be stuck with them. As a father and a partner Adam has surpassed all of my expectations. He is kind and compassionate, patient and playful, strong and intelligent. He carries the girls on his shoulders, submits to playing Barbies and dress-up. He can be trusted to care for them when I'm not around. He puts up with my shit, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">whereas</span> I would long ago have punched myself in the mouth. He snuggles. He sees the humor in day to day life. He believes in magic. He packs school lunches and changes cloth diapers. He makes sacrifices for the three of us. Most of all, he loves. He just radiates love unabashedly all around him, towards his daughters, and for some reason I'll never understand, towards me as well. <br /><br />I just wanted to say that I appreciate it.<br /><br />Thank you for being you. Thank you for teaching me what fathers can be. Thank you for sticking out the hard times and adding to the good times. Thank you for loving us.<br />We love you too.<br /><br />Happy Father's Day.EdenSkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06689471305710063098noreply@blogger.com3